Yazid ignored her and rushed into the room. The first thing he noticed was Ibn Basit’s absence. This depressed him. His face fell. A distant look appeared on his face as he fingered the medallion Hind had left him as a token of her love. Inside it, black like the night, was a lock of her hair.
‘Has he gone, Abu?’
His father nodded as he picked at a dark red grape from the silver tray bedecked with fruit. Zubayda served Yazid some cucumbers cooked in their own water with a dash of clarified butter, black pepper and red chilli seeds. He ate it quickly and then consumed a salad consisting of radishes, onions and tomatoes, soaked in yoghurt and the juice of fresh limes.
‘Did Ibn Basit say anything else? Did he give you any idea when Zuhayr would visit us?’
Zubayda shook her head.
‘He did not know the exact day, but he thought it would be soon. Now will you please have some fruit, Yazid. It will bring the colour back to your cheeks.’
As four servants entered to clear the table, the most senior amongst them knelt on the floor and muttered a few words close to his master’s ear. A look of disdain appeared on Umar’s face. ‘What does he want at this time? Show him to my study and stay there with him till I arrive.’
‘Ubaydallah?’ asked Zubayda.
Umar nodded as his face clouded. Yazid grinned and described his encounter with the steward.
‘Is it true, Abu, that he now owns almost as much land as you?’
The question made Umar laugh.
‘I don’t think so, but I’m the wrong person to ask. I’d better go and see what the rogue wants. It isn’t like him to disturb me just as we are about to rest.’
After Umar had left them, Zubayda and Yazid walked up and down the inner courtyard holding hands and enjoying the winter sun. She saw the look in Yazid’s eyes when they passed the pomegranate tree, under which Ama had spent many a winter day.
‘Do you miss her a lot, my child?’
In reply he tightened his grip on her hand. She bent down and kissed his cheeks and then his eyes.
‘Everyone must die one day, Yazid. One day you will see her again.’
‘Please, Ummi. Please not that. Hind never believed in all that stuff about life in heaven. Nor does al-Zindiq and nor do I.’
Zubayda suppressed a smile. She did not either, but Umar had forbidden her the right to transmit any of her blasphemous thoughts to the children. Well, she thought, Umar has Zuhayr and Kulthum to believe with him, and I have Hind and my Yazid.
‘Ummi,’ he was pleading, ‘why don’t we all go and live in Fes? I don’t mean in the same house as Hind and Ibn Daud, but in our own house.’
‘I would not exchange this house, the streams and rivers which water your lands, the village and those who live in it, for any city in the world. Not Qurtuba, not Gharnata and not even Fes, even though I miss Hind as much as you. She was my friend, too, Yazid. But no. Not for anything would I change all this… Peace be upon you, al-Zindiq!’
‘And you, my lady. And you, Yazid bin Umar.’
Yazid began to walk away.
‘Where are you…?’ began Zubayda.
‘To the tower. I will rest there and read my books.’
Al-Zindiq looked with affection at the boy’s disappearing back. ‘This child has an intellect which puts many old people to shame, but something has changed, my lady, has it not? What is it? Yazid bin Umar looks as if he is in permanent mourning. Is it Amira?’
Zubayda agreed with him. ‘I have a feeling that this child knows everything. As you so rightly said, he knows more than many who are older and wiser. As to his ailment, I think I know the cause. No, it is not his Ama’s death, though that upset him more than he revealed. It is Hind. Ever since she left the shine has gone from the pupils of his eyes. My heart weeps when I see them so sad and dim.’
‘Children are far more resilient than we are, my lady.’
‘Not this one,’ continued Zubayda. ‘He is having great difficulty in managing his pain. He thinks it is unmanly to show emotions. Hind was his only confidante. Fears, joys, secrets. He told her everything.’
Umar’s return deprived her of the old man’s advice.
‘Peace be upon you al-Zindiq.’ As the old man smiled, Umar spoke to his wife in a light-hearted vein. ‘You will never guess why Ubaydallah came to see me.’
‘It wasn’t money?’
‘Would I be right in thinking,’ suggested al-Zindiq, ‘that our venerable chief steward is being troubled by his conscience on matters of the spirit?’
‘Well spoken, old man. Well spoken. Yes, that is exactly his problem. He has decided to convert, and wanted my permission and my blessings. “Ubaydallah,” I warned him. “Do you realize that you will have to confess all your misdemeanours to a monk before they admit you to their Church? All of them, Ubaydallah! And if they find out that you’ve been lying, they’ll burn you at the stake for being a false Christian.” I could see that this worried him. He made a quick mental calculation as to how many of his petty crimes the Church could uncover and decided that he was safe. Next week he visits Gharnata, and he and that imbecilic son of his will go through that pagan ritual and become Christians. Blood of their blood. Flesh of their flesh. Seeking salvation by praying to the image of a bleeding man on two pieces of wood. Tell me something, al-Zindiq. Why is their faith so deeply marked by human sacrifice?’
A full-scale discussion on the philosophy of the Christian religion was about to begin, but before the old man could reply a scream rent the air. Yazid, out of breath and his face red from the exertion, had come running into the courtyard.
‘Soldiers! Hundreds of them. Like a ring round the village and our house. Come and look.’
Umar and Zubayda followed the boy back to the tower. Al-Zindiq, too old now to climb the stairs, sat down with a sigh on the bench underneath the pomegranate tree.
‘Our future was our past,’ he muttered in his beard.
Yazid had not been deceived. They were surrounded. Trapped like a hunted deer. As Umar strained his eyes, he could make out the Christian standards as well as the soldiers who carried them. A man on horseback was riding excitedly from one group of soldiers to another, obviously giving out instructions. He seemed very young, but he must be the captain.
‘I must go to the village immediately,’ said Umar. ‘We will ride out to meet these men and ask them what they want of us.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Yazid.
‘You must stay at home, my son. There is no one else to guard your mother.’
As Umar came down from the tower he found all the male servants of the house gathered in the outer courtyard, armed with swords and lances. There were only sixty of them, and they were of varying ages which stretched from fifteen to sixty-five, but as they stood there waiting for him he felt a surge of emotion sweep through his body. They were his servants and he was their master, but at times of crisis their loyalty to him transcended everything else.
His horse had been saddled and four of the younger men rode out to the village with him. As they rode through the main gate, an eagle flew over the house in search of prey. The servants exchanged looks. It was a bad omen.
At a distance they could hear a chorus of dogs barking. They, too, felt that something was wrong. For a start nobody was at work. The men and women who toiled in the fields every day from dawn till sunset had run away on seeing the soldiers. The tiny streets of the village were filled with people, but the shops were shut. The last time Umar had witnessed such a scene was the day his father had died after being thrown by a horse. That day, too, all activity had ceased. They had followed the body in silence as it was carried to the house.
Greetings were being exchanged, but the faces were drawn and tense. It was the fear which is born out of uncertainty. Juan the carpenter was running towards them.