‘It is obvious, soldier, that you were not with us in the al-Pujarras.’
‘I was at Alhama Captain, and I saw too much. I will not go through that again.’
‘Then you would have seen their women pour pots of boiling oil on our men. You will carry out your orders or suffer the consequences.’
The soldier became obstinate.
‘You have said yourself, Captain, that you do not expect any resistance. Why ask us to kill innocent people? Why?’
‘Old fool!’ replied the captain, his eyes flashing with anger. ‘You are not long for this world. Why be generous with our lives?’
‘I do not comprehend you, Captain.’
‘If you kill their men, the women and children will become filled with a blind hate of everything Christian. To save their lives they will convert, but it will be a poison. Do you hear me? A poison, permanently embedded in our skins. A poison which will become increasingly difficult to remove. Now do you understand?’
The old soldier shook his head in disbelief, but it was clear that he would not obey. The captain curbed his natural instincts. He did not wish to demoralize his soldiers just before they went into battle. He decided not to punish the mutineer.
‘You are spared your duties. You will return to Gharnata and await our return.’
The old soldier could not believe his luck. He walked to where the horses were grazing and untied his mount.
‘I will return,’ he said to himself as he rode away from the encampment, ‘but not to Gharnata. I will go where neither you nor your cursed monks can ever find me.’
The gates which breached the wall surrounding the house were the only point of entry to the ancestral home of the Banu Hudayl. They had been firmly sealed. Constructed of solid wood, four inches thick and reinforced with strips of iron, their function had been largely ceremonial. They were not built to withstand a siege. They had never been shut before, since neither the village nor the house was considered to be of any military significance. Ibn Farid and his ancestors had gathered knights and soldiers under their command from this and surrounding villages. They had assembled outside the gates and marched off to wars in other parts of the kingdom.
When Ubaydallah had conveyed the young captain’s message, Umar had smiled grimly and understood. This was not the time for the flamboyant gestures which had caused the death of so many members of his own family. He had ordered that the banner of the silver key on a sea of blue be removed from the wall in the armoury and hung over the gates.
‘If that is all they want,’ he told his steward, ‘let us make it easy for them.’
Several hundred villagers had sought refuge behind the walls of the house. They were being fed in the gardens, while the outer courtyard was filled with children playing games, blissfully unaware of the evil that was stalking them. Yazid had never known the house so full or so noisy. He had been tempted to join in the fun, but decided instead to retreat to the tower.
Like everyone else, Ubaydallah had been offered the sanctuary of the house, but he preferred to return to the village. Something deep inside told him he would be safer in his own house, independent of the family he had served for so long. In this he was tragically mistaken. Even as he was walking back to the village, a cavalryman, egged on by his friends, unsheathed his weapon and sword-arm raised, charged towards the unsuspecting Ubaydallah. The steward had no time to react. Within seconds, his head, neatly severed from his body, lay rolling in the dust.
Yazid was tugging at his father’s robe. Umar had just given orders for the armoury to be unlocked and arms handed out to all able-bodied men and women. Zubayda had insisted that they would fight. Memories of al-Hama were burned into her consciousness.
‘Why should we wait helplessly for them, first to despoil our bodies and then thrust their swords in our hearts?’
‘Abu! Abu!’ Yazid’s voice was insistent.
Umar picked him up and kissed him. This spontaneous display of affection pleased the boy, but also annoyed him, since he was trying so hard to be a man.
‘What is it, my child?’
‘Come to the tower. Now!’
Zubayda sensed the tragedy. She refused to let Yazid return to the tower with his father.
‘I need your help, Yazid. How do I use this sword?’
The distraction worked. Umar ascended the stairs alone. The higher he climbed, the more quiet it became. And then he saw the carnage. The houses had been set on fire. He could see the litter of bodies, near where the mosque had stood. The soldiers had not completed their task. They were riding up the nearby hills in pursuit of those who had attempted escape. As he strained his ears, Umar thought he heard the sounds of wailing women, punctuated by the howling of dogs, but soon there was complete silence. The fires were blazing. Death was everywhere. He looked at a map of the village on the table through a piece of magnifying glass. It was too much, and he let the glass drop to the floor and shatter. Now Umar bin Abdallah dried his eyes.
‘The broken glass has no saviours,’ he told the two servants who had been keeping watch. They stood in place like statues, observing the grief that had overcome their master. Words of comfort were on their tongues, never to be spoken.
Umar slowly descended the stairs. From the tower he had surveyed everything. There was no longer any room for doubt. He cursed himself for not having permitted Yazid to go with his sister. As he reached the giant forecourt he was greeted by an eerie silence. The children had stopped playing. No more food was being eaten. All was still, except for the occasional noise of the blacksmith sharpening swords. They had all caught sight of the fired village and now sat on the ground, watching the flames melt into the setting sun on the horizon. Their homes, their past, their friends, their future, everything had been destroyed. The vigil was interrupted by a woeful cry from the tower.
‘The Christians are at the gates!’
Everyone was galvanized into action. The older women and children were sent into the outhouses. Umar took the Dwarf to one side.
‘I want you to take Yazid and hide with him in the granary. Whatever else happens, do not let him come out unless you are sure that they have gone. May Allah protect you.’
Yazid refused to be parted from his parents. He argued with his father. He pleaded with his mother.
‘Look,’ he said, waving a blade which the blacksmith had prepared for him. ‘I can use this sword as well as you.’
It was Zubayda’s entreaties which finally moved him to accompany the Dwarf. He had insisted on taking his chess pieces with him. When these had been retrieved, the cook took him by the hand and led him towards the formal garden. Beyond it, just below the wall, there was a cluster of trees and plants of every variety. Close by, carefully camouflaged by a circle of jasmine bushes, was a small wooden bench. As the Dwarf lifted it, the stone on which it was placed rose as well.
‘Down you go, young master.’
Yazid hesitated for a second and looked back at the house, but the Dwarf nudged him and he began to climb down the tiny stair. The cook followed, carefully replacing the cover from below. In these dark vaults there was enough wheat and rice to feed the whole village for a year. These were the emergency stocks of al-Hudayl, to be used if the crops failed or in the case of unforeseen calamities. The Dwarf lit a candle. Tears were pouring down Yazid’s face.
Above the ground, everything was now ready to receive the Christian soldiers who were now using battering rams to break down the gates. When the doors finally gave way, the first soldiers rode into the forecourt, but this was simply an advance party and their captain was not at their head. The rapid destruction of the village, and the fresh corpses which their horses had trampled over in order to reach the house, had engendered in them a false sense of security.