Zuhayr began to write his letter to Hind. He gave her an account of his duel with Don Alonso and its tragic consequences. He described the destruction of the village and the house and he appealed to her never to return:
How lucky you were to find a man as worthy of you and as farsighted as Ibn Daud. I think he knew a long time ago that we would lose our battle against time. The old man who brings this to you is full of remorse for the crime of being alive. Look after him well.
I have been thinking of you a great deal over the last few days and I wish we had spoken more to each other when we lived in the same house. I will confess to you that one part of me wanted to come to Fes with the old man. To see you and Ibn Daud. To watch you bear children, and to be their uncle. To begin a new life away from the tortures and deaths which have taken over this peninsula. And yet there is another part of me which says that I cannot desert my comrades in the midst of these horrors. They rely on me. Mother and you always thought that I was weak-willed, readily convinced of anything and incapable of firmness. You were probably right, but I think I have changed a great deal. Because the others depend on me I have to wear a mask, and this mask has become so much a part of me that it is difficult to tell which is my real face.
I will return to the al-Pujarras, where we control dozens of villages and where we live as we used to before the Reconquest. Abu Zaid al-Ma’ari, an old man you would like very much, is convinced that they will not let us live here for much longer. He says that it is not the conversion of our souls which they desire, but our wealth, and that the only way they can take over our lands is by obliterating us forever. If he is correct then we are doomed to extinction whatever we do. In the meanwhile we will carry on fighting. I am sending you all the papers of our old al-Zindiq. Look after them well and let me know what Ibn Daud thinks of their contents.
If you want to reach me, and I insist you let me know when your first child is born, the best way is to send a message to our uncle in Gharnata. And one more thing, Hind. I know that from now till I die, I will weep for my dead brother and our parents every day. No mask I wear can change that in me.
Your brother,
Zuhayr.
The Dwarf had not been able to sleep for more than a couple of hours. When dawn finally came he rose and left the room for his ablutions. When he returned, Zuhayr was sitting up in bed, looking at the morning light coming through the window.
‘Peace be upon you, old friend.’
The Dwarf looked at him in horror. Overnight, Zuhayr’s hair had turned white. Nothing was said. Zuhayr had noticed the box containing Yazid’s chess pieces amongst the Dwarfs belongings.
‘He left them with me when he went up to see if he could find the Lady Zubayda.’ The Dwarf began to weep. ‘I thought the Lady Hind might like them for her children.’
Zuhayr smiled, biting back the tears.
An hour later, the Dwarf had embarked on a merchant vessel. Zuhayr was on the shore, waving farewell.
‘Allah protect you, Zuhayr al-Fahl!’ the Dwarf shouted in his old voice.
‘He never does,’ Zuhayr told himself.
Epilogue
TWENTY YEARS LATER, THE victor of al-Hudayl, now at the height of his powers and universally regarded as one of the most experienced military leaders of the Catholic kingdom of Spain, disembarked from his battleship on a shore thousands of miles away from his native land. He strapped on the old helmet which he had never changed, though he had been presented with two made from pure silver. In addition, he now wore a beard, whose redness was the cause of many a ribald jest. His two aides, now captains in their own right, had accompanied him on this mission.
The expedition travelled for many weeks through marshes and thick forests. When he reached his destination, the captain was greeted by ambassadors of the local ruler, attired in robes of the most unexpected colours. Gifts were exchanged. Then he was escorted to the palace of the king.
The city was built on water. Not even in his dreams had the captain imagined it could be anything like this. Boats ferried people from one part of the city to another.
‘Do you know what they call this remarkable place?’ he asked, to test his aide, as the boat carrying them docked at the palace.
‘Tenochtitlan is the name of the city and Moctezuma is the king.’
‘Much wealth went into its construction,’ said the captain.
‘They are a very rich nation, Captain Cortes,’ came the reply.
The captain smiled.
Glossary
Abu
Father
Ama
Nurse
al-Andalus
Moorish Spain
al-Hama
Alhama
al-Hamra
the Alhambra
al-Jazira
Algeciras
al-Mariya
Almeria
al-Qahira
Cairo
bab
gate
Balansiya
Valencia
Dimashk
Damascus
faqih
religious scholars or experts
funduq
hostels for travelling merchants
Gharnata
Granada
hadith
sayings of the Prophet Mohammed
hammam
public baths
Iblis
devil; leader of the fallen angels
Ishbiliya
Seville
Iskanderiya
Alexandria
jihad
holy war
Kashtalla
Castile
khutba
Friday sermon
madresseh
religious schools
Malaka
Malaga
maristan
hospital/asylum for the sick and the insane
qadi
magistrate
Qurtuba
Cordoba
riwaq
students’ quarters
Rumi
Roman
Sarakusta
Zaragoza
Tanja
Tangier
Tulaytula
Toledo
Ummi
Mother
zajal
popular strophic poems composed impromptu in the colloquial Arabic of al-Andalus and handed down orally since the tenth century
About the Author
Tariq Ali is a novelist, journalist, and filmmaker. His many books include The Clash of Fundamentalisms: Crusades, Jihads and Modernity; Bush in Babylon: The Recolonization of Iraq; Conversations with Edward Said; Street Fighting Years: An Autobiography of the Sixties; and the novels of the Islam Quintet. He is the coauthor of On History: Tariq Ali and Oliver Stone in Conversation and an editor of the New Left Review, and he writes for the London Review of Books and the Guardian. Ali lives in London.