Then there came the sound of a horn and the Indians began to retreat. The sun had set now and it was difficult for me to make out the faces of all those who lay on the ground. As I walked, I was guided more by the sound of soldiers knocking the Indians about and the smell of dust and smoke than I was by sight alone. O Lord, I thought, what am I doing here in this strange land, in the middle of a battle between two foreign peoples? How did it get to this? I was still standing there, stunned and motionless, when torches were lit and names were called. Settlers and friars trickled in from wherever they had found some cover — a crate, a tree, or even a corpse. Behind us, the Río Oscuro rumbled, flowing unceasingly toward the ocean.
2. THE STORY OF MY BIRTH
My mother once told me that I had been destined for a life of travel. The signs, she said by way of proof, had been there on the day of my birth. At that time, my father was a newly credentialed notary, with ambition to match his youth, but he found it nearly impossible to earn decent wages in Fes. You see, the city was overrun with refugees from Andalusia, Muslims and Jews who had fled the forced conversions. Among these exiles were many famous jurists and experienced notaries. So when news reached my father that the town of Melilla — less than three days away by horse — had fallen to the Crown of Castile, his first thought was that there would be even more refugees in the city and even less work. He decided that he and my mother should move south to Azemmur, where he was born, where his brothers still lived, and where he could, without shame, call upon them if ever he needed help.
But the story of my birth began long before I tumbled forth into this world. It began when one empire was falling and another was rising. It began, like a thousand other stories, in Fes. My mother, Heniya, was the youngest of nine children, the only girl, and my grandfather’s favorite. When she turned fifteen, he had agreed to let her marry a wealthy rug merchant, someone he thought would take good care of her, but the merchant died just three months later in a fight with two of the sultan’s mekhazniya. Her second husband, an old and wise tailor, died of a high fever less than a year after their marriage. Of course, accidents and disease were a part of life, but it seemed that Heniya had received an unusual share of them at an early age. People began to talk about the unlucky bride, twice widowed by the time she was seventeen. As the gossip was told and retold around town, it acquired the embellishments any good story deserves: my mother was a young maiden of unparalleled beauty, unrivaled virtue, and uncommon talent, she could play the lute and recite poetry, but, oh how unlucky she was in matters of matrimony!
When the story came back to my grandfather, he was the first to believe it, in spite of the fact that my mother was rather plain and had no special musical talents. He had been given to despair, but now he decided that there was a simple way to break her curse. Instead of an old and wealthy husband, she needed a young and healthy one. My grandfather was a chandler by profession, a popular man whose clients included the hospice of el-Maristan, the madrassat el-Attarine, and the hammam es-Seffarine. He was delivering a batch of candles to the college of the Qarawiyin one morning when he saw my father, Muhammad, reclining against a pillar in the main hall.
My father was resting his aching back, but in the half-light of the early morning, he looked like a pensive, earnest student. As my grandfather lowered the bronze chandelier and began to replace the candles, he struck up a conversation with the young scholar. He learned that my father studied shari’a, that he planned on becoming a notary, and, most interesting of all, that he was a boarder. For my grandfather, these details had an advantageous interpretation: Muhammad was ambitious, he would soon have an income, and, since he had no relatives in Fes, he would surely agree to live with his wife’s family. My grandfather concluded that Muhammad was the perfect match for Heniya.
It was true that my father was tall and well built, but his appearance belied his true nature. As a child in Azemmur, he had barely survived the measles, and he had subsequently caught every other disease that swept through town. If he swam in the Umm er-Rbi’ River, he caught a cold, even in the summer. If he raced with his friends through the alleyways of the medina, he was the one to fall and sprain his knee. If he walked around barefoot, his big toe was sure to find a stray nail. He came from a family of carpenters, but early on his father had decided that there was no point in training him, like his other children, into the craft. That was how Muhammad had ended up at the town school and, later, at the Qarawiyin. Studying seemed to be the only activity that caused him neither sickness nor injury.
When my father met Heniya’s father, each saw in the other something he desired. Muhammad had already heard about Heniya’s legendary beauty and her many talents, so he was keen to satisfy his curiosity. My grandfather, meanwhile, thought that this handsome young man would finally break his unlucky daughter’s curse. There followed an invitation to tea, a quick glimpse behind a curtain, and in short order my parents were married. After my father recovered from the shock of discovering that my mother was not Scheherazade, he tried to make the most of it. He finished his studies and, between bouts of cold, fever, or fatigue, he looked for work. That was when he noticed that Granadans were everywhere. Not only did they have credentials and experience, but they also had an exotic appeal my father could never match. With the fall of Melilla to the Crown of Castile, he decided to move back to Azemmur with my mother, now pregnant with me. This caused great consternation among his in-laws, who, incidentally, were also recovering from the shock of discovering that my father was not Antara on his steed.
When they set out on the long road to Azemmur — my father on foot, my mother on the black pannier-laden donkey that had been given to her as a wedding gift — dark clouds followed them all the way to the coast, so that it seemed to them they were being chased from one end of the country to the other. It was an early fall that year. The weather was cooler than usual and frequent showers impeded their progress. They did not reach the mouth of the Umm er-Rbi’ River until late afternoon two days later. Across the water, the eleven minarets of Azemmur must have seemed to them like so many welcoming hosts. They must have been eager to get to my uncle’s house, where they could have a bowl of hot soup while they warmed themselves by the side of the brazier. They sat under a cluster of fig trees to wait for the barge. My mother began to feel uncomfortable, but she did not want to alarm my father because, by her calculations, she was not due for another two months.
Ordinarily, the crossing of the river does not take much time at all, but on that particular day, after my father and the other travelers haggled about the price of their passage and loaded their belongings, it was almost dusk. Just as the barge was ready to depart, two Portuguese horsemen arrived, trailing a prisoner. The city of Azemmur had been under vassalage to Manuel the Fortunate for a few years already and none of the travelers, burdened by Portuguese taxes, could abide the sight of these two men of arms. Still less could they bear to see that the prisoner was one of their own, a young woman whose veils had been removed and whose hands were bound by chains. Red, blistered strokes ran down her face and arms.
The two soldiers were tall and their helmets and armor looked heavy, perhaps too heavy for the current trip. The barge itself was not very large — the wooden platform built between two feluccas and towed from either side of the river could fit only a dozen passengers — and it soon became clear that one animal had to be let out if the soldiers and their horses were to get on board. The head ferryman asked the soldiers to wait until he returned, but they refused.