Tariq Ali - Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

Umar’s face became transformed with anger.

‘What? Why?’

‘Have you not heard?’

‘Heard what, boy?’

‘The events of last week. Surely you have heard? It is the talk of Gharnata. Zuhayr thought that his uncle Hisham would have sent a messenger.’

Umar was getting more and more impatient. He was twirling the edge of his beard and Zubayda, who knew this was a signal that an explosion was on the way, tried to pre-empt his wrath.

‘We do not know any of this, Ibn Basit. So please enlighten us quickly. As you can see we are starved for news of Zuhayr.’

‘It all happened some nine days ago. Abu Zaid al-Ma’ari was leading us to a hideout in the mountains when we sighted the Christians. They had seen us too and a clash was unavoidable. There were just over three hundred of us, but from the dust raised by their horses we knew they were double our size if not more.

‘An unarmed messenger rode over to us from them. “Our leader,” he began, “the noble Don Alonso de Aguilar, sends you his compliments. If you surrender you will be treated well, but if you resist then he will return to Gharnata bringing only your horses.” We were trapped. For once even Abu Zaid had no clever scheme to see us through. It was then that Zuhayr ibn Umar rode out in front of us. He spoke in a voice that could be heard for miles. “Tell your master that we are not a people without a history,” he roared. “We are Moorish knights defending what once belonged to us. Tell him that I, Zuhayr ibn Umar, great-grandson of the knight Ibn Farid, will fight Don Alonso in a duel to the death. Whosoever wins today will determine the fate of the others.”’

‘Who is Don Alonso?’ interrupted Yazid, his face tense with fear.

‘The most experienced and accomplished of the knights in the service of Don Inigo,’ replied Ibn Basit. ‘Feared by his enemies and by his friends. A man with a terrible temper and a scar across his forehead, imprinted by a Moorish defender at al-Hama. They say that he alone killed a hundred men in that ill-fated city. May Allah curse him!’

‘Please go on,’ begged Zubayda, trying to keep her voice calm.

‘To our great surprise, Don Alonso accepted the challenge. The Christian soldiers began to gather on one side of the meadow. Two hundred of us went and occupied the other side.’

‘Where were the others?’ asked Yazid, unable to suppress his emotions.

‘You see, Abu Zaid had decided that whether we won or lost an element of surprise was necessary. He took a hundred men and placed them at different points of the mountain, overlooking the meadow. The plan was that immediately the combat was over we would charge down on the Christians before they had time to prepare for battle.’

‘But that is against the rules,’ Umar protested.

‘True, but we were not playing a game of chess. Now, if I may continue. Zuhayr carried an old, beautifully embroidered standard which had been given him by an old lady in Gharnata who swore that Ibn Farid had carried it in many battles. On his green turban there was a shining silver crescent. He planted the standard in front of his men. At a distance we saw a golden cross put into the earth by Don Alonso. At the agreed signal, Don Alonso charged, his lance glinting in the sun and pointing straight at Zuhayr’s heart. Both of them had disdained the use of shields.

‘Zuhayr unsheathed his sword and rode like a madman. His face was distorted with an anger I had never seen before. As he neared Don Alonso the entire company heard his voice. “There is only one God and Mohammed is his Prophet.” They were close to each other now. Zuhayr avoided the lance by almost slipping off his steed. What a display of horsemanship that was. Then we saw Ibn Farid’s sword flash like lightning. For a minute it seemed as if both had survived. It was only when Don Alonso’s horse came closer that we saw that its rider had lost his head. They don’t make swords like that in Tulaytula any more!

‘An almighty cheer went up on our side. The Christians were demoralized and preparing to retreat when Abu Zaid charged down towards them. They suffered heavy losses before they managed to escape. We took fifty prisoners, but, on Zuhayr’s insistence, they were given Don Alonso’s body and his head to take back with them to Gharnata. “Tell the Count,” Zuhayr told them, “that this war was not of our doing. He has lost a brave knight because the Captain-General is nothing more than a mercenary in the service of a cruel and cowardly priest!”’

Yazid had been entranced by the tale. He was so filled with pride on behalf of his brother that he did not notice the concern on the faces of both his parents. It was al-Zindiq, equally worried by the consequences of Zuhayr’s victory, who questioned Ibn Basit further.

‘Did Abu Zaid say anything about the reaction of the al-Hamra?’

‘Why yes,’ said Ibn Basit, looking at the old man in surprise. ‘He said a great deal two days later.’

‘What was it?’ asked Zubayda.

‘The Count was so enraged that he has offered a thousand pieces of gold for the head of Zuhayr bin Umar. He is also preparing a force to crush us forever, but Abu Zaid is not worried. He has a plan. He says that where he is taking us not even the Almighty would be able to find Zuhayr.’

‘There speaks the voice of Satan,’ said Umar.

‘Go and bathe, Ibn Basit,’ said Zubayda, looking at the dust on the young man’s face and the state of his clothes. ‘I think Zuhayr’s clothes will fit you. Then join us for the midday meal. Your room is prepared and you can stay as long as you wish.’

‘Thank you, Lady, I will gladly bathe and eat at your table. Alas, I cannot permit myself the luxury of a rest. I have messages to deliver in Guejar, and by sunset I must be in Lanjaron, where my father awaits me. Why do you all look so uneasy? Zuhayr is alive and well. For myself I am convinced that we can recapture Gharnata within six months.’

‘What?’ shouted Umar.

Al-Zindiq did not permit the discussion to continue any further. ‘The tongue of the wise, my dear Ibn Basit,’ he muttered, ‘is in his heart. The heart of the fool is in his mouth. The attendants are awaiting your pleasure in the hammam, young man.’

Yazid escorted their guest to the hammam. ‘Enjoy your bath, Ibn Basit,’ he said as he pointed Zuhayr’s friend towards the baths and hurried to the kitchen where the Dwarf, Umayma and all the other house servants were gathered. For their benefit he repeated, word by word, the story of Zuhayr’s duel and the decapitation of Don Alonso.

‘Allah be thanked,’ said Umayma. ‘Our young master is alive.’

Looks were exchanged, but nothing was said in Yazid’s presence. The excitement on the face of the story-teller had captivated even the most cynical members of the kitchen staff. The Dwarf alone appeared unmoved. It was only after Yazid’s departure that the cook gave expression to his feelings.

‘The Banu Hudayl are courting death and the end will not be long delayed. Ximenes will not let them live in peace.’

‘But surely our village will be safe?’ interjected Umayma. ‘We have not harmed anyone here.’

The Dwarf shrugged his shoulders.

‘That I do not know,’ he said, ‘but if I were you, Umayma, I would go and serve the Lady Kulthum in Ishbiliya. It is best that your child is not born in al-Hudayl.’

The young woman’s face changed colour.

‘The whole village knows you are carrying Zuhayr’s foal.’

A crude cacophony of laughter greeted the remark. It was all too much for Umayma. She ran out of the kitchen in tears. Yet she could not help thinking that the Dwarf might be right after all. She would ask Lady Zubayda tonight for permission to wait on Kulthum in Ishbiliya.