Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree (10 page)

‘Even on his death-bed he thought about you and made young Umar swear on the al-koran that a regular supply of food and clothes would be sent to you. He never got over your absence.’

Zahra sighed and a sad smile tugged at her face.

‘Our childhood memories were so closely intertwined you know ...’

Then she stopped, as if the memory of her brother had led her to others. The look on her face reminded Ama of the old days. She must be seeing him in her mind’s eye, Ama thought to herself. I wish she would talk about him. What is there to hide now?

It was as if Zahra had read her old rival’s thoughts. ‘Whatever became of Mohammed ibn Zaydun?’ Zahra tried to sound very casual, but her heart was beating faster. ‘Is he dead?’

‘No, my lady. He is alive. He changed his name, you know. He calls himself Wajid al-Zindiq and lives on a hill a few miles from here. Zuhayr ibn Umar sees him regularly, but does not know his past. He too is sent food from the house. Umar bin Abdallah insisted we did that, once we had discovered the identity of the man who had moved into that cave on the hill. This very morning Zuhayr was with him for several hours.’

Zahra was so excited by this piece of news that her heartbeats sounded like gunshots in Ama’s ears.

‘I must sleep now. Peace be upon you, Amira.’

‘And upon you, my lady. May God bless you.’

‘He has not done that for a very long time, Amira.’

Ama left the room with the lamp. As she stepped outside she heard Zahra say something. She was about to return to the chamber, but it was obvious that Ibn Farid’s daughter was thinking aloud. Ama remained rooted to the tile in the courtyard on which she stood.

‘The first time. Remember Mohammed?’ Zahra was talking to herself. ‘It was like the opening of a flower. Our eyes were shining, full of hope and our hearts were leaping. Why did you never come back to me?’

‘T
HERE IS NO OTHER
way. If necessary we must permit Providence to avail itself of the darkness of the dungeon and pour the light of the true faith on the benighted minds of these infidels. Friar Talavera my illustrious predecessor, tried other methods and failed. Personally, I believe that the decision to publish the Latin-Arabic dictionary was misguided but enough said on that question. That phase is mercifully over, and with it, I trust, the illusion that these infidels will come to us through learning and rational discourse.

‘You look displeased, Excellency. I am fully aware that a softer policy might suit the needs of our temporal diplomacy, but you will excuse my bluntness. Nothing more or less than the future of thousands of souls is at stake. And it is these which I am commanded by our Holy Church to save and protect. I am convinced that the heathen, if they cannot be drawn towards us voluntarily, should be driven in our direction so that we can push them on to the path of true salvation. The ruins of Mahometanism are tottering to their foundations. This is no time to stay our hand.’

Ximenes de Cisneros spoke with passion. He was hampered by the fact that the man sitting on a chair facing him was Don Inigo Lopez de Mendoza, Count of Tendilla, Mayor and Captain-General of Granada, which the Moors called Gharnata, Don Inigo had deliberately chosen to be dressed in Moorish robes for this particular meeting. It was a style that greatly distressed the Archbishop.

‘For a spiritual leader, Your Grace reveals a remarkable capacity for interceding in matters temporal. Have you thought about this matter seriously? Their majesties did agree the terms of surrender, which I drafted, did they not, Father? I was present when a solemn undertaking was given to their Sultan by the Queen. We agreed to leave them in peace. Friar Talavera is still greatly respected in the Albaicin because he kept to the terms that had been agreed.

‘I will be blunt with you, Archbishop. Till your arrival we had no serious problems in this kingdom. You failed to win them over by force of argument and now you wish to resort to the methods of the Inquisition.’

‘Practical methods, Excellency. Tried and tested.’

‘Yes, tried and tested on Catholics whose property you wanted to possess and on Jews who have never ruled over a kingdom and who bought their freedom by paying out gold ducats and converting to our religion. The same methods will not work here. Most of the people we call Moors are our own people. Just like you and me. They have ruled over a very large portion of our peninsula. They did so without burning too many bibles or tearing down all our churches or setting synagogues alight in order to build their mesquitas. They are not a rootless phenomenon. They cannot be wiped out with a lash of the whip. They will resist. More blood will be spilled. Theirs and ours.’

Cisneros stared at the Count with a look of pure contempt. If it had been any other grandee of the kingdom, the Archbishop would have declared to his face that he spoke thus because his own blood was impure, tainted with an injection from Africa. But this wretched man was no ordinary noble. His family was one of the most distinguished in the country. It boasted several poets, administrators and warriors in the service of the true faith. The Mendozas had employed genealogists who traced their descent back to the Visigothic kings. Cisneros had yet to be convinced by this last detail, but the pedigree was impressive enough, even without the Visigoth connections. Cisneros knew the family well. He himself had been a protege of the king-making Cardinal Mendoza. After all, the whole country was aware of the fact that the Captain-General’s paternal uncle had, as Cardinal and Archbishop of Seville, aided Isabella to outwit her niece and usurp the Castilian throne in 1478. The Mendoza family was therefore held in very high regard by the present King and Queen.

Cisneros knew he had to be careful, but it was the Count who had violated the norms which governed relations between Church and State. He decided to remain calm. There would be other opportunities to punish the man’s arrogance. Cisneros spoke in the softest voice he could muster for the occasion. ‘Is Your Excellency charging the Inquisition with corruption on a grand scale?’

‘Did I mention the word corruption?’

‘No, but the implication ...’

‘Implication? What implication? I merely pointed out, my dear Friar Cisneros, that the Inquisition was amassing a gigantic fortune for the Church. The confiscated estates alone could fund three wars against the Turks. Could they not?’

‘What would Your Excellency do with the property?’

‘Tell me, Father, is it always the case that the children of your so-called heretics are also guilty?’

‘We take for granted the loyalty of the members of a family to each other.’

‘So a Christian whose father is a Mahometan or a Jew is never to be trusted.’

‘Never is perhaps too strong.’

‘How is it then that Torquemada, whose Jewish ancestry was well known, presided over the Inquisition?’

‘To prove his loyalty to the Church he had to be more vigilant than the scion of a noble family whose lineage can be traced to the Visigoth kings.’

‘I begin to understand your logic. Well, be that as it may, I will not have the Moors subjected to any further humiliations. You have done enough. Burning their books was a disgrace. A stain on our honour. Their manuals on science and medicine are without equal in the civilized world.’

‘They were saved.’

‘It was an act of savagery, man. Are you too blind to understand?’

‘And yet Your Excellency did not countermand my orders.’

It was Don Inigo’s turn to stare at the priest with anger. The rebuke was just. It had been cowardice on his part, pure cowardice. A courtier, freshly arrived from Ishbiliya, had informed him that the Queen had sent a secret instruction to the Archbishop which included the order to destroy the libraries. He now knew that this had been a fabrication. Cisneros had deliberately misled the courtier and encouraged him to misinform the Captain-General. Don Inigo knew he had been tricked, but it was no excuse. He should have countermanded the order, forced Cisneros out into the open with the supposed message from Isabella. The priest was smiling at him. ‘The man’s a devil,’ the Count told himself. ‘He smiles with his lips, never his eyes.’

‘One flock and one shepherd, Excellency. That is what this country needs if it is to survive the storms that confront our Church in the New World.’

‘You are blissfully unaware of your own good fortune, Archbishop. Had it not been for the Hebrews and the Moors, the natural enemies who have helped you to keep the Church in one piece, Christian heretics would have created havoc in this peninsula. I did not mean to startle you. It is not a very profound thought. I thought you would have worked that out for yourself.’

‘You are wrong, Excellency. It is the destruction of the Hebrews and the Moors which is necessary to preserve our Church.’

‘We are both right in our different ways. I have many people waiting to see me. We must continue this conversation another day.’

And in this brusque fashion the Count of Tendilla informed Ximenes de Cisneros that his audience was over. The priest rose and bowed. Don Inigo stood up, and Cisneros saw him resplendent in his Moorish robes. The priest flinched.

‘I see my clothes displease you just as much as my thoughts.’

‘The two do not appear to be unrelated, Excellency.’

The Captain-General roared with laughter. ‘I do not grudge you the cowl. Why should my robes annoy you? They are so much more comfortable than what is worn at court. I feel buried alive in those tights and doublets whose only function appears to be the constriction of the most precious organs which God saw fit to bestow. This robe which I wear is designed to comfort our bodies, and is not so unlike your cowl as you might imagine. These clothes are designed to be worn in their Alhambra. Anything else would clash with the colours of these intricate geometric patterns. Surely even you can appreciate that, Friar. I think there is a great deal to be said for communicating directly with the Creator without the help of graven images, but I am approaching blasphemy and I do not wish to upset or detain you any further ...’

The prelate’s lips curled into a sinister smile. He muttered something under his breath, bowed and left the room. Don Inigo looked out of the window. Underneath the palace was the Albaicin, the old quarter where the Muslims, Jews and Christians of this town had lived and traded for centuries. The Captain-General was buried in his own reflections of the past and present when he heard a discreet cough and turned round to see his Jewish major-domo, Ben Yousef, carrying a tray with two silver cups and a matching jar containing coffee.

‘Excuse my intrusion, Excellency, but your guest has been waiting for over an hour.’

‘Heavens above! Show him in, Ben Yousef. Immediately.’

The servant retreated. When he returned it was to usher Umar into the audience-chamber.

‘His Graciousness, Umar bin Abdallah, Your Excellency.’

Umar saluted Don Inigo in the traditional fashion.

‘Peace be upon you, Don Inigo.’

The Count of Tendilla moved towards his guest with arms outstretched and hugged him.

‘Welcome, welcome, Don Homer. How are you, my old friend? No formalities between us. Please be seated.’

This time Don Inigo sat on the cushions laid near the window and asked Umar to join him there. The major-domo poured coffee and served the two men. His master nodded to him and he moved backwards out of the chamber. Umar smiled.

‘I am glad you retained his services.’

‘You did not come all this way to compliment me on my choice of servants, Don Homer.’

Umar and Don Inigo had known each other since they were children. Their grandfathers had fought against each other in legendary battles which had long since become part of the folklore on both sides, then the two heroes had become close friends and begun to visit each other regularly. Both grandfathers knew the true costs of war and were greatly entertained by the myths surrounding their names.

In the years before 1492, Inigo had called his friend Homer simply because he had difficulties in pronouncing the Arabic ‘U’. The use of the prefix ‘Don’ was more recent. It could be dated very precisely to the Conquest of Gharnata. There was no point in taking offence. In his heart, Umar knew that Don Inigo was no longer his friend. In his mind he suspected that Don Inigo felt the same about himself. The two men had not met for several months. The whole sad business was a charade, but appearances had to be maintained. It could not be admitted that all chivalry had been extinguished by the Reconquest.

Good relations had been kept up through the regular exchange of fruits and sweetmeats on their respective feast-days. Last Christmas had been the only exception. Nothing had arrived at the Captain-General’s residence at the al-Hamra from the family of Hudayl. Don Inigo was hurt but not surprised. The wall of fire had preceded Christ’s birthday by a few weeks. Umar bin Abdallah was not the only Muslim notable to have boycotted the celebrations.

It was with the express purpose of repairing the breach that now existed between them, that Don Inigo had sent for his old friend. And here he was, just as in the old days, sipping his coffee as he stared through the carved tracery of the window. Except that in years gone by, Umar would have been seated with the Sultan Abu Abdallah as a member of his council, giving advice to the ruler regarding Gharnata’s relations with its Christian neighbours.

‘Don Homer, I know why you are angry. You should have stayed at home that night. What was it that your grandfather once told mine? Ah, yes, I remember. When the eye does not see the heart cannot grieve. I want you to know that the decision was not mine. It was Cisneros, the Queen’s Archbishop, who decided to burn your books of learning.’

‘You are the Captain-General of Gharnata, Don Inigo.’

‘Yes, but how could I challenge the will of Queen Isabella?’

‘By reminding her of the terms which she and her husband signed in this very room, in your presence and mine, over eight years ago. Instead you remained silent and averted your eyes as one of the greatest infamies of the civilized world was perpetrated in this city. The Tatars who burned down the Baghdad library over two centuries ago were illiterate barbarians, frightened of the written word. For them it was an instinctive act. What Cisneros has done is much worse. It is cold-blooded and carefully planned ...’