The Stone Lions (3 page)

Zoriah studied Ara like one might inspect
yesterday's fish. “We looked for you all afternoon and you didn’t
find you. How could that be?” She raised one eyebrow.

“Play ‘The Hidden Treasure,’” Thana called to
her. “It’s such a lovely tune.” Others chimed in, “Yes, please play
‘The Hidden Treasure.’”

Thanking Allah for the distraction, Ara moved
to the fountain and patted the rough stone mane of her favorite
lion. Ara could sense Zoriah’s eyes upon her as she tuned each
string of her lute. As usual, once Ara began playing, the day
seemed brighter and her worries drifted away. The water rushing
through the statue sounded much like the purring of a cat. Legend
told that the fountain was magic and that in times of danger the
stone lions would come to life, rising to defend the Alhambra. Ara
smiled, envisioning the water-spouting lions protecting the
palace.

She relaxed as she picked out the familiar
melody. Layla removed her blue caftan and started the steps of the
dance. Each motion fluid and sure, she stepped through the
complicated rhythms. She swirled around and around, every muscle
trained to move as she wished. Three younger girls twirled, their
arms over their heads, in imitation of her. Ara, who had no talent
with her feet, greatly envied her cousin’s grace.

When the song ended, Layla and Ara looked
into each other’s eyes and grinned.

“Play another,” requested Dananir, smiling up
from the cushion where she sat holding her youngest son. “That was
lovely.”

Even Suleiman, standing by the arched doors,
seemed relaxed and pleased.

Shadows deepened as the afternoon wound to an
end. Servants walked around to check the candles and tapers set
along the walls, and the crowd began to disperse. Suleiman walked
Ara back to the harem quarters in the Palace of the Myrtles.

Ara looked up and gave him her best smile.
“Suleiman, would you teach me a bit of plane geometry? My
calligraphy and French are getting better, and you even said I’m
pretty good at math.”

“Mathematics, not math!” he corrected
automatically. “Is this the way you make amends? By teasing those
who watch after you?”

“No, truly. I want to understand symmetry. My
mother studied it, did she not? Is it true—is symmetry the
cornerstone of Islamic art?”

Suleiman snorted as if surprised by her
question. “So that’s why you disobeyed? You wish to follow in your
mother’s sandaled feet?” He shook his head. “Ah, yes, symmetry is
central in our art, it’s the foundation of our architecture, one of
the great logic mysteries that our people have unfolded.” He waved
his hand, encompassing the whole of the Alhambra. “Look around you.
The whole of this fortress is covered with art, and most are
symmetries.” Ara stared in wonder as she looked about her. Suleiman
stooped low, pointing to a wall decorated with a row of triangles
in line with Ara’s eyes. “It is simple. Symmetry is merely the
repeating of pattern. The trick is to find the pattern.” He
encircled a triangle with his hands. “See how this triangle is
repeated, as if a mirror were held at its side.”

Ara looked at the triangles on the wall.
“Yes, I see it, but it’s only two triangles, why is it important?”
she asked, turning her head sideways to better look at it.

“Because,” he told her, “it’s a pattern. Look
with both your mind and your eyes. Here.” Impatiently, he grabbed
her hands. “Hold your hands out in front of you, thumbs together.
Are your hands the same?”

She looked at them. “Oh, I see! It’s as if I
held a mirror next to one of them and the mirror reflected the
other.”

“Yes.” He smiled, the tip of his hat nodding
in easy agreement. “You have to imagine there is a straight line
between two objects that you ‘flip’ either object over—where you
would place a mirror. The flip, or reflection, is called a
motion
in symmetry. Here, let me show you
another example: let’s look at handprints.” He dipped his hands
into a nearby fountain, then crouched down and made a row of
handprints across the stone floor. “You copy me,” he enjoined.
Within a short time, two rows of handprints marched across the
floor, one large and one small.

“See, with these handprints, each flip moves
you farther along the row. Band symmetry is used to describe flat
things like prints or tiles.” He smiled suddenly. “I’ll get you a
small mirror. That is the best way for you to understand reflection
or mirror symmetry. If you wish me to teach you more about
symmetry, you must find three more examples of vertical reflection
motion in the Alhambra. You’re a clever girl. It should be easy for
you. When all three are found and
correct
,
we will continue, yes?”

Ara puckered her brow at the mention of a
mirror. The image of the wazir crossed her mind. Had the shiny
metal been a mirror? Was he merely studying geometry? Again she
wished her mother lived. She would have known.

Another thought came to her. What would
happen to the Alhambra if the symmetries changed? She opened her
mouth to ask, but Suleiman continued.

“You understand? Each symmetry must be
perfect
.”

The tile that the wazir had stood in front of
couldn’t have been perfect before he was there. Tile didn’t change
like that. It was made from ceramic. That would be magic.

“Ara! Are you woolgathering again?” He
frowned at her. She looked up from the pattern of the quickly
drying prints and grinned as she flicked water at Suleiman.

“Could a tile change? Change what it is?”

“You
are
woolgathering.” He sighed. “No, that isn’t possible. If you were to
find a tile that would change what it is, then you might well
believe that I too could change what
I
am.”

“But what if it did?”

He snorted. “Then I too will change, my
fanciful child. But let us try to deal with what is possible, shall
we? Find the symmetry.”

“I understand. I can do it,” she assured him,
grinning in amusement.

“Remember,” he rebuked, wiping the water from
his nose, “all the symmetries you need are
inside
the Red Palace grounds: the Palace of the Lions,
the Palace of the Myrtles, the Palace of the Partal, the
guildhalls, the gardens, the fortress, the mosque, and the stables.
You must never again go outside the gates of the Alhambra.”

“I won’t. I’ll only look inside the palace
walls.” Ara stared at her handprints. “I think I see what you mean
about this symmetry, but won’t you show me the others now?”

A few heartbeats passed as Suleiman seemed to
mull over Ara’s transgressions of the day—then, with a visible
sigh, he gave her shoulder a pat. “You do very well for a
girl-child. I will teach you symmetries again, but now it’s time
for sleep.”

Ara looked at him and waited for his full
attention. “Promise? You won’t forget?”

“I promise. There are seven band symmetries,
vertical reflection which you just learned, horizontal reflection,
double reflection, translation, rotation, glide reflection and
glide with a vertical mirror. I will teach you all of them.” He
drew himself up and stretched to his full height. “I am a Turk of
the Qizilbash tribe. Our word is our honor. And even were I to
forget,” he continued, smiling, “a certain girl-child is sure to
remind me.”

Suleiman turned to leave, and Ara’s smile
faded as her eyes noted a twisted and warped tile on a shadowed
wall. But by then Suleiman was far away, too far to call. Besides,
it was only a tile. Nothing for her to worry about, and nothing to
do with the wazir.

Chapter 5

“Father,” Ara called, leaning over the
balcony, “is the mathemagician going to lecture today? Could I come
hear her if she does?”

“Ah, my littlest scholar.” The sultan left
the pool edge. Ara ran down the stairs to the Court of the Myrtles.
Her father picked her up in a tight hug. “You have grown, my
treasure. Almost too heavy for me to carry.”

“I grew two fingers-width last month. I’m
almost as tall as Su’ah now.”

He put her down. His hand measured her height
against a nearby stone column. “So you are. In answer to your
question, Tahirah is resting. She comes here for a time of peace
and renewal, and the trip was more exhausting than expected. When
she does give a talk, I also hope you can attend.

“Your teachers praise your skill in the
classical studies. However, they were less moved by your obedience
and grace.” He grinned at her and ruffled her hair. “Still, I am
pleased, my daughter. I prefer a curious mind to a lazy one. Allah
himself, blessed be His name, praises learning. As He has said, ‘To
seek knowledge is required of every Muslim.’ Your mother would have
been very proud,” he added with a sad smile.

Ara waited, hoping he would say more about
her mother, but nothing came. It never did.

“Come, join me. I’m going across the palace
to the orchards and would welcome the company of a pretty
lady.”

“Could I? Are you not too busy?” She thought
of the many days he spent closeted with his advisors over boundary
disputes. She had overheard Zoriah and Maryam whispering about
their fears for the fragile peace between Granada and Castile. Two
months ago, three murderers had been hanged at the Justice Gate.
Her father had overseen the trial. Lately, she heard, he had been
making trade agreements with the countries to the north: Aragon,
Navarre, Castile and France.

The sultan sighed, gazing vacantly at some
unseen trouble. “Yes, my responsibilities press on me. I keep
hoping my affairs will settle down, but
Insha'Allah
, if it is Allah’s will.” He shrugged his
shoulders and smiled. “But today I’m fortunate and have time to
spend with one I love. Walk with me. Let us enjoy the morning.” He
reached out his hand.

Together they strolled along the cobblestone
pathway from the Palace of the Myrtles into the gardens, where a
pair of hawks circled, screeching encouragement to a young hawk
learning to fly. Ahead was the
Generalife
—the Summer Palace. The road led outside to
the
Cuesta de los Chinos
—the Path of the
Stones. The
Generalife
was set behind the
Alhambra on a higher hill sheltered on three sides by the mountain
itself.

After a brisk walk up the hill, they entered
a long tree-shaded corridor. To Ara’s right was the dark green of
the pine forest, and on the left the orchards and vegetable gardens
overlooked the Alhambra proper. Her father moved his Court up here
during the hot summer months when cool breezes from the mountains
caught the tops of pine trees. She and Layla would sit telling
stories in the
Patio de la Acequia—
the
Garden of the Canal—and play hide-and-seek in its many gardens.

From the orchard, the view went on forever.
All this was her father’s domain and her father’s father’s before
him. All the way to the Mediterranean Sea, she was told. City after
town after farm, thousands of people relied on him for trade and
safety.

She glanced up at her father as they walked.
He looks weary, and his beard has much gray in it.
Still,
I must trot to keep up with
him
. She knew he missed her brothers and sisters, who had
gone away, one by one, to other lands. Her elder brothers were at
universities in Persia, training so they could rule as wisely as
her father. Three of her sisters were married, far off in worlds
ruled by sand and sun. Even if she looked as far as she could, she
couldn’t see where they were. And no amount of wishing and dreaming
would bring her closer to exploring those countries. Those lands
were beyond her reach—even beyond the snow-capped mountains of the
Sierra Nevada in the distance. Below her nestled the Alhambra.
Onward to the west, the
Vega
—the great
plains—rolled out until they ran smack up against the mountains.
Her father’s world…and hers.