Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree Read Online Free Page B

need for silence and signalled to the rest that Yazid was fast asleep. Alas, she was too old to pick him up any longer. The thought saddened her. Umar realized instinctively what was passing through his old wet-nurse’s head. He recalled his own childhood, when she barely let his feet touch the ground and his mother became worried that he might never learn to walk. Umar rose, and gently lifting his son, he carried him to his bed-chamber, followed by Ama wearing a triumphant smile. It was she who undressed the boy and put him to bed, making sure that the bed-covers were firmly in place.
    Umar was in a thoughtful frame of mind when he joined his wife and daughters to partake of a few slices of sugar-cane. Strange how that memory of Ama picking him up and putting him to bed all those years ago had made him reflect yet again on the terminal character of the year that had just begun. Terminal, that is, for the Banu Hudayl and their way of life. Terminal if the truth be told, for Islam in al-Andalus.
    Zubayda, sensing his change of mood, attempted to penetrate his mind.
    ‘My lord, answer me one question.’
    Distracted by the voice he looked at her and smiled vacantly.
    ‘In times such as these, what is the most important consideration? To survive here as best we can, or to rethink the last five hundred years of our existence and plan our future accordingly?’
    ‘I am not yet sure of the reply.’
    ‘I am,’ declared Hind.
    ‘Of that I am sure,’ replied her father, ‘but the hour is late and we can continue our discussion another day.’
    ‘Time is against us, Father.’
    ‘Of that too I am sure, my child.’
    ‘Peace be upon you, Father.’
    ‘Bless you my daughters. Sleep well.’
    ‘Will you be long?’ asked Zubayda.
    ‘Just a few minutes. I need to breathe some fresh air.’
    For some, minutes after they had left, Umar remained seated, engrossed in his meditations, staring at the empty table. Then he rose and, wrapping a blanket round his shoulders, walked out into the courtyard. The fresh air made him shiver slightly even though there was no chill and he clutched the blanket tightly as he began to walk up and down.
    The torches were being extinguished inside, and he was left to measure his paces in starlight. The only noise was that of the stream which entered the courtyard at one corner, fed the fountain in its centre and then flowed out at the other end of the house. In happier days he would have collected the scent-laden flowers from the jasmine bushes, placed them tenderly in a muslin handkerchief, sprinkled them with water to keep them fresh and placed them at the side of Zubayda’s pillow. In the morning they would still be fresh and aromatic. Tonight such thoughts were very remote from his mind.
    Umar bin Abdallah was thinking, and the recurring images were so powerful that they made his whole body tremble momentarily. He imagined the wall of fire. Memories of that cold night flooded back. Uncontrollable tears watered his face and were trapped by his beard. The fall of Gharnata eight years ago had completed the Reconquest. It had always been on the cards and neither Umar nor his friends had been particularly surprised. But the surrender terms had promised the Believers, who comprised a majority of the citizenry, cultural and religious freedom once they recognized the suzerainty of the Castilian rulers. It was stated on paper and in the presence of witnesses that Gharnata’s Muslims would not be persecuted or prevented from practising their religion, speaking and teaching Arabic or celebrating their festivals. Yes, Umar thought, that is what Isabella’s prelates had pledged in order to avoid a civil war. And we believed them. How blind we were. Our brains must have been poisoned by alcohol. How could we have believed their fine words and promises?
    As a leading noble of the Kingdom, Umar had been present when the treaty was signed. He would never forget the last farewell of the last Sultan, Abu