jumped straight into his arms. The brothers embraced and kissed each other. Their mother smiled.
‘The cub is safely back with its protector. You were greatly missed this morning. Yazid has been wandering about annoying everyone including himself. What did that old man have to say that was so interesting?’
Zuhayr’s answer to the predictable question had been carefully worked out on his ride back to the house.
‘The tragedy of al-Andalus. The failure of our way of life to survive. He thinks we are at the terminus of our history. He is a very learned man, Mother. A true scholar. What do you know about him? He simply refuses to talk about himself.’
‘Ask Ama,’ said Yazid. ‘She knows all about him.’
‘I am going to tell Ama that in future she must keep her imagination under control and be careful when Yazid is present.’
Zuhayr smiled, and was about to enter the discussion on Ama and the merits of her many pronouncements, but he suddenly caught his mother’s eye and the warning was clear. She had sat up in bed and a peremptory command soon followed.
‘Go and bathe, Zuhayr. Your hair is full of dust.’
‘And he smells of horse-sweat!’ added Yazid, pulling a face.
The brothers left and Zubayda clapped her hands. Two maids-in-waiting entered the room. One carried a mirror and two combs. Without a word they began to gently massage the head of their mistress, two pairs of hands working in perfect symmetry. The twenty fingers, delicate and firm at the same time, covered the entire area from the forehead to the nape. In the background Zubayda could only hear the sound of water. When she felt her inner balance restored she signalled that they should cease their labours.
The two women settled down on the floor and, as Zubayda shifted her body and positioned herself on the edge of the bed, they began to work on her feet. The younger of the two, Umayma, was new to this task and her nervousness revealed itself in her inability to use the force necessary to knead her mistress’s left heel.
‘What are they saying in the village?’ inquired Zubayda. Umayma had only recently been promoted to wait on her and she wanted to put the girl at her ease. The young maid-servant blushed on being addressed by her mistress and mumbled a few incoherent thoughts about the great respect everyone in the village had for the Banu Hudayl. Her older and more experienced colleague, Khadija, came to the rescue.
‘All the talk is about Zuhayr bin Umar slapping the face of the infidel, my lady.’
‘Zuhayr bin Umar is a rash fool! What does the talk say?’
Umayma had succeeded in suppressing a giggle, but Zubayda’s informality reassured her and she responded clearly.
‘The younger people agree with Ibn Umar, my lady, but many of the elders were displeased. They wondered whether the Christian had not been put up to the provocation and Ibn Hasd, the cobbler was worried. He thought they might send soldiers to attack al-Hudayl and take all of us prisoner. He said that ...’
‘Ibn Hasd is full of doom in good times, my lady.’
Khadija was worried lest Umayma gave too much away, and wanted to steer the conversation to safer waters, but Zubayda was insistent.
‘Quiet. Tell me girl, what did Ibn Hasd say?’
‘I cannot remember everything my lady, but he said that our sweet daydreams were over and soon we would wake up shivering.’
Zubayda smiled.
‘He is a good man even when he thinks unhappy thoughts. A stone from the hand of a friend is like an apple. Have you taken my clothes to the hammam?’
Umayma nodded. Zubayda dismissed the pair with a tilt of her head. She knew full well that the cobbler was only expressing what the whole village felt. There was a great feeling of uncertainty. For the first time in six hundred years, the villagers of al-Hudayl were being confronted with the possibility of a life without a future for their children. There were a thousand and one stories circulating throughout Gharnata of
‘The cub is safely back with its protector. You were greatly missed this morning. Yazid has been wandering about annoying everyone including himself. What did that old man have to say that was so interesting?’
Zuhayr’s answer to the predictable question had been carefully worked out on his ride back to the house.
‘The tragedy of al-Andalus. The failure of our way of life to survive. He thinks we are at the terminus of our history. He is a very learned man, Mother. A true scholar. What do you know about him? He simply refuses to talk about himself.’
‘Ask Ama,’ said Yazid. ‘She knows all about him.’
‘I am going to tell Ama that in future she must keep her imagination under control and be careful when Yazid is present.’
Zuhayr smiled, and was about to enter the discussion on Ama and the merits of her many pronouncements, but he suddenly caught his mother’s eye and the warning was clear. She had sat up in bed and a peremptory command soon followed.
‘Go and bathe, Zuhayr. Your hair is full of dust.’
‘And he smells of horse-sweat!’ added Yazid, pulling a face.
The brothers left and Zubayda clapped her hands. Two maids-in-waiting entered the room. One carried a mirror and two combs. Without a word they began to gently massage the head of their mistress, two pairs of hands working in perfect symmetry. The twenty fingers, delicate and firm at the same time, covered the entire area from the forehead to the nape. In the background Zubayda could only hear the sound of water. When she felt her inner balance restored she signalled that they should cease their labours.
The two women settled down on the floor and, as Zubayda shifted her body and positioned herself on the edge of the bed, they began to work on her feet. The younger of the two, Umayma, was new to this task and her nervousness revealed itself in her inability to use the force necessary to knead her mistress’s left heel.
‘What are they saying in the village?’ inquired Zubayda. Umayma had only recently been promoted to wait on her and she wanted to put the girl at her ease. The young maid-servant blushed on being addressed by her mistress and mumbled a few incoherent thoughts about the great respect everyone in the village had for the Banu Hudayl. Her older and more experienced colleague, Khadija, came to the rescue.
‘All the talk is about Zuhayr bin Umar slapping the face of the infidel, my lady.’
‘Zuhayr bin Umar is a rash fool! What does the talk say?’
Umayma had succeeded in suppressing a giggle, but Zubayda’s informality reassured her and she responded clearly.
‘The younger people agree with Ibn Umar, my lady, but many of the elders were displeased. They wondered whether the Christian had not been put up to the provocation and Ibn Hasd, the cobbler was worried. He thought they might send soldiers to attack al-Hudayl and take all of us prisoner. He said that ...’
‘Ibn Hasd is full of doom in good times, my lady.’
Khadija was worried lest Umayma gave too much away, and wanted to steer the conversation to safer waters, but Zubayda was insistent.
‘Quiet. Tell me girl, what did Ibn Hasd say?’
‘I cannot remember everything my lady, but he said that our sweet daydreams were over and soon we would wake up shivering.’
Zubayda smiled.
‘He is a good man even when he thinks unhappy thoughts. A stone from the hand of a friend is like an apple. Have you taken my clothes to the hammam?’
Umayma nodded. Zubayda dismissed the pair with a tilt of her head. She knew full well that the cobbler was only expressing what the whole village felt. There was a great feeling of uncertainty. For the first time in six hundred years, the villagers of al-Hudayl were being confronted with the possibility of a life without a future for their children. There were a thousand and one stories circulating throughout Gharnata of
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