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efforts, Zubayda’s mind would not slow down and let her sleep. Her thoughts had now wandered to the fate of her eldest son, Zuhayr. Fortunately the wound had not been serious, not this time, but given his headstrong character and impetuosity, anything could happen. Gharnata was too dangerous. The best solution, thought Zubayda, would be for him to marry her favourite niece, Khadija, who lived with her family in Ishbiliya. It would be a good match. The village needed a celebration, and a big family wedding was the only way now to provide a diversion without provoking the authorities. And with these innocent plans for tomorrow’s pleasures the lady of the house lulled herself into sleep.

Chapter 2
    H OW BEWITCHING, HOW MAGNIFICENT, is a September morning in al-Hudayl. The sun has not yet risen, but its rays have lit the sky and the horizon is painted in different shades of purplish orange. Every creature wallows in this light and the accompanying silence. Soon the birds will start chattering and the muezzin in the village will summon the faithful to prayer.
    The two thousand or so people who live in the village are used to these noises. Even those who are not Muslims appreciate the clockwork skills of the muezzin. As for the rest, not all respond to the call. In the master’s house, it is Ama alone who stretches her mat in the courtyard and gets down to the business of the day.
    Over half the villagers work on the land, either for themselves or directly for the Banu Hudayl. The rest are weavers, who work at home or on the estate, the men cultivating the worm and the women producing the famous Hudayl silk, for which there is a demand even in the market at Samarkand. Add to these a few shopkeepers, a blacksmith, a cobbler, a tailor, a carpenter, and the village is complete. The retainers on the family estate, with the exception of the Dwarf, Ama and the tribe of gardeners, all return to their families in the village every night.
    Zuhayr bin Umar woke early feeling completely refreshed, his wound forgotten, but the cause of it still burning in his head. He looked out of the window and marvelled at the colours of the sky. Half a mile from the village there was a hillock with a large cavity marking the rocks at the summit. Everybody referred to it as the old man’s cave. On that hill, set in the cave, was a tiny, whitewashed room. In that room there lived a man, a mystic, who recited verses in rhymed prose and whose company Zuhayr had begun to value greatly ever since the fall of Gharnata.
    No one knew where he had come from or how old he was or when he had arrived. That is what Zuhayr believed. Umar recollected the cave, but insisted that it had been empty when he was a boy and, had, in fact, been used as a trysting place by the peasants. The old man enjoyed enhancing the mystery of his presence in the cave. Whenever Zuhayr asked him any personal questions, he would parry the thrust by bursting into poetry. Despite it all, Zuhayr felt that the old fraud was genuine.
    This morning he felt an urgent desire to converse with the dweller in the cave. He left his room and entered the hammam. As he lay in the bath he wished Yazid would wake up and come and talk to him. The brothers enjoyed their bath conversations a great deal, Yazid because he knew that in the bath Zuhayr was a captive for twenty minutes and could not escape, Zuhayr because it was the only opportunity to observe the young hawk at close quarters.
    ‘Who’s in the bath?’
    The voice belonged to Ama. The tone was peremptory.
    ‘It’s me, Ama.’
    ‘May Allah bless you. Are you up already? Has the wound ... ?’
    Zuhayr’s laughter stopped her in her tracks. He got out of the bath, robed himself and stepped out into the courtyard.
    ‘Wound! Let us not joke, Ama. A Christian fool attacked me with a pen-knife and for you I am already on the edge of martyrdom.’
    ‘The Dwarf is not yet in the kitchen. Should I make you some breakfast?’
    ‘Yes, but when I