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wrote poetry under the name of al-Zindiq, the Sceptic.
    Before that he had unquestioningly accepted the gossip according to which the old man was an eccentric outcast, fed by the shepherds out of kindness. Ama often went further and insisted that he was no longer in full possession of his mind and, for that very reason, should be left to himself and his satanic devices. If she had been right, thought Zuhayr, I would be confronting a primal idiot instead of this quick-witted sage. But why and how had this hostility developed? He smiled.
    The old man had been skinning almonds, which lay soaked in a bowl of water, when Zuhayr arrived. Now he began to grind them into a smooth paste, adding a few drops of milk when the mixture became too hard. He looked up and caught the smile.
    ‘Pleased with yourself, are you? What you did in the city was thoughtless. A deliberate provocation. Fortunately your father is less foolish. If your retainers had killed that Christian, all of you would have been ambushed and killed on the way back.’
    ‘In Heaven’s name, how do you know?’
    The old man did not reply, but transferred the paste from a stone bowl into a cooking pan containing milk. To this concoction he added some wild honey, cardamoms and a stick of cinnamon. He blew on the embers. Within minutes the mixture was bubbling. He reduced the fire by pouring ash on the embers and let it simmer. Zuhayr watched in silence as his senses were overpowered by the aroma. Then the pan was lifted and the old man stirred it vigorously with a well-seasoned wooden spoon and sprinkled some thinly sliced almonds on the liquid. Only then was it poured into two earthenware goblets, one of which was promptly presented to Zuhayr.
    The young man sipped it and made ecstatic noises.
    ‘Pure nectar. This is what they must drink in heaven all the time!’
    ‘I think once they are up there,’ muttered al-Zindiq, pleased with his success, ‘they are permitted something much stronger.’
    ‘But I have never tasted anything like this ...’
    He stopped in mid-sentence and put the goblet down on the ground in front of him. He had tasted this drink somewhere once before, but where? Where? Zuhayr stared at the old man, who withstood the scrutiny.
    ‘What is the matter now? Too few almonds? Too much honey? These mistakes can ruin the drink, I know, but I have perfected the mixture. Drink it up my young friend. This is not the nectar which the Rumi gods consumed. It is brain juice of the purest kind. It feeds the cells. Ibn Sina it was, I think, who first insisted that almonds stimulated our thought-processes.’
    It was a feint. Zuhayr saw that at once. The old man had blundered. Zuhayr now remembered where he had last tasted a similar drink. In the house of Great-Uncle Miguel, near the Great Mosque, in Qurtuba. The old man must have some connection. He must. Zuhayr felt he was close to solving some mystery. What it was he did not know. The old man looked at the expression on the face in front of him and knew instinctively that one of his secrets was close to being uncovered. Before he could embark on a major diversion, his guest decided to go on the offensive.
    ‘I have a message for you from Ama.’
    ‘Ama? Ama? What Ama? Which Ama? I do not know any Ama.’
    ‘My father’s wet-nurse. She’s always been with our family. The whole village knows her. And you, who claim to know everything that goes on in the village, do not know her? It is unbelievable!’
    ‘Now that you explain it becomes clear. Of course I know who she is and how she always talks of matters which do not concern her. What about her?’
    ‘She instructed me to inform you that she knew who had stolen three of our egg-laying hens ...’
    The old man began to roar with laughter at the preposterousness of such a notion. He, a thief?
    ‘She said that if you did it again she would have you punished in front of the whole village.’
    ‘Can you see any hens in this cave? Any eggs?’
    ‘I