Aziza had escaped into the city. She undoubtedly had friends to help her, but she had wished to meet with me, a risk she seemed willing to accept.
Restlessly, I paced the garden at the home of ibn-Tuwais. The Court of Oranges and the mosque were familiar to me, but in the event one of the soldiers had overheard her, I must be prepared to escape quickly.
“At noon in the Court of Oranges!” The words sang in my ears, beat a rhythm in my blood. Had Mahmoud and Haroun escaped? They might have been picked up after leaving me, but if so, I had no word of it. Nor did I trust Mahmoud. We had been acquaintances, talking together, drinking coffee together. He was, I knew, a man of intense vanity, and he had declared it was he at whom Aziza had looked, to discover otherwise might have been a blow. Nor would an aspiring young man wish to cross ibn-Haram, who, if he aided him, might confer favors. There had been something in his eyes I did not trust. I said as much to ibn-Tuwais.
The old man nodded. “Trust your instincts. Life teaches us much of which we are not aware. Our senses perceive things that do not impinge upon our awareness, but they lie dormant within us and affect our recognition of people and conditions. But you must be patient. In impatience there is danger.”
He was right, of course, but patience is never the easiest of virtues, and outside these walls events were moving forward that could mean recapture for Aziza and death for me. When at last I lay down to sleep, I did not expect to sleep, but weariness lay heavily upon me, and sleep I did. My last thoughts were of a man with a scarred face. Wit and a sword, he had said. It was a time for wit, but for caution also.
Worst of all, I might have to abandon Córdoba, my enchanted city. It was, with Constantinople and Baghdad, one of the three intellectual centers of the world, yet I think that with reservations, for I have begun to learn something of India and the far land sometimes called Cathay. What lies there? Surely, from the few books I have found their cities must be as great as these, or greater.
Córdoba, I had learned, came to its true greatness under Abd-erl-Rahman III and his successor, al-Hakam II from 961 to 976 a.d., and under the dictatorship, if such it can be called, of Ali Mansur from 977 to 1002. Miles of streets had been paved and lighted; there were many parks, bazaars, and bookshops. It was a city where I loved to roam, and I was only beginning to learn its ways.
What of the queenly Valaba? Of her my thoughts were guilty ones, for was I not in love with Aziza? Or was I?
No matter, if she needed my help, she would have it, but I must move with utmost caution. After all, Valaba was but a beautiful woman with whom I had exchanged a word or two. By now she had forgotten me, although my vanity shied at the thought. Or was it something else than vanity? Some affinity, perhaps, of which we were both aware?
Long before daylight I finally fell asleep, while wind stirred the vine leaves and wafted over me the scents of jasmine and rose mingled with the coolness from the fountains.
Would it be today? Would Aziza meet me in the Court of Oranges? Would love await me there? Or adventure and death?
12
At noon in the Court of Oranges the sun was hot. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers and lazy with the sound of running water. At noon in the Court of Oranges there was a shuffling of feet as the white-robed thousands moved slowly into the mosque. Above them the palms cast slender shadows over the orange trees, and golden fruit shone through the glossy leaves like the Golden Apples of legend.
There were four great basins in the Court of Oranges and water tumbled into them with a pleasant, sleepy sound. The air hung still and hot, thick with the scent of jasmine and rose, and along the walls were hibiscus, great soft red flowers beside others of pale gold or white.
On the north side of the Court was a minaret, one hundred and eight feet tall, so beautiful it might have been dreamed rather than constructed by the hands of men. Stately, beautiful, and created of stone intricately woven with threads of gold in fantastic tracery. At noon in the Court of Oranges I moved along with the shuffling throng, one of them but not of them, for my mind was not on things devout, nor my eyes upon the ground.
Here and there people stood about in groups or waited alone, muttering prayers or soaking up the hot, sultry beauty of the place. And among them might be Aziza. Also among them might be the spies or the soldiers of ibn-Haram, for I knew what might be expected of that cold-faced soldier.
During my weeks of listening to the idle talk of the bazaars, I had overheard a good bit of gossip about ibn-Haram. Skilled in intrigue, merciless to his enemies, he was utterly without scruple, a strong, dangerous, intelligent man, inordinately ambitious and a supporter of the caliph. It was whispered that he aspired to the caliphate himself.
Against him and against Yusuf was arrayed an army of quiet but determined people, some of whom were supporters of the Umayyad dynasty, long out of power, and others linked to the Almoravids. In addition to these were those who belonged to no party: the poets, philosophers, and men of intellect who feared the ignorance, the bigotry, and destructive policies of Yusuf. So far the caliph had interfered little with such groups, but many believed their time was short.
Of these Count Redwan was one. He had long been an antagonist of the Almohads, and it was his plan to bring the daughter of ibn-Sharaz to Córdoba and unite her in marriage to a descendant of the Umayyads. Then, with the power of William of Sicily behind them, they would seek the caliphate once more.
It was a bold plan and might well succeed, for William had strong friends in Africa, and even more friends among the pirates of Almeria with their great wealth and many ships.
Ibn-Haram no doubt intended to hold Aziza as hostage to keep ibn-Sharaz and William II out of the picture. Feet shuffled softly in the Court of Oranges, and easing from the crowd, I stood in the shade of the orange trees, inhaling the perfume of the blossoms and watching the crowd from under my brows, my head lowered.
Aziza was no fool. In all of Spain, perhaps in all of Europe, there was no place so easy to lose oneself as here, at this hour.
A gentle hand touched my sleeve, and it was she. Her dark eyes looked into mine, and I wanted to take her in my arms, to forget the place, the time, the danger. “Do not look at me like that!” she protested, in a whisper. “You frighten me!” But if the look in her eyes was fear, I could wish that all women would be so frightened.
“How else could I look at you? You are beautiful!”
“We cannot stay here.”
“Where is Redwan?”
“I do not know. He is a prisoner. I know not where.”
Soldiers appeared at the outer gate. There were four … six … eight.
Not seeming to hurry, I took Aziza’s arm and stepped into the shuffling throng. Within the temple was a long vista of arches and columns, shadowed and still but for the rustling of garments.
Across the mosque was a door, a very small door not often used, but one I had located before this, recognizing its possibilities. Escaping the crowd, we slipped through the door to the small garden beyond. Across it, then out in a public park.
We moved sedately then, yet I was thinking as we walked. It was unlikely my connection with ibn-Tuwais was known. Mahmoud knew of it, and Haroun, but if I could get there, horses would be available, and I had scouted several escape routes through the alleys of the city.
Past the stalls of sellers of incense, past the merchants of silk, past the astrologers and seers, we turned a corner into an empty, high-walled street where nothing moved but the wind, nothing loitered but the shadows.
Ibn-Tuwais greeted us and led us into the house. “You need explain nothing. This house was built in a time of trouble.”
We followed to an inner chamber. He turned sharply in an alcove and leaned hard against the wall. The wall swung soundlessly inward, revealing a dark, narrow stair. “It has been used before this.” He handed me a candle. “You will find food and wine.”