PART THREE: 1370-1377)
Ahmed worked and worked, wishing the days would pass swiftly. In the palace they finished tiling the eaves. The plasterers joined up the spaces between the pilasters with arches and filled these in with arabesques. They began installing the stalactitic mocarabe adornments after painting the outer faces, both in the galleries and in the halls around the patio, and the marble masons carved capitals for the halls. Half way through the week the vizier, accompanied by a young woman with veiled face and jet-black eyes, entered the north hall where Al-Qalati had built the belvedere. Jaffa later remarked that neither of them could help uttering a gasp of admiration. The stalactite ceilings were only half finished, but the light was playing through the upper windows of the Hall of the Two Sisters, now appearing, now disappearing, creating a never-ending repetition of shadow and light.
—This is wonderful! —said the young woman, walking around the scaffolding.
—That is where the belvedere will be, and the king's throne.
They crossed the hall. The belvedere projected outward, overlooking a garden with trees, water and lush vegetation. It offered a splendid view over the forests in the Wadi-Hadarro valley.
—It is superb, your excellency.
—Our architect is one of Allah's chosen ones, my lady.
Ahmed's team had paid no attention to the couple. They were fitting the pieces of marble for the flooring that remained to be laid. Ahmed glanced at her from the other end of the patio, amid the din of the workers. She went over to stroke the lions before leaving with the vizier along the passageway leading out.
It was Aisha. Ahmed, struck dumb, would have crossed his heart and sworn that it was her, without a doubt. It was her, and yet it was not. She was no longer that daydreaming little girl, full of promise. She was a woman in every sense of the word. Ahmed, flustered, bowed his head so that the vizier would not see him, and peeped at Aisha out of the corner of his eye. He was living a dream, or a nightmare.
—Is something wrong, Ahmed? —asked Sadam. —You've gone as white as the marble —, but Ahmed shook his head. It was maddening being there, seeing her walk away, smiling, and arm-in-arm with that murderer. He put down his tools, muttering an excuse unintelligibly, and followed them down the unfinished passages, among the scaffolding and the plasterers, to the Comares patio. The sultan was waiting for them beside the large pool, delighting in the freshly-cut myrtle. Several female slaves carried large parasols, shading them from the sun. The three made their way towards the throne room. Two guards stopped Ahmed from going any further.
—Get lost, slave —said one of them, pushing him away with his spear. She had to know he was still alive! He tried to get through, but the two soldiers prevented him. Two more who were on guard in the pond patio drew their swords and ran over to where the noise of the scuffle was coming from. The white walls of the quiet patio resounded with the forceful tread of the elche renegade soldiers and the clink of metal. Ibn Zamrak wondered what was going on.
—Leave me alone! I have to get through!
—Damn you! —The slave was robust. Years of working in the quarry had made Ahmed stronger than many men, but his courage waned when he saw the two elche soldiers approaching with their swords drawn. He shouted out a single word:
—Aisha!
The white doves sipping water at the edge of the pond took flight. The three figures turned. The sultan wondered who that impertinent slave could be. The vizier looked at him critically. The lady from Fez trembled, speechless, when she recognised him. Ahmed looked straight at her and stopped fighting. The four soldiers jumped on him. Ibn Zamrak strode over to them, enraged. There was no time just then to find out anything else.
—A slave? How dare you? Throw him in the dungeons of Al-Gudur! —bellowed the vizier at the soldiers, his eyes boring into Ahmed. What was it about that young man that was so familiar?
THE READERS’ REVIEWS:
“A book I will never forget, it will leave a deep mark in your soul when you finish it” (Jesús García, December 11th, 2010)
“When you read it you feel a crazy desire to fly to Granada and watch by yourself one of the more amazing jewels that History has preserved… the Alhambra” (Salvador Felip, writer, December 15th, 2010)
“A more than recommendable book, my calification is 9/10” (Teo Palacios, writer, January 17th, 2011)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Blas Malo Poyatos (1977, Spain) is a civil engineer and an inspired historical novel writer. “The Slave of the Al-Hamrá” (“El esclavo de la Al-Hamrá”) is his first novel, published in Spanish by Ediciones B, and was translated to Serbian by ALNARI Ed. (“Vezirova Osveta”) in 2011.
You can find the novel in Spanish in the main e-bookstores.
Get more info about the author, readers’ reviews and future translations in the author’s Web:
www.blasmalopoyatos.com
Contact with the author (comments, suggestions…) at:
[email protected] Any comment or question will be welcome.
Granada, June 28th, 2012
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