‘A weary silence came over the assembly, which contented itself with occasional rumblings of approval. Al-Mulih opened his mouth as if about to continue his argument. But he said nothing, stepped backwards and sat down, his face fixed on the ground. Three speakers of no particular distinction then got up in turn to say that the surrender of the town should be negotiated immediately, and that those in charge had lost too much time, and had been insensitive to the sufferings of the ordinary people.
‘It was now the turn of Astaghfirullah, who had been sitting impatiently in his seat since the meeting began. He got up, made a mechanical movement with both hands to adjust his turban, and directed his gaze towards the ceiling, which was decorated with arabesques. “The vizier al-Mulih is a man well known for his intelligence and his skill, and when he wishes to implant an idea in the minds of his audience, he can manage it with ease. He wants to give us a message, and he has prepared our minds to receive it and now he is silent, because he does not wish to give us with his own hands the bitter cup from which he wishes us to drink. What is there in this cup? If he does not want to tell us from his own mouth, I will do it myself: the vizier wants us to agree to hand over Granada to Ferdinand. He has told us that all further resistance is useless, that no help will reach us from Andalus or elsewhere; he has revealed to us that the envoys of the Muslim princes have compromised themselves with our enemies, may God punish them and the others as He alone knows how! But al-Mulih has not told us everything! He has not said that he has himself been negotiating with the Rumis for weeks. He has not confessed that he has already agreed to open the gates of Granada to them.”
‘Astaghfirullah raised his voice to speak above the mounting uproar. “Al-Mulih has not told us that he has even agreed to bring forward the date of the surrender, that this will take place within the next few days, and that he has only sought a delay to prepare the minds of the people of Granada for defeat. It is to force us to capitulate that the food warehouses have been closed for several days; it is to deepen our discouragement that the demonstrations in the streets have been organized by the vizier’s agents; and if we have been invited to come to the Alhambra today, it is not to criticize the actions of our governors, as the vizier would have us believe, but to give our backing to their impious decision to surrender Granada.” The shaikh was almost shouting; his beard shook with rage and bitter sarcasm. “Do not be indignant, my brother believers, because if al-Mulih has concealed the truth from us it is certainly not because he wished to deceive us; it is only because he lacked the time. But, by God, let us interrupt him no more, let him tell us in detail what he has been doing these past few days, and then we can agree on the course of action to be followed.” He finished abruptly and sat down, gathering the hem of his stained gown with a trembling hand, while a deathly silence came over the room, and all eyes turned towards al-Mulih.
‘The latter expected that one of the others present would intervene; in vain. Then he rose up with a burst of energy. “The shaikh is a man of piety and courage, as we all know; his love for this city is the more meritorious since he was not born here, and his zeal for Islam is the more praiseworthy since it was not the religion into which he was born. Furthermore he is a man of vast knowledge, well versed in the sciences of religion and of the world, and does not hesitate to seek knowledge at its source, however far away that may be. Listening to him relate what has passed between myself, the envoy of the mighty sultan of Andalus, and the emissary of King Ferdinand, I cannot conceal my admiration, astonishment and surprise, since it was not I who have told him these things. Moreoever, I must acknowledge that what he has said is not far from the truth. I would reproach him only in so far as he has presented the situation in the way that our enemies describe it. For them, what is important is the date of the peace treaty, since the siege costs them dear. For us, the point is not to delay the inevitable for a few days or even a few weeks, after which the Castilians would throw themselves upon us with even greater fury; given that victory is out of the question, by an irrevocable decree of He who orders all things, we must try to obtain the best possible terms. That is to say, a safe conduct for ourselves, our wives and our children; the preservation of our properties, our fields, our houses and our animals; the right of every one of us to continue to live in Granada, according to the religion of God and of His prophet, praying in our mosques and paying no other taxes than the zakat and the tithe, as prescribed by our Law; equally, the right for those who wish to do so to depart across the sea towards the Maghrib, taking all their property with them, with a period of three years to choose, and with the right to sell their possessions at a just price to Muslims or to Christians. Those are the terms on which I have been attempting to obtain Ferdinand’s agreement, making him swear on the Gospel that he would respect it until his death and that his successors would respect it after him. Was I wrong to do so?”
‘Without waiting to hear their replies, al-Mulih continued: “Dignitaries and notables of Granada, I do not bring you news of victory, but I wish to save you from the bitter cup of humiliating defeat, from massacre, the violation of women and young girls, from dishonour, slavery, pillage and destruction. For this I need your agreement and your support. If you ask me to do so, I can break off the negotiations, or make them last longer; that is what I would do if I sought only the praise of fools and hypocrites. I could give Ferdinand’s envoys a thousand excuses for delaying the peace treaty. But would this really be in the interests of the Muslims? Now it is winter; the enemy’s forces are more scattered, and the snow has forced him to reduce his attacks. He shelters behind the walls of Santa Fé and the fortifications he has constructed, satisfied with preventing us from using the roads. In three months, it will be spring, Ferdinand will have fresh troops, ready to launch the decisive attack against our city which hunger will have rendered almost lifeless. It is now that we must negotiate! It is now that Ferdinand will accept our conditions, while we can still offer him something in return.”
‘Abu Khamr, who had remained silent since the beginning of the discussion, leaped up suddenly from his place, jostling his neighbours with his massive shoulders: “We can offer him something, you say, but what? Why do the words stick in your throat? What you want to offer to Ferdinand is not a golden candlestick, nor a robe of honour, nor a fifteen-year-old slavegirl. That which you wish to present to Ferdinand is this city, about which the poet has written:
Granada, no city is your equal,
Not in Egypt, not in Syria, not in Iraq,
You are the bride
And these lands are only your dowry.
‘ “What you want to offer to Ferdinand, O Vizier, is this palace of the Alhambra, glory of glories and marvel of marvels. Look around you, my brothers! Let your eyes wander slowly around this room, every section of whose walls has been patiently carved by our fathers and grandfathers like a rare and delicate jewel! May it remain for ever in your memories, this holy place where none of you will ever set foot again, except perhaps as a slave.”
‘The doctor was weeping, and many men hid their faces. “For eight centuries,” he continued in a broken and breathless voice, “we have illuminated this earth with our knowledge, but our sun is at its eclipse, and everything is becoming dark. And as for you, O Granada, I know that your flame will flicker a last time before being extinguished, but do not count on me to blow it out, as my descendants would spit upon my memory until the Day of Judgement.” He collapsed rather than sat down, and several seconds passed, slowly, heavily, before the silence was broken, once more by Astaghfirullah, who forgot, for once, his enmity towards Abu Khamr. “What the doctor says is true. That which the vizier is offering to the king of the infidels is our town, with its mosques which will become churches, its schools where the Qur’an will never penetrate again, its houses where no prohibition will be respected. What he is also offering to Ferdinand is the right of life and death over us and ours, because we know very well how much faith we can place in the treaties and oaths of R
um. Did they not promise respect and safe-conduct for the inhabitants of Malaga four years ago, before entering the city and leading the women and children into captivity? Can you assure me, al-Mulih, that it will not be the same at Granada?”
‘The vizier replied in exasperation: “I can assure you of nothing, except that I shall remain in this city myself, that I shall share the fate of its sons and I shall use all the energy that the Most High will see fit to give me to make sure that the agreements are respected. It is not in the hands of Ferdinand that our destiny lies, but in the hands of God, and it is He alone who can one day give us the victory that He has not vouchsafed to us today. For the time being, you know what the situation is, and it is pointless to prolong this discussion. We must come to a decision. Those who approve the conclusion of an agreement with the Castilians should pronounce the motto of the Nasrid dynasty!”
‘From all the corners of the Hall of the Ambassadors,’ my father recalled, ‘came the same words, “Only God can grant the victory,” said with determination but with no joy, because that which had but a short while ago been a war cry had become, that year, a formula of resignation; perhaps even also, in the mouths of some, a reproach addressed to the Creator, may He preserve us from doubt and unbelief!
‘When it was clear that he had the support of the majority of those present, Boabdil decided to take over from the vizier. He quietened his subjects with an imperious gesture of his hands, to say in a sententious tone: “The believers have agreed among themselves, and their decision has been made. We will follow the way of peace, sure in the knowledge that God will guide us towards that which is the best for us. It is He who listens, He who replies.”
‘Before the sultan had finished his sentence, Astaghfirullah strode towards the door, his anger making his limp more pronounced, his lips uttering the terrible words: “Was it of us that God has said in His Book: You are the best nation that has ever been given to mankind?” ’
The very evening of the meeting in the Alhambra all Granada knew exactly what had been said there. Then began the harsh ordeal of waiting, with its daily batch of rumours, always centring on one despairingly unique theme: the day and the hour of the entry of the Castilians into the city.
‘During the last week of the month of Safar,’ my mother told me, ‘the day after the feast of the birth of ‘Issa the Messiah – peace upon him – Gaudy Sarah came to see me with a little book carefully wrapped up in a mauve silk scarf which she took gingerly from the bottom of her wicker basket. “Neither you nor I can read,” I said to her, forcing a smile, but she seemed to have lost all her gaiety. “I brought this to show to your cousin,” she said in the coldest voice. “It is a treatise written by one of the wise men of our community, Rabbi Ishaq Ben Yahuda. He says that a flood is about to pour down upon us, a flood of blood and fire, a chastisement which will afflict all those who have abandoned the life of nature for the corruption of the city.” Her delivery was halting and her hands trembled.
‘You were sitting on my knees, my son; I held you very close and kissed your warmly on the neck. “Foreteller of evil tidings!” I snapped at Sarah, more from irritation than malice. “Are our daily sufferings not overwhelming enough? Do you really need to prophesy an even worse fate for us?” But the Jewess would not be distracted from her theme. “Rabbi Ishaq is a regular visitor to King Ferdinand, he knows many secrets, and if he uses the language of the prophets it is to make us understand things which he would not otherwise be able to divulge.” – “Perhaps he is trying to warn you that Granada will be taken, but that is no longer a secret.” – “His words go farther than that. He maintains that, for the Jews, there will be no more air to breathe or water to drink in this land of Safarad.”
‘Normally so exuberant, she was now so distressed that she could only speak with great difficulty. “Is it your book that has so upset you?” – “There is something else. I heard this morning that one of my nephews was burnt alive at the stake at La Guardia, near Toledo, with ten other people. They were accused of having practised black magic, of having kidnapped a Christian child and crucified him like ’Issa. The inquisitors could not prove anything; they could not give the name of the child who was alleged to have been murdered, nor produce a body, nor even establish that a child in the area had disappeared; but under the water torture and the rack Yusuf and his friends must have confessed to anything.” “Do you think that such a fate could befall your people here in Granada?” – She gave me a look which seemed full of hatred. I did not know how I had offended her, but in the state she was in, I decided to apologize. She did not give me the chance. “When this city is taken, do you think that your lands, your houses and your gold will be less coveted than ours? Do you believe that your Faith will be more tolerated than ours? Do you believe that the fire burning at the stake will be kinder to one of the sons of Shem than to the other? In Granada it is as if we were on an ark, we have floated together and we shall sink together. Tomorrow, on the road to exile . . .”
‘Realizing that she had gone too far, she stopped abruptly, and in an attempt to mitigate the effect of her words, put her arms around me with their wide sleeves and the perfume of musk, and began to sob against my shoulder. However, I did not begrudge her this, because the same images that were terrifying her were haunting my mind both in dreams and in wakefulness, and in that respect we were both sisters, orphans of the same dying city.
‘We were still bemoaning our fate when I heard your father’s steps returning home. I called him from my bedroom, and while he climbed the stairs I wiped my cheeks with the hem of my dress, while Sarah quickly covered her head and face. Muhammad’s eyes were bloodshot, but I pretended not to notice to save him embarrassment. “Sarah has brought you a book so that you can explain to us what is in it.” Your father had long since ceased to entertain the slighest prejudice against Gaudy Sarah, who now came to our house almost every day; he enjoyed exchanging opinions and news with her, and also liked to tease her about her appearance, and she would laugh good-naturedly. That day, however, he had no more heart to laugh than she. He took the book from her hands without saying a word and sat cross-legged in the doorway leafing through it. He immersed himself in it for more than an hour, while we watched him in silence; then he closed it and remained pensive. He looked towards me as if not seeing me: “Your father Sulaiman the bookseller once told me long ago that on the eve of all great happenings books like this appear which predict the end of the world, seeking to explain the severe decrees of the Most High in terms of the movements of the stars and the disobedience of men. People pass them to each other in secret, and they are comforted by reading them, because the misfortune of each of them becomes lost and forgotten like a drop of water in a raging torrent. This book says that your people should leave, Sarah, without waiting for fate to knock at their door. As soon as you can do so, take your children and go away from this land.” Sarah uncovered her face to show her suffering. “Where shall I go?” It was less a question than a cry of distress, but your father replied by leafing through the book: “This man suggests Italy, or the land of the Ottomans, but you can even go to the Maghrib across the sea, which is nearer. That is where we shall go ourselves.” He put down the book and went out without looking at us.
‘That was the first time that your father mentioned exile, and I would have liked to question him further about this decision and the arrangements he had made, but I did not dare to do so. He himself only spoke to me about it once more, the next day, to tell me in low tones not to raise the subject in front of Warda.’
Over the next few days, the cannons and the mangonels stayed silent; snow fell continuously upon Granada, covering it with a veil of peace and serenity which nothing seemed able to destroy. There was no fighting, and only the cries of children could be heard in the streets. How much would the city have wished that time would forget it! But it was on the move; the Christian year 1492 began on the last day of the month of Safar 897, and before dawn there came a loud knocking at
our door. My mother woke with a start and called my father, who was sleeping with Warda that night. He went to open the door. Outside were some of the sultan’s officers, who asked him to follow them on his horse. They had already collected several dozen people together, including some very young boys whose beardless faces were lit up by the snow. Muhammad went back into his house to put on some warm clothing, and then, accompanied by two soldiers, went to fetch his horse from the barn behind the house. Standing in the half-open door, with me half-asleep on her arm, and Warda’s head peering over her shoulder, my mother questioned the officers to find out where her husband was being taken. They replied that the vizier al-Mulih had given them a list of people whom he wished to see urgently; they added that she had nothing to fear. My father also did his best to reassure her as he left.
When he reached the Plaza de la Tabla in front of the Alhambra, Muhammad could make out some five hundred prisoners as daylight was breaking, all on horseback, all wrapped in heavy woollen cloaks, surrounded by a thousand soldiers on foot or on horseback, who manifested no violence towards them, even verbally, simply surrounding them to prevent them escaping. Then the immense convoy moved off in silence, a veiled rider at its head, the soldiers walking in line alongside. It passed before the Gate of the Seven Stages, went along the ramparts, and left the city by the Najd Gate to arrive at the Genil, which was frozen over. A cherry orchard on the river bank was the first halting place of the silent and trembling caravan.
It was already daylight, but the fine crescent moon of the new month could still be seen in the sky. The veiled man uncovered his face and summoned to his side a dozen high dignitaries chosen from among the prisoners. To no one’s surprise it was al-Mulih. He began by asking them not to be alarmed and apologized for not having explained the situation to them earlier.
‘We had to leave the city to avoid any incident, any incautious reaction. Ferdinand has asked that five hundred notables from the great families of Granada should be left with him as hostages so that he can bring his troops into the city without fearing a trap. We too have every interest in the surrender taking place without the slightest violence. Reassure the others, tell them that they will be well treated and that it will all pass very quickly.’