The historical fiction is set in Cordoba, Spain, in 100 AD, the Golden Age when Jews and Moslems together created a beautiful civilization. The story is about two families-one Jewish, the other Moslem, who are best friends. Two twelve-year-old girls are fascinated by the mystery of the ruined garden of the deposed caliph. The story includes many actual characters who lived at that time. There is suspense when Lucia's brother and his uncle, Benjamin of Tudel, travel by boat to mysterious Cathay scene of the pool in the garden.
IN THE GARDEN OF THE CALIPH
By HAZEL KRANTZTrafford Publishing
Copyright © 2012 Hazel Krantz
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4669-2886-2Chapter One
Lucia ibn Mendes tiptoed through the courtyard. It was siesta time and, hopefully, Mama was sound asleep. If she woke up, there would be a barrage of chatter, "Lucia, where are you going? I need you to help prepare vegetables for dinner, to carry water from the well." ... There was no end to the projects Dona Miriam's busy mind could find.
But the day was too brimming with sunshine and blue skies for boring chores. Today was a time for laughing and dreaming. Lucia had something delightful in her pocket to share with Raya.
It was April, 1050, in Al Andalus, Spain, and the air was filled with the fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle. From over the wall came the perfume of Cordoba, the scent of hundreds of orange blossoms. While much of Europe lived in dirt and ignorance, the great cities of Al Andalus, Cordoba, Toledo, and Grenada, blossomed with beautiful buildings, wonderful poetry, and scholars probing the mysteries of science and the wisdom of the Greeks and Romans. Three groups of people had made this possible, the Muslim Moors, the Jews, and the Mozarabs, Arabic-speaking Christians.
Lucia crept past the marble well and the fountain sending sprays of jeweled water into the air and back into the green tiled basin. In a sunny corner, Rebecca, the servant girl, hung laundry. Lucia put a finger to her lips. Rebecca giggled. Rebecca was fifteen and Lucia twelve. Sometimes Lucia thought of her as a big sister, but more often, because Rebecca was so shy, she thought of her as a little sister. Rebecca was not actually a servant. An orphan who had lost her parents in a smallpox epidemic, she had been given shelter by Professor ibn Mendes.
Carefully, Lucia opened the gate in the wall, slipped through to the outside and closed it again, sliding the iron latch slowly, not to make the slightest grating sound. She wandered down the cobblestone road under the shade of huge leaning eucalyptus trees and date palms, crackling their leaves. Two-story brick houses nestled behind courtyards filled with flowering plants in pots. In addition to the perfume of flowers, there were other earthy smells, horse manure from the stables where horses chuffed into their feed pails, and runnels of waste water moving down a groove in the road. Although the houses of Cordoba had pipes to carry away waste water and there were aqueducts leading to the river, some waste water flowed in the streets.
This was the Juderia, the section of the city populated mainly by Jews, who wanted to live near the synagogue. It was in the very center of Cordoba.
Lucia turned a corner and came out onto a wide square lined with shops. She edged to the side of the road to avoid horses pulling carts filled with merchandise, clattering chariots and the slap of the bare feet of men carrying litters in which fashionable ladies listlessly fanned themselves. There was the clang of the ironmonger and the sizzle of the blacksmith's iron. From the huge clay ovens at the bakery came the aroma of baking bread. Meat, mainly lamb, hung from hooks at the butcher's. There were cloaks for sale, and boots, and sandals, the fine woolen cloth that came from the sheep who roamed the hills outside the city and silk cloth woven from the silk produced by the silkworms that lived in the mulberry trees. There were bins of almonds, figs, grapes, apples, pomegranates, artichokes and olives from the groves that surrounded the city. From everywhere came the hoarse shouts of merchants, urging passersby to try their wares and the high-pitched voices of haggling customers.
Lucia walked quickly in the midst of all this noise. Hot and a little tired, she sat down for a moment on a stone bench under a plane tree. At the end of the square she could see the great synagogue, built in Moorish style, with arches and columns. Across from the synagogue was the Hebrew Academy, where Lucia's father taught and where she went to school and bearded scholars pored over the holy books.
Her gaze idly moved to the slope, a mass of red-tiled roofs, that led down to the silver ribbon of the Guadalquivir River. Boats of every size crowded the river, coming and going from the ocean. The heat and the smells made her sleepy. With eyes half-closed she was drawn, as always, to the blue hills of the west.
That was where the royal city of Madinat al-Zahra, lay in ruins, destroyed forty years earlier by Berbers and a mob angered by the last Caliph's extravagance. Now it was peaceful in Cordoba. A king, called a taifa, elected by the people, ruled instead of the magnificent Caliph. But Lucia longed for Madinat-al-Zahra and for its hidden secret, the Caliph's wonderful garden, called Rustafa ... Some day she would see it.
She got up and continued walking, still in a dream of a wonderful fragrant garden and birds of marvelous plumage and the mysterious pool of the Caliph, with its swirling blue water. Something called her there. In the midst of that garden would be the clue to her future.
Suddenly, coming from just behind her she heard a shrill, exasperatingly familiar voice.
"Wait for me!"
"Oh, no!" she sighed.
He came running on chubby legs, his round little face red with effort, his sleep-tumbled black curls up like question marks all over his head.
"Abraham!" Lucia groaned. "Why aren't you sleeping?"
She could escape her mother, but never Abraham, her five year old brother. He stuck to her like a thistle plant. Grabbing her hand with his pudgy, rather dirty fingers, he stuck out his tongue. "Why aren't you sleeping?"
"I don't need as much sleep as you do." She stamped her foot. "Does Mama know where you are?"
"She knows I'm always with you."
"You're like one of the leeches they put on sick people to take out the bad blood."
Abraham sniffled. "Am not!"
"Go home." Lucia turned and tried to walk away from him.
"You don't love me!" he squealed. Passersby stared at Lucia. Such a shame to be mean to a little boy.
She grabbed his hand. "I love you," she hissed. "Now be quiet."
Abraham put on his trusting good little boy look. "Where are we going?"
"I was going to visit Raya without a nuisance little brother," she snapped.
They turned a corner and entered the Moslem section, which looked exactly like the Juderia, with brick or stone houses, whitewashed walls and tiled roofs and everywhere, fragrant flowers. In the distance, the huge golden dome of the Great Mosque gleamed under the blue sky.
"Do you think Aunt Fatima will have sweetmeats?" Abraham asked anxiously.
"All you ever think about is food. No wonder you're such a fat thing."
Abraham's face crumpled with the beginning of tears once more.
"No, no," she said hastily. "You are just a delicious little dumpling."
She smoothed his hair. It was strange that he looked so different from her. Abraham was stocky and dark, like their father's family and Lucia, tall for twelve, and slim, had light brown hair and grey eyes, like their mother. The Jews of Spain, the Sephardim, were mostly dark like their Arab neighbors, but their ancestors had come from many countries, some with the Romans, others from lands like Persia, and had mixed with other races.
With Abraham trotting along beside her, Lucia reached a stone house with a heavy dark door and a knocker in the shape of a lion. She let Abraham lift it and thump loudly against the door.
The door was opened by a plump Arab woman wearing a loose green silk robe. Large golden earrings dangled from her ears. She had curly black hair, round cheeks and dark sleepy eyes. A yawn interrupted a smile. This was Fatima, Raya's mother. Like Lucia's mother, she had been deep into siesta sleep.
"Come in, come in." Dona Fatima drew Lucia into the house and kissed her on the cheek. "Good to see you. You too." She patted Abraham. "I see, Lucia, your shadow is with you."
"Always," Lucia sighed. "I hope I didn't disturb your siesta, Aunt Fatima."
"It was time to get up." Fatima called out, "Raya, Lucia is here," and bending to give Abraham a pinch on the cheek which made him wince, said, "Come with me, Abraham. We have just baked some little cakes, the kind you like."
"My mother wants to know if you and your family will be sharing the Passover with us this year," said Lucia.
"Of course." Fatima beamed. "How could we not enjoy the company of our dear friends on their religious festival, not to mention the wonderful food? And how are your parents?"
"Fine."
"And your handsome brother, Reuben? He is almost a man. Is he studying at the Academy?"
"Oh yes," said Lucia. Actually, Reuben and her parents quarreled because he didn't want to study. He had other ideas.
"Good." At last, Fatima was finished with the ibn Mendes family. "Give them all my love. We will meet at the Passover seder."
"We are having a special guest this year," Lucia told her. "Solomon ibn Gabirol, my father's friend, the famous poet."
"A great honor," Fatima said unenthusiastically. "Come along Abraham. Let us leave the girls to their secrets."
"But I like secrets," Abraham protested.
Fatima grabbed him firmly by the hand. "You like cakes better than secrets."
Raya had come dancing into the room while they were speaking. Actually, Raya wasn't really dancing; she just gave that impression. Sometimes Lucia thought of Raya as a young tree, excitedly bouncing in the breeze. Her huge black eyes danced too. Raya always seemed to be opening a surprise box and clapping her hands in joy. Lucia wondered how Raya kept her feelings of excitement about everything. Some things in life were boring, some painful, and some downright sad. But Raya didn't seem to notice. She just tinkled and laughed and danced.
"Is that gloomy poet really coming to your Passover?" she asked.
Lucia shrugged. "My father invited him. Papa felt sorry for him. He's coming all the way from Malaga and of course must stay for the whole holiday. He's too religious to travel on a holiday."
"And anyway, in your house the food is so good," giggled Raya. "You keep poking in your pocket. What do you have?"
Smiling mysteriously, Lucia pulled a folded paper out of her pocket. Raya touched it with one finger. Paper had just recently been invented. It was a marvel, a big improvement over heavy parchment.
Very slowly, licking her upper lip, Lucia unfolded the paper.
"There!" she sighed.
Raya peered at the painting of a handsome soldier on a horse, her eyes wide with excitement. "It's ... it's him!" she squealed. "Where did you get it?"
"My Uncle Benjamin from Tudela brought it last time he visited us. He's always bringing interesting things from far places," said Lucia airily.
Raya clasped her hands reverently and gazed at the picture. "The Cid!"
News of Rodrigo Diaz, the swashbuckling soldier known as The Cid, had trickled down to Cordoba from the Christian north where two brothers seemed to be fighting. Every girl in Cordoba dreamed of being rescued by The Cid, of having him wear her scarf when he went into battle.
"Do you think he really posed for this picture? That he saw this with his very own eyes?"
"Oh, I don't know about that," said Lucia. "He's been pretty busy rescuing the Princess Urraca."
"Really!" Raya plunked herself cross-legged onto the crimson and blue carpet. "Tell me everything."
Lucia pulled over a cushion and sat next to her. "According to Uncle Benjamin, Urraca is the sister of the two kings who are fighting, Sancho and Alfonso. Alfonso made her a prisoner in Zamora."
"Zamora." Raya rolled the name around her tongue. She wasn't sure where that was except that it was up north where people were wild. "So?"
"So her other brother Sancho, with the help of the Cid, lay siege to Zamora and rescued her."
Raya rolled around in excitement. "The Cid came riding in and grabbed the princess and rode away with her. Right?"
"I guess so. Uncle Benjamin didn't say. I suppose he did that."
"And they got married and The Cid became king?"
Lucia shook her head. "No. Sancho became king. He was her brother." Actually, what Benjamin had said was, "Those two idiots up north, Sancho and Alfonso, are at it again" and her father had snorted, "Barbarians!" He'd included El Cid, but Lucia would never tell Raya that.
Raya thoughtfully bit a fingernail. "My brother would never be mean to me like that, keeping me prisoner."
"Of course not." Lucia was not so sure. There was something about Ahmed that frightened her. Sometimes he looked at you as if lightning was flashing behind his eyes. Then she thought of her own brother, Reuben. They used to be the best of friends, but Reuben and she had grown apart. He was busy with his friends and his ball games.
Lucia gazed at little golden dust motes drifting down to the carpet and thought about Reuben and about swashbuckling heroes. She could imagine the Caliph's favorite warrior riding his white horse into the sacred garden and kneeling down at the Caliph's feet and receiving a wonderful prize. In her imagination, the warrior had Reuben's face with its strange black birthmark next to his nose.
Streaks of sunshine came through the grilled windows and made a pattern on the wall. Shiraz, the white poodle, drifted into the the room, his black nose twitching, and settled down with a contented little snort, next to Raya.
The dreamy silence was interrupted by Fatima bustling into the room trailed by Abraham, his face smeared with pink sugary stuff. Dona Fatima held out a basket stuffed with food.
"Raya, please take this to your father at the mosque. He must have a busy day. He didn't come home for the noonday meal."
Raya took the basket, "Do you want to come, Lucia?"
"All right," said Lucia. She found the mosque exciting, bigger and grander even than the great synagogue, and full of mystery.
"Me too." Abraham planted himself in front of her.
"I suppose," said Lucia wearily. What else was she to do with him? "But wash your face. You look like a pink fish."
Chapter Two
The golden dome of the Great Mosque of Cordoba caught the sun's rays and sent sparks back into the blue sky.
Carrying the basket of food between them, with Abraham pattering alongside, Lucia and Raya passed through an archway in the walled enclosure and walked along the graveled path. Birds of many colors sang in the towering date palms and pink flamingos strutted alongside the flowerbeds.
They respectfully removed their shoes, adjusted their modest head coverings, and tugged open a heavy door. The vast dim room looked like a marble forest, with stately columns reaching the high arched ceiling. Through windows high on the walls, shafts of light played against the stone floor. They walked past an open space strewn with prayer rugs, ready for the next call to prayer, and into a small side room, the Moslem court.
Ali ibn Abu, Raya's father, the qadi, judge of the court, in a ceremonial white robe and gold turban, sat in a heavy, elaborately carved chair in front of a table. He drew his eyebrows severely as he looked at two men arguing before him, but the usual merry Ali ibn Abu leaked through his solemn pose.
He held up a waving finger when he saw the girls, and then went back to being judgmental toward the two men. Lucia and Raya placed the basket next to Ali's chair. Secretly, under the table, he rubbed his round belly.
Giggling, the girls tiptoed to the back of the room to the row of spectator chairs. Abraham, trying so hard to be very quiet made funny faces, and the girls snickered into their hands. Ali shot a glance at them and they sat up straight, looking serious while he heard a case.
Two men, dirty and unshaven, with soiled turbans, shouted at one another. One had loaned a horse to the other and when the horse was returned, it was lame. The man who had borrowed the horse claimed it was lame in the first place.
Ali stroked his beard and considered the argument.
"Those men are giving Papa a headache," Raya whispered.
"Do you have proof that the animal was lame when you got him?" Ali asked the man who had borrowed the horse.
"It's true," the man shouted, ignoring Ali's question. "That horse was lame when I got him."
"Was not!" screamed the other man.
"Remember where you are," Ali warned. "This is Allah's house. He does not appreciate yelling."
The two men calmed down, but looked at each other with angry eyes.
"The borrower is lying," whispered Raya. "You can tell because he is yelling so much."
Lucia looked at her with admiration. "Maybe you can be a mullah when you grow up."
"No," Raya sighed. "It's not for girls."
"Same with the Jews. Girls can study but not become rabbis." Lucia made a face, thinking of all the bossy men.
Abraham remarked with a smirk, "When I grow up I will be a great scholar. I will read directly from the holy Torah."
Lucia gave him a jab in the ribs. "You'll only get the Torah full of sweets and that's a sin. Look at you. Haven't you learned yet to wash your face? It's still full of cake."
Sulkily, Abraham stabbed at his dirty cheeks with a grimy hand. "You're just a girl."
"If I'm just a girl, why do you follow me?" Lucia jeered.
Raya laughed. "Would you like to take your quarrel to my father, the qadi?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from IN THE GARDEN OF THE CALIPHby HAZEL KRANTZ Copyright © 2012 by Hazel Krantz. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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