Slaves don’t correct masters.
He never found out
how wrong he was.
Mountains
After more than a fortnight of walking
the real labor starts.
The mountains are no longer distant.
Once we desired just to reach them.
Now we are in them, and
all tangled up in their tricks.
It’s a contest between the wagons and men—
which moan the most going up the steep slopes?
Sol laughs at us.
“Imagine,” he says, “how you’d have fared
six months ago! I was here, so I know.
“These roads we walk on? Not there.
Since that time, six thousand men
have been paving the way for your
precious feet!”
Well, even with bridges and roads,
it’s hard work. The curves are sharp elbows.
It’s easy to slip. The spring rains were heavy,
and there have been floods.
My clothes have become so caked with mud,
they weigh at least twice what they did
when I took them (I shudder)
from the Christian’s corpse.
And yet, for the first time in weeks,
I feel awake.
Perhaps work revives me.
Or maybe it’s just that these mountains
are filled with my abba—my father.
My first.
Mountains (2)
He’d leave us to climb them, stay away long,
and then, happy day, he’d return.
His cart when he came would be brimming with snow,
packed in as tight as skin stretched on a drum.
He always came down to a crowd.
The best men in Granada waiting for him.
The courtiers—even the emir himself—
bought up each flake of snow every time.
Some had fancy wives who bathed in it,
swearing it made them as young as their daughters.
Some topped it with raisins, ate it like candy.
Most used it to give longer life to their food.
But no matter which grandees clamored around,
my abba would wait. He refused to remove
one bit of snow till he saw that I’d come.
As people queued up for his wares,
he’d conjure the finest snow cone—all for me.
Pure and plain was how I preferred it.
Nothing to muddy the clean, bracing flavor,
exactly the same as the mountain air’s taste
when sometimes it breezed by my bed.
Only once in Cordoba did I taste that air.
I was out on the patio, watching the stars.
The air changed, just for a minute, and there
was the smell of the mountains.
It was as if my first father, and I, had not left.
Why Not?
Those long days of waiting
for abba’s descent,
my mother and I learned to read
side by side.
So many times had I stared at those scribbles,
wondering how men saw stories in them.
In Granada, writing is part of the world.
It’s not just in books. It graces the walls
of our homes and our mosques.
It is the way we talk to our God.
Mother did washing for a poor scholar.
In exchange, he gave us one lesson each week.
These were just threads.
But we used them to make
a whole carpet. Learning one word
always leads to another.
So when Raquel—my Cordoban mama—
said, “Women don’t read,” I asked her,
“Why not?” And she had no answer.
Papa and Ramon echoed her, though.
“Women don’t read.” (Or had she echoed them?)
Females have poor heads for books,
so they said. I knew better.
So during siestas when Papa was tired,
too tired for work on our project together,
Mama and I worked instead.
We’d sit in the courtyard with what books
we could find. Even Plants of Castile.
I knew some Spanish, but not enough.
She helped with meanings.
Though sometimes we simply listened
to the music of words.
We were, in that courtyard, shut off from the world.
But also, somehow, more in it than ever.
Gathering threads.
Ghosts
One day my abba went up the mountain
and did not come back down.
Three snowfalls came and three snowfalls went.
His cart, even then, was not to be seen.
After four snows, a new man appeared.
He had a new cart.
And no word of my father.
So he said.
The city forgot all about my abba.
He’d never been.
The townsfolk began to ignore us—
my mother and me.
We were cursed, and maybe contagious.
We became walking ghosts
without friends.
Perfect food for the slave-making pirates
who came from the coast, searching out weakness.
Harvesting ghosts.
Not Me
That was the last
that I saw of my mother.
Two men
dragged her one way.
Two more
dragged me another.
Faces in windows disappeared quickly.
People talking
across narrow lanes
instantly hushed and withdrew.
All gone in an eyeblink,
as if we had dreamed them.
And we were alone in the world.
Now that I’m older
I understand better.
Those faces were hiding.
Those people, each saying the very same prayer.
It exists in all tongues, no matter what version
of God you believe.
It goes something like this:
Please, God—not me.
Malaga
Just before we were
(I really don’t know what word
I can use)
taken,
my mother and I hatched a plan.
She’d been born in Malaga.
She had two brothers—might they still be there?
She worried these brothers might not believe
my abba had disappeared.
Men don’t just vanish!
They might suspect that she’d run away.
Deserted her husband.
Bringing them shame.
Or, they’d believe her.
“Should we take the chance?”
I said yes.
“After all,” I told her,
“we have nothing to lose.”
Never say that.
As long as there’s freedom,
there is something to lose.
Slave Market, Cordoba
When Señor Barico took me to his home
and then unfastened my heavy leg chains,
I could hardly believe what he’d done.
I paced in my room the whole of that night.
I kept up till I dropped.
I feared if I let my legs rest for one minute,
someone would enter and chain them again.
The Sea
A change in the wind
brings the salt tang of sea.
Ramon often spoke
of this moment.
What it would be like
the first time you sensed it.
Smelled it or heard it, or even
just felt its wet breath
on your skin.
And the
n, when it came
into view—!
Ramon talked, and I
gazed at the ground.
I didn’t tell him the sea
called me too.
But I feel no elation
now that I approach.
My heart is full of foreboding.
Of all the places I’ve wandered, all the people
I’ve been, war is the last place for me.
When we do reach the sea
maybe I’ll dive in.
Though I don’t even
know if I know
how to swim.
Home
I once harbored dreams
of triumphant return.
I would stand at the gates of Granada, my Kingdom,
no longer a slave. Through my exploits,
I would have become a great Muslim prince!
All things—crowds of my subjects,
gates of stone and steel—
would part graciously as I passed.
“Amir’s an emir!” the people would cry.
Instead, here I am.
Dressed like the enemy.
No scimitar, nor even
a flat Christian sword
in my hand.
A stranger,
a zero,
in my own land.
New City
Outside the tall walls of Malaga,
a whole city of Christians has bloomed
from the ground.
Thousands of tents of all colors;
horses decked out in crimson and gold.
Stealth, it is clear, is not this camp’s game.
A carpet of tulips would draw less notice.
Banners flap in the wind.
Soldiers from all ends of Europe
polish their armor with spit as they sing.
One of the tents is as large as the ships
plying the harbor at our backs.
Its flag tells the tale:
it houses the King.
There are bakers and blacksmiths
and artists with easels, drawing the scene.
No one wants to miss out.
Malaga and then, at long last, the capital city, Granada itself.
The finishing strokes of a great masterpiece.
The title?
The Holy Reconquest of Spain.
Large groups of traders sit cooling their heels.
If the wall should come down, the plunder will start.
Men playing cards. Men having jousts. A few women
too, lending themselves for a price. The priests—
of course, there are many of these—dog their steps.
“Men, don’t succumb to the devil!” they warn.
“Beware! Repent! Shun these women and pray!
Like the Moors’ fortress, you are under siege!
The forces of evil will seep through the cracks
of even the stoutest armor.”
Siege
It’s a strange kind of warfare:
a battle of waiting.
The kitchen tents snuggle as close
to the wall as is safe.
Too close and Malaga’s women, defiant and fierce,
will stand on the ramparts, pouring
boiling oil down upon
the cooks’ heads.
Close enough to be sure
the aroma of meat—today, roasting lamb—
rises over the wall.
So it may attack
the besieged where they starve.
Leave-taking (2)
Sol and the others have left for Seville.
It’s hard to believe there’s a need for more weapons,
but those are their orders.
I’m surprised how I feel as they leave.
When will I learn I’m alone in this world?
I’m weary of this waking sleep
of not doing.
I must find a way
to get through that wall.
I won’t find my uncles
in this carnival!
But—short of becoming an arrow—
how will I do it?
Line
Still the carts keep on coming.
Mound after mound of weapons and food.
No wonder taxes are high in Castile!
I think of what Sol said when we met.
New Christians, should they place even
one toe astray, are burned for the money this takes.
I fear for Papa, and Mama, and even Ramon.
They are conversos, and have done one thing, at least,
too close to the line.
That book of Papa’s, the one that tells of
his ancestor’s life. I helped with it.
His great-grandfather once worked on a Talmud—
a holy Jewish book.
Papa included quotations from it
in that book of his own.
In the law of the Christians,
that is heresy.
Would it be enough
to send them to the stake?
It’s such a small thing.
But I bet it would.
Now I can’t eat the meat
these Christians serve.
The smell of it roasting conjures
the flesh that has bought it.
Talk
There are perils this side of the wall besides hunger.
After living like ants for nearly three months,
men begin to take ill. Rumors of poxes and plagues have blossomed,
though no one is saying in which tents they live.
Men bored beyond reason pick fights in the night.
They race dogs and bait bears.
One of these last breaks free from its torments.
It mauls several men.
How much longer, they shout, can these Moors hold out?
What are they eating, their fingers and toes?
Talk of dark magic spreads through the camp.
The Malagans have struck up a deal with the devil!
And he’ll eat their souls when they’re dead.
Call to Prayer (2)
One thing I know about the Malagans:
they still pray.
The sweet, sorrowful voice of the muezzin
calls the people to prayer
five times each day.
It spirits over the ramparts.
It can’t be contained.
The first time I hear it I know
what it is. It sounds like the cry
of a ghost to its love.
It sounds like the voice of Allah himself.
For those moments, I travel.
I’m once more a child.
I am through the walls.
The Queen’s Arrival
Just when the boredom is set to ignite,
Isabella arrives like a saint in the flesh.
Even crusading soldiers from foreign lands
lower their flags in salute as she passes.
The King and his men ride in full state toward her.
Two mountains, it seems, have agreed to unmoor
and to meet.
And what finery! Her Majesty’s mule
(he’s a rich chestnut brown)
has a saddle of silver and gold.
The beast is more like a throne than an ass.
The soldiers are moved.
Their backs look much straighter.
For the first time in weeks, their eyes seem to shine
without mischief.
The first thing the Queen does:
lead the men in a prayer.
Say what you will about Isabella.
She believes in her God.
Doghouse
Restless, I haunt the edges of camp
like one of the dogs.
I’ve added it up and I’m shocked.
I’ve been in this camp for nearly a month!
Part of me says,
Make a break for it.
You don’t belong on this side.
You must cross.
But if I were seen, it would scarcely matter
who’d found me. Each side would think me
a traitor or spy. They would battle to see
who could fill me with arrows the fastest!
Trade (2)
Some Malagans emerge from the city,
arms stretched out before them
like sleepwalkers.
I might count each of the bones in their chests
if I could stand to keep looking.
They’ve come to surrender. They must eat.
They’re made to wait in one ragged line,
as if this trade were normal.
But I know what it is.
For now, one grudging handful of bread.
Forever, the life—the not-life—
of a slave.
Invasion
A clutch of Muslims from nearby Guadix
have come to help the Malagans.
They bring satchels of food
and a few extra weapons.
But first they must break
through the Christian lines.
Only a few are successful. They throw themselves into
the poor, starving city. Good luck to them!
They are brave men, if not very smart.
Most are captured before they get in.
Soldiers cut them to pieces without wasting time.
One begs for his life. His words are a gallop.
He speaks Arabic. He clasps forth his gaunt, shaking hands.
Does he beg for conversion?
The Queen has forbidden men to be killed
with their hands in the posture of Christian prayer.
They need a translator.
I make myself small, try to shrink deep as I can
in the crowd.
I am seen.
A guard calls me over.
It seems I have not
been the ghost that I thought.
A Knight?
I’m afraid, once they see
the S on my face,
they’ll ask questions for which
no answer will save me.
But her Majesty’s man gets
straight to the point.
“What is it, señor, that this man is saying?”
I listen closely once more,
though I heard well enough.
“He wishes to see Their Highnesses.
In private. He says that he must.
He has key information, he says, that will help you—
that is, us—in this war.”