The Stone Lions Read online

  Once she reached the privacy of her chambers, she dismissed her guards and handmaidens, closing the door firmly behind them. She removed her white cloak and, folding it with trembling hands, laid it across her bed. Beginning at the door, she walked slowly around the room, fingers exploring the walls, checking and probing for any spell set to catch the unwary. Stopping occasionally to listen, she continued her slow, methodical search. As she completed her circuit, she breathed a sigh of relief. No danger lurked here. Still, she knew she must place sacred protective formulas in the room before she rested.

  Tahirah chanted the words, sounding out each syllable, as she placed each magical ward—two at the door, four at the windows, and one in each corner of the room. Stars of gold, green and silver glowed, disappearing as she set each ward upon the framework of the Alhambra.

  She yearned for sleep, but could not rest until she had sought out the cause of the Alhambra’s pain.

  Tahirah cleansed herself in the way of the Sufi, preparing for the ordeal to come. She sat in the middle of the room, murmuring formulas, and slowly entered the realm of magic. Little by little she opened her mind to the palace, and there she drifted, inviting communion.

  Nothing was as it should be; the fortress was breaking. Small fissures formed deep within the structure—but during her attempts to heal it, the very walls recoiled. She turned her mind to the Court of the Lions and called, once, twice, three times, listening for the lions to respond. But only her voice echoed back.

  Hours later, she came to herself, lying stunned on the floor. The Alhambra had rejected her, fighting her and her magic, divulging nothing.

  The Alhambra had been betrayed and trusted no longer.

  Despite her powers, she had been unable to heal the breach. The palace cried out for help, yet rebuffed her attempts. How could she begin to heal this?

  Except for her slow, even breathing, all was silent as she puzzled over this. Who had done such a thing—and why? From whom would the Alhambra take comfort? Not from an outsider or one with foreign blood, that seemed certain. The Alhambra had closed herself off from all but those born on her soil.

  Tahirah stared at the ceiling, hoping for answers. Finally, as the evening drifted into night, she gathered Allah’s truth and power once again and prayed unto Him for guidance.

  Chapter 4

  Ara tried to look repentant as Suleiman barked at the servants to finish tidying her. Every so often, he glared at her as if she might disappear before his eyes.

  “Can you not be faster?” he snarled to the woman dressing Ara’s hair. “They are waiting for her.”

  Su’ah finished plaiting Ara’s hair. “Perhaps if a certain eunuch had not been toying with being a mathematical scholar, he might not have mislaid his charge.”

  Suleiman’s voice choked. “I do not toy! Symmetry is important to all who are Islamic.” He huffed and glanced with slitted eyes at Ara. “And my charge was not mislaid,” he snapped. “She was merely not at hand.”

  Ara rolled her eyes and thought of the many places she would rather be. Still, her interest pricked up. This was the math that her mother had loved. The teacher her mother had loved. She leaned over the window, looking out at the latticed view. The wazir strode by, his hand touching the walls, stopping as if to inspect the designs that covered them.

  Maybe symmetry had something to do with what the wazir was doing. If I understood mathemagics, I might understand what he did with the tile and the frog.

  “At hand? This is Ara we’re speaking of, not a coin. You are too distracted by mathematics to be in charge of this child’s learning.”

  Ara jerked back to the conversation.

  Su’ah’s eyes sparkled. “Perhaps one child is beneath a Turkish eunuch’s notice. Especially a Turk who desires the position of translator for the sultan.”

  Ara’s head came up. Now there was really going to be a fight. Suleiman looked as if he were about to burst, the tip of his hat jiggling so fast it seemed to dance.

  “Suleiman, as you have said, we must go,” Ara said quietly, walking over to him. She grasped his hand and gently pulled him toward the door. “Please, would you get my lute? I do not wish to keep them waiting any longer.” Suleiman turned his head from Su’ah to Ara. She could see his desire to have the last word warred with the pressing need to get her to the Court of the Lions.

  As soon as she arrived, Ara saw Layla curled in a corner, clad in her dancing dress, looking worried. The courtyard was walled on all sides, but above was only the blue of the Andalusian sky. Women were arranged like flowers around the central fountain. The rich embroidery of their clothing complimented the elaborate patterns that decorated every surface. Stone tiles covered the floor, and the surrounding garden of jasmine, orange trees and roses spilled onto their edges. Blue and red patterned carpets lay strewn across the floor, while twelve stone lions stood guard around a huge central fountain. Water flowed from the lions’ mouths into narrow channels that trickled off to other rooms.

  Nine-year-old Hasan lay on his stomach as he floated a small wooden boat in the stream. His younger sister Jada clapped with glee as it spun past her. Servants and slaves moved about, offering tidbits of food, rubbing oil on bronzed skin, and fanning two women seated upon brightly colored cushions. Above them rose narrow, graceful columns that supported the sculpted arches of the courtyard terrace.

  Three other women sat off to the side, playing a game with dice and small round disks. Maryam, one of the game players, frowned slightly as she glanced at her daughter, Layla. Other children sat with their mothers or played quietly by their sides, nursemaids hovering nearby.

  “There you are, Ara. We’ve been waiting forever for a musician. Layla, stop sulking and dance for us,” the sultan’s fourth wife, Dananir, told the girls.

  Ara hadn’t thought she could feel any worse—until she saw the look of pure relief on her cousin’s face.

  Layla rushed forward to hug her. “I was so very worried,” she whispered. “Everyone kept asking and asking where you were.”

  Zoriah studied Ara like one might inspect yesterday's fish. “We looked for you all afternoon and you didn’t find you. How could that be?” She raised one eyebrow.

  “Play ‘The Hidden Treasure,’” Thana called to her. “It’s such a lovely tune.” Others chimed in, “Yes, please play ‘The Hidden Treasure.’”

  Thanking Allah for the distraction, Ara moved to the fountain and patted the rough stone mane of her favorite lion. Ara could sense Zoriah’s eyes upon her as she tuned each string of her lute. As usual, once Ara began playing, the day seemed brighter and her worries drifted away. The water rushing through the statue sounded much like the purring of a cat. Legend told that the fountain was magic and that in times of danger the stone lions would come to life, rising to defend the Alhambra. Ara smiled, envisioning the water-spouting lions protecting the palace.

  She relaxed as she picked out the familiar melody. Layla removed her blue caftan and started the steps of the dance. Each motion fluid and sure, she stepped through the complicated rhythms. She swirled around and around, every muscle trained to move as she wished. Three younger girls twirled, their arms over their heads, in imitation of her. Ara, who had no talent with her feet, greatly envied her cousin’s grace.

  When the song ended, Layla and Ara looked into each other’s eyes and grinned.

  “Play another,” requested Dananir, smiling up from the cushion where she sat holding her youngest son. “That was lovely.”

  Even Suleiman, standing by the arched doors, seemed relaxed and pleased.

  Shadows deepened as the afternoon wound to an end. Servants walked around to check the candles and tapers set along the walls, and the crowd began to disperse. Suleiman walked Ara back to the harem quarters in the Palace of the Myrtles.

  Ara looked up and gave him her best smile. “Suleiman, would you teach me a bit of plane geometry? My calligraphy and French are getting better, and you even said I’m pretty good at math.”

/>   “Mathematics, not math!” he corrected automatically. “Is this the way you make amends? By teasing those who watch after you?”

  “No, truly. I want to understand symmetry. My mother studied it, did she not? Is it true—is symmetry the cornerstone of Islamic art?”

  Suleiman snorted as if surprised by her question. “So that’s why you disobeyed? You wish to follow in your mother’s sandaled feet?” He shook his head. “Ah, yes, symmetry is central in our art, it’s the foundation of our architecture, one of the great logic mysteries that our people have unfolded.” He waved his hand, encompassing the whole of the Alhambra. “Look around you. The whole of this fortress is covered with art, and most are symmetries.” Ara stared in wonder as she looked about her. Suleiman stooped low, pointing to a wall decorated with a row of triangles in line with Ara’s eyes. “It is simple. Symmetry is merely the repeating of pattern. The trick is to find the pattern.” He encircled a triangle with his hands. “See how this triangle is repeated, as if a mirror were held at its side.”

  Ara looked at the triangles on the wall. “Yes, I see it, but it’s only two triangles, why is it important?” she asked, turning her head sideways to better look at it.

  “Because,” he told her, “it’s a pattern. Look with both your mind and your eyes. Here.” Impatiently, he grabbed her hands. “Hold your hands out in front of you, thumbs together. Are your hands the same?”

  She looked at them. “Oh, I see! It’s as if I held a mirror next to one of them and the mirror reflected the other.”

  “Yes.” He smiled, the tip of his hat nodding in easy agreement. “You have to imagine there is a straight line between two objects that you ‘flip’ either object over—where you would place a mirror. The flip, or reflection, is called a motion in symmetry. Here, let me show you another example: let’s look at handprints.” He dipped his hands into a nearby fountain, then crouched down and made a row of handprints across the stone floor. “You copy me,” he enjoined. Within a short time, two rows of handprints marched across the floor, one large and one small.

  “See, with these handprints, each flip moves you farther along the row. Band symmetry is used to describe flat things like prints or tiles.” He smiled suddenly. “I’ll get you a small mirror. That is the best way for you to understand reflection or mirror symmetry. If you wish me to teach you more about symmetry, you must find three more examples of vertical reflection motion in the Alhambra. You’re a clever girl. It should be easy for you. When all three are found and correct, we will continue, yes?”

  Ara puckered her brow at the mention of a mirror. The image of the wazir crossed her mind. Had the shiny metal been a mirror? Was he merely studying geometry? Again she wished her mother lived. She would have known.

  Another thought came to her. What would happen to the Alhambra if the symmetries changed? She opened her mouth to ask, but Suleiman continued.

  “You understand? Each symmetry must be perfect.”

  The tile that the wazir had stood in front of couldn’t have been perfect before he was there. Tile didn’t change like that. It was made from ceramic. That would be magic.

  “Ara! Are you woolgathering again?” He frowned at her. She looked up from the pattern of the quickly drying prints and grinned as she flicked water at Suleiman.

  “Could a tile change? Change what it is?”

  “You are woolgathering.” He sighed. “No, that isn’t possible. If you were to find a tile that would change what it is, then you might well believe that I too could change what I am.”

  “But what if it did?”

  He snorted. “Then I too will change, my fanciful child. But let us try to deal with what is possible, shall we? Find the symmetry.”

  “I understand. I can do it,” she assured him, grinning in amusement.

  “Remember,” he rebuked, wiping the water from his nose, “all the symmetries you need are inside the Red Palace grounds: the Palace of the Lions, the Palace of the Myrtles, the Palace of the Partal, the guildhalls, the gardens, the fortress, the mosque, and the stables. You must never again go outside the gates of the Alhambra.”

  “I won’t. I’ll only look inside the palace walls.” Ara stared at her handprints. “I think I see what you mean about this symmetry, but won’t you show me the others now?”

  A few heartbeats passed as Suleiman seemed to mull over Ara’s transgressions of the day—then, with a visible sigh, he gave her shoulder a pat. “You do very well for a girl-child. I will teach you symmetries again, but now it’s time for sleep.”

  Ara looked at him and waited for his full attention. “Promise? You won’t forget?”

  “I promise. There are seven band symmetries, vertical reflection which you just learned, horizontal reflection, double reflection, translation, rotation, glide reflection and glide with a vertical mirror. I will teach you all of them.” He drew himself up and stretched to his full height. “I am a Turk of the Qizilbash tribe. Our word is our honor. And even were I to forget,” he continued, smiling, “a certain girl-child is sure to remind me.”

  Suleiman turned to leave, and Ara’s smile faded as her eyes noted a twisted and warped tile on a shadowed wall. But by then Suleiman was far away, too far to call. Besides, it was only a tile. Nothing for her to worry about, and nothing to do with the wazir.

  Chapter 5

  “Father,” Ara called, leaning over the balcony, “is the mathemagician going to lecture today? Could I come hear her if she does?”

  “Ah, my littlest scholar.” The sultan left the pool edge. Ara ran down the stairs to the Court of the Myrtles. Her father picked her up in a tight hug. “You have grown, my treasure. Almost too heavy for me to carry.”

  “I grew two fingers-width last month. I’m almost as tall as Su’ah now.”

  He put her down. His hand measured her height against a nearby stone column. “So you are. In answer to your question, Tahirah is resting. She comes here for a time of peace and renewal, and the trip was more exhausting than expected. When she does give a talk, I also hope you can attend.

  “Your teachers praise your skill in the classical studies. However, they were less moved by your obedience and grace.” He grinned at her and ruffled her hair. “Still, I am pleased, my daughter. I prefer a curious mind to a lazy one. Allah himself, blessed be His name, praises learning. As He has said, ‘To seek knowledge is required of every Muslim.’ Your mother would have been very proud,” he added with a sad smile.

  Ara waited, hoping he would say more about her mother, but nothing came. It never did.

  “Come, join me. I’m going across the palace to the orchards and would welcome the company of a pretty lady.”

  “Could I? Are you not too busy?” She thought of the many days he spent closeted with his advisors over boundary disputes. She had overheard Zoriah and Maryam whispering about their fears for the fragile peace between Granada and Castile. Two months ago, three murderers had been hanged at the Justice Gate. Her father had overseen the trial. Lately, she heard, he had been making trade agreements with the countries to the north: Aragon, Navarre, Castile and France.

  The sultan sighed, gazing vacantly at some unseen trouble. “Yes, my responsibilities press on me. I keep hoping my affairs will settle down, but Insha'Allah, if it is Allah’s will.” He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “But today I’m fortunate and have time to spend with one I love. Walk with me. Let us enjoy the morning.” He reached out his hand.

  Together they strolled along the cobblestone pathway from the Palace of the Myrtles into the gardens, where a pair of hawks circled, screeching encouragement to a young hawk learning to fly. Ahead was the Generalife—the Summer Palace. The road led outside to the Cuesta de los Chinos—the Path of the Stones. The Generalife was set behind the Alhambra on a higher hill sheltered on three sides by the mountain itself.

  After a brisk walk up the hill, they entered a long tree-shaded corridor. To Ara’s right was the dark green of the pine forest, and on the left the orchards and veg
etable gardens overlooked the Alhambra proper. Her father moved his Court up here during the hot summer months when cool breezes from the mountains caught the tops of pine trees. She and Layla would sit telling stories in the Patio de la Acequia—the Garden of the Canal—and play hide-and-seek in its many gardens.

  From the orchard, the view went on forever. All this was her father’s domain and her father’s father’s before him. All the way to the Mediterranean Sea, she was told. City after town after farm, thousands of people relied on him for trade and safety.

  She glanced up at her father as they walked. He looks weary, and his beard has much gray in it. Still, I must trot to keep up with him. She knew he missed her brothers and sisters, who had gone away, one by one, to other lands. Her elder brothers were at universities in Persia, training so they could rule as wisely as her father. Three of her sisters were married, far off in worlds ruled by sand and sun. Even if she looked as far as she could, she couldn’t see where they were. And no amount of wishing and dreaming would bring her closer to exploring those countries. Those lands were beyond her reach—even beyond the snow-capped mountains of the Sierra Nevada in the distance. Below her nestled the Alhambra. Onward to the west, the Vega—the great plains—rolled out until they ran smack up against the mountains. Her father’s world…and hers.

  In the town below, she could see the People of the Book, the Christians, and wondered how they knew when to pray. Ara loved hearing the muezzins sing out the call to prayer five times each day: Fajr, at dawn; Zuhr, after the sun is highest in the sky; Asr, afternoon; Maghrib after sunset and Isha, right before midnight. It seemed odd that no voices called the Christians to prayer.

  “Father, are the Christians evil?”

  He looked at her sharply. “What brought this on?”

  “Suleiman was worried about the Christians, that’s all,” Ara hedged.