The Stone Lions Read online

  The sultan looked out across the Vega. “These are hard times. But there are good and bad people in all religions. Christians, Jews, Muslims, no one group has all of either. Right now, many Christians want us out of Al-Andalusia—Spain, as they call it—and that makes it hard for us to be friends.

  “You remember Father John, the kind priest you met. He’s a good man. There are those who are not as kind, and we must be wary of them whether they are Christian or not. We are fortunate to have the harem. No man can cause harm there, so our loved ones are protected. It’s the law for Muslims. It’s a comfort to me to know that my children, wives and grandmothers are safe.”

  But even with the safety of the harem, she could see her father was uneasy.

  “You have no reason to worry. Suleiman looks after you, and the Alhambra is a very great fortress.” He bent down to her level. “Is that what’s troubling you?”

  “But why do they want us out of Al-Andalusia? The Nazrids have ruled here for hundreds of years.”

  “It’s true. We Muslims have been here a very long time, almost seven hundred years,” he responded sadly, looking across to the mountains. “But many of our cities and fortresses have fallen. We have given much to our world, but Granada is the last of the Muslim countries in all of Al-Andalusia.” His voice dropped as if he were speaking to himself. “Our neighbors continue to press into our borders.”

  “Is that why you always look so worried?”

  He stopped short, staring beyond her. “We are in a time of change, and we must ride that change as best we can.” A look of sorrow crossed his face before it was wiped away as if it had never been there. “The Alhambra protects its own. It is a wondrous fortress, as beautiful as a woman, and protected with powerful magic. As long as we hold true to our honor, the palace will stand, inshallah.”

  He seemed to shake off his dark mood. “But you shouldn’t trouble over such things. Keeping us strong and at peace with the People of the Book is my job, not yours.” He patted her shoulder, and then looked about as if something were missing.

  “But I want to help.”

  “Ara, you’re a girl. You need to study the lute, read poetry and grow into a lovely, learned woman, not stand in my shoes.” He winced when she ducked her head at his obvious annoyance. “Come, let us not disagree. Look at the gardens. Have you ever seen such a beautiful sight?”

  She looked out across the field. Beyond, at the edge of the forest, a movement caught her eye. The wazir, looking much like a bat with his brown caftan whipping around him, stood huddled in conversation with two men. Not Muslims, Ara decided, assessing their clothes and odd hats, perhaps soldiers from Castile or Aragon. She thought again of the wazir’s bizarre ritual at the Justice gate, still unable to make any sense of it.

  One of the foreign men saw them and pointed. The wazir whirled and stared at his observers. Then, abruptly dismissing the men, the sultan’s chief advisor strode toward Ara and her father.

  Ara, talking fast, asked, “Father, is there something bad about frogs? I saw...”

  He sighed, and she felt as if she watched him change from her understanding father into the sultan. Doubt and distrust showed in his eyes as he regarded the men across the way. “Not now, child. There are those with whom I must speak. In a few weeks, new tribute agreements must be signed. I must consult with my advisers and negotiate the details. Let me get the guards to walk you back to the palace.”

  Chapter 6

  The soft lilt of a tune woke Ara to the morning light stretching across her room. Su’ah hummed quietly as she arranged clothes on the shelf. Ara’s gold-embroidered, beet-red vest and saffron-yellow pants that tied at the ankles lay next to Layla’s gold-green caftan. A silver-inlaid tray filled with olives, cheese, bread and steaming mint tea sat on the table near the window. Ara could feel Layla curled next to her like a sleeping cat. Probably dreaming of dancing, she mused sleepily and, from the warmth of the bed, watched Su’ah shuffle around the room. Su’ah was old, she thought, observing her through morning eyes. She cared for my mother and Layla’s mother when they were babes, and now she does the same for us.

  Both she and Layla had been born twelve winters ago. Ara’s mother had died from childbed fever soon after. Her father, it was said, had deeply mourned the passing of his learned Egyptian wife. Su’ah had been given the care of her and, later, that of her cousin when Layla’s mother, Maryam, had become sick with grief over the loss of her sister. Layla’s father, the sultan’s younger brother, had comforted his wife as best he could, and finally, Maryam had regained her health, strengthened by the love of her husband and her joy in her newborn child.

  “You awake?” Su’ah slowly moved across the room. Her slave tattoo was faded in the wrinkled creases of her cheek. “After morning prayer, you two should head for the baths. The day awaits. It is said that the Sufi scholar may come this evening to speak. I hear that she is rested and working on some mathemagical problem or such.”

  Ara pushed off the wool covers and jumped out of bed, stubbing her toe in the process. “How can two cousins be less alike?” Su’ah exclaimed. “A tidy, obedient girl who dances on air, and a reckless, too-curious child who cannot walk without bumping into walls.”

  Ara sat down and held the throbbing toe. “Father says I learn quickly and have a scholar’s mind.”

  “Ara is brave and smart and daring,” Layla said, stretching slowly in bed. “She knows three languages and is not afraid of anything.”

  “She would do better to know one language and learn to watch her tongue.” Su’ah turned to Ara. “The sultan is far too lenient with you, child. You have almost the same training as a boy. You need to get your head out of the clouds and down to our own Allah-blessed earth. Suleiman is not the best person to be educating a gently bred girl, much less a strong-headed one.”

  Ara knew these arguments well. She remembered when Su’ah had caught her learning to fight with a quarterstaff. And then, of course, there was the time she had climbed to the top of the Tower of the Children to better study the stars. At least she hadn’t fallen far.

  Layla gave Su’ah a disarming smile. “We are fortunate to have both of you to watch over us. Allah is good.”

  Su’ah sniffed. “It is fortunate, indeed, that I am with you, else you would run as wild as gypsy children. Here, Ara, let me comb your hair. I’ll not have it said that you are unkempt as well.”

  Layla and Ara soaked in a large bath as, in the dim light, steam from the hot water rose to escape through star-shaped holes cut into the ceiling. Other women and children bathed nearby. Some sat on stone benches, drying themselves. One of the concubines’ toddlers was crying, indignant at having her face scrubbed. Hasan and two other boys had been splashing water back and forth but were stopped abruptly by a fierce look from an older servant. A slave poured water over Dananir’s hair, while another moved to gently knead perfumes and oils into her skin.

  Layla stared at her fingers under the water. “Ara, would you help me search for my ring? I know I had it yesterday, but I can’t find it.”

  “Your little gold ring with the amber stone?” She dipped her head under the water for a final rinse. “Your mother gave that to you for your eleventh birthday, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, and her mother’s mother gave it to her when she was a girl. I took it off to dance and put it on my caftan, but it’s missing.”

  “Perhaps it fell while you were dancing. We could look in the Court of the Lions. And while we’re there, I can look for more symmetries. Suleiman says that I must find examples of the symmetry called vertical reflection before he will teach me the next symmetry. I’ve already found one right here in the baths.”

  “Oh, show me,” Layla exclaimed, looking at the many decorations covering the walls.

  “See? There on the wall near where Dananir is sitting.” Ara pointed. “The gold leaf that repeats over and over in a line, see how each set of leaves are sort of reversed?”

  Layla studied the design. “Yes
, but how do you know it is a vertical reflection symmetry?”

  “Suleiman told me the design had to be in a row, and that each pattern had to be exactly the same shape and size.” Ara ticked off reasons with her fingers. “And you need to pretend there is an imaginary line between them that they can flip over. If you could flip each tile, it should match exactly on top of the one next to it. Suleiman promised to teach me more as soon as I find all three examples.”

  “But how do you figure out where the line is?”

  “Suleiman said it is a vertical line.” Ara held up her hand with fingers tightly pressed against one another. “So, I look at a tile and pretend there’s a line that goes up and down—straight down into the earth and up into the sky to Allah. I try to see if the design on the tile can be split in half. If it can, I fold the two parts together in my mind to see if the designs match.”

  They finished bathing and climbed out of the waist-deep water, then slipped on their sandals set at the edge of the pool. Hot water piped under the floor made the tiles too hot for bare feet. Ara was careful to put her sandals on. She had pretended she was a mystical firewalker once when she was six, only to blister her feet and get a good scolding.

  “Well, I don’t think a woman should flaunt herself,” they heard Fatima remark primly from around a corner. “Tahirah needs to be under her brother’s control. A woman should be a thing of beauty, not have her nose forever in books. Why, only yesterday, I heard the wazir say a woman scholar was a disgrace to our people and a bad example to the children. Worse, she’s a Sufi, with no regard for our ways.”

  Ara scooted closer, sticking her head around the corner and peering through the handle of a large urn overflowing with flowering pomegranate branches.

  Rabab chimed in. “There’s nothing wrong with being a Sufi. They love Allah, as do all good Muslims. Only they follow their hearts, not the words of any person.” She looked around for agreement.

  Maryam, Layla’s mother, spoke up, “A learned mind is praise to Allah. He, in his wisdom, admires education.”

  Rabab leapt in again. “Our wazir is still angry because he was sent home in disgrace from the university. You’d think he would have gotten over that by now—it’s been close to two decades. The man is forever looking for someone to belittle. But for his counsel, Suleiman would have been named head translator. Look how he sulks because that Sufi woman is here. Tahirah is a famous scholar, and Abd al-Rahmid’s a bitter, jealous man.” Several women murmured in agreement.

  Dananir spoke over them, “Suleiman is the palace tutor because the sultan needed one he could trust to teach his children. Anyone can translate a message.”

  Never easily derailed from her subject, Rabab plunged on again. “And then there was the fuss over Maryam—don’t you remember, Fatima? The wazir petitioned the sultan for her in marriage.”

  There was a gasp from Maryam, and Layla looked at Ara in surprise.

  “You remember, dear?” Rabab added. “You practically begged the sultan not to betroth you to him. It was fortunate as you were wed instead to the sultan’s brother. Abn al-Humam has been a wonderful husband to you, has he not?” There was a stunned silence before Rabab continued, lowering her voice. “Besides, I heard the wazir dabbled in the dark mathemagics.”

  Zoriah sent her a sharp glance. “We will not bring up past hurts, and we will not speak evil of anyone. Not Tahirah, who is an honored guest of the sultan, and not Abd al-Rahmid, who is the sultan’s appointed wazir and, as you know, a trusted advisor. The sultan does not take kindly to the slander of his people.

  “Unless you have proof of wrongdoing, we will speak of this no more. As it is said,” Zoriah went on, “‘the Ways to God are as numerous as the breaths of humankind.’ In the harem, it matters not what the wazir thinks—this is our place. Allah, blessed be His name, and our sultan wish women to learn. And we shall obey their wishes,” Zoriah finished decisively, her position as the sultan’s head wife clear in her tone.

  Ara and Layla sat stunned until the women left. “I didn’t know the wazir offered for my mother or that he was sent home disgraced,” Layla whispered.

  “I didn’t either,” Ara whispered back, once more thinking of the dead frog. “What I want to know is, what are the dark mathemagics?”

  Chapter 7

  “I’m sure that I took it off here,” Layla said as she circled the area for the tenth time, her eyes moist with welling tears. Suleiman stood talking to two servants on the far side of the large room. He turned his head toward them frequently, unwilling to be a target for Su’ah’s sharp tongue again.

  The two girls had retraced Layla’s steps again and again. She is so careful, fretted Ara. It’s my fault she forgot her ring. I know how much she worries. I shouldn’t have told her I was going outside the palace walls. Ara moved to her pet stone lion and wrapped her arms around his neck while Layla sat down to think.

  “What if it fell into the channels of water?” Layla leaned forward onto her elbows scanning a channel. “It would be lost forever.”

  Ara hesitated for a moment, thinking of the narrow channels that led away from the fountain. “Well, the water could push a ring downstream. Maybe the water moved it to a different room, or perhaps it was swept outside into the drains.”

  “But where? The Palace of the Lions is huge, and the channels lead to many places. If it went outside, we would never find it.” Layla rubbed her eyes, trying hard not to cry.

  “I bet we could follow the water’s flow and see where the ring might have gone if we put some dye in the water,” Ara suggested.

  “Oh, no.” Layla sat up. “No good would come from this. Remember what happened with the soap. You had to scrub floors for a week before anyone would speak to you.”

  “That was long ago. I was only eight,” Ara said. “I’m sure it would work. I’d just use the least little bit of dye. It would be gone before anyone noticed. It’s springtime—no one is inside much. They’re either in the Palace of the Myrtles or outside in the gardens telling stories and reading poems. By the time they come inside, the dye will have floated out of the palace and we will have found your ring.” Her favorite of the stone lions made burping noises as the water bubbled out of his mouth. “Even my lion agrees.”

  “I don’t want to get into trouble,” Layla said. “I worried so when you were outside the palace gates alone.”

  Ara said nothing.

  Towing the bucket alongside, Ara chuckled to herself. It had been hard getting the dye, what with Suleiman’s watchfulness. Days had gone by before he was called away from Ara’s side, and then no one seemed to be dyeing clothes. But now, after two weeks of searching, she had it.

  “This bucket is heavy,” Ara muttered to herself. She moved it to her other hand. The rope handle kept digging into her palm, and the dye sloshed around, threatening to tint her clothes a merry beet-red. I won’t be missed until evening

  prayer. Suleiman’s off teaching Dananir’s eldest—and besides, he thinks I’m studying in the far garden.

  She was pleased with herself because she had found one more reflection symmetry in the Court of the Myrtles, red and green flowers arranged across the wall. Sure enough, she could see that each flower could be halved exactly. And by flipping over each half, the pattern would repeat across the row. Find the pattern, you find the motion, Suleiman had said. She sat down to rest by the side of the palace. Soon, he would have to keep his promise to explain another symmetry. She checked her left palm for blisters. She picked up the bucket and continued wending her way through the palace rooms to the Court of the Lions. After some thought, she followed one channel far upstream past the Hall of the Two Sisters.

  Just a little, she told herself, as she carefully held the pail of dye to the edge of the channel. Only the least little bit. That’s all I need to track the water.

  Trumpets blared from outside the walls, announcing visitors. Ara jumped, bumping her knee against the bucket and spilling masses of beet juice into the water channel.


  “Oh!” She watched in wide-eyed dismay as the red dye rushed down the waterway. Behind her she heard a roar, and she spun around but heard nothing more.

  The red dye flowed on. Nothing could change what had happened. Nothing would make it disappear.

  “Bread and water for a month,” she moaned, gritting her teeth. That’s what will happen to me if Father or Suleiman finds out.

  “Maybe it will disappear before anyone sees,” she muttered without much hope. Dragging the incriminating bucket along, she trotted after the crimson water as it wound through the corridor, into the Hall of Two Sisters, down to the Court of the Lions. There it flowed out of the lions’ mouths into a basin surrounding the fountain to head out again in three more directions. Twelve stone lions surrounded the fountain, just as always. Nothing moved but the ever-present trickle of water.

  Ara hoped it wouldn’t hurt her lion to spit dye. Ruby water spilled into the four channels, and she decided to look first in the Hall of the Abencerrajes. The channel ended in the center of the square room, where the water spilled into a low round fountain. Above the fountain was a golden eight-pointed star that filled the ceiling. Sunlight poured though arched windows along each of the star’s edges and, in that dancing light, the lions almost seemed to stir behind her. She circled the low fountain, checking for a small gold ring. Nothing. She shivered, looking at the red dye that now swirled within the fountain. It almost looks like blood.

  All the channels ended except one—there, the red water finally tumbled over a small ledge and into a drain near the Garden of the Lindaharaja. Ara sat down behind the bushes, frustrated and discouraged. An insect buzzed her ear, and a small pebble poked her knee.

  The whole morning searching, and no ring found. Instead, she was certain there would be trouble over the dye. The water trickled by, and she wriggled uncomfortably as the small stone bruised her. Where could the ring have gone? As she leaned forward, the pebble poked into her knee again. Annoyed, she reached under her leg to throw the pebble as far as she could. A glint of metal caught her eye. She brushed aside the dirt and grass to expose a band of gold. Layla’s ring! It must have bounced off the wall and rolled away as it went over the ledge. She grinned and placed it on her finger.