Song of Toledo – I

Introduction

In 711 C.E., an army some 10,000 strong, comprised of Arabs and Berbers, crossed the Mediterranean from northern Africa and landed on the Iberian Peninsula at what later became known as Gibraltar. That invasion marked the beginning of a two-decade sweep into Europe by Muslims – later known as Moors – that ended on the north side of the Pyrenees mountains, in present-day southern France, when the Moorish army was defeated in 732 by a Frankish army under Charles Martel. All that was left to the Christian descendants of the Visigoths who had ruled the entire peninsula for 300 years was a narrow strip of territory extending along the northern Atlantic coast.

In 1085, the Christian king, Alfonso VI, scored the most significant victory since the defeat of the Visigoths when he re-captured Toledo, the former capital of Visigothic Hispania and the See of the Roman Catholic Church for the entire country.

This victory, which many consider the true beginning of the so-called “Reconquista”, the centuries-long effort reclaiming the entire peninsula for its former Christian rulers, provides the backdrop for Song of Toledo. As often happened throughout early medieval Spain, actions taken by one ethnic or religious group often resulted primarily in reversing actions taken by another group. For example, in 1086, following his recapture of the city the previous year, Alfonso VI reconsecrated what was then Toledo’s main mosque as the cathedral it had been over 300 years before. This historic event lies at the heart of Song of Toledo, which follows the lives of two boys, one Christian and one Muslim.

The story opens in a monastery to the north of Toledo, where Pelayo, a young novice, learns he is about to be introduced to a world far beyond the confines of the secluded monastery he has called home since being orphaned years before.

At the same time, Faisal, a young Muslim boy, is realizing that the life he had planned to live out in his beloved home of Tulaytula (the Arabic name for Toledo) has slipped away forever.

Autumn, 1086 Anno Domini

I

There was a knock at the door, and Abbot Esteban and Brother Bernardo both sat back in their chairs as the abbot gave permission to enter. A boy in his early teens entered, dressed in a cowl but without his hair shaved to a tonsure. He was followed by a tall, thin monk who had long since lost any hair even to have a tonsure.

“Ah, Brother Domingo,” the abbot said, rising from his chair. “Thank you for bringing our young charge.”

“It wasn’t easy, Father,” the old monk said, shaking his head at the boy. “He was fast asleep and not easy to wake.”

“Yes, no doubt,” Abbot Esteban smiled. “His capacity to sleep has been his strongest attribute since the day he arrived.”

“Would you like me to stay, Father?” Brother Domingo asked.

“Yes, but please wait outside. We won’t be long.”

“Pelayo,” the abbot began again, startling the boy by using his name, for it had been years since he had been called anything other than “My son” or “Little brother”. “This is a happy time for us. Brother Bernardo has come to tell me that the king has decided to reconsecrate the cathedral in Toledo. It was the see of the church for all Hispania before our country was invaded.”

“Oh, that’s… that’s wonderful,” Pelayo replied hesitantly.

It was not at all clear to him why the abbot would be taking the time to tell him such news, not to mention why he would have made a point of summoning him to his office in the middle of the night to do so.

“The reconsecration,” the abbot continued, “will consist primarily of a Mass conducted by Archbishop Bernard…”

Pelayo glanced quickly at Brother Bernardo.

“No, no,” the abbot laughed. “The good brother has not been called to greater responsibility. He is an aide to the archbishop, and he’s been traveling with him and a larger coterie from Léon to Toledo. He only stopped off here to see if he might tempt me into joining them.”

The abbot hesitated a moment, glancing at Brother Bernardo, then continued.

“This may not make much sense to you, my son. And you are probably wondering why I am even telling you all this.”

“Well, yes, Father,” Pelayo replied. “I must admit I am a bit confused.”

“Well, we are a small monastery, but we would very much like to be represented at this historic event. I would like you to go with Brother Bernardo as our representative.”

“Me, Father?”

Both the abbot and Brother Bernardo looked at him with somewhat bemused expressions. It was only then that Pelayo noticed that, while Brother Bernardo was indeed a small man, his face was dominated by a nose that was anything but small. Anchored prominently in the center of his face, it jutted out at a gradual angle then was interrupted by a bump about a third of the way along the length that redirected the balance of his nose sharply downward toward the tip. His eyes, small and black, were perched closely to either side of the very top, giving the distinct impression that, if he so desired, he could remove his nose and eyes as a piece, leaving only his mouth and ears as clearly human features.

“Yes, Pelayo, you,” Abbot Esteban finally replied. “You see, we are too small a community to spare any of our brothers. There is much work to be done, so letting anyone else go, even for a few short weeks, is out of the question.”

Here the abbot paused, staring at Pelayo in silence as if gauging the impact of his words. Then he took a deep breath and continued.

“But I will confess that I have other motivations as well,” he said more quietly, glancing down at the floor. “Pelayo, I think the right thing was done when you were sent to live with us after your father died, and I think you have seen, over the years, what life is like here. What has yet to take place, however, is the decision, which must come from within you, to embrace and commit yourself to the Lord’s way. You have to believe in your own heart that it is God’s will for you to spend your life here, committed to Him. Before you came to us, you were a boy in your father’s care. Since coming to us you have seen all that we are. Before I would feel comfortable accepting your vows, though, I believe you must see what else the world might have to offer you. If Brother Bernardo had not come to us with his news, I would not have thought of sending you on such a journey. Perhaps some time in León would have been sufficient. I believe the time has come, however, when God is leading our people, finally and at long last, to reclaim the land that is rightfully ours. You have an opportunity to witness the beginning of that process in Toledo, Pelayo. I think you need to take it so that you can see the changes that will shape the world around you.”

There came another knock at the door, and a brother stepped in to speak to the abbot. Pelayo had still not quite grasped the full meaning of all the abbot had said, and he had a quizzical look on his face when he glanced over at Brother Bernardo.

“It will be a good trip for you, Pelayo,” the monk said with a reassuring smile. His voice was low and gravelly, not quite what Pelayo would have expected given his stature.

“It will take us nearly three weeks to reach Toledo,” he continued. “Then I will have you stay for a while and send you back with those who are returning to León.”

Before Pelayo had a chance to respond, Abbot Esteban stepped back into their circle as the other brother stepped back out into the night.

“So, Pelayo,” Abbot Esteban said. “I am sure you will find Brother Bernardo to be the finest company imaginable. He has been many places and seen many things in his day, and while I have heard many of his stories, I regret that he will not be staying long enough to tell me of his more recent exploits.”
Brother Bernardo smiled and shook his head.

“Life has been quiet of late, my friend,” he said to the abbot.

“Oh, Pelayo,” Abbot Esteban turned back to the boy. “While this trip will not be long, you will have the joy of celebrating Christmas in Toledo, before Brother Bernardo makes arrangements for your return. He will be staying on in Toledo to begin gathering a community of brothers to support the archbishop’s activities there. You, however, must come back to us to finish your preparation. Unless, of course, your trip has changed your mind about joining us.”

“Yes, Father,” Brother Bernardo interjected quietly. “I have already explained to him the broad outline of our trip.”

Brother Bernardo turned to Pelayo and smiled gently, then turned back to the Abbot.

“He has not quite said as much, but were I to guess I would say he was already looking forward to it.”

“But I don’t want to go…,” the boy complained to Brother Domingo almost before the old monk had closed the abbot’s door behind them.

“Hush, boy,” Brother Domingo snapped in a whisper, shaking a boney finger in front of his lips.

He took Pelayo by the arm, practically dragging the boy down the corridor and away from the abbot’s door, and he didn’t let go until they were safely outside in the cloister.

“Why would you not want to go?” the old man said quietly, finally releasing the boy’s arm.

It was only a short distance across the cloister to the dormitory where all the monks slept, but the night was cold and crisp and a shiver slid quickly down Pelayo’s back.

“I’m sorry, Brother,” the boy replied after a moment. “Of course I will do what Father Abbott tells me to do. But…” he hesitated, glancing up at the stars speckling the black sky above.

“Ah, my son,” Brother Domingo began, and Pelayo could tell by his tone that he was smiling. “You are about to see something very special.”

“Wait, how do you know what I’ll be seeing?”

He stopped just as they were reaching the dormitory door, and he tried to make out Brother Domingo’s expression in the dark.

“Well, think about it, now. We serve the poor who come to our gate from all over. Are they not a splendid way of hearing news from the outside world?”

“But Brother Bernardo only arrived today?”

“You’re not making sense, boy,” Brother Domingo laughed. “Do you think an archbishop can travel in secret? Ah, you have seen so little of this world! You will very soon see what I mean. Father Abbot is right; you should see what is out there before you decide whether you are truly meant to spend your life within these walls.”

***

Autumn, 478 Hijra

After salaat (morning prayers) Faisal made his way quickly through the courtyard of the mosque and back out into Tulaytula’s narrow, winding streets. As he did every morning, he’d woken early in order to get to the city’s main market as the merchants were unloading the day’s wares at their assigned booths or opening the doors to their shops. He liked prowling the streets of Tulaytula at that hour because that was when the city seemed fresh, as if the night that had renewed him had renewed the city as well, and he loved to take in the sights and smells and sounds of the city as it prepared to greet the morning.

Spice merchants were among the earliest to open their shops, and he looked forward each day to catching the first sweet and dusty whiff of cinnamon as it wafted out of the shop of the elderly Naswhan Azeez, a merchant who had owned a shop on the corner near Tulaytula’s central mosque since Faisal’s father was a boy. It was Azeez who had taught Faisal the uses for spices besides adding flavor to foods. And whenever the old man saw Faisal he would invariably test him by calling out the name of a spice.

“Cloves, my boy?” he would call out through the shop door as Faisal stopped and waved.

“To cure stomach aches,” Faisal called back.

“And Frankincense?”

“To do away with heart palpitations,” Faisal repeated his lesson word for word.

And on it went over the course of each week, through saffron and pepper and the sources of dyes such as brazilwood for red dye, walnuts for black dye, and turmeric or saffron again for yellow dye. Of course, the old man had all these ingredients neatly lined up in jars on the shelves of his shop, and when, as a matter of form Faisal and his father, Tulaytula’s muhtasib, or Master of the Market, would step in to check his scales, the hunched old man would detain the boy as his father left so that he could introduce him to yet another substance from some part of the world Faisal had often never heard of before.

On this morning, the shop doors were still closed when Faisal passed by before Fajr, the first salaat, but he had noticed that the old man had taken to opening a bit later as the weather had turned cold. As he passed by again on his way back to the main market, he saw the doors were open, but the shop was already full of customers and he could only catch a glimpse of the old man’s head scurrying back and forth behind the counter.

While Faisal wandered the city early each day in part for his own pleasure, he was also making a cursory check to see if there were anything unusual to report back to his father, Najib: strange faces in an established booth, perhaps, or a new merchant peddling an item he had never seen before. Naturally, the boy was familiar to all the regular peddlers, and more than one would make a show of trying to charm him with an overtly friendly conversation or the offer of a free sample or two. Faisal, however, had no authority at all, and he would simply smile and wave and be about his business as quickly as he could. Parchment makers, tanners, barbers, victuallers, potters, wheelwrights, yoke makers, weavers, shoemakers and shield makers; these and a host of other merchants and craftsmen all sought to curry favor with the influential Najib ibn Aasif al-Ishbiliya, so they were more than happy to share the intricacies of their trades with his son on the chance he might put in a good word for them with his father.

Like his father and his grandfather, Faisal wanted to be a muhtasib. As members of the city’s administrative structure, it was their job to make sure that the merchants whose shops lined the streets and whose booths crowded Tulaytula’s city squares were dealing honestly with their fellow townsmen. Specifically, they were called upon to make sure that the amounts of grain being claimed by millers were indeed what they said they were. For weavers, reported thread counts for their fabrics needed to be true. The wares of wheelwrights and shoemakers were inspected to ensure the quality of their products, as well as the products of potters and yoke-makers and shield-makers. They were to make sure that crafts were arranged in a reasonable order, and that partridges and slaughtered domestic fowl were sold with the crop plucked. Rabbits had to be skinned so that bad ones could be distinguished from good, and egg sellers had to have bowls of water available so that good eggs could be similarly distinguished from bad.

Cheese could only be sold in small leather packets, which had to be washed and cleaned every day and thus secured from worms and mold. Fat meats and lean needed to be sold in separate stalls, while tripe had to be sold dry and on boards, for water both spoiled it and increased its weight. Slaughtering was not allowed in the marketplace, but only in closed slaughterhouses, and the blood and refuse need to be discarded outside the market. Moreover, fish, whether from saltwater or fresh, could not be washed in water for this made it go bad. Nor could salted fish be soaked in water, for this also spoiled and rotted it. Naturally, leftover and rotten fish could not be sold.

The list of regulations a muhtasib was called upon to enforce extended also to the conduct of physicians, the need for women to conduct themselves appropriately in public places, and the prohibition of the intentional distribution of false or incorrect news or instructional information. Indeed, the above is a mere glimpse at what their duties entailed. Faisal was learning all that he needed to know about a muhtasib’s responsibilities from his father. They were responsibilities that he very much took to heart.

“My son,” his father told Faisal countless times, “a man is only as good as his word, so if I can help a man protect the integrity of his product, then I am helping him protect his soul.”