Archive for September, 2017

Joseph’s journal: 36

4 Kislev, 4808 (November, 1059)


After his escape from the ambush by Abu Nun Father, returned to Granada. He was obsessed with finding out how Abu Nun learned his route of travel. More importantly he needed to understand how Abu Nun decided on the timing and planning of the attack. Father vowed he would never again be caught in that sort of trap, or any other, for want of knowing his enemy. I have always been thankful he sent me home when he did. The distraction of having to make certain of my safety could have proved fatal for him.

King Badis paid an assassin handsomely and it wasn’t long before the rebellious governor of Baeza was no more. With Badis’ blessing Father organized a massive invasion of Ronda to extract vengeance against Abu Nun. Grenada could not allow his treachery to go unpunished. Grenada’s army was much larger, stronger, and better equipped than Ronda’s. The instigator, Mutadid, was not in a position to offer significant help to his puppet. Abu Nun was left to his own devices.

The campaign was short and Ronda was soon under siege. Abu Nun’s pleas for help from Seville were ignored. It would take a long time to starve Ronda into submission but without viable options and defeat inevitable, Abu Nun agreed to a treaty with Grenada, giving up some territory. Father never had anything good to say about Abu Nun. However, he explained to me that turning an enemy into someone useful, even if he could never be trusted, was a necessary expedient, as well as a useful strategy.

It took me two days to make copies of the epic poem Father wrote to remind himself of his escape from Abu Nun’s ambush, and of all God’s blessings he enjoyed. I never tire of this poem, a part of it reads thus:

Samuel, approach the One seated upon the cherubs with free-will

            Offerings of your lips like rain upon the grass

And may the acclaim of the Rock your redeemer within your

            Mouth and heart be beloved.

When you go upon the way, remember what He has done for you

            Upon the thoroughfares

And praise God who favored you and say: “Blessed are You who

            Rewards the righteous!”

Remember the signs which He showed you here, like the miracles

            For his pure ones close to him.

On the day that kings gave chase to kill you upon horses thick as clouds

And went about in devious ways designed to ambush you from all sides,

You fled and fell into the river whose banks overflowed like a

            Philanthropist’s generosity,

But they were disappointed in their hopes as they returned

            Frustrated with bitter sadness.

The poem goes on to praise God for my father’s birth, childhood, and his parents. He offers thanks to God for his education, knowledge, wisdom, eloquence, and fame. He gives God all the credit for his high position, accumulated wealth, and the ability to manage and control the Berber court he served.

Will you remember this only? Will you not recall when He stood

            Up for you in time of trouble and redeemed you speedily,

And sated your sword with blood like water drawn from wells of Rejoicing

On the day when distress and fear were hot like an oven giving off

            Flames from all sides.

And all were gloomy and each heart like wax and every face was pale.

And arrows and spears sent down like rain mingled in the air,

Even upon the chiefs and horsemen and nobles swords opened

            Their mouth wide.

He saved you from the approaching disaster though none among

            Your dear ones could help.

His deeds multiplied defying count or telling nor could they be

            Contained in a book.

The poem continues to praise God and thank Him, promising to glorify His name and all His accomplishments in poetry.  Father asks Him to erase his guilt and hear his prayers, hoping that his prayers will be agreeable, and then he goes on to chide God:

Does it profit You that you remember the transgressions of your

            Familiars and the debts of your loved ones?

The next line asks that the angels defend him and then he devotes the following stanza of this long poem to belittling his detractors. He ends the poem with this:

O God destroy not your creation, and do not transfer healing for pain.

And may my loved ones not be ashamed of me nor the dogs laugh

            At me in the day of calamity.

Cover me with your pinions and your shade, according to my

            Desire and not that of my foes

And sweeten my years until death and dulcify the clods of earth in my grave.

God bless his memory, my father never had less than a high opinion of himself, and of his place on earth.

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Ha Nagid’s journal: 35

20 Siven, 4793 (May, 1044)


Two evenings after sending Joseph home, I stopped my army in an idyllic canyon in the Sierra Magina, and made camp for the night. The clear waters of the Guadiara River, fresh with spring runoff, wound its way through the canyon. The evening was fragrant with the aroma of pine trees. The swift water passed over rocks, forming eddies, rushed through narrows, fell four feet over a small cliff, then spread out, widening and slowing. The sound created by the tumbling water reassured the men of the tranquility of the spot. I was completely lulled by the charm and serenity of the place. Colonel ibn Hakim consulted with me but I told him I didn’t think it was necessary to post guards. All the men should get a full night’s rest. My forces were more than adequate to deal with the insurrection. This was just a routine policing expedition and I had no premonition of danger, a mistake I will never make again.

I was not aware that Abu Nun, the king of Ronda, had encouraged the governor of Baeza to perpetrate the raids and looting.  That Berber governor needed very little encouragement to raid and loot. Abu Nun knew I would be forced to respond to this breach of discipline and order. Nun’s scouts were monitoring the progress of my troops, and that wily devil prepared an ambush. He hid the four hundred men he commanded close to where we were camped, anticipating I would halt there for the night. Abu Nun’s objective was singular, to kill or capture me. To accomplish this would be to achieve his long-term goal, the weakening of King Badis.

I suspect Abu Nun did not arrive at this strategy himself. I have reason to believe he was encouraged to undertake the operation by Mutadid, the king of Seville. Mutadid had the most to gain by eliminating me.

Later that evening the skies grew cloudy, threatening rain. The officers and I were in our tents, the soldiers rolled up in their cloaks. The camp was quiet. The occasional snore, or stamping of a horse’s hoof, were the only sounds penetrating the black night.

Abu Nun attacked first with his heavily armored cavalry. They were ordered to rush through our camp, strike as many of my men as possible on the way, then turn and sweep through again. The initial surprise attack was to be followed by archers and infantry to mop up.

Fortunately for me the surprise attack plan proved to be ill-conceived. The night was extremely dark because of the cloud cover. There was only a quarter moon, and it was hidden behind the heavy clouds. The darkness made communication among the attacking forces difficult, in some cases impossible. The obscure night also prevented the attackers from identifying their main target.

Colonel ibn Hakim reacted to the attack in a calm and efficient manner. He had not neglected to drill his troops on how to respond to this type of situation. A special platoon of Nubian infantry quickly formed a perimeter of locked shields around my tent. The rest of the Nubians positioned themselves with their shields and spears to confront the charging horses. The archers, crossbows, and slingers split and ran to opposite sides of the camp, concentrating their fire on the enemy. All this time the enemy commanders were shouting to their men:

“Abu Nun commands you identify Ha Nagid’s tent. He must be captured or killed at all costs.”

Colonel Hakim and his soldiers fought valiantly. The colonel deployed a tight circle of archers, crossbows, and slingers to the Nubians protecting me. Our cavalry rushed to bridle and saddle their horses, not bothering with their armor. I, and a contingent of cavalry, were able to lead our horses to the river, and into the current. The river was still deep and we had to swim to the far side where we mounted our horses, and made our way upstream. Hakim’s rear guard protected access to the river, and more men with their mounts managed to escape. Because of the darkness, the enemy archers were unable to pick specific targets. They resorted to firing one volley after another. Arrows coming from the dark sky careened off the raised shields forming a roof over the heads of the soldiers, who crouched down when they heard the whoosh of incoming missiles. The small round shields of the archers, crossbows, and slingers were not as effective. Many arrows, and other missals, found targets. The enemy soldiers screamed with pain when wounded by our defenders. My soldiers were stoic, professional, proudly brave. They endured their wounds silently.

A shout went up from the enemy as we made our way across the river. The heavy armor worn by Abu Nun’s cavalry, both horses and riders, made it impossible for them to follow. Some tried to respond to Abu Nun’s screamed orders, but their horses sank into the mud at the river’s edge. One man urged his horse into the faster current in the center of the river. Both disappeared under the water, never to reappear. The fate of that horse and rider was soon communicated. None of the other riders were willing to venture into the current encumbered, as they were, with their heavy armor. The complete darkness also prevented Abu Nun’s archers from being able to identify me, or those with me, as targets. Our highly trained, and brave, Nubian infantry were able to hold off the heavy cavalry of Abu Nun long enough for most of our cavalry, archers, slingers and crossbow soldiers to escape via the river. With discipline and order, small units of Nubians, their brothers protecting their retreat, were the last to plunge into the water and swim to safety. I lost over fifty men, including Colonel Hakim, who stayed to command and encourage those most loyal and brave soldiers who covered our retreat into the river. We lost some horses and arms, armor, wagons, and supplies, but I escaped to fight another day. I will gain revenge.

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Joseph’s Journal: 31

15 Marchehvan 4808 (October, 1059)

It was 4791 (1042) when Mohammed ibn Abbad, King of Seville died, and was no longer able to create difficulties for my father. His son, Mutadid, was only twenty-six years old. My father and Badis, along with all the Zanhadja chiefs, considered Mutadid too young and inexperienced to be a serious threat. The Sevillian army was a collection of mercenaries, and my father had defeated them in every encounter. Seville also began to pay tribute to an adjoining Christian state. All the Berbers considered this a significant sign of weakness. These factors indicated to the Zanhadja, as well as to several smaller Taifa states with leaders craving expansion, that Seville was no longer a force to be reckoned with.

Two years later, Mutadid emerged as a viable threat. During the first two years of his rule he worked diligently to acquire allies. He rebuilt his army into a cohesive force. Whenever smaller Taifa states launched an attack to acquire Sevillian resources, his reaction was immediate, aggressive, and brutal. He also began to collect the heads of his enemies. He ordered that all the heads of leaders killed in battle be brought to him. He beheaded captured leaders with his own sword, and added their heads to his collection. Mutadid delighted in recounting to his court how he kept the pickled heads of his enemies in containers in his bedroom, and how he took the heads out of their containers, holding them up by the hair. He would then line the heads up on the floor facing him, and shout at them, recounting all the transgressions of their previous persons.

His cruelty and madness didn’t end with severed heads. Anyone who did something to displease him, or that he suspected of considering a course of action that might displease him, was strung up in the courtyard of his palace to slowly strangle.

Seville was again ruled by a strong and ruthless Arab, and took its place, next to Granada, as one of the big two Islamic powers. The Christian states to the north remained a threat to encroach on Islamic territories. The conglomeration of smaller independent Taifa ringing the borders of the big two were constantly mounting raids to obtain loot and to grab land. Various Berber, Arab or Slav tribes ruled each of the small states that surround Seville and Granada. There was a constantly shifting loss or gain of power, and of allegiance among them.

Let me record a little about the Slavs, another interesting story. Most of the people we identify as Slavs originally arrived in Andalusia as child slaves. Children captured in raids or wars, from Christian Europe or kingdoms to the east, were brought to Andalusia to be sold. Some of these waifs were even sold to traders by their parents. I am sorry and ashamed to admit that many of the slave traders were, and still are, Jews. They justify their participation by saying trade is trade. A man must provide for his family the best way he can. These men are well-versed in all the Torah passages which describe the acceptable manner in which slaves are to be treated. Thus, they justify acquiring, keeping, and trading slaves.

No matter how they are acquired, most of the female children brought to Andalusia are trained as servants. Male children, deemed to have potential, are often trained as mercenaries. Their brothers-in-arms become their only family. There are many such Slavs who are trained with severe discipline. They become fiercely loyal only to each other. The cream inevitably rises to the top, and those individuals with greater intellect and bravery, or with innate wisdom, or special skills, become courtiers, generals, provincial rulers, and some even rulers of states. Most of these overachievers convert to Islam and practice the religion as a convenience, but they maintain strong connection, and loyalty, to their origins.

With time, the numbers, influence, and power of the Slavs grew and they became as ruthless as the Berbers and Arabs by whom they were schooled. Today Slavs rule almost all of eastern Andalusia.

To this day the Moslem states seem to be most interested in raiding, plundering, and looting each other. They justify this behavior because it is necessary to keep their standing armies, and mercenaries, happy and paid. They are not particularly anxious to wage prolonged wars, or pitched battles, or even to expend their resources to limit the slow advance of the Christian states. This last weakness will be problematic in the future.

As Mutadid gained strength, he realized that a successful strategy against Granada relied on gaining the support of four key small states, Carmona, Ronda, Moron, and Arcos. All of these states are ruled by Berbers, natural enemies of the Arabs, but all four rulers are Zenata, and they have long-held grievance against the Zanhadja as well. Because of these consuming hatreds they can and do align themselves with either Granada or Seville with enthusiasm, when it suits their purpose.

The Birzali tribe of Zenata rules Carmona. They are known to be ambitious and full of natural energy but are not overly thoughtful. Carmona changes sides often, depending on the direction of the winds of war. Moron was founded and is still ruled by the Dammon tribe. Their leader, in father’s time, was Muhammad ben Nun. The Dammons always strived to achieve the same intellectual level as the Birzali, but lacked the energy of those rulers of Carmona. Moron is important because it occupies a territory critical to the welfare of Seville.

Ronda is situated geographically between Moron and Malaga. This independent Taifa is, to this day, ruled from an Alcazaba built on a natural fortress, almost immune to seizure. It is the strongest of the four small states, and is ruled by the Yenfreni tribe. Ronda has a long history of aligning itself with Seville, and is an ideal location from which to launch raids in any direction while maintaining a secure retreat. It is located about a hundred kilometers directly west of Malaga. It is positioned to attack the rear of any Sevillian army invading Granada, or vice versa.

Arcos is located about eighty-five kilometers directly west of Ronda. It is the least significant of the four Taifa but is somewhat protected by the Sierra de Grazalema. It is ruled by the Krizun tribe. It is also critical to any meaningful strategy involving the two super powers.

Mutadid plotted and garnered strength in Seville. My father’s concerns about that growing threat caused him to spend significant time and energy planning counter moves, and trying to anticipate how the almost inevitable attack would come about. During this critical time, a family tragedy distracted him. My sister and I both became very ill with smallpox. My sister, whom I loved dearly, died.

Father mourned her passing while doing his best to encourage me to fight off the disease. Four physicians visited our home daily. After they finished their various treatments Father always questioned them closely. It was not uncommon for one or two to disagree about what constituted an effective treatment or prognosis, but the diagnosis was unanimous. When the physicians disagreed, Father would gather them all together in my bedroom, and question the basis of their opinions. He was seeking more than anecdotal evidence for the proper course of action. He also prayed with them for God’s guidance.

Eventually, ever so slowly, I recovered. Father rewarded all four physicians equally, and handsomely. He was never certain who had been the most instrumental in my recovery. I remember what he told me shortly after I regained my health.

“We must give thanks to God, Joseph. The treatment was successful because God inspired the physicians, or listened to their prayers and mine, or perhaps you recovered despite the treatments because God willed it. Regardless we must thank God.”

After my recovery, Father took me with him on an excursion to demonstrate to the people that I had recovered, and he was no longer distracted. First, we went to the Synagogue and prayed for over an hour. Then came my reward. We went to the market.

I had been to the market many times with my mother when I was a young child. I had also accompanied various servants on errands, and with my friends from the Yeshiva, but this day was special. I was with my father. After many long weeks in a bed it was thought I would never get up. He held my hand as we strolled through the tunnel formed by three-story houses leaning into the street on both sides. Ahead, the tunnel opened to Market Square, shielded from the sun and occasional rain, by almost overlapping canvas awnings. The sound of vendors shouting as they touted their wares rolled up the narrow street to engulf us, like waves from the Mediterranean breaking over the feet of waders walking into the sea. The day was wonderful, full of sunshine, and mild temperature. The sky was devoid of clouds, an effervescent blue.

As we entered the square, we were constantly stopped by lines of people who wanted a word with Father, or to thank him for a favor he had done, or to ask for a favor, or to just touch his hand and receive a blessing. We were pressed by the crowd of people, inundated by the sounds of many voices speaking many languages, Arabic, Berber, Hebrew, Ladino, the tongue of the native Andalusians, and sprinkles of various Slav tongues.

A bewildering array of objects, people, colors and sounds assailed me, all accompanied by mingled smells, not unpleasant but impossible to ignore. Baskets and mounds of seasonal vegetables, butcher stalls with hanging carcasses of lamb, veal, beef, goat, chickens, game birds, ducks, venison, and rabbits. There were seafood stalls displaying tuna, shad, and sardines along with many other fish I did not recognize.

As we wandered through the market, I remembered the opening lines of another of my father’s Hebrew poems:

Passing a butcher’s market once I watched

The sheep and oxen standing side by side.

Cattle too many to count, like schools of fish,

And flocks of fowl were all awaiting death.

Blood was congealing over clotted blood,

While butchers, rank on rank, were spilling more.

Nearby was the fisher’s market, filled with fish,

            And crowds of fishermen with hook and net;

Next was the baker’s market, where the ovens

            Burn all day and get no rest at night.


There were many stalls selling both fresh and dried fruits, and spice stalls too numerous to count. There were thousands of aromatic herbs and spices. Many of them unfamiliar to me, but I did recognize the aroma of cumin, aniseed, mint, cinnamon, pepper, nutmeg, coriander, parsley, mustard, and the golden, pungent, but delicate saffron. All of these, especially the saffron, were standard for any Andalusian kitchen. Some recipes, my mother explained, called for nearly three grams of saffron, that most expensive of spices, tiny threads plucked by hand from the blossoms of a fall flowering crocus.

Our wandering through the narrow pathways, lined by stalls, took us past the bakers to the drink vendors. Father gave one of the vendors a coin for two cups of steaming hot, sweet tea, perfumed with fresh mint. We sat at a rickety table outside the stall, and sipped our tea while a line formed to pay homage to my father.

Later, we walked past the prepared food stalls where we were assaulted by the fragrance of spiced meatballs of many different flavors, mirgas, a spiced sausage, fried fish, churros, a type of fried fritter dipped in boiling honey, and almojabana, a sweet cake made with cheese. We finally arrived at the destination I had been hoping for, stall after stall of sweet treats made with sugar, honey, almonds, walnuts, hazelnuts, eggs, candied fruits, cinnamon, and other spices. The possibilities were without number and Father, pleased with my appetite, allowed me to choose three.

I remember shoving the first of my treats into my mouth. The flavors exploded on my tongue. Slivers of almonds crunched under my teeth as the sweet taste of honey followed. Another bite and I felt the resistance of a piece of candied cherry just before it broke apart inundating the other flavors with its sugariness.

Next were the stalls selling vinegar, too many different flavors and types to name. The Andalusian kitchen uses vinegar in most recipes especially vegetable dishes. Next were the olive oil stalls, different varieties of olives, different stages of pressing, again too many differences to account for.

The day turned hot. The sun traversed the sky from high in the east, to mid-way to the west. I was tiring.

“Papa, I am thirsty.”

“Of course, Joseph, as am I. Let us find another drink vendor and sample something cool.”

Father had a word with one of the men who had been following us. He had been trying, not very successfully, to engage Ha Nagid in a conversation. He beckoned, and we followed him to the stall of an Arab selling jugs of fresh spring water kept cool sitting in snow from the Sierra. The vendor explained that the icy snow was delivered to him early each morning. He kept his drinks always in the shade in a box insulated with straw. His water was infused with rose or orange blossoms. He poured each of us a glass after giving us a choice of flavoring. I had the orange-blossom, Father chose the rose-blossom, but he let me taste his. Then I noticed another jug of flavoring.

“What is in that jug, sir?” I asked.

“That is Rubb,” he answered.

Rubb, what is Rubb?”

“It is a syrup I make from the corinto grape and sugar. It is also used to flavor the water. Do you want to taste it?”

I looked at my father, who nodded.

“Yes, please.”

The vendor poured a generous amount of the thick syrup into a glass, added cold water, stirred it with a silver spoon and handed it to me.

It tasted of fresh sweet grapes, the flavor soothing, and long lasting. I smacked my lips. Both my father and the vendor laughed as I polished off the remarkably refreshing drink. I still crave, and acquire, that refreshment when the day is hot.

After we returned home, I was in the kitchen describing all we had seen and done to my mother. She continued to make a pumpkin sweet I am, to this day, extremely fond of. She measured flour, water, a dash of vinegar, salt, and butter then kneaded it, gradually adding cold water until she decided it was the consistency she wanted. She rolled out the dough then spread butter over the top, folded it and rolled it out again, spread more butter, and repeated this process six times. Then she divided the dough into several equal amounts, and rolled each out into a thin round. She covered one of the rounds with grated candied pumpkin then put the second round on top of the first. She painted the edges with a beaten egg then pinched the dough to connect the two layers. The completed pastry fit exactly in my hand.  Mother put it into the oven, with the temperature low. It cooked while I continued my recounting of the day. Before the treat was done, she removed it from the oven, dabbed the crust with another beaten egg, and sprinkled the top with a mixture of cinnamon and sugar. She put it back in the oven, checking it frequently before removing it when the crust was golden.

“Do not look at it and me with those sad eyes, Joseph. I spoiled you when you were ill, but now you are cured. A small taste of this will be for a treat, but only after you eat your entire dinner tonight, including all your vegetables.”

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Joseph’s Journal: 30

14 Marchehvan 4808 (October, 1059)

During my father’s administration, the state of Granada grew and prospered. The realm spread south to the sea and to the east all the way to Baza. To the north our lands went north of Jaen, almost to the Christian territories, then west to Ecija. All of the people who inhabited the cities, villages, mountains, hills, valleys, and lands within these borders paid tribute to King Badis, and answered to his administrator, my father.

Concurrently, Jewish communities prospered, spread, and expanded throughout Andalusia, especially in the cities and towns. There were Jewish agriculturalists, many of them. They brought their skills, ethics, morals, devotion, and love of the land with them from wherever they had lived previously. Jaen’s Jewish community was large, second in size only to that of Granada. Jews engaged in all types of agriculture and trade in Jaen but controlled the tanning and leather producing industries.

Those products were considered to be of the highest quality throughout Andalusia and beyond. I overheard in the Synagogue, that two families from Jaen are moving to Palestine to start a leather products importation business. Due to my father’s influence, and protection, Jews were free to migrate to places of opportunity throughout Andalusia and beyond.

I am thinking back to when I was ten or eleven, maybe twelve years old. My father and I were once again in his study. He quickly scanned the most recent copy I made of one of his long poems.

“This is a good job, Joseph. Your calligraphy has improved significantly in the last two months. Are you beginning to understand more of the references to Torah passages?”

“I think so, Papa, but I’m certain I don’t find or understand all of them.”

“Well, let’s do this. If you think a phrase may be a reference to Torah or Talmud passages, but aren’t certain, you must ask me. If it is, we will find the passage, discuss it and see if we can arrive at an interpretation of the passage that we are both satisfied with.”

“Thank you, Papa. May I ask you about something else?”

“Of course, anything.”

“I know you have had problems with the Hammudite tribe of Malaga but I don’t know the history.”

His eyes squinted and furrows deepened on his forehead making his Semitic nose even more prominent. The smile he produced was more of a half-grimace, involving only the lower third of his face.

“That is a long and complicated history, Joseph, but it will be good for you to learn it.  Perhaps you will obtain a better idea of the kind of people I must deal with almost daily.

It was about fifty years ago when Ali, a former general in the army of Caliph Suleiman who was, incidentally just a puppet Caliph, was given Malaga as a reward for his service to the Caliphate. Ali was a member of the Berber Hammudite tribe of North Africa. The Hammudites were related to the Umayyads who you should remember originally established the Caliphate. Because of that relationship, Ali believed he had the right to claim the Caliphate of Cordoba, so he did. He was a cruel and unpredictable ruler. He managed to alienate almost everyone living in Cordoba. He was assassinated about three years into his rule. His brother Kasim succeeded him as Caliph, but the Caliph of Cordoba, prior to Ali’s arrival, had a son, Yahya. This Yahya, of course, enjoyed a more legitimate claim to the crown than Kasim did. The inevitable result was a civil war. Remember, in those days the Caliph of Cordoba ruled all of Andalusia?”

“That all happened when you were still young didn’t it, Papa?”

“Yes. I was in my early twenties when it happened. Those were very troubling times.”

For a long moment he was lost to me, remembering. Then he shook his head.

“Anyhow, Kasim lost the civil war and fled to Seville, but the governor of Seville turned him and all of his followers out. Seville was rewarded for turning Kasim away by obtaining near total independence from Cordoba. Yahya’s forces fought a few more major battles, but mostly just skirmishes with the very depleted army led by Kasim. Those times were very difficult. There were two forces, mostly consisted of small bands of robbers and thieves, running amok throughout the countryside. Finally, Kasim was captured. Yahya imprisoned Kasim and kept him in prison for thirteen years. When he learned that Kasim was planning an escape he had him strangled.”

“The civil war and the level of independence granted to Seville caused many other cities to strive for equal or even complete independence from the Cordoban Caliphate. Eventually, those desires resulted in the Taifa, the multiple city/states we now have. Yahya tried to retain and maintain the Caliphate, in its entirety, but these efforts required constant warfare. In 1035 he made a pact with the Zenata tribe that controlled the province of Carmona. He brought them back into Cordoba’s sphere of influence as an almost equal ally. Next Yahya invaded Seville, but the Carmona Zenata betrayed him. He died in battle while fighting the army of Seville.”

“My old enemy, Ismail ben Abbad was in command of that victorious Sevillian army. The treacherous Slav, ibn Bakunna, the same evil man who conspired with Zuhair and ibn Abbas of Almeria to destroy the Zanhadja and me, installed Yahya’s brother Idris as Caliph.  But Idris lacked any real power, he was just another puppet of ibn Bakunna.”

“Idris died not long after he became Caliph. Ibn Bakunna tried to engineer the crowning of Idris’ young son, who was also named Yahya. This was all done so he, ibn Bakunna, could continue to rule through a puppet Caliph.”

“Another Slav vizier of Malaga, Naja, supported a cousin of the young Yahya to be a Caliph. This cousin was Hasan. He and Naja moved too quickly for ibn Bakunna. They sent a large fleet into Malaga’s bay. Ibn Bakunna panicked and fled to hide in one of the ancient hill towns northeast of Malaga. Hassan sent a messenger to him promising sanctuary and ibn Bakunna, feeling much relieved, returned to Malaga. He was immediately arrested and brought to his knees to beg for his life at Hassan’s feet. Hassan looked on as ibn Bakunna was slowly strangled to death.”

“Hassan knew that the unpredictable loyalties of the Berber tribes might result in them uniting under Yahya, so he had the boy murdered. One of Hassan’s wives happened to be the older sister of that same Yahya. This wife decided her husband was acting with considered malice and treacherousness against her family, so she poisoned him.”

“That family sounds crazy, Papa.”

“I think so too, Joseph, but wait, the story is not over. After Hassan was murdered by his wife, Naja continued scheming to regain power. He was running out of male Hammudites. Hassan’s young son and Hassan’s younger brother were still in Malaga. Naja made a bold move. He killed Hassan’s young, and threw his brother, a studious, and anything but ambitious, young man, into prison. Subsequently, he convinced the various Berber clans in the Province of Malaga to swear allegiance to him as the new king. They agreed to this but not with great enthusiasm.”

“Naja still had one more Hammudite to deal with, the ruler of the small Taifa of Algecira. So, he mobilized an army to attack Algecira, and eliminate that potential threat. He encircled the Alcazaba at Algecira, but the various Berber Chiefs with him began to disappear with their men. Because of his murderous behavior, and obvious lack of respect for them, they no longer believed Naja was the best possible choice for King. Having lost much of his army Naja assessed the situation and decided to return to Malaga. The road he chose to go back went through a narrow gorge. The Berbers still with him, and some of those who had previously deserted, organized an ambush. Naja’s carcass, as far as we know, is still rotting in that canyon.”

“The Berber Chiefs of Malaga freed Hassan’s brother, and he was crowned ruler, renamed Idris II. This poor fellow was a good man, very pious and reverent. He instituted policies to help the poor and unfortunate, supported artists, musicians, and poets, but he lacked the fortitude and ruthlessness necessary to rule Berbers. He also failed to recognize and counter the ambitions of our King Badis. Badis began by demanding Idris II concede a specific tract of land. This demand was based on a trumped-up claim that it had always been part of Granada. Idris II conceded. So, Badis invented other stories to claim one small village, then another, then towns and fortresses as he expanded Granada to the south. Eventually, Badis took control of Casabermeja only twenty-four kilometers from Malaga itself.”

“Idris II’s Chief Vizier had a large extended family who owned property in and around Casabermeja. This vizier made a crucial mistake. He encouraged his brethren to obstruct the decrees of the Governor Badis appointed to administer the newly annexed territories. The most devastating thing he did was suggest his relatives remit their taxes directly to Idris II in Malaga instead of Granada. Badis demanded the vizier be sent to Granada to answer for his sins. Idris II, afraid to confront Badis, dispatched the poor man into Badis’ clutches.”

“The vizier arrived at our court with his hands bound at his back. I had to avert my eyes and focus on our Master’s smiling face as he watched the poor soul be strangled. After the fellow slumped to the floor dead, Badis turned his gaze on me. With my heart pounding in my ears, like the surf in a storm, I managed to force a smile, and nodded my head to show my agreement with his action. May God have mercy on me for this, and for the many other sins I have committed to appease Badis, and to maintain my authority.”

I went to my father and hugged him, then tried to climb onto his lap in a childish attempt to comfort him. He pulled me off and patted my shoulder.

“You are too old for me to hold you in my lap, Joseph. You must grow up fast and learn even faster. Do you want to know what happened next?”

I took two steps back and sat again on his footstool.

“Yes, Papa.”

“Well, the Berber chiefs of Malaga could no longer countenance such a weak ruler. They sent him into exile with his books and replaced him with a distant cousin, Mohammed. Mohammed is now the ruler of Malaga and he is mean spirited, ambitious, cruel, and foolhardy, a perfect Berber ruler. I doubt he will last long.”

After that evening, I had a different perspective and appreciation for the problems my father faced maintaining his position so he could protect our people. I began to realize the difficulties he had reconciling his actions that were contrary to the teachings of morality and fairness of our religion.

I am writing these accounts thirteen years after the events I describe, but I have my father’s notes and letters and poems to fill in any details that I have forgotten. Much of what happened my father shared with me during our evening “talks” as he called his monologues. I’m not certain if I am blessed or cursed to have almost total recall of those talks.

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