The Golden Bell

By Robert L Stone

Arriving in Córdoba as a young man in 1088 to learn medicine, Yehuda Halevi is enchanted by a world in which Muslim, Jewish and Christian courtiers share poetry and philosophy in their elegant gardens. Here he falls in love with Deborah, the spirited daughter of his host. In this turbulent world, however, Yehuda also encounters invasions and pir

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stony Mere Limited
• Release date: Sep 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781915036544

Book preview

PART I

ANDALUCÍA

AND TOLEDO

1

Awakening

Córdoba, Spring 1088

Rav said: A person will have to give account on the Day of Judgement for every good thing which they might legitimately have enjoyed and did not.

Palestinian Talmud, Tractate Kiddushin, 4:12

As the serving boys came out of the house carrying jugs of wine, Moses ibn Ezra took a moment to admire the garden, which had almost reached perfection on this fine May evening. Roses bloomed between lilies and flowering grasses. The hornbeam hedges shimmered. Green catkins danced against darker leaves. Moses breathed deeply, savouring the honeyed scent of the mock orange bushes, and running his palm over the cool grass beside his divan.

A dozen poets lounged on divans and cushions around the lawn, dressed in the fine linen robes and turbans of courtiers and scholars, sober browns and maroons brightened by flashes of colour at the broad cuffs. The men were talking quietly, waiting for the poetry contest to begin. Court poets and philosophers, Jewish, Muslim and Christian, were always welcome at Isaac ibn Ezra’s wine parties. Moses was visiting his brother Isaac from Granada and this evening’s party was being held in his honour.

As Moses turned to speak to his brother, he noticed a boy entering the garden – he was not a servant: he was dressed in a rich linen robe like the other guests. Moses thought that he must be about thirteen, though he carried himself with a quiet grace beyond his years. His skin was fair, lighter than most in the garden, as arresting as his auburn hair and the deep brown of his eyes. Moses watched the boy bow slightly in response to Isaac’s nod of greeting, then walk around the lawn to a vacant divan by the elegant stone fountain.

‘Who’s the boy?’ Moses asked Isaac.

‘That’s Yehuda Halevi. His father is a business associate of mine in Tudela. Yehuda has come to Córdoba to learn medicine, and his father asked me to look after him and find a suitable teacher. So he’s lodging with us.’

A young poet, Shalom ben Japhrut, sitting on the other side of Isaac, leaned across and winked at Moses. ‘And such looks, such grace, eh, Moses? Maybe he should be the subject for the first round of the contest!’

‘Don’t count on it, Shalom,’ said Isaac. ‘I think you’ll find he has a few poetic surprises of his own, if we can get him to speak at all. Wait and see.’ Isaac held out his cup to be filled by a serving boy and raised it high. ‘Let the contest begin,’ he declared. He drank from the cup and smiled at Moses. ‘So, brother, are you recovered from your journey? Perhaps you would prefer to sit out the first round? Yes? Then you shall set the subject for the rest of us.’

Moses ibn Ezra was a little younger than his brother, in his early thirties, lithe where his brother was plump, his dark, wavy hair longer and less well-groomed than Isaac’s, his beard fuller. The family resemblance was in the eyes. Both men had the habit of fixing you with their startling blue gaze until you began to feel uncomfortable; only then would they smile.

Now, Moses’s eyes were abstracted. It was true that he was tired. The journey from Granada had taken only three days, but in these troubled times all journeys involved anxiety and circumspection. Tensions were increasing between the various Muslim rulers of Andalucía, and between them and the Christian kingdom of León-Castile; among the bands of warriors encountered by travellers, some were undisciplined and dangerous.

Moses realised that he had to shake off his exhaustion. He mustn’t spoil the party. Isaac had gathered together the best Hebrew poets of Córdoba in his honour, and it would be churlish to cast a gloom on the proceedings. So Moses decided to give them an enlivening challenge. No scholarly or liturgical themes, then. Let them begin with sensuality.

He raised his cup and drank a deep draught. ‘Very well,’ he said with a broad smile, ‘I’m ready. Let’s start with something easy. A warming-up exercise. No prizes awarded for this round. Isaac’s garden is famous for his collection of biblical flowers, so let’s have a biblical theme to start with.’

Moses walked across the lawn to the fountain beside Yehuda’s divan and picked one of the white lilies growing under the rose bushes that framed the fountain. He stood still for a moment, listening to the rhythmic splash of the water and revelling in the scent of the lily. Winking at Yehuda, he turned, held up the flower like a sacred offering, walked slowly to the centre of the lawn and placed the flower on the grass. ‘There she is,’ he announced. ‘Shoshana, a lily among the thorns. She is beautiful, sensuous, fragrant. Serenade her!’ He returned to his seat.

Everyone smiled, but behind the smiles their minds were working furiously. After a while, Shalom ben Japhrut, the youngest and brashest of those present, spoke up. ‘I have it! Shoshana, the lily, speaks to me. Let it be in the form of a muwashshah from her to me! I’ll start the opening quatrains, and you can all follow.’ Switching easily from Arabic to Hebrew, Shalom began:

Shalom, I swear by you,

by your lively imagination,

because it is you I desire, I say

come to my house, Shalom.

Drink from the wine in my cup,

eat a little bread at my table,

breathe the scent of my spice,

spend the night in joy, Shalom.

Another poet, Manasseh ibn Tarphon, took up the improvisation:

You will sleep upon my bed,

which I have perfumed with oil of myrrh.

I have wafted spices

where my beloved Shalom will lie.

Manasseh was followed, one by one, by everyone else in the garden, apart from the boy. The poets wove a light and delicate structure around Shalom’s opening quatrains – applauding a particularly evocative or witty passage, laughing and tutting at the same time when the erotic imagery became a little too explicit. After the last poet had finished, there was a pause while more wine was poured and food was brought out. The group relaxed into quiet conversation around the garden, some discussing the muwashshah, some exchanging gossip from the Court and the city.

As the sun set, torches were lit around the garden, carefully placed to cast a cheerful light without obscuring the brilliance of the stars. The poetry contest continued, an elaborate series of improvisations in elegant Hebrew. Isaac awarded prizes for the best verses – small jewels, or baskets of rare candied fruit from the East. The boy remained silent throughout, watching and listening, but offering no poetry. He did not join in the conversation between the rounds.

Around midnight, Moses ibn Ezra held up his hand for silence and said, ‘Well, I think it’s time for me to throw out another challenge. I’ll begin a ghazal of six couplets in praise of this garden, and let’s see who can finish it.’ He stood and recited:

The garden wore a coat of many colours,

its grass a brocaded cloth.

Every tree donned a braided robe,

its wonders displayed to every eye.

In the silence that followed, Isaac noticed that the boy was gazing at the rose bush by the fountain, his lips moving. ‘Yehuda,’ he called, ‘are you inspired? Has the muse seduced you at last, my young friend? Come on, let’s hear it!’

Yehuda was clearly embarrassed by the sudden attention. ‘No, I wouldn’t… I don’t have the…’

Moses caught his brother’s eye and Isaac stood and walked over to his ward, raising him to his feet. ‘Don’t be ashamed, young man. We all have to start somewhere. Among all the golden verse tonight, we’ve heard some dreadful lines of leaden doggerel, and no one has sought to shame the authors by pointing out the travesties – I’ll name no names, though I could!’ The guests hissed and murmured in good-humoured protest. ‘Come,’ Isaac said to Yehuda, ‘let’s hear it. Can you complete Moses’s ghazal?’

Yehuda hesitated, then nodded. He walked over to the bush and picked a large yellow rose. Holding it up and looking straight at Moses, he said, ‘Let Shushan, the rose, succeed Shoshana, the lily:

Each new blossom, renewed by Spring,

emerges smiling to greet its coming,

and at their head comes Shushan, the Rose, the king,

for his throne is now set on high.

He emerges from his guard of leaves

and casts off his prison clothes.

Whoever does not toast him with wine,

that man shall suffer for his sin.’

There was a stunned silence. Anxiously, Yehuda took a step back – had he done something wrong? Had he gone too far in building upon Moses’s poem? Then Shalom ben Japhrut shouted, ‘Astonishing!’ and the group applauded enthusiastically. As the applause died down, Moses ibn Ezra said, ‘Well, that was something, young man, a perfect mix of wine and divinity with a hint of menace. Gentlemen, a Jewish Sufi has appeared among us! Isaac, give him the prize.’ Isaac grinned and presented Yehuda with the prize: a ring set with a ruby. Moses put his hand on Yehuda’s shoulder. ‘Can you improvise an encore for us, Yehuda?’ Looking up, he said, ‘Let’s not neglect the stars. They’ll think we’ve forgotten them in our obsession with Isaac’s plants! Let’s have something for the stars.’

Yehuda gazed at the brilliant display of stars for a long time, then looked at Moses and said, ‘The stars seem tonight as if they are trying to huddle together. How about this?

The stars of the world have joined today.

Among the host of angels none are found like these.

The Pleiades long for such unity,

For no breath can come between them.

The star of the East has come to the West;

He has found the sun among the daughters of the West.

He has set up a bower of branches,

And made of them a tent for the sun.’

The applause was enthusiastic once again, and Isaac laughed, proud of his protégé. ‘Well, brother, you are called the greatest living poet in Hebrew, but watch out! Here’s a rival for your throne!’

‘Yes, brother!’ said Moses. ‘A star of the East has indeed come to the West, it seems.’ He turned to look at Yehuda. He was smiling, but there was an intensity in his eyes that the boy found disconcerting.

*

The next morning, Yehuda woke to the smell of yeast from the courtyard – which meant that the servants were already preparing the day’s bread. The murmur of the girls’ voices and the quiet rhythm of their kneading were the only sounds in the house. His hosts must have allowed him to sleep late, knowing that he was not used to wine parties.

Still drowsy, Yehuda watched the pattern of sunlight reflected on the ceiling from the water butt outside the window. He closed his eyes, recalling the warm glow of the previous evening’s sunset, the scent of the flowers around the lawn, the reflection in the lily pond of tables laden with dates and figs. Above all he remembered the elegance of the poets reclining on their divans, their faces illuminated by the flickering torches as they smiled and congratulated him.

After a while, he opened his eyes. The servants had finished kneading the bread and the house was silent. He decided that he ought to get up or his hosts would think him a laggard or unable to hold his wine. Washing quickly, he threw on a white linen tunic and went to the majlis, the main reception room of the house.

Isaac ibn Ezra’s daughter, Deborah, was sitting alone on the cushions against the wall, poring over a sheaf of manuscripts. Absorbed in her reading, she didn’t notice Yehuda standing in the doorway. Her olive skin glowed against the drab green of her cotton housecoat, and he longed to touch it. He gazed at her delicate nose and full lips, memorising her face. She was the same age as him, but she looked so sophisticated, leaning among the brocaded cushions, her sandals discarded on the Armenian carpet.

Deborah fingered a loose strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear. She was frowning, troubled by what she was reading. Closing her eyes, she lowered the manuscript and pinched the bridge of her nose. As she opened her eyes and looked up, she noticed him. She pushed the manuscript under a cushion and stared at Yehuda defiantly, as if he had caught her doing something wrong. Her eyes were the same penetrating blue as her father’s and Yehuda looked down, disconcerted by her reaction. Deborah squared her shoulders and took on the formal tone of the gracious hostess.

‘Good morning, Yehuda ben Shmuel Halevi. I trust you slept well?’

Taking his tone from hers, he responded, ‘Very well, thank you, but too long, I think.’

‘Would you like something to eat? I can go and fetch some food for you if you wish.’

‘That’s very kind, thank you, but I’m not hungry.’

Yehuda wondered how long Deborah would wish to continue this exchange of courtesies – he was struggling to understand the urbane ways of Córdoba, a very different world from the remote provincial outpost of Tudela where he had been brought up. After a moment, Deborah scrambled to her feet – she appeared to have had enough of the formalities. She ran barefoot to the courtyard door and looked outside, checking that the servants were still by the kitchen, out of earshot. Returning to the cushions, she gestured to him. ‘Come over here. My father and mother have gone to visit a sick relative, and Uncle Moses is leading a study session at the synagogue. Sit by me and listen, before they get back.’

He did as he was told, and Deborah whispered, ‘When I was serving breakfast this morning, my father and Uncle Moses were talking about you. Uncle Moses said that you have an extraordinary talent as a poet. You must really have impressed him at the reading last night!’

He wanted to break into a wide grin but was afraid of looking like a fool. At the same time, he knew that he couldn’t carry off the arch insouciance affected by grown-up poets. He took a deep breath to calm himself, but that only made him conscious of the alluring smell of Deborah’s hair. When she leaned across and put her hand on his, he forced himself to keep still, to enjoy the touch without breaking into a sweat of joy and confusion. ‘So,’ she said, ‘did you realise what an impression you had made?’

Not being sure what kind of answer she expected, Yehuda decided on the simple truth. ‘Yes, I think I did, but I don’t understand why. The lines I spoke seemed to come naturally to me, with a little adjustment to get the rhythms right. It wasn’t difficult.’

‘That’s exactly the point! That’s what natural talent means.’ Deborah rolled her eyes, but then looked at him again, her face solemn. ‘The important thing I want to tell you, though, is that Uncle Moses said that your gift must be cultivated. He wants you to go to Granada and study with him, and he asked my father to write to yours and get his agreement. What do you think?’

Yehuda looked down at the ruby ring that Isaac had given him and rolled it round his finger, watching the light on the facets of the ruby. He was confused, and a little resentful that his success meant that things might have to change. ‘I don’t know what to think, Deborah. I like it here. I like Córdoba. I like this house, your parents – being with you.’

She smiled, blushing slightly – O God, the blush on her cheek, so lovely, so delicate! He made himself go on: ‘But Granada is also a great city, and Moses ibn Ezra is a great poet. It would be really something to study with him, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes, of course it would. It would be wonderful, Yehuda,’ she said. ‘At least, I think so, but… there’s something you need to know about Uncle Moses.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s just that… well, he’s…’ Deborah looked at him anxiously.

‘Is there something wrong? Why shouldn’t I go?’

After a moment’s hesitation, Deborah said, ‘Listen, I’m going to show you something. You must not talk about it to anybody. I don’t know what it means, Yehuda, but it’s very… well… there is something amiss here.’

She felt under the cushion and took out the manuscripts that she’d hidden there. Shuffling the sheets, she found the one she was looking for and handed it to him. ‘Look at this. I found it in the guest room – it’s by Uncle Moses.’

Wondering why she was suddenly so serious, he took the paper from her. It was the draft of a Hebrew poem, heavily worked on, with many corrections and scored-out passages. A clean version of two stanzas of the poem was written at the bottom of the page:

Many denounce me, but I do not hear them.

Come, lovely fawn, and I shall subdue them,

And time will shame them, and death will confound them.

Come, lovely fawn, let me feast

On the honeycomb of your lips, let me be satisfied.

He was seduced, and we went to his mother’s house.

There he bent his back to bear me.

Night and day I was alone with him.

I stripped off his clothes and he stripped me.

I sucked at his lips and he sucked me.

The colour drained from Yehuda’s face, but to cover his embarrassment he muttered, ‘Yes, that’s his style. It’s very allusive – death will confound them is good. It’s a reference to Ezekiel, Their kings are aghast, their faces confounded. But it’s also in the First Book of Samuel—’

‘Yehuda!’

Startled, he looked up. Deborah was staring at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I suppose I was getting a bit carried away.’

‘Yes, you were. I don’t think it really matters how allusive it is. Are you just showing off, or do you really not get the point?’

He squirmed. People didn’t talk to each other like that back in Tudela, especially not girls, especially not girls who looked like Deborah.

‘I’m sorry. You’re right. Yes, I do get the point. Or rather, I don’t. It is indeed very strange. What do you make of it?’

She frowned. ‘I’m not sure, Yehuda. I’m not even sure I should be sharing this with you. I hardly know you, but… but I do care for you and if you are going with Uncle Moses to Granada, then I felt I must tell you. I can’t imagine him writing something like that. He’s always been nice to me and pays me a lot of attention, and listens to me, more than most grown-ups do. I thought he just liked me, but sometimes he seems to be staring at me, and it’s embarrassing. He doesn’t stare only at me, but at other girls too. And not just girls, boys as well. Sometimes it really disturbs me. When I found this poem today, it felt like that.’

Looking down at the poem his hand, Yehuda ran his finger along the text, as if to feel its meaning. ‘Yes, I liked him when I met him last night. He made me feel included in the party. But this, I agree with you, there’s something wrong here. Look at that last stanza. I’ve never seen anything like that before.’ He handed the poem back to her.

Reaching for the sheet in Yehuda’s hand she froze, her eyes widening as she stared over his shoulder towards the door behind him. Yehuda turned and saw Moses coming in from the sunlit courtyard.

‘What are you two studying so intently?’ Moses asked, squinting as he adjusted to the less intense light of the room. He walked towards them but stopped short, recognising the manuscript. His blue eyes widened a little, but his expression was inscrutable. ‘Is that what I think it is? How did you get it?’ He reached out and took the paper from Yehuda’s hand.

Deborah rose and stood in front of Moses, her eyes downcast. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle. I was helping the servants to clear up after the party, and I was cleaning your room. These papers were on the floor. I picked them up. I’m really sorry.’

She waited, head bowed, for the rebuke. Yehuda could see that she was very frightened. But nothing happened. Nobody spoke. Moses stood, stroking his beard and looking down at her. Yehuda still couldn’t read his expression, but he didn’t seem angry.

Moses turned to Yehuda, who looked straight back at him, nervous but defiant. He was not going to allow Moses to do any harm to Deborah. He thought he saw a twitch of amusement on Moses’s face. Was Moses really enjoying this? Moses didn’t speak but turned and walked back to the courtyard door.

The servant girls were wrapping the bread dough in damp muslin, ready to take it to the baker’s shop. Moses called out, ‘Rebekah, would you be so kind as to bring some of your delicious rose sherbet, if it’s not too much trouble. Can Chaya take the bread to the bakery?’

An awkward girl, a little older than Deborah, Rebekah bowed while wiping her floury hands on her coarse woollen smock. Chaya, much younger, just stood and stared wide-eyed at the famous courtier-poet. ‘Yes, sir, she can,’ said Rebekah. ‘There’s only a few loaves. There’s not as much needed as yesterday, what with last night’s party and all.’

‘Not as much needed, so not as much kneaded,’ said Moses.

‘Beg pardon, sir?’ Rebekah was worried that she may have said something wrong.

‘Nothing, just a bad joke, Rebekah.’ He leaned back into the majlis. ‘Deborah, Yehuda, would you like some rose sherbet? It’s excellent on a dusty day like today, and very good for your health.’

They nodded. Still afraid that Moses’s apparent lightness of touch might be a pretence, neither of them was willing to speak.

‘Very well, then, Rebekah,’ Moses said, ‘rose sherbet for three, please.’

Rebekah bobbed again, gathered up the loaves and shooed Chaya ahead of her into the kitchen.

Moses walked up to the martaba and arranged the silk cushions on the carpeted platform. He turned to Deborah and Yehuda. ‘Come and join me here. I think a little explanation is in order.’ Still nervous, they stepped on to the martaba and sat opposite Moses. He looked down at his poem, stroking his dark beard and rocking back and forth a little, as if in time to some tune in his head. Without looking up, he said, ‘So, Yehuda, what did you make of this?’

Yehuda glanced across at Deborah, as if for a prompt, but she shrugged, evidently as perplexed as he was. He stalled. ‘Do you mean the poem, Rabbi?’

‘Yes, Yehuda, the poem.’

‘Well, sir, I was just saying to Deborah that it is full of allusion, like the phrase death will confound them. It—’

‘And no doubt,’ interrupted Moses, ‘Deborah told you that you were missing the point. Told you quite forcefully, I imagine, knowing her. Yes?’ He turned to her with a smile that she did not return – she just lowered her eyes and muttered, ‘Yes, Uncle.’

‘And as usual,’ Moses continued, ‘Deborah would have been right. She would have been more concerned about the implications of the second stanza. And if you weren’t concerned about it, Yehuda, then you are less discerning than I give you credit for.’ Yehuda was now both frightened and intrigued, wondering where this was heading. ‘So, I’ll explain why you should be concerned about it, but not in the way Deborah might think. Listen and learn.’

With a clatter of brass, Rebekah entered the majlis, carrying a jug and three beakers on a tray. Kneeling, she put the tray on the martaba and asked, ‘Do you want me to pour, sir?’ Her eyes flicked to Deborah and Yehuda, who could see how much she disapproved of children being allowed to sit on the martaba, which in a well-run household was reserved for distinguished visitors.

‘Thank you, Rebekah,’ Moses replied, ‘but that will not be necessary. It will be a privilege for me to pour your wondrous infusion.’ Rebekah blushed, tried to rise gracefully and bow at the same time, and retreated to the courtyard.

Moses poured the rose sherbet and handed the beakers to them. He held his own beaker to his nose before taking a sip, rolling the sweet cordial around his tongue as if it were fine wine. ‘Desire,’ he said. ‘Let’s begin with desire. What Aristotle defined as a conation for the pleasant. But the