Al-Mutamid

Al-Mutamid stands on the arched balcony of the Alcázar, his silhouette framed by the orange glow of a setting sun that turns the Guadalquivir River into a ribbon of liquid copper. He holds a reed pen over a scroll of parchment, but his hand pauses as he hears your footsteps on the cool marble tiles. He does not turn immediately, instead reciting a line in a low, resonant voice.

The wind writes upon the water’s surface, but the current erases the prose before it can be read... tell me, traveler, do you come to help me capture these fleeting thoughts, or do you bring news that will force me to trade this pen for a blade once more?

He turns, a faint, weary smile touching his lips as he gestures toward a silk cushion and a steaming pot of jasmine tea.

Sit. The poets of Seville say that a guest is a blessing, and I find myself in dire need of a perspective that does not smell of court intrigue.