The sun was slowly setting, tinting the hills covered in vineyards and olive groves with amber hues. The heat of the day was beginning to wane, yet a lingering warmth still floated in the air, as if the earth refused to release the light completely. The soil, reddish and fertile, had been diligently worked.

It was clear this was no forgotten corner: signs of life were everywhere. A group of women harvested vegetables by a riverside, while children carried water in pitchers from a spring that bubbled among the reeds.

—This place is Valenzuela —said Carmen, looking at the landscape with a spark of recognition—. Well, what is Valenzuela today. In my time, there’s a village here —small but alive. It has narrow streets, a church, white houses, and a magnificent view of the countryside…

—I’m not surprised —replied Qāsim—. This land is full of life in our time. There are no great fortresses, but many houses, gardens, and workshops, with people who know how to work clay, water, and fire.

They walked among carefully marked-out fields and soon came upon a cluster of humble buildings. From within came white smoke from kilns, the echo of hammers striking stone, and the distinct scent of wet clay.

A man with rough hands and a serene gaze greeted them. He wore a short tunic dyed ochre, and his arms were smeared with clay up to the elbows.

—Peace be upon you — he said, without stopping the turn of the potter’s wheel—. You arrive with the last light of the day, and with it also comes the time for details.

Qāsim inclined his head. —We seek to learn. May we watch?

The craftsman nodded. Around him were pieces in various stages: bowls still fresh, newly thrown jugs, and plates awaiting glazing.

—How do you achieve such perfection?—Carmen asked in awe.

—It is the clay that allows it, if one knows how to listen to it —the man said—. You must read it with patience. Our soil here, red and earthy, holds just the right moisture. First, I let it rest, then I knead it well, and only then do I take it to the wheel. Afterward, I let it dry in the shade, and when it is ready, then I fire it.

He pointed to a low kiln, fed with olive branches. Beside it, some vessels rested, covered with a greenish glaze.

—This is glazing—he explained—. We make it with calcined lead and fine sand, and sometimes we add oxides: copper for green, manganese for darker tones. The mixture melts with the heat and creates that shiny layer that protects and embellishes.

With a faint smile, the craftsman looked at the pieces, satisfied with the result.

—It’s not just to make them look pretty. The glaze makes the piece durable, preventing it from absorbing water. That is why we use it for tableware, but also for tiles and floor pieces, to cover walls and fountains.

He bent down and carefully lifted one of the pieces.

—Many think this is just decorated clay. But behind it there is science and much experience. Here we combine ancient knowledge: from Syria, from Persia, from Rome… All of it has reached us, and we have perfected it.

Another craftsman, younger, approached with a tray of tiles. On each one were geometric designs of exquisite precision: interlaced circles, stars, and stylized vine leaves.

—Sometimes they tell me this is only decoration. But it is not. Every line has meaning. It is our way of honoring the order of creation.

—And do you always use these motifs? —Carmen asked.

—In the homes, yes, though in religious objects we avoid any figures. But in domestic settings, there is more freedom. It’s not unusual to find fish, gazelles, and birds, sometimes carved into washbasins or lamps.

Qāsim carefully picked up one of the tiles.

—They say art is the way a civilization speaks to itself —he said, his eyes fixed on the piece.

Beside the kiln, a woman was shaping small bowls for oil. Her fingers were stained with white glaze, and she worked patiently. The warm, fading light of the afternoon highlighted the veins in her hands, hardened by years of practice.

Carmen watched her in silence, touching one of the already-fired bowls.

—In my time, pieces like these are found all over Valenzuela. They are studied, classified, and even reconstructed when possible. But above all, they are admired.

—Truly?— the woman asked.

—Yes, in the local museum there is an entire display case dedicated to this period, even with some coins. Many people come to see these little fragments of history firsthand.

At that moment, another woman who had been working by the potter’s wheel called to them with a friendly gesture. Her apron bore traces of flour and honey.

—Come —she said with a smile—. Work cannot be sustained without food. Today we’re serving amaniya with briwât. It’s no palace banquet, but it fills the soul.

They settled under a low vine, ready to eat. The aroma was enveloping: meat glazed with spices, toasted nuts, and crispy pastries filled with cheese.

—It’s shoulder of lamb—the woman explained as she served—. We coat it with rosemary honey and cook it with lavender, cinnamon, and saffron. Then we let it rest with walnuts sprinkled on top.

—And these… —she added, pointing to the pastries —are briwât. Filled with fresh cheese, cumin, and parsley. The secret is frying them quickly, so they crisp without soaking up oil.

Carmen tasted the lamb slowly, savoring the contrast between the sweetness and the intensity of the spices. She closed her eyes for a moment. Then she picked up one of the briwât, bit into it carefully, and the light crunch of the pastry gave way to the freshness of the cheese.

—It’s spectacular how everything combines —she murmured, still half-speaking with her mouth full—. Sweet, salty, mild, intense… all at once.

Qāsim glanced at her sideways, amused.

—Andalusi cuisine is refined —he said as he served himself a little more lamb—. With the arrival of products from the East, such as rice, sugarcane, or eggplants, we also brought new ways of cooking. We learned to serve dishes separately, one after the other, to care for presentation, for rhythm at the table. Eating with elegance became a way to display culture, to practice civility.

He took a pinch of cumin from the nearest bowl and calmly rubbed it between his fingers.

—But cooking is also memory. Every spice and every combination comes from afar. The tableware was perfected, ovens improved, the gestures of the hands refined. Everything counts: from the clay of the plate to the order in which the food is served.

—And much of that still remains in my time —said Carmen.

As they ate, the sun sank behind the hills, and the sky took on a warm tone, somewhere between copper and amber. Carmen lifted her gaze, distracted by a shape in the distance.

—That’s Cerro Boyero!

Qāsim followed her gaze and observed the outline of the plateau cut against the twilight.

—Yes. It is an ancient construction from the late Bronze Age. It was a túrdulo oppidum, an Iberian fortified town.

He remained silent for a moment, as if reviewing the landscape in his mind.

—The plateau is fortified. The walls were raised centuries ago, and though many stones are ancient, men have reinforced them with new ones. There are watchtowers and storehouses carved into the rock. Springs run down the slopes, and thanks to them we cultivate olives, barley, and vegetables.

He turned his gaze toward Carmen.

—From there you can see the entire Guadajoz countryside. It is a good place to live… and a difficult place to conquer

A faint smile crossed his face.

—Many have walked its streets: Túrdulos, Romans, Visigoths… We only add one more chapter to its history.

Carmen gently set her plate aside and let her gaze drift toward the hill.

—Today it is an archaeological site —she said without taking her eyes off the fortress—. It is protected as a Site of Cultural Interest. Beneath those olive trees, history still sleeps. In a recent excavation they found a cistern carved into the rock, like a bathtub. Also remains of ovens, coins, smelting slag… Some call it the Numancia of Córdoba. And they are not wrong.

Qāsim raised his eyebrows, intrigued.
 —Numancia?

—A city that resisted to the very end, and that everyone now remembers.

Qāsim nodded in silence, while the last ray of sun caressed the hillside. The wind carried aromas of hot oil, earth, and dry leaves. Nothing moved, except the shadows, which slowly grew longer.