The path descended along the curve of the river, skirting orchards and olive groves, until the land rose again, giving way to a beautiful town. From afar, Carmen could distinguish the unmistakable silhouette of a sturdy tower and walls gilded by the sun.

—Castro del Río —she murmured, as if the name had sprung directly from the landscape.

They climbed narrow, cobbled streets until they reached the upper part of the town. There, dominating the horizon, rose the fortress.

Qāsim paused for a moment, contemplating the towers cut against the sky.

—This is another of our keys —he said calmly—. A fortress from which the entire Guadajoz valley is watched. Compact as a clenched fist, flanked by four towers. In the depths of one of them we keep a deep cistern, built of brick and with an oculus open to the sky, giving us water even on the driest days. Do you see the walls? Rammed earth hardened, masonry layered over centuries.

—It’s breathtaking…—Carmen whispered, stopping in the parade ground—. In my time it still stands, though with alterations. They call it a castle-fortress and say it preserves parts of this period, but also from later ones. It even has a keep.

—A what? —asked Qāsim, raising an eyebrow.

—A noble, central tower, a symbol of power. They rebuilt it centuries later, when this was no longer a frontier but a consolidated possession —she explained as she stepped forward, carefully observing her surroundings—. They added new structures, made modifications, restored it, but always kept building on what was already here. These rammed-earth walls —Carmen brushed the rough surface with her fingers —are still standing.

—That doesn’t surprise me —Qāsim nodded—. When something is well designed from the start, there is no need to begin again. Look around you. The walls encircle the promontory like stone serpents. They don’t follow straight lines; they adapt to the land. That is how true defenses are built.

He paused, gazing with pride at the battlement.

—Each tower has its purpose. Some guard vaulted chambers where sentinels rest between shifts. We’ve already built forty, and we are not finished. If the frontier demands it, more will rise. This place does not surrender.

Qāsim walked a few steps to the wall-walk, from where the town could be seen.

—All of this is one single body —he said, looking toward the houses sprawling down the hillside—. The castle, the walls, the houses clustered below. The narrow streets, the whitewashed walls, the plain wooden doors. This is where the city was born. We call it madīna.

—And we, many centuries later, call it the ‘Barrio de la Villa’ —Carmen added with a smile. —It still preserves this structure, though with different uses and customs. But it still beats with life.

Qāsim turned slightly, pointing to a street that descended between whitewashed walls.

—Come. You’ve seen the place from above. Now it is time to walk it.

The breeze drifted down the street as they entered the heart of the madīna. The land grew softer, and the walls were left behind.

Carmen looked around attentively. The whitewashed, humble houses pressed tightly against one another as if seeking refuge from the sun. The streets were narrow, sloping, and twisted sharply at certain points. Brick arches crossed from one side to the other, joining façades or forming shaded passages.

—It looks a lot like the Jewish Quarter of Córdoba —she murmured— . That sense that everything is designed to preserve shade and coolness.

In a small square, several children played at tossing pebbles into a clay bowl. A woman leaned out from a low balcony with a basket of figs. Further on, an old man bent over a chair as he wove ropes.

—Here live the common people—said Qāsim—. Merchants, craftsmen, farmers. The ones who make all this breathe.

Carmen watched it all with a mixture of respect and tenderness. In that neighborhood, so different yet so familiar, she felt a disordered harmony, alive and beautiful.

—In the future, much of this is still preserved. The little streets, the white façades, even some of the arches. Travelers still lose themselves here, looking for a place to stay… especially the pilgrims who walk the Mozarabic Way of St. James.

At last, they stopped before a larger building, discreet yet solid. A strip of brick framed the entrance. To one side, a square tower of sober proportions rose above the rooftops, topped with blind arches that led up to the minaret.

—Here we are —said Qāsim—. The alŷāma. The Great Mosque of Qasr al-Riyya.

He gently pushed the door open, and they stepped inside. The interior was bathed in a dim light descending from small, high openings. The floor was made of simple slabs, and a scent of wood and lime floated in the air. From the adjoining courtyard, open to the garden, came the soft fragrance of orange blossom. At the far end, the mihrab opened like a carved shell, oriented toward Mecca.

—This is not only a place of prayer —Qāsim explained as he walked among the columns—. It is also a refuge for thought. Here, one listens to the voice of the

the iman, but also that of one’s own heart. And it is not unusual to see how every Friday this space fills with life: some come to pray, others to seek knowledge, and some only need to pause for a moment and breathe in a little peace.

Carmen gently ran her hand along one of the pillars.

—It’s amazing how something of that still lingers….—she whispered—. Though it is no longer a mosque: today it is the Parish of Our Lady of the Assumption. Shortly after the conquest, in 1240, the mosque was transformed into a church. But the minaret remained… and they used it as a bell tower. From the outside, you can still tell.

Qāsim stopped, surprised.

—And what else remains?

—A few things. The building you see was greatly altered, especially in the 16th century, when it took on that Mudejar church form it still has. It has three naves, with side chapels, and a curious mix of styles. There is an Almohad horseshoe arch that survived on one of the walls… and some of these columns, which were reused from right here. Or even from Roman ruins.

—Stone does not forget —said Qāsim, touching the column with his fingers—. Walls may be transformed, serve other purposes, even yield to other beliefs… but memory never leaves them.

—This place is still very important to many. At Easter, one of the town’s most beloved processions departs from here. And though the building has changed, it remains a place of gathering: people enter, look around, sit, pray… or simply keep silent, just as you said.

Qāsim gazed at the space in calm reflection.

—Perhaps not everything is so different within these walls, after all.

As they stepped out of the mosque, the light enveloped them once again. At that moment, a gust of air rose from the street, carrying with it a warm, toasty, spiced aroma. Carmen closed her eyes and breathed it in.

—Do you smell that? It’s delicious. I’m getting an embarrassingly strong appetite.

Qāsim chuckled softly.

—Hold on a little longer. I know a house where they’re surely cooking something wonderful at this hour. It belongs to a friend of mine; he lives with his family on an estate not far from here. His wife, Lubna, is an exceptional cook. And he works with olive wood, using the oil he presses himself at home. His family helps him with everything. Come on, it’s not far.