The Hand of Fatima

  ‘I saw you were armed, so I got as close to you as I could. I’m sorry . . . I couldn’t allow the soldiers to kill my boy,’ Fátima went on. There was pain in her black eyes, but a determined glint as well. The two of them were walking ahead of Aisha, who had not said a word since she realized the mistake they’d made as they were escaping the massacre.

  Hernando’s two stepbrothers were struggling to keep up with the adults, complaining the whole time.

  Day dawned. The sun began to shine on mountainsides and ravines as if nothing had happened during the night. The cold and snow created such a sense of clean freshness that the killing at Juviles seemed like nothing more than a macabre fantasy.

  But it had been real, and Hernando had achieved what he had set out to do: he had rescued his mother. His stepsisters though . . . and Hamid? What could have happened to him? Hernando clasped the scimitar to him, and turned to look at Aisha. She was walking with her eyes lowered to the ground. Earlier, he had heard her weeping, but now she simply followed them in silence. Hernando also took advantage of the sun’s first rays to glance at his new companion. Her black hair hung down to her shoulders in tight curls. She was dark-skinned, with sharply defined features. Her body was that of a girl who has given birth at a tender age, and despite her exhaustion she walked with great dignity. Sensing his gaze on her, she turned to him and smiled slightly. For the first time, he noticed her sparkling, wonderful almond-shaped eyes. Hernando saw a flush spread across her cheeks, and then Humam started to cry. Fátima cradled him, but kept on walking.

  ‘Let’s stop so that the baby can have some milk,’ Aisha suggested from behind.

  Fátima agreed, so they all stepped off the path.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mother,’ Hernando said while Fátima sat down to breastfeed the baby. His two stepbrothers looked on, fascinated. Aisha did not reply. ‘I thought . . . I thought she was Raissa.’

  ‘You saved my life,’ his mother said. ‘Mine and those of your two brothers.’ As she said this, Aisha broke down and pulled Hernando to her. ‘You have no reason to be sorry,’ she sobbed, still clinging to him. ‘But you must understand how I feel about your sisters. Thank you . . .’

  Fátima stared at them, her face sombre. Humam was greedily taking her milk. On her bare breast, Hernando caught sight of a golden necklace: the al-hamsa, the hand of Fátima, an amulet warding off evil that the Christians had forbidden the Moriscos to wear.

  It took Hernando and his little group the whole morning to cover the three leagues between Juviles and Ugíjar. This was the most important Christian village in the Alpujarra, but Farax had ordered all Christians slaughtered, and now it was in the hands of the Moriscos. Set in the valley of the Nechite, it was some way from the heights of the Sierra Nevada, so that the landscape was not as harsh as that of the high Alpujarra. Not only was the village rich in vines and cereals, but it also had ample pasture for livestock. When Hernando and the others arrived, Aben Humeya’s army had already made camp there. Ugíjar was bustling with activity.

  The King of Granada had installed himself in the house that had once belonged to Pedro López, the chief bailiff of the Alpujarra. The building was situated in one of the defensive towers in the village. The three towers formed a triangle: most of the Morisco army had taken shelter in between them. Hernando found his team of mules outside the collegiate church. Ubaid was looking after his stepfather’s dappled stallion. Although Hernando had been afraid of him before, he now addressed him without a qualm: ‘Where is Brahim?’ he asked.

  Ubaid shrugged, and stared at Fátima. Musa and Aquil tried to approach the mules, but were stopped by some soldiers. Even when little Musa was pushed away from the plunder and fell at his feet, Ubaid could not take his eyes off Fátima. Intimidated, she moved closer to Hernando.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ he growled at Ubaid.

  The muleteer shrugged, gave one last lascivious look at the girl, and turned away. Hernando, who had instinctively dropped his hand to his sword hilt, relaxed his grip.

  He asked one of the soldiers where his stepfather was, then led his little group to Pedro López’s house. They found Brahim in the doorway, with some of the commanders and a host of Morisco soldiers. Aben Humeya was inside with his advisers.

  ‘What does this mean?’ his stepfather exclaimed when he saw Aisha and his two sons, but El Gironcillo, who was standing nearby, forestalled him.

  ‘Welcome, my boy!’ he greeted Hernando. ‘I think we’re going to need you. We have a lot of wounded animals.’

  El Gironcillo went on to explain to the other soldiers how Hernando had treated his pony. Choking with rage, Brahim waited until the Morisco leader had finished singing his stepson’s praises.

  ‘But you abandoned the mules!’ he protested as soon as El Gironcillo fell silent. ‘And why did you bring my sons here? I already told you—’

  ‘I have no idea if we will all die here, or if something will happen to your sons,’ Aisha cut in, surprising her husband with her forceful tone, ‘but for the moment, Hernando has saved their lives.’

  ‘The Christians . . .’ the lad started to explain. ‘The Christians have slaughtered hundreds of our women and children outside Juviles church.’

  The Moriscos crowded round as he told the tragic story.

  ‘Come with me,’ El Gironcillo said before Hernando had even properly finished, ‘you have to tell Ibn Umayya what happened.’

  The soldiers on guard at the doors let them through without any question. Hernando went in with El Gironcillo, and when the men tried to keep Brahim out, he managed to convince them he had to accompany his stepson.

  It was a large, whitewashed house of two storeys, with wrought-iron balconies on the upper floor and a sloping tiled roof. Even before the heavy wooden doors to the room where Aben Humeya was holding court had swung open, Hernando could smell a cloying perfume. When the guards knocked and then opened the door, the scent of musk mingled with the sound of an ud, a short-necked lute. The young, imposing-looking King was lying back on a wooden couch draped with red silk, surrounded by his four wives. His figure loomed over the others present, who were all seated on the floor on silken cushions woven with gold and silver thread and goatskins embroidered in a thousand colours. More carpets and rugs were spread across the room. In its centre, a woman was dancing.

  The three of them stood on the threshold, gazing in: Brahim could not take his eyes off the dancer, while El Gironcillo and Hernando stared all around them. In the end it was Aben Humeya who raised his hand to silence the music and then signalled for them to enter. Miguel de Rojas, the father of the King’s first wife, who was a wealthy Morisco from Ugíjar, several of the prominent men of the village, and some of the outlaw leaders, among them El Partal, El Seniz and El Gorri, turned to stare at the newcomers.

  ‘What do you want?’ Aben Humeya asked directly.

  ‘This lad has brought news from Juviles,’ El Gironcillo said without hesitation.

  ‘Speak,’ the King ordered.

  Hernando hardly dared raise his eyes to look at him. As if by witchcraft, the new confidence he had found the night before vanished. He began to stammer out his story, and it was not until the King smiled openly at him that he regained his composure.

  ‘Murderers!’ El Partal cried when he had heard all the details.

  ‘They slaughter women and children!’ shouted El Seniz.

  ‘I told you we should make a stand here in Ugíjar,’ Miguel de Rojas protested. ‘We have to fight to protect our families.’

  ‘No! We would not be able to halt the marquis’s army here,’ argued El Partal.

  Aben Humeya commanded them to be quiet. He held up his hand to calm the other bandit leaders, who all wanted to leave the town at once and go on the attack.

  ‘I have already said that for now we will stay in Ugíjar,’ the King declared, despite the mutterings of some of the Morisco leaders. ‘As for you,’ he said, addressing Hernando, ‘I congratulate you on your bravery. What do
you usually do?’

  ‘I am a muleteer. I look after my stepfather’s mules,’ he explained, pointing to Brahim. Aben Humeya nodded in his direction ‘And I look after your spoils.’

  ‘He’s also a magnificent horse doctor,’ El Gironcillo added.

  The King thought for a few moments, and then said: ‘Will you take as good care of our people’s money as you did of your mother?’ Hernando nodded. ‘Then you can stay by my side with all our gold.’

  Next to his stepson, Brahim shifted uneasily.

  ‘I have asked for help from Uluch Ali, the beylerbey of Algiers,’ Aben Humeya went on. ‘I have promised to become a vassal of the Great Turk, and I have learnt that in one of the mosques at Algiers they are collecting weapons to send to us. As soon as the sailing season begins, they will reach here . . . and we will have to pay for them.’

  The King fell silent again. Hernando was wondering whether what he had said included his stepfather as well, when Aben Humeya went on.

  ‘We need harquebuses and artillery. Most of our men are fighting with nothing more than slings or their farming tools. But I see that you at least have a worthy scimitar,’ he said, pointing to the sword hanging from Hernando’s waist.

  Hernando unsheathed it to show the King. The blade was stained with blood. He remembered wielding it the night before, and the wounds he had made in Christian flesh. He had not had time to reflect on it before, but he did now as he stood there, staring at the dried gore on his blade.

  ‘I see you have used it too,’ said Aben Humeya. ‘I trust you will continue to do so, and that many Christians fall beneath its steel.’

  ‘I was given it by Hamid, the Muslim holy man of Juviles,’ Hernando explained. He did not say that the sword had once belonged to the Prophet: he was afraid it might be taken from him, and he had promised Hamid he would take care of it. The King nodded as a sign that he knew who Hamid was.

  ‘Hamid was with the men in the village . . .’ the lad said unhappily.

  With this he fell silent. Aben Humeya joined him in this mark of respect for the old man, but one of the outlaw leaders stood up, intent on taking the sword. The King saw the avaricious glint in his eye and said in a loud voice: ‘Hernando, you are to take care of it until you can return it to Hamid. I, King of Granada and Córdoba, so decree. I am sure you will be able to give it back to him one day, my boy,’ he added with a smile. ‘When the janissaries and Berbers are here fighting alongside us, we will reign in al-Andalus once more.’

  Hernando and his companions left Aben Humeya’s house and found something to eat. The men sat on the ground to make a start on the strips of cooked lamb.

  ‘Who is she?’ muttered Brahim, pointing at Fátima.

  Before Hernando could reply, Aisha said: ‘She escaped with us from Juviles.’

  Brahim’s eyes narrowed. He stared hard at the young girl, who was standing next to Aisha. Humam was asleep in a wicker basket between the two women. Clutching a morsel of lamb, Brahim eyed her up and down, his gaze lingering on her breasts and her wonderful black eyes. Uneasy, Fátima looked down at the ground.

  Clicking his tongue shamelessly as if in a sign of approval, the muleteer bit on his piece of meat.

  ‘What about my daughters?’ he asked as he chewed.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Aisha choked back a sob. ‘It was night. There were so many people . . . it was so dark . . . I couldn’t find them. I was trying to protect the boys!’ she said apologetically.

  Brahim looked at his two sons and nodded, as if accepting Aisha’s apology. ‘You!’ he said to Fátima. ‘Bring me water.’

  As she fetched him the jug, Brahim undressed her with his eyes. He kept his cup by his side so that she would have to come close to him.

  Hernando found he was holding his breath as he watched Fátima try to avoid coming into contact with his stepfather. What was Brahim trying to do? Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Aisha poke Humam’s basket with her foot: the baby began to cry.

  ‘I have to feed him,’ Fátima said, embarrassed.

  The muleteer followed her every move, trembling as he thought of her young milky breasts.

  ‘Hernando,’ Fátima whispered once she had breastfed her baby, and he was fast asleep again in her arms.

  ‘Ibn Hamid,’ he corrected her.

  Fátima nodded. ‘Will you come with me to try to find news of my husband? I need to know what happened to him.’ Fátima cast a sideways glance at Brahim.

  They left Aisha looking after Humam and made their way through the tents and crowds of people, seeking any information they could about the men from the Marchena region who had fought with the armed outlaws against the Marquis of los Vélez. He was governor of the kingdom of Murcia and captain-general of Cartagena, and was known to be a cruel soldier who fought ruthlessly against the Moriscos. He had begun his attack even before the Spanish King had appointed him, sweeping from the eastern coast of the old kingdom to the south and east of the Alpujarra, where the Marquis of Mondéjar could not reach.

  It was not hard for them to discover the news they were seeking. A band of the men who had fought with El Gorri against the Marquis of los Vélez told them what had happened.

  ‘But my husband was not with El Gorri,’ Fátima interrupted them. ‘He went with El Futey. He’s . . . he is his cousin.’

  The soldier who had been speaking sighed deeply. Fátima clung to Hernando’s arm: she feared the worst. Two men in the group avoided looking at her. A third man spoke up: ‘I was there. El Futey fell at the battle of Félix. Most of his men died too . . . but above all, women . . . many women. El Tezi and Portocarrero were with El Futey. They did not have enough men to face the Christians, so they disguised the women as soldiers. They fought in the open fields, and then in the houses of Félix. In the end they had to withdraw to a hilltop outside the village, where the marquis’s infantry went on attacking them.’

  The man fell silent for what to Hernando seemed an eternity. He could feel Fátima’s fingernails digging into his arm.

  ‘More than seven hundred of our men and women died. Only a few of us managed to escape to the mountains . . . from where we came here,’ he added dejectedly. ‘But those who didn’t escape . . . I saw women throwing themselves at the horses, knives in hand! Going to a certain death! I saw how many of them flung sand into the Christians’ faces when they no longer had the strength to throw stones. They fought as bravely as the men.’ He looked directly at Fátima. ‘If you can’t find him here . . . all the survivors were killed. The Marquis of los Vélez doesn’t take any men prisoner, nor does he pardon anyone like Mondéjar does. The women and children who did not die were taken as slaves. We saw many bands of Christian soldiers deserting and heading for Murcia, taking long lines of women and children with them.’

  They searched all over Ugíjar. Other Moriscos confirmed the story they had heard.

  ‘From Terque?’ said a soldier who had heard Fátima asking after her husband. ‘Salvador of Terque?’ The young woman nodded. ‘The rope-maker?’ Fátima nodded again, clasping her hands to her breast. ‘I’m sorry . . . he died. He died fighting bravely alongside El Futey . . .’

  Hernando caught her in mid-air. She weighed nothing. Almost nothing. She swooned in his arms, and he could feel her tears soaking his face.

  *

  ‘What is all this crying for?’ asked Brahim. They were sitting in a circle in the midst of a host of camp fires, eating supper.

  ‘Her husband,’ Hernando said quickly. ‘They say he was wounded in the mountains,’ he lied.

  Aisha, who had already heard about the death of the baby’s father, said nothing to contradict her son. Nor did Fátima. Yet her obvious grief, and the fact that her husband was supposedly still alive, did not stop Brahim staring at her shamelessly with lust in his eyes.

  That night Hernando could not sleep: Fátima’s repressed sobs resounded louder in his mind than any of the music or chanting he could hear from the Morisco camp.

  ‘
I’m sorry,’ he whispered for the hundredth time as he lay by her side in the early hours.

  Fátima sobbed an unintelligible reply.

  ‘You loved him very much.’ Hernando’s words were both a statement and a question.

  Fátima allowed a few seconds to go by. ‘We were raised together. I’d known him since I was a little girl. He was my father’s apprentice, only a few years older than me. Getting married seemed . . .’ She struggled to find the right words. ‘. . . seemed completely natural. He had always been there.’

  By now her tears had turned into heartrending sobs.

  ‘Now Humam and I are all alone. What are we to do? We don’t have anyone else.’

  ‘You have me,’ he whispered. Without thinking, he stretched out a hand towards her, but she did not take it.

  She said nothing. Hernando could hear her agitated breathing above the sounds of music starting up again from the camp. But before the music became too loud, Fátima murmured: ‘Thank you.’

  The Marquis of Mondéjar gave the Morisco army camped at Ugíjar a few days’ respite. He received the prominent men who came to him to offer their surrender; sent soldiers to attack the caves where the armed Moriscos were hiding; and decided to move on Cádiar before dealing with Ugíjar.

  Those days were enough for the Morisco spies, who had been watching everything going on in Granada, to bring news to the village. Curious, Hernando went to join the crowd of men surrounding one of the new arrivals.

  ‘They killed all our brothers being held prisoner in the chancery gaol,’ Hernando managed to hear, even though he could not get near the man speaking. The informer fell silent while his audience cursed and shouted insults at the news. ‘The Christian soldiers attacked the jail, and the prison officials did nothing. The soldiers killed them like dogs in their cells: they had no chance to defend themselves. More than a hundred of them! Then they confiscated all their estates and possessions. And they were among the wealthiest men in Granada!’