The Hand of Fatima

  ‘There’ll be no snow today,’ he told them. ‘We’ll reach the meadows in half a day. Our people will be there, and we’ll get something to eat.’

  La Vieja soon found the trail to La Ragua pass. They walked along, untroubled, wrapped in their golden cloaks. Hernando had prayed devotedly, with the wind still howling in his ears and, in his mind, the unforgettable memory of Fátima’s huge almond eyes when she had stopped rubbing her baby’s body and stared out in panic at the night like a defenceless victim looking at her killer. He thanked Allah a thousand times for sparing them from death. He remembered Hamid: how right he had been about prayer! Then he thought of Ubaid. He thought he had seen some of the Morisco fighters escape the Christian army. Shaking his head, he forced himself to forget the muleteer. He harnessed and loaded up the mules, then he sent his stepbrothers to look for any booty that had fallen in the snow: only the gold and silver coins had been kept apart. Musa and Aquil took their mission as a game. In spite of their hunger and the cold, they had fun playing in the snow. At the sound of their laughter Fátima and Hernando exchanged glances. They did nothing more; they did not say anything, or smile, or gesture to each other, but her eyes sent a warm shiver down his spine.

  As soon as they reached the main track leading up to La Ragua pass, they came across some Moriscos. Many of them were fleeing in defeat, and did not even look round when they passed the picturesque group that Hernando, the women and children made in their richly embroidered garb. Not all the Moriscos were running away, however: some were carrying provisions, and others were prowling round the slopes. Several came up to Hernando’s little band.

  ‘These are the King’s spoils,’ he explained.

  Whenever one of them attempted to confirm this by approaching the bags, Hernando drew his scimitar and warned them off. Some of them immediately ran to tell the King the news.

  By the time they reached the meadows of La Ragua, where the remains of the Morisco army had raised a makeshift camp, Aben Humeya and the outlaw leaders were waiting for them. Brahim was amongst them, while behind and on all sides stood a crowd of soldiers, as well as the women and children who had managed to escape with their men.

  ‘I knew you could do it, Vieja. Thank you,’ Hernando whispered to the mule when they were only a few hundred yards from the camp.

  Despite having to flee so quickly, Aben Humeya was richly dressed. He watched with his usual haughty arrogance as they covered the remaining steps. Nobody came forward to greet Hernando. He and his party walked on, and as they drew near, the Moriscos could see the news was true: the lad was bringing with him all the gold they had plundered. The first cheer went up. The King joined in, and all those present applauded.

  When Hernando turned back to look at Aisha and Fátima, they urged him to go on ahead of them.

  ‘This is your moment of triumph, my son,’ his mother shouted.

  Hernando walked into the camp laughing. It was a nervous laugh he could not control. They were all acclaiming him! The very same ones who had called him the Nazarene. If Hamid could see him now . . . He caressed the scimitar at his waist.

  The King offered them one of the precarious shelters that had been built from branches and scraps of cloth. Brahim immediately came to join them. Out of the booty he had saved, the King also gave Hernando ten ducats in solid silver coins, which his stepfather eyed greedily, as well as a turban and a tawny-coloured tunic embroidered with purple flowers and rubies that shone every time Hernando moved inside the shack. Aben Humeya invited him to come to eat in his tent. Hernando tried awkwardly to adjust the tunic in front of Fátima, who was sitting on one of the leather bags. After evening prayer, performed so loudly that the Christians down below must have heard it, Aisha had taken Humam in her arms, and then left the tent with her two sons. She did not say a word, and Hernando did not see the look the two women exchanged before she left: his mother encouraging, the young woman accepting.

  ‘It’s too big for me,’ he complained, tugging at one of the tunic sleeves.

  ‘It fits perfectly,’ the girl lied, standing up and smoothing the tunic across his shoulders. ‘Stay still!’ she scolded him gently. ‘You look like a prince.’

  Even through the rich jewelled work on his shoulders Hernando could feel Fátima’s hands touching him. He flushed. He could smell her perfume; he could . . . he could touch her too, lift her by the waist. But he did not dare. Her eyes lowered, Fátima fiddled for a few moments longer with the tunic, then she turned round to carefully pick up the turban. It was made of gold and crimson silk, with a crest of plumes, in the midst of which was an inscription in tiny emeralds and pearls.

  ‘What does it say there?’ she asked him.

  ‘In death, hope is everlasting,’ he read.

  Fátima straightened in front of him, stood on tiptoe, and crowned him with the turban. Hernando could feel the slight pressure of her breasts against his body. He trembled so much he was almost on the point of passing out as her hands slid down until they were around his neck, and she clung to him.

  ‘I’ve already suffered one death,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘I would prefer to have hope in life. And you’ve already saved my life twice.’ Fátima’s nose brushed his ear. Terrified, Hernando stood stock-still. ‘This war . . . Perhaps God will allow me to start again . . .’ she murmured, leaning her head against his chest.

  This time Hernando did dare to take her by the waist. She kissed him. At first it was a gentle kiss, as she ran her half-open lips down his face to his mouth. Hernando closed his eyes. When he tasted her savour in his mouth, he grasped Fátima more firmly; her whole body was behind that tongue drilling into him. And she kissed him, kissed him a thousand times as her hands roamed his back, at first on top of the bejewelled tunic, and then underneath it, her hands running up and down his spine.

  ‘Go to the King,’ she said suddenly, pulling away from him. ‘I’ll wait for you.’

  I’ll wait for you. Hearing that promise, Hernando opened his eyes. The first thing he saw were Fátima’s immense eyes staring at him. There was not the slightest trace of shame in them; desire filled the room. He gazed down at her breasts below the golden necklace. Two large wet patches of milk made her erect nipples stand out beneath her shift. Fátima took one of his hands and placed it on her breast.

  ‘I’ll wait for you,’ she promised a second time.

  13

  THOSE WHO still believed in the revolt kept arriving at Aben Humeya’s camp, but there was also a steady stream away of others who had lost hope and were deserting in order to take up the Marquis of Mondéjar’s promise that their lives would be spared and they would be given a safe conduct to return to their homes. The Morisco King’s main tent had little of the luxury of his house in Ugíjar, although there was no lack of provisions. Still feeling uncomfortable in his rich garments, and with the scimitar at his waist making the bag of coins jingle, Hernando was warmly received. He handed his sword to a maiden, and was seated between El Gironcillo, who smiled at him, and El Partal. He looked for Brahim among the guests, but could not see him.

  ‘Peace be with the man who protected the treasures of our people,’ Aben Humeya said in greeting.

  A murmur of approval rippled round the tent. Hernando shrank still further in between the huge leaders of the rebellion.

  ‘Enjoy it, my boy!’ roared El Gironcillo, clapping him on the back. ‘This feast is in your honour.’

  Hernando could still feel the weight of El Gironcillo’s hand on his back when the music began. Several young women appeared carrying platters filled with raisins and jars of lemonade, which they flavoured with a paste contained in small bags. They stood the jars on the rugs in front of the circle of seated men. The men drank and ate, watching the dancers perform in the middle of the room. Sometimes they danced on their own; at others, one or other of the men joined in. Soon the clumsy Gironcillo got up to dance with a young girl who snaked around him. He even sang!

  ‘Oh, to dance the zambra,’ he howled, t
rying to follow his companion’s movements, ‘all troubles past and with a lovely Moorish maid . . . inside you, my beloved Alhambra!’

  The Alhambra! Hernando remembered its fortress outlined against the Sierra Nevada, colouring Granada red at sunset. He imagined dancing with Fátima in the gardens of the Generalife. They were said to be so wonderful! His thoughts flew to Fátima, her youthful body and the gold ornament between her breasts – the same one worn by the dancer in front of him. And she was stretching out her hand, forcing him to stand up! As she got him to move, he could hear others applauding or shouting encouragement. Everything began to whirl around him. His feet moved nimbly, but he could not stop or control them. The girl was laughing, and moved closer. He could feel her body, as he had felt Fátima’s not long before . . .

  While they were dancing, one of the women brought more jugs of drink. Placing them on the ground, she took out a paste made from celery and hemp seeds, poured it into the lemonade and stirred it, just as she had done with all the jars she served.

  El Gironcillo raised his glass to El Partal and drank deeply.

  ‘Hashish,’ he said with a sigh. ‘It looks as if we won’t be using it today to help us fight against the Christians.’ El Partal nodded, also taking a mouthful of lemonade. ‘So instead we’ll dance in the Alhambra!’ he added, raising his glass with the drug dissolved in it.

  Hernando did not get the chance to sit down again. The lutes and tambourines fell quiet. The girl, still holding on tightly to him, looked enquiringly towards Aben Humeya. The King understood, and smiled his consent. The lad found himself being dragged out of the tent and into a hut where other women in the King’s entourage were sitting. The dancer did not even try to find any privacy, but fell on top of him in front of all the others. Hernando was unable to resist as she stripped off his clothes, then started to undo her own skirts and the thick rolled stockings covering her legs up to her knees. As she was doing so, one of the women cried: ‘He’s not been gelded!’

  The other women all crowded round Hernando. Two of them stretched out their hands towards his erect penis. Still struggling out of her stockings, the dancer narrowed her eyes and warded them off. ‘Get out!’ she cried, swatting at the others with her free hand. ‘You can have your turn later.’

  Hernando woke with a parched mouth and thumping headache. Where was he? The first light of day filtering inside the shack brought back vague memories of the night before, the celebrations . . . and after that? He tried to move. What was stopping him? Where was he? His head felt as if it was about to explode. What . . .? A pair of plump, soft arms weighed heavily on him. Then he realized that his naked body was pressed against . . . He leapt out of the bed made of branches. The woman did not even move. She merely grunted, and carried on sleeping. Who was she? Hernando stared at her enormous breasts and her great belly flopping to one side on the blanket covering the branches. What had he done? A single one of her thighs was thicker than both his legs together. He started to retch, and shivered with cold at the same time. He looked round the room: they were alone together. He searched for his clothes. They were scattered all over the floor. He started pulling his undershirt on to protect himself from the freezing early morning air, his teeth chattering all the while. What had happened? he wondered. As his shirt brushed his groin, he felt a burning pain. He looked down at his penis: it looked raw and red. There were scratch marks on his chest, arms and legs. What about his face? He found a broken piece of mirror and looked at himself: it had scratches on it too, and his neck and cheeks were bruised as if someone had been trying to suck his blood. He tried to think back to the feast, and details gradually began to emerge. The dance . . . the dancer. The young girl’s face flashed through his mind, intense, dancing next to him . . . and then sitting astride him, riding him, grasping his hands and placing them on her breasts, just as he had done a little while earlier with . . . Then the dancer had bitten her bottom lip, and howled with pleasure. Several other women had thrown themselves on him, plying him with more drink, and . . . Fátima! She had promised to wait for him! He tried to find his new tunic. He could not see it anywhere. He fumbled at his belt – the bag with the silver coins had gone! So had the rich turban . . . and Hamid’s sword!

  He shook the woman. ‘Where is my sword?’ The fat woman grumbled in her sleep. Hernando shook her more roughly. ‘And my money?’

  ‘Come back to bed with me, ‘the woman protested, opening her arms. ‘You’re really strong . . .’

  ‘What about my clothes?’

  She seemed to wake up. ‘You don’t need them. I’ll warm you up,’ she whispered, parting her thighs lasciviously.

  Hernando glanced away from her obese, hairless body. ‘You bitch!’ he insulted her, looking desperately all round the shack. This was the first time he had ever abused a woman this way. ‘Bitch!’ he repeated, as he realized with a sinking heart that everything had disappeared.

  Heading towards the curtain that served as a door, he found his clothes chafed so painfully he could hardly walk. He hobbled out, keeping his legs as far apart as possible.

  Although day had dawned, silence still reigned in the camp. Seeing a guard outside Aben Humeya’s tent, Hernando went over to him.

  ‘The dancers robbed me,’ he said without a word of greeting.

  ‘I see you also had fun with them,’ replied the guard.

  ‘They stole everything,’ Hernando insisted. ‘My ten ducats, the tunic the King gave me, the turban—’

  ‘Most of our army deserted in the night,’ the armed guard interrupted him in a weary voice.

  Hernando looked round the camp. ‘Why would they take the sword if they are going to surrender to the Christians?’ he asked out loud.

  ‘Your sword?’ asked the guard. Hernando nodded. ‘Wait.’ He disappeared inside the tent and a moment later emerged carrying Hamid’s scimitar. ‘You took it off when you first arrived last night,’ he said, handing it back to Hernando. ‘It’s difficult to sit and eat wearing it.’

  Hernando carefully took it from him. At least he had not lost the sword – but what about Fátima?

  *

  Hernando dug his nails into the scimitar. He looked all round the camp; it was almost deserted after the night-time flight of most of the Morisco army. He walked towards the shack where Brahim, Aisha and Fátima were sleeping, but, before reaching it, he suddenly dodged behind one of the empty huts: Fátima was coming out. She was carrying Humam. He saw her raise her head to the cold, clear sky, then quickly ducked behind the wooden hut when she stared round the camp, solemn-faced. What could he say to her? That he had lost everything? That he had been raped by dancers, and had just woken up in the arms of an old hag with no hair on her body? How could he appear before her, his body covered in scratches, his neck and face disfigured by bruises? He could . . . he could lie to her, tell her the King had kept him there all night. He could do that, but what if she wanted to give herself to him as she had promised? How could he show her his flayed penis? His swollen and bitten groin? He had not even dared to look at it closely, but he knew it hurt, and burnt as he walked. How could he explain all that? He watched her clutch Humam close, as though seeking refuge in him. He saw her cradle the baby against her breast, then kiss him gently and sadly before disappearing back inside the hut.

  He had failed her! He felt guilty and ashamed, terribly ashamed. Without stopping to think, he decided to get away. He started to run aimlessly, but as he passed by Aben Humeya’s tent once more, the guard stopped him.

  ‘The King wants to see you.’

  Panting, blind from self-loathing, Hernando stepped inside the tent. Humeya was already dressed, and greeted him ostentatiously, as if nothing had happened.

  ‘The army . . .’ Hernando stammered, pointing out towards the camp. ‘The men . . .’ Aben Humeya came closer, and studied the bruises on the lad’s neck. ‘They’ve all fled!’ Hernando wailed.

  ‘I know,’ the King replied calmly, smiling at the sight of his visitor’s face
. ‘I cannot blame them.’ At that moment a tall, muscular Morisco soldier Hernando had seen before came into the tent. He stood silently to one side. ‘We are fighting without weapons. We are being cut to pieces throughout the Alpujarra. After Paterna, the Marquis of Mondéjar has taken many other villages, but he has always been magnanimous and pardoned the inhabitants. That’s why my men have fled: they want to be spared. And that’s why I called you here.’ Hernando looked surprised, but Aben Humeya smiled at him again. ‘Don’t worry, Ibn Hamid, they will be back. Almost two months ago, after my coronation, I sent my younger brother Abdallah to ask the bey of Algiers for help. There is still no news from him. All I have been able to do is send him a letter . . . Words!’ Aben Humeya snatched a fist in the air. ‘But now we have a fortune in plunder to persuade him. My men are running away, and the promised aid has not arrived. So I want you to leave at once for Adra, with the gold. Al-Hashum here will go with you.’ Aben Humeya pointed to the giant soldier standing behind them. ‘He will sail to Barbary with the treasure, and offer it to our brothers, the believers in the one true God. You are to return here and keep me informed. The journey will be dangerous, but you must reach the coast and find a ship. Once you have reached Adra, with the gold you have it will not be hard for you to find what you need to cross the strait, or to enlist the support of the local Moriscos. Is everything ready?’ he asked the soldier.

  ‘The mule has been loaded up,’ replied al-Hashum.

  ‘May the Prophet be your companion and guide,’ the King concluded.

  Hernando followed al-Hashum out of the tent. They were going to Adra on the coast, which was a long way away. What would Fátima think? She had looked sad, but he had been ordered to go . . . the King had ordered it! At once, he had said. He did not even have time to say goodbye. What about his mother? They walked round the royal tent. On the far side they found Brahim holding one of the mules. Hernando’s stepfather looked him up and down curiously, his eyes widening when he saw all the bruises.