The Hand of Fatima

  ‘Peace be with you, Isabel,’ Hernando whispered to her as soon as the soldiers had obeyed the marquis’s command.

  Hernando turned his horse and galloped away, whirling the scimitar through the air and howling loudly in the way the Moriscos always did when they launched themselves at Christian forces.

  18

  We have had word that we must confront some twenty-two thousand well-armed Moriscos; we are no more than two thousand men ourselves. I alone am in command of two thousand men, and two thousand horse. But what are nine thousand Moriscos against the courageous footsoldiers of our brave army, or nine thousand against you, my distinguished horsemen, who have shown such courage and effort? Besides, there is still the warlike sound of our trumpets whose terrifying noise will strike fear into another ten thousand Moriscos.

  Rallying call by the Marquis of los Vélez to his army, in Ginés Pérez de Hita,The Civil Wars of Granada

  HAD HIS efforts to save Isabel served any purpose? wondered Hernando a little more than a month later, when he found himself once more outside Berja. Was she still in the village? If so, the Moriscos would capture her again . . . They might even discover she had not been sold.

  Aben Humeya had been forced to attack Berja by the Moriscos of Granada’s Albaicín, who were demanding the defeat of the bloodthirsty nobleman if they were to join the rebellion. Now was the time to move: the marquis’s ranks had been decimated by desertions, but reinforcements, expected from Naples, had arrived on the coast of Andalusia with the royal fleet.

  Could there be the slightest doubt that the Muslims would destroy the army of the Devil Iron Head?

  The King had given the order to attack by night, and darkness was already falling. The vast Morisco encampment just beyond the town was bustling with activity. Everyone was preparing for battle. This time they had plenty of weapons; they shouted and sang and entrusted themselves to God. Yet even in the thick of the preparations and commotion, many of the men, including Hernando on his mount, as well as the King and his retinue, found themselves closely watching a group of some five hundred soldiers gathered slightly apart from the rest.

  These were made up of Turkish mujahidin and Berbers all clad in white surcoats, which they wore to stand out in the darkness, as the Spanish regular soldiers did. Sure of victory, they all wore garlands of flowers on their heads. Hashish flowed freely amongst these soldiers of Allah who had sworn to die for God; they also requested from the King the honour of leading the attack on the fortress.

  As soon as Aben Humeya gave the order, Hernando watched them rush blindly towards the town walls. How could they fail? he asked himself again. The shouts and cries of war; the harquebus fire; the rumble of drums and the sound of dulzainas swirled round the youth. What did Isabel matter in the face of these martyrs for God? Like almost all the soldiers waiting in the rear, Hernando was chilled to the bone, but shouted triumphantly when the mujahidin overwhelmed the Christians defending the gate. Aben Humeya then gave the order for the main body of the Muslim army to join the attack.

  Several outlaws near Hernando roared wildly and spurred their horses on towards Berja. Hernando drew his scimitar and galloped off in a frenzy, shouting like a man possessed.

  But it was impossible to fight in the alleyways of Berja. Hernando could not even control his mount: so many Muslim soldiers had poured into the town that they engulfed the Morisco cavalry in the narrow streets. Hernando did not come across a single enemy soldier to run through with his scimitar. He was surrounded by Muslims. The Christians lay in wait, taking up position inside their houses and on the flat roofs, from where they fired non-stop. They did not even need to take aim! Men fell dead or wounded everywhere. The smell of gunpowder and saltpetre wafted through the streets and the smoke from the guns made it all but impossible to see what was happening. Hernando was frightened, very frightened. He grasped in an instant that, like the others on horseback, he stood out above the footsoldiers and made an inviting target for the Christians. At the same time, he was in the line of fire of the harquebus shot and arrows the Moriscos were aiming at the terraces. He dug his spurs into his horse to escape the trap but the animal could not find a way through the throng. He heard the hiss of a lead ball as it whizzed past his head. He clung to the pony’s neck, praying. Suddenly he felt a searing pain in his right thigh; an arrow had pierced him close to the knee. The pain was becoming unbearable when the Muslim army was ordered to retreat. His horse was almost toppled over as the fleeing soldiers rushed out of the town. Hernando lost control, but miraculously the horse recovered itself, turned and made its own way out through the gate.

  All night long, Aben Humeya ordered wave after wave of attacks. In the Morisco camp, a barber forced Hernando to drink water with hashish. He made him wait while he tended to other casualties before cutting into the flesh on his thigh, ripping out the arrow and skilfully stitching the wound. Hernando fainted.

  Towards dawn, Aben Humeya relented and ordered a retreat. Throughout the night, the Marquis of los Vélez, making the best of his strategic position, had driven back every attempt to take the town. Hernando joined the mad gallop of the King’s retinue as it pulled back. Unable to rest his right leg in the stirrup, it hung loose, but he gritted his teeth and willed himself not to fall. Behind them they left some fifteen hundred dead.

  ‘May the Prophet and victory go with you.’

  Fátima had bade him farewell with these words as he left for Berja: a farewell fit for a warrior!

  The marquis’s army did not pursue them – it would have been madness for them to come out into the open – so the battered and disheartened Moriscos made their way back towards the mountains. Hernando let his horse trot in step with the others, and took refuge in the memory of Fátima as a way of forgetting the humiliating defeat and the shooting pain in his leg.

  In the days following Isabel’s release, and before Aben Humeya’s decision to attack Berja, Fátima had grown closer and closer to him. She seemed to have forgotten all her bitterness and fear. Aisha was looking after Humam and her own children, while Brahim, who had only fleetingly visited the house where his family was living to show he was still alive, stayed on in Válor at Aben Aboo’s side. Barrax disported himself shamelessly with his young men, while Ubaid made himself scarce in the town, awaiting his commander’s call. Salah wandered around with a long face, still regretting the loss of his three hundred ducats and the expensive robes to Hernando, and always keeping a watchful eye on his cellars where the rest of the treasure was stored.

  Fátima and Hernando sought each other out and made the most of every encounter. They talked and went for walks together, their shoulders gently touching; whether by day or beneath the stars they recalled all that had happened to them over the previous months. During one such walk, Fátima grew serious and spoke of her husband, the young apprentice whom she had loved more as a brother than a lover.

  ‘I remember him being in our house ever since I was a little girl. My father was very fond of him . . . and so was I.’ Fátima looked at Hernando as if she were trying to tell him something. He was silent. ‘He was attentive, and tender . . . he was a good husband, and he adored Humam,’ she added.

  She took a deep breath. Hernando waited for her to say something more. ‘When he died, I wept for him. Just as I had wept at my father’s death. But’ – Fátima looked at him suddenly; her black eyes seemed more intense than ever – ‘now I know there are other feelings . . .’

  A gentle kiss sealed her words. Then, suddenly overcome by shyness, the two of them made their way back to the house in silence. For a few moments they had forgotten about Brahim and his threats, but as they walked, his angry words echoed in their ears. What would become of Aisha if her husband discovered that Fátima had given herself to Hernando?

  On the day the army’s departure for Berja was announced, Fátima had brought him fresh lemonade. Hernando was getting the horses ready. It was first thing in the morning and the air was full of the nervous excitement that p
recedes battle. Laughing, Hernando lifted her on to his horse. He could feel her body quiver as he grasped her waist. When he went to help her back down, Fátima took advantage of the moment to fall back in his arms. Clinging to him, she kissed him on the mouth. Yusuf slipped away but watched them out of the corner of his eye. Hernando returned her kiss passionately, pressing himself against her breasts and hips, wanting her and also feeling her desire. Later on, he was so busy with the preparations for departure that he did not realize that the girl and his mother had both disappeared for the rest of the day.

  That same evening, Aisha let them have the canopied bed and went to sleep with the children. She had spent the day hiring clothes and jewellery for Fátima, shutting her ears to any half-hearted protests. She bought some perfume and spent almost the entire evening making her ready. She bathed her and washed her black hair in henna mixed with sweet olive oil until every curl shone with a coppery glint. Then she perfumed her with orange-blossom water. With the same henna powder, she carefully tattooed her hands and feet, tracing small geometric shapes. Fátima let her do it, sometimes with a smile, at other times hiding her eyes. Aisha washed those eyes with an essence made of myrtle berries and antimony, and held her chin steady until the girl’s huge black eyes shone clear and bright. She clothed her in a long white silk robe embroidered with pearls and slit at the sides, then bejewelled her with large earrings and bracelets on her ankles and wrists, all of gold. Only when she made to put a necklace on her did the girl gently refuse to let her remove the hand of Fátima at her breast. Aisha stroked the small, outstretched hand and left it in place. She prepared candles and cushions. She filled a basin with fresh water, and set out lemonade, grapes, dried fruit and some honeyed sweets she had bought at the market.

  ‘Try to keep still,’ she said when Fátima offered to help. A barely noticeable flicker of sadness crossed the girl’s face.

  ‘What is it?’ Aisha asked, worried. ‘Are you not sure?’

  Fatima lowered her gaze. ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she said eventually. ‘I love him. But what I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Fatima looked up and placed her trust in Aisha. ‘Salvador, my husband, liked to take his pleasure with me. And I pleased him as often as he wished me to, but . . .’ Aisha waited patiently. ‘But I never felt anything. He was like a brother to me! We grew up together in my father’s workshop.’

  ‘That won’t happen with Hernando,’ Aisha assured her. The girl looked enquiringly at her, as though longing to believe her. ‘You will feel it yourself! Yes, you will, when desire makes your whole body tremble. Hernando is not your brother.’

  After night prayers, Aisha went off to look for her son in the front porch and, offering no explanation, made him go with her to the upper floor. Salah and his family noticed how Aisha made him follow her, while Barrax and the two youths of his retinue saw them pass by the open door of the dining room where they slept. Barrax gave a deep sigh.

  ‘She promised to wait for you,’ Aisha told Hernando on the threshold of the bedroom. Hernando tried to say something but could only gesture awkwardly with his hand. ‘My son, I will not allow you both to miss out on loving each other through any fault of mine. It would be useless. Go in to her,’ she urged, taking him by the wrist and half opening the door. Before he entered, Hernando tried to embrace her, but Aisha stepped back. ‘No, my son. It’s her you must embrace. She is a fine woman . . . and she will make a fine mother.’

  Hernando could not get beyond the threshold. He stood there, entranced. Fátima was standing waiting for him, near the cushions that Aisha had placed around the food.

  ‘Go in!’ his mother whispered, giving him a gentle push so that she could close the door.

  Once the door was shut, Hernando again stood stock-still. The candlelight flickered playfully over the body he could just make out beneath the long dress; the pearls bordering Fátima’s garment sparkled brightly, as did her hair, the gold jewellery, the tattoos on her hands and feet. She seemed to be enveloped by the scent of fresh orange blossom . . .

  Fátima came towards him smiling and held out the water basin. Hernando washed his hands nervously after managing to stammer some words of thanks. Then, tenderly, she invited him to sit down. In some alarm, Hernando took his eyes off her breasts outlined beneath the silk, but could scarcely bring himself to look into her enormous dark eyes. He sat down and let her serve him. He ate and drank, unable to conceal his shaking hands or excited breathing.

  They finished the raisins. Also the dried fruit and lemonade. Time and again Fátima revealed her body to him through the open sides of her long silk dress but Hernando, as if wanting to avoid the moment, looked away, perturbed. He could not even recall a single thing from his one and only experience of women! He was reaching for another little honey cake when she whispered his name: ‘Ibn Hamid.’

  He saw her standing proudly in front of him. Fátima slipped off her long dress. The beauty of her body took his breath away; her large, firm breasts rose and fell rhythmically in time with a desire she could no longer hide.

  You will feel it yourself, Aisha had said.

  ‘Come,’ she whispered again after a few moments during which the two young people’s heavy breathing was the only sound.

  Hernando moved towards her. Fátima took his hand and guided it to her breasts. Hernando caressed them, gently squeezing a hard nipple. Some breast-milk trickled from it and Fátima gasped. Hernando persisted. A spurt of milk wet his face. They both laughed. Fátima gestured to him and he bowed his head to suck the nectar while she slid her hands along the curve of his back to his taut buttocks. Then she slowly undressed him, running her lips over his entire body, kissing him softly and tenderly. Hernando shuddered when Fátima’s lips touched his erect penis. She led him to the bed. As they lay down together, she was determined to find in the inexperienced Hernando the pleasure that had eluded her with her husband. As he moved on top of her, she recalled one of the pieces of advice from the Nefzawi sheik of Tunis, which was handed down from woman to woman. She whispered it in his ear: ‘I will not love you unless you bring the bracelets on my ankles up next to my earrings.’

  Hernando paused in his thrusts and raised himself up, taking his weight off her. What was she saying? Her ankles to her ears? He looked at her, puzzled, and she smiled slyly as she began to raise her legs. He entered her gently, responding to her commands: ‘Slowly, I love you, slowly, make love to me . . .’ but when their two bodies were at last one, Fátima let out such a howl that the spell was broken and Hernando’s hair stood on end. From then on, she made known her needs through a mixture of whispers and gasps, and Hernando surrendered to the rhythm set by her groans of pleasure. They soon reached orgasm, after which, sated, they lay in silence. Some time later, Hernando opened his eyes and looked at Fátima’s face: her lips were pressed tight and her eyes were firmly shut, as if she were trying to preserve the moment.

  ‘I love you,’ said Hernando.

  Fátima’s beautiful black eyes stayed shut, but a smile creased her lips.

  ‘Tell me again,’ she whispered.

  ‘I love you.’

  The night flew by in kisses, laughter, caresses, playfulness and promises, thousands of them! They made love again and again, and Fátima finally understood each and every one of the ancient laws of pleasure; her body sensitive to the lightest touch, her soul given over to the indulgence of the senses. Hernando followed her on her journey, exploring the infinite realms of sensation that can only find fulfilment in the convulsions and spasms of ecstasy. After each time they swore their undying love for each other, come what may.

  The rout at Berja changed nothing in the overall situation. Following the battle, the Marquis of los Vélez withdrew to the coast to await reinforcements. Don John of Austria confined himself to strengthening the Christian outposts at Órgiva, Guadix and Adra, and so Aben Humeya kept control of the Alpujarra. The King of Granada conquered Purchena, where the victory was marked with lavish game
s. There were dancing contests for couples and for women only, poetry and singing challenges, wrestling, jumping and weight-lifting competitions, stone-throwing and marksmanship, either with harquebuses, crossbows or slingshots, in which the Moriscos of al-Andalus competed with Turks and Berbers for the love of the ladies and for the important prizes the King offered to the winners: horses, gold-embroidered garments, scimitars, laurel crowns and dozens of sovereigns and gold ducats.

  While all this was going on, Hernando prolonged his convalescence so as to enjoy his romance with Fátima in Ugíjar. Aisha and Fátima had not followed the army but stayed at home with Salah and his family. Although the King was not in the village, Hernando commanded the bailiff of Ugíjar to place a Morisco on guard at the stairs to the cellar; the remainder of the King’s money was there and he might at any moment return to the village in need of it.

  Little Yusuf busied himself with the mules still left with the army and from time to time sent word about how things were going. Hernando took full advantage of his stay in the house at Ugíjar. Brahim’s absence made for a very calm atmosphere: Aisha took care of him, displaying her affection without qualms, while Fátima attended him diligently. After the night of love seized before he went off to battle, they could only exchange longing looks and fleeting embraces.

  As soon as her son returned from the battle at Berja, Aisha raised the matter with both of them. Both women well understood the Muslim rules.

  ‘You ought to get married,’ she told them, trying to put out of her mind the consequences such a marriage would have for her.

  The look on their faces showed that they both agreed; then, however, Hernando’s face fell.

  ‘I have no way of offering her a dowry . . .’ he began. Aben Humeya’s ducats? he thought, gazing inside the house, but Aisha guessed what he was thinking.