The Hand of Fatima

  Together with Nasi he moved to a small palace in the city of Tetuan, where he lived surrounded by luxury and women. In order to cement a convenient alliance he had remarried. She was the daughter of another of the city’s leaders, and she bore him two daughters. When he was arranging the marriage, Brahim was very careful to avoid telling the bride’s family that she was no more than his second wife; that his first was detained in Spain and, sooner or later, would return to him to occupy her rightful place.

  As the former Alpujarra muleteer gained riches, prestige and respect, his humiliating departure from Córdoba ate away at him more and more. The stump of his right arm served as a permanent reminder, especially during the balmy nights of the North African summer when he was woken, drenched in sweat, by stabs of pain from his missing hand. Then the time until dawn passed in fitful sleep. The greater his power, the greater his desperation. What use were slaves if he was unable to forget the slavery he himself had been condemned to in Córdoba? What good were his fabulous riches when he had been robbed of the woman he desired for being unable to support her? Every time he punished one of his men for stealing and sentenced him to have his hand cut off, he saw himself in the Sierra Morena held down by a gang of outlaws thrusting out his arm to the scimitar: it was his own hand being severed.

  Comfort and prosperity, together with the lack of any other worries, led Brahim to become obsessed with his past. There was no Christian captive or fugitive Morisco he did not question about the situation in Córdoba; about an outlaw in the Sierra Morena known as the One-handed One; about Hernando, a Morisco from Juviles who lived in Córdoba and was called the Nazarene; and about Aisha or Fátima. Especially about Fátima, whose black almond eyes remained bright in both the muleteer’s memory and his increasingly unhealthy obsession. The interest of the rich corsair, who rewarded any news with great generosity, spread quickly from mouth to mouth. There were few men on his boats who, one way or another, failed to seek out such information to offer on their return from incursions. This was how Brahim came to find out El Sobahet had died and Ubaid had taken his place.

  ‘Do you two know Córdoba?’ Brahim asked brusquely in aljamiado, cutting across the polite greetings of the two Capuchin monks who had arrived on a mission to rescue slaves. What did he care about formalities?

  The shaven-headed monks, dressed in their habits and with crosses on their chests, were surprised and looked quizzically at one another. They were standing before their host in the magnificent reception hall of Brahim’s palace in the medina. Brahim, with the young Nasi by his side, spoke from where he lay among dozens of silk cushions.

  ‘Yes, your excellency,’ answered Brother Silvestre. ‘I spent several years in the convent in Córdoba.’

  Brahim could not conceal his delight. He smiled and indicated to the monks that they sit down with him, eagerly patting the cushions on either side of him. Whilst the corsair called for a slave to attend to them, Brother Enrique exchanged a conspiratorial look with his companion: they had to make the most of the great Tetuan corsair’s warm reception and win his favour, together with a lower price for the souls they had come to rescue.

  Together with other redeeming orders, the Capuchin monks concerned themselves with the rescue of Tetuan slaves. The Carmelites did likewise with those of Algiers. With this aim in mind, Brother Silvestre and Brother Enrique had just visited the Sidi al-Mandri fortress, residence of the governor and obligatory stage in any rescue mission. Firstly, after paying taxes on disembarking and facing the insults and spittle of any onlookers, the friars had to free the slaves belonging to the local governor. The governor invariably broke the conditions stipulated in the complex agreement that gave the monks permission and safe conduct for their rescue mission. He would insist on a higher price and demand a greater number of his own slaves be freed. In view of this, to find themselves with such an amenable sheikh, who invited them to sit and offered food and drink, which an army of black slaves was already serving, was a situation they intended to take full advantage of. They had money, plenty of money. It came directly from the captives’ families, from the alms demanded constantly in all the Spanish kingdoms, and above all from the offerings and bequests pious Christians made in their wills. Almost 70 per cent of Spanish testaments bequeathed sums for the rescue of souls. However, all the money in the world was not enough to free the thousands of Christians crammed into Tetuan’s underground caverns. The city was built on limestone, and there were immense natural subterranean galleries beside the fortress. They ran under the entire city and it was there that thousands of Christian captives were imprisoned.

  The monks had been in those dungeons and the stench and morbid atmosphere had almost knocked them unconscious. Thousands of men were crowded together underground, filthy, naked and ill. There was neither natural light nor air. The only ventilation came from shafts with metal grilles that ran directly up to the city streets. There the Christians awaited rescue or death; in irons, chained and collared, or with their feet secured between long iron bars holding them immobile.

  ‘Tell me, tell me,’ Brahim urged. At his words the memory of the savage conditions in which their compatriots were held prisoner overcame the monks once more.

  Brother Silvestre knew of Hernando, the Morisco employed by Don Diego in the royal stables and who, on Sundays, rode around Córdoba on a magnificent chestnut horse with two children astride the saddle. The monk had been told he provided services to the cathedral chapter, although he knew nothing of his family circumstances. And yes, of course he knew of the bloodthirsty outlaw whom everyone called the One-handed One – the monk had to make a conscious effort to avert his gaze from Brahim’s stump – who after El Sobahet’s death had become an outlaw chief in the heights of the Sierra Morena. Neither of the two dared ask why the corsair was so interested in these people. Between mouthfuls of lemonade, dates and sweetmeats, they spoke of Córdoba before they broached the subject of the rescue of the slaves they had come to liberate. To the monks’ despair, Brahim left these negotiations in the hands of Nasi.

  Little by little, Brahim was piecing together the information he longed for. The corsairs’ audacity took them far into Christian territories, to villages some distance away from the coast, but Córdoba, at over thirty leagues by main roads, was too far away for him to run the risk of going there. Besides, what would they do once they were inside the ancient seat of the caliphs?

  Now Brahim contemplated those same shooting stars in which Hernando, in a field near Carmona, tried to see a celestial message from his dead loved ones. The corsair had succeeded in finding a way to resolve the problems that stood in the way of his revenge. The solution had arrived in the form of the young and beautiful Doña Catalina and little Daniel, the wife and son of Don José de Guzmán, Marquis of Casabermeja, a rich landowner originally from Málaga. Brahim’s men had taken them prisoner, together with their small escort, during an incursion on the outskirts of Marbella.

  Doña Catalina and her son Daniel were an extremely valuable catch. The corsair immediately accommodated them in his palace and attended to their every need until the marquis’s negotiators arrived. Nobles did not wait for a rescue mission to accumulate funds and the difficult permits needed from the governor of Tetuan and King Philip; the King was highly resistant to the flight of capital to his Muslim enemies although in the end he always found himself forced to capitulate. As soon as noble or illustrious families received news of where their relatives were held (something the corsairs themselves ensured) they entered directly into hasty negotiations to agree terms for their rescue.

  Doña Catalina and her son were from such a family, and Brahim did not have to wait long for the visit of Samuel, a prestigious Jewish merchant from Tetuan. The muleteer had already had numerous business dealings with him over the sale of merchandise captured from the Christian boats.

  ‘I don’t want money,’ Brahim said as soon as the Jew opened negotiations. ‘I want the marquis to take responsibility for the return of my fam
ily and secure my revenge against two Moriscos from the Alpujarra.’

  The last of the shooting stars traced a parabola through the clear night sky, and Brahim smiled as he recalled Samuel’s look of surprise when he heard the conditions for the release of Doña Catalina and her son.

  ‘If he doesn’t do this, Samuel,’ he concluded, ‘I will put mother and son to death.’

  Brahim was looking up at the sky from the balcony of the large room where he had lodged, in the roadside inn at Montón de la Tierra. It was the last of those on the Camino de las Ventas from Toledo, and only one league from Córdoba. It was almost eight years since he had passed by there with Aisha and Shamir on his way to find El Sobahet, to propose the deal that had resulted in the loss of his right hand. ‘Ubaid!’ he muttered. He stroked the hilt of the scimitar hung at his waist. He had learnt to use the weapon with his left hand. In his pocket he carried a document signed by the marquis’s secretary, which guaranteed him freedom to travel across Andalusia. One of the noble’s men was stationed outside his door, to ensure he was not disturbed while he awaited events. From the balcony he also observed the ground floor of the inn. It was a square courtyard lit by large torches fixed to the walls, around which were arranged the dining room, barn, rooms belonging to the innkeeper and his family, and the stables. Several soldiers from the small army recruited by the marquis hung around in the courtyard, waiting like him. He had handed the innkeeper plenty of money to buy his silence and close the inn to any other travellers.

  He gazed again at the sheltering sky and tried to feel something of the calm it spread. He had spent years dreaming of this day. He leant against the wooden rail, his left fist beating rhythmically on it. A couple of soldiers looked up at the balcony.

  Four days ago, before he landed on the Málaga coast, Nasi had tried one last time to dissuade him.

  ‘Why do you need to go to Córdoba? The marquis can bring them all to you, including Ubaid. He could hand him over here, chained like a dog. Don’t take any risks.’

  ‘I want to be there from the start,’ replied Brahim.

  The marquis could not understand it either. He was a proud young man, as haughty as his bearing implied. The nobleman had demanded guarantees that once he had completed his side of the bargain, the corsair would fulfil his. To the marquis’s surprise the guarantee was presented in the person of Brahim himself.

  ‘If I don’t return, Christian,’ Brahim threatened, ‘you cannot even begin to imagine how your wife and child will suffer before they die.’

  He had spoken to Nasi to this effect.

  ‘If I don’t return, my wife and daughters will inherit as the law requires,’ he added as he said farewell to his young assistant, ‘but the business will be yours.’

  He knew that if anything went wrong, his life was at stake, but he needed to be there, to see the expressions on the faces of Fátima and the Nazarene, of Aisha, of Ubaid; his revenge would be worth little if those moments were denied him.

  Early that morning seven of the Marquis of Casabermeja’s men headed for the Almodóvar gate in the western stretch of the wall surrounding Córdoba. The men were of proven loyalty to the noble and totally reliable. During the previous day they had checked out their information about the location of Hernando’s house. They did not manage to catch sight of him, but a pair of neighbours, old Christians always happy to slander Moriscos, confirmed that the man who lived there worked as a rider in the royal stables. They also paid a tidy sum to the guard who granted entry through the Almodóvar gate. That morning the large gate was left ajar. The marquis and two footmen, their faces covered, together with seven more soldiers entered Córdoba, leaving two men hidden outside to wait with horses for everyone. The ten men silently descended the deserted Calle de Almanzor until they reached Los Barberos, where one of the men took up position. The marquis, his face hidden in the folds of his hooded cloak, crossed himself before the shrine to Our Lady of Sorrows on the façade of the last house in the Calle de Almanzor. Then he ordered his men to extinguish the candles burning beneath the painting, which gave the only light in the street. Whilst the footmen obeyed, the rest continued to the house, whose strong wooden door was firmly shut. One of his men carried on to the intersection of the Calle de los Barberos with San Bartolomé, from where he whistled to signal there was no sign of danger. Nobody was out walking in that part of Córdoba at those hours, and only an occasional noise disturbed the stillness.

  ‘Forward,’ ordered the noble, heedless of the fact that he could be heard.

  By the light of the moon that strove to reach down into the narrow alleyways of Muslim Córdoba, one of his men removed his cloak. Lifted up by two companions, he climbed with remarkable agility to a balcony on the second floor. Once there, he threw down a rope for the two men waiting below.

  The marquis remained concealed in his cloak. As soon as his men saw their three companions crowded together on the small balcony of Hernando’s house, they grasped their swords in readiness for the attack.

  ‘Now!’ shouted the marquis.

  The sound of two hefty kicks to the wooden shutter covering the window echoed around the streets. As the first shout could be heard from inside the house, the men on the balcony launched themselves at the battered shutter. Smashing it to pieces, they burst into Fátima’s bedroom. The men waiting below shifted nervously outside the closed door. The marquis stayed impassive, not even turning his head. There was a confusion of shouts and footsteps as men and women ran through the house. Children’s cries and the sound of flowerpots crashing to the floor preceded the opening of the door. The men outside, their swords held high, pushed each other to get through into the entrance hall.

  The neighbouring houses began to show signs of life. Lantern light shone from a nearby balcony.

  ‘In the name of the One-handed One of the Sierra Morena,’ shouted a man stationed in the alleyway, ‘turn off the lights and stay in your houses!’

  ‘In the name of Ubaid, Morisco outlaw, close your doors and windows if you don’t want to get hurt!’ ordered the other as he ran up and down the street.

  The Marquis of Casabermeja still waited calmly in front of the house. Soon afterwards Aisha and Fátima, barefoot and dressed only in their simple loose-fitting nightgowns, were dragged out. Other men held aloft the three crying children.

  ‘There’s nobody else, excellency,’ one man informed him. ‘The Morisco is not there.’

  ‘What do you want?’ screamed Fátima.

  The man gripping Fátima’s arm slapped her in the face. Aisha was also dealt several blows to stop her from shouting too. A terrified Fátima just had time to cast a last look towards her home before the sobs of her children made her turn to them. They were being carried on the shoulders of two men. Another man was dragging Shamir, who was unsuccessfully trying to kick himself free. Inés, Francisco . . . What would happen to them? Again she struggled uselessly in the strong arms of her kidnapper. When she finally gave up, defeated, she let out a hoarse shout of rage and pain which the man smothered with his heavy hand. ‘Ibn Hamid!’ Fátima then murmured to herself, her face flooded with tears. ‘Ibn Hamid . . .’

  ‘Let’s go,’ ordered the noble.

  They retraced their steps back to the nearby Almodóvar gate, dragging the two women under their arms. The children were carried by the same men who had taken them from the house.

  Within a few moments they were on the horses. The women were tossed over the mounts’ withers like a couple of sacks, while other riders kept a firm grip on the children. Meanwhile, in Calle de los Barberos, the neighbours milled around in front of the open doors of Hernando’s house, unsure whether to enter or not. The marquis and his men set off at a gallop in the direction of the Montón de la Tierra inn.

  The kidnap of that family was only one part of the agreement made with Samuel the Jew, remembered the marquis; he also had to deliver to Brahim’s feet the outlaw of the Sierra Morena known as the One-handed One. The fact he had not found Hernando
also worried him as he raced towards the inn.

  Storming a Morisco house in Córdoba was a relatively easy endeavour for the Marquis of Casabermeja. He only needed to count on having loyal and prepared men and let some gold sovereigns fall here and there. Nobody was going to worry themselves about some Moorish dogs. The outlaw was a different matter. The marquis needed to find Ubaid’s band in the Sierra Morena, get close to him and then defeat his men so that he could take him prisoner. The pursuit had begun a few days earlier, and it was only when the marquis received word that his men had made contact with the One-handed One that he informed Brahim, who then risked entering Córdoba. Everything had to happen at the same time; the corsair had no wish to spend more days on Spanish soil than were absolutely necessary, and the Marquis of Casabermeja did not want to run the risk of them being arrested.

  To capture the outlaw the marquis had enlisted an army of Valencian bandits captained by a noble of lesser rank and fewer economic resources, whose lands adjoined the estates he was lord of in the kingdom of Valencia. He was not the only hidalgo who resorted to dealings with bandits. There were veritable armies under the command of nobles and lords. Protected by their privileges, these nobles used the hired criminals for simple looting expeditions, or for settling disputes in their favour without having to resort to the always slow and costly legal system.

  The administrator of the marquis’s Valencian lands enjoyed good relations with the Baron of Solans, who maintained a small army of almost fifty men. They led an idle life in a dilapidated castle and willingly accepted the sum offered by the administrator for routing a band of Moriscos. Except for the One-handed One, who was to be handed over alive in the Montón de la Tierra inn, all the rest were to die. The marquis had no desire for witnesses. The Baron of Solans tricked the Sierra Morena outlaws by sending Ubaid a message proposing that, owing to his knowledge of the mountains, they ought to join forces. If they did, together they could tackle more ambitious expeditions around the rich city of Toledo. When both groups finally met in the mountains, it was an unequal fight. Fifty experienced, well-armed criminals against Ubaid and little more than a dozen fugitive Morisco slaves.