The Hand of Fatima

  The youngster nodded silently. ‘Have you finished what you were writing, my lord?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve finished. Now,’ he said, pausing for a few moments, ‘it is for God to get to work.’

  But Hernando did not head for Granada as he had said. Instead of crossing the Roman bridge out of Córdoba, he left by the Colodro gate and took the route towards Albacete and the Mediterranean coast. He intended to ride as far as Almansa, and there turn north for Jarafuel. From the outset, Estudiante was difficult and skittish. While they were going through the busier areas outside the city, Hernando gave him his head and allowed him to lean on the bit. Further on, when they had gone past the crossroads with the Camino de Las Ventas leading to Toledo, he spurred his mount on until the horse was going at a full gallop, controlled only by his rider’s strength. Two leagues were enough. Despite the winter chill, Estudiante was in a lather by the time they crossed the Alcolea bridge, and was panting through his nostrils, but he was responding to the spurs. From then on they went at a walk: there were still almost sixty leagues to Almansa, and the journey was long and arduous, as Hernando had discovered a few months earlier when he had gone to Granada to discuss the question of the martyrs. The new archbishop, Don Pedro de Castro, asked him for reports just as his deceased predecessor had done.

  It had been Castillo who had advised him to visit Jarafuel. Together with Teresa and Cofrentes, this village was on the western edge of the kingdom of Valencia, situated to the north of Almansa in a fertile valley with a river that flowed into the river Júcar. On the far side was the Muela de Cortes mountain. Most importantly, however, these villages had a predominantly Morisco population.

  ‘I don’t have any ancient parchments,’ Hernando had complained during his last visit to Granada. He was meeting Don Pedro, Miguel de Luna and Alonso del Castillo in the Golden Stable, with green and gold reflections glinting in the roof vaults. ‘At the moment I am writing everything on normal paper, but—’

  ‘We shouldn’t use parchments,’ Luna argued. He had just published the first part of his work The True History of King Rodrigo, which had stirred up a fierce debate amongst intellectuals throughout Spain. Unfortunately for the author, the strongest opposition to his positive view of the Arabs came from someone who was himself a Morisco, the Jesuit Ignacio de las Casas. ‘Some authorities have claimed the parchment from the Turpian tower is a fake, because they say it’s not old enough—’

  ‘It was certainly old,’ Hernando cut in with a smile, ‘it dated from the time of al-Mansur at least.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not old enough,’ Castillo declared. ‘We need to employ something that is not paper or parchment: gold, silver, copper . . .’

  ‘Lead,’ Don Pedro asserted. ‘It’s easy to get hold of. It’s used a lot by goldsmiths.’

  ‘The ancient Greeks wrote on lead sheets,’ said Luna. ‘It’s an excellent choice. No one will be able to tell whether it is old or not, especially if we put it through a manure bath, as our friend did with the Turpian tower document.’

  Hernando smiled along with the others.

  ‘In Jarafuel in the kingdom of Valencia,’ said Castillo, ‘I know a goldsmith who secretly creates Morisco jewellery despite the prohibition. I also know the village holy man. They are both completely trustworthy. Binilit the goldsmith makes hands of Fátima and patens with moons and Arabic inscriptions for baptizing the newly born. He also makes bangles, bracelets and necklaces on which he engraves verses from the Koran and magnificent Morisco patterns just like the ones our womenfolk used to wear before the Christian conquest. I’m sure he’ll be able to copy what you’ve written on to lead plates.’

  ‘Some of the work is in Latin,’ Hernando explained, ‘but for the ones written in Arabic I’ve used odd, pointed letters in a style of calligraphy I myself invented. I’ve based it on the images of the points of the Seal of Solomon, the symbol of unity. I wanted to avoid any style invented after the birth of the prophet Isa.’

  Don Pedro nodded contentedly; Luna rewarded the idea with polite applause.

  ‘I can assure you that Binilit the goldsmith is sufficiently skilled to inscribe any kind of writing we may give him on the lead.’

  Hernando had been able to appreciate Binilit’s skill on his previous visit to Jarafuel. He looked for the holy man Munir – someone who was surprisingly young for the responsibilities he carried on his shoulders. The two of them made their way to the goldsmith’s tiny workshop. When they arrived, Binilit was working on a hand of Fátima he had been asked to make for a wedding. He placed a strip of silver in a hollow mould, then placed another strip of lead on top of it and began to hammer delicately until he could pull the moulded jewellery out cleanly. Then he began tracing geometrical designs on it. As he was working, the holy man explained what they wanted from him.

  ‘It’s something on which the whole future of our people in these lands depends,’ Munir concluded.

  Binilit nodded, and for the first time raised his eyes from the jewellery he was creating.

  Hernando had been watching him work, fascinated. He congratulated him on his efforts. Binilit encouraged him to pick it up, and Hernando was immediately reminded of the hand of Fátima he kept so carefully hidden in his library. He weighed this one; it seemed slightly lighter than the one he had. He stroked the unfinished patterns. Who was the girl who would wear it in secret? What adventures would befall it? His memories of all he had lived through with Fátima and their own piece of jewellery brought a nostalgic smile to his face.

  ‘Do you like it?’ asked Binilit, bringing him back to reality.

  ‘It’s marvellous.’

  The two men stood contemplating it for a few moments.

  ‘Let me see what you have written,’ the goldsmith said.

  Hernando put the hand of Fátima down and handed him the sheets of paper. The goldsmith examined them. At first he seemed unconvinced, but when he saw the Seal of Solomon on several of them, the pointed Arabic letters, and began to decipher some of the phrases at random, his eyes narrowed. He began to concentrate on them as if he considered them a real challenge.

  ‘There are twenty-two pieces of writing,’ Hernando explained. ‘As you can see, some of them are only one page, but others are longer.’

  The goldsmith examined the sheets of paper several times. He spread them out on his small work bench, mentally calculating how much writing they contained, imagining what they would look like inscribed on lead plates. All at once his attention was drawn to several sheets with unreadable letters that were not written either in Latin or in the curious Arabic script Hernando had devised.

  ‘What’s this?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘I call it the Mute Book. It has no meaning. As you can see, the letters are completely indecipherable. I had a really hard time trying to invent all those meaningless characters. In another of the books,’ Hernando said, rummaging among the papers, ‘this one here – the History of the Truth of the Gospel – it is said that the meaning of the Mute Book will be revealed at a later date. The two complement each other,’ he explained. He hesitated, wondering whether to tell them that the meaning of the book was none other than the gospel of Barnabas, but decided not to. ‘The revelation will only come once the Christians are prepared to receive the true message, the one that has not been distorted by their Church, the one that shows there is only one true God.’

  Binilit murmured his approval. Hernando thought through the guiding principle of his efforts: the writings were an ingenious puzzle constructed around a central figure, that of the Virgin Mary. Together they pointed to an apparently irreconcilable conclusion: the Mute Book, the gospel of the Virgin, written in an incomprehensible language that would defeat any scholars who tried to interpret it. Yet, as Hernando had just explained to Binilit, another of the plaques would announce the appearance of a text that would resolve the mystery. That text would be the gospel of Barnabas, which he himself kept closely guarded. Once the lead plates were accepted, together with the en
igmatic Mute Book, the gospel of Barnabas and its acceptance of Islam would shine out as the only, unquestionable truth.

  ‘All right,’ the goldsmith agreed, rousing Hernando from his thoughts. ‘I will get word to you when I’ve completed them.’

  Hernando searched in his bag for money to pay him, but Binilit stopped him.

  ‘I only charge enough for my jewellery to help me live a sober, frugal life; I’m an old man now. All I want is for we Muslims to be able to wear the ornaments our ancestors wore. So you can pay me when the Christians accept the revealed word.’

  In his second journey to Jarafuel, it took Hernando four days to reach the village. He joined the caravans of traders and muleteers he met each night at the wayside inns. Travelling such roads he risked unfortunate encounters with bands of outlaws, but he also met a wide variety of other people: endless numbers of friars and priests going from monastery to monastery; puppeteers travelling to villages with their shows; foreigners and gypsies, rogues and countless beggars thrown out of the cities asking for alms from travellers and pilgrims.

  Hernando spent the third night in the village of Almansa. It was here that he had to leave the busy Roman road and head inland for five leagues along smaller tracks, and so he wanted to travel by day.

  When he set out the next morning, it was Estudiante himself who became suspicious and warned him of danger. He was riding at a walk along a solitary path through a fertile valley surrounded by mountains. The castle of Ayora stood high on a crag a league away. All he could hear were his own horse’s hooves, when suddenly Estudiante pricked up his ears and stopped dead. Hernando looked all around him, but could not see anything moving. Estudiante, however, had stiffened and laid back his ears, which were twitching nervously. Hernando had decided to trust to the animal’s instinct, and was about to spur him on, when of its own accord the horse leapt forward and began to gallop. Hernando flattened himself on its neck. A few paces further on, several armed men suddenly appeared from both sides of the path. Hernando did not even have time to see their faces properly: one of them stood menacingly in the middle of the path, brandishing an ancient sword. Hernando cried out and spurred Estudiante on. The man hesitated, and then decided to jump out of the way of the horse’s mad career. Even so, seeing the rusty blade flashing in the air, Hernando pulled the horse to one side and aimed straight at the man to prevent him slashing at his back. Estudiante responded in an agile fashion, almost as if he were dancing round a bull’s horns in the ring, and the outlaw was sent flying. Estudiante began to gallop off again, and Hernando flattened himself on his back, just in time to avoid two harquebus balls that whizzed through the air close by him.

  ‘Volador would be proud of you,’ he said, patting the horse’s neck as they drew close to Ayora castle.

  He continued on his way to Jarafuel, which he reached without further incident. He found the young holy man, and the two of them headed once more to Binilit’s workshop. They left Estudiante tethered in the small garden behind Munir’s house.

  ‘Did you come alone?’ Munir asked him as they walked towards the workshop.

  ‘Yes. And I had a lucky escape near Ayora—’

  ‘That wasn’t why I was asking you,’ the holy man interrupted him, ‘although I will find someone to accompany you on the way back at least as far as Almansa, or go with you myself. No, I was asking because I don’t know how you on your own are going to be able to carry everything that Binilit has prepared for you. He has done a magnificent job.’

  Hernando had not considered that it was one thing to transport papers, but something entirely different to have to carry lead plates. In Córdoba he had simply slung a couple of saddlebags over Estudiante’s back. When he reached Binilit’s workshop, he could not help whistling in surprise at the sight of all the work the goldsmith had done: there must be between a hundred and two hundred lead plates – perhaps more! They were plaques of about half a hand span in width, where Binilit had inscribed all Hernando’s texts. They were piled up high in one corner of the workshop. It would be impossible for him to carry all that weight in his saddlebags!

  He picked up the topmost plaque from one of the piles. Hernando had called it The Book of the Foundations of the Church. He weighed it in his hand, and then examined the goldsmith’s work. It was wonderful: Binilit had carefully transcribed all the pointed letters on to the small plate of metal.

  ‘Mary did not commit original sin,’ said the holy man. Hernando turned towards him. ‘I’ve spent many days here,’ explained Munir, ‘reading . . . or rather, trying to interpret what you have written. You’ve left out all the punctuation and the vowels.’

  ‘That’s because they were not used in those days.’ The holy man made as if to say something, but Hernando went on speaking. Binilit was listening attentively. ‘Besides, our message ought not to be direct; it should be ambiguous. If it were not, the Christians would reject the books straightaway.’

  ‘But the references to Mary are clear,’ said Munir.

  ‘That’s because there is no problem with those. The Christians will accept the Virgin’s intervention without questioning it,’ Hernando asserted. ‘The figure of Mary is probably the only link between the two religions that has not been tarnished. In addition, in Spain there is great pressure for the Church to make it dogma once and for all that Mary conceived without sin. My texts support this view, so they will accept them. As you will have noticed, Mary is the central point of all the books. She is the one in possession of the divine message, which she conveys to Saint James and the other apostles following the death of Isa. She tells James to take Christianity to Spain, and she is the one who gives him a new gospel, the Mute Book. Although this cannot be deciphered now, its meaning will be revealed on the day that the Christians realize the popes have distorted God’s message. All this will come about thanks to an Arab king.’

  ‘What do we gain if the Christians cannot understand the message?’ the goldsmith asked. ‘They could interpret it as they see fit.’

  ‘And they will do so. Have no doubts about that,’ said Hernando.

  Binilit spread his hands towards the piles of plaques, as if he felt cheated after all the work he had done.

  ‘That is what we want, Binilit,’ Hernando said, trying to reassure him. ‘If the Christians interpret the books to their advantage, they will have to admit that both Saint Caecilius, the patron saint of Granada, and his brother Saint Ctesiphon were Arabs. They both came with Saint James to convert Spain. Granada’s patron saint, an Arab! However hard they try, they cannot accept some parts of the books as true and ignore others that might cause problems. They will also have to admit, as the Virgin Mary herself says, that Arabic is the most sublime of all languages. If they want to use the books to their advantage, they will have to accept these ideas and many more that appear there. It’s a good way to bring our two peoples together; perhaps we could even get them to lift the prohibition on us speaking our own language. Besides, if Saint Caecilius was an Arab, what justification is there for all this hatred towards our people?’ Munir nodded thoughtfully. ‘Many authorities will have to reconsider their teachings and opinions. We Muslims and Christians believe in the same God! That is something most ordinary people do not understand, and their priests hide the truth from them, constantly attacking the Prophet. But in any case, Binilit, all this is simply one more step following the Turpian tower parchment; it’s not the end. Once the true meaning of the Mute Book is revealed – the gospel whose meaning has not been distorted by the popes – all the ambiguous aspects contained in many of the texts of these books, such as for example the series of professions of the Muslim faith and the true identity of Isa, will have to be interpreted in accordance with our beliefs.’

  ‘But how can the contents of an illegible book be revealed?’ the jeweller asked.

  ‘The book cannot be read,’ Hernando explained. ‘It’s sufficient for it to be acknowledged as the gospel the Virgin wrote. If the Christians recognize these lead books, they
will also have to recognize the appearance of the Arab king that is foretold in them, the one who will make known the true gospel, the one that no pope or evangelist has been able to falsify. And no one will be able to claim that this gospel contradicts whatever is in the Mute Book. In this way, we come full circle: the Mute Book, or the Virgin’s gospel, which will always have been a mystery, will be ratified by the gospel coming from Arab lands. No one will be able to challenge this new book without calling all the others into question – and they will already have been accepted.

  ‘No one will be able to challenge the gospel of Barnabas,’ Hernando added to himself.

  Hernando spent the night at Munir’s house, where for the first time in many years he could pray alongside a Muslim holy man. The two men then became involved in an intimate and profound discussion that lasted until the early hours of the morning. Muslim beliefs survived almost intact in these distant regions of the kingdom of Valencia. The Christian lords were concerned only with the money the Moriscos brought in, and so were indulgent towards their way of life. Nor were there any priests capable of converting them.

  The next morning, Munir himself and two young Moriscos accompanied Hernando to the outskirts of Almansa, which they reached as night was falling. Hernando entered the town to find an inn and companions for the journey on to Granada. Despite the cold winter night, the Moriscos chose to sleep out in the open, because they did not have permits to leave Jarafuel.

  ‘May the one who indicates the right way accompany you and show it to you,’ the holy man said in farewell.

  It took Hernando four days to reach Granada. He was accompanied by traders, friars and soldiers, who were headed either for Murcia or the city of the Alhambra. In his saddlebags Hernando was carrying twenty or more of the lead plaques that he had chosen among the many Binilit had made. He had chosen two of the books: The Foundations of the Church and The Essence of the Gospel, as well as more plaques that spoke of the martyrdom of several of Saint James’s disciples, among them Saint Caecilius. In them Hernando had included a reference to the discovery in the Turpian tower, hoping in this way to lend the parchment the credibility that some scholars still refused to give it.