The Hand of Fatima

Munir tried to convince the two young Berbers of the secret efforts Hernando made on behalf of the Morisco community. He told them about all that Hernando had written, the years of labour, the lead plates and the Turpian tower, the Sacromonte and Don Pedro de Granada Venegas. He mentioned Alonso del Castillo and Miguel de Luna, the gospel of Barnabas and what they were trying to achieve. He explained that Hernando thought they had all been killed by Ubaid.

  ‘His mother knew nothing about the work he was doing,’ he told Abdul when he spoke of how Aisha had replied to the letter Fátima had sent to Córdoba with Ephraim. ‘Hernando had to keep it a secret, even from his mother. To her, like everyone else, her son was a renegade, a Christian. Hernando thought you were dead. Believe me! He never knew about that letter.’

  He also told them that, despite being married to a Christian woman, he must be the only Morisco who still prayed in the mosque at Córdoba.

  ‘He says he swore to your mother he would always pray in front of the mihrab,’ he added, speaking directly to Abdul. He was worried that his mention of Hernando’s Christian wife might only increase the corsairs’ desire for vengeance.

  He fell silent, and for a few moments the sounds of those saying goodbye and preparing for departure could clearly be heard from the clearing. Munir could see Abdul and Shamir looking towards Hernando. Had he managed to convince them?

  ‘He helped Christians in the Alpujarra war,’ Abdul suddenly growled. His expression was harsh; his blue eyes icy.

  ‘He was only trying to escape slavery, and used a Christian to do so—’ the holy man tried to excuse his friend.

  ‘After that, he collaborated with the Christians in Granada,’ Abdul interrupted him. ‘He denounced the Moriscos who had rebelled.’

  ‘What about the other Christians whose lives he saved?’ Shamir put in. Munir flinched: he did not know about any other Christians. The corsair noted his reaction, and saw an opportunity to free himself from the sense of respect he felt for such a renowned holy man. ‘Yes, he saved many more of them. Didn’t you know that? Didn’t he tell you? He’s nothing more than a coward. Coward!’ he shouted in Hernando’s direction.

  ‘Traitor!’ Abdul added.

  ‘If he thought it was Ubaid who had killed us, why didn’t he pursue him to hell and back?’ Shamir went on, gesticulating in front of the learned man. ‘What did he do to gain revenge for what he thought was the death of his family? I’ll tell you what he did: he sought refuge in the luxurious palace of a Christian duke.’

  ‘If he had insisted, if he had sought vengeance as every self-respecting Muslim ought to,’ Abdul shouted, ‘perhaps he would have discovered it was not Ubaid but Brahim who was the cause of all his misfortunes.’

  A few paces away, Hernando felt these words as blows. He did not even have the strength to defend himself. To say out loud that he had seen Ubaid’s body, that the desire for revenge had left him when he saw him dead. That he had scoured the mountains looking for the bodies of his family so that he could give them a proper burial . . . What was the point of that now? As his mind whirled with all the accusations his child and half-brother made, he could think of only one thing. Why? Why had Aisha lied to him? Why had she let him suffer when she knew the truth? He remembered her tears, her face contorted with grief as she said she had seen how Ubaid had butchered them all. Why, Mother?

  His son’s words interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘And besides, he is married to a Christian! I want nothing to do with you, you dog!’ Abdul went on, spitting at his father’s feet.

  Unconsciously, Munir followed the gob of spittle. He looked at Hernando, who had not even stirred at his son’s insult. Even in the darkness, his body looked broken, crushed by guilt, overwhelmed by everything that was going on around him.

  ‘But the lead plates—’ insisted the holy man, filled with pity for his friend.

  ‘The lead plates – what are they worth?’ Shamir butted in. ‘What have they achieved? Have any of our people benefited from them?’ Munir did not want to concede this, and tightened his mouth in a firm line. ‘Those tricks are only useful to the rich, those nobles who betrayed us and now want to save their own skins. Not a single one of our brothers, the poor, those who continue to believe in the one God, those who hide to pray in their houses or out in the fields, will gain anything from them! He has to die.’

  ‘Yes,’ Abdul agreed, ‘he must die.’

  The death sentence echoed through the woods, above the fading sounds from the clearing. Munir shivered as he saw how cruel the two corsairs could be. He knew they were accustomed to playing with people’s lives as though they were mere animals.

  ‘That’s enough!’ he shouted, in a last, desperate attempt to save his friend’s life. ‘This man came to Toga as my responsibility, under my protection.’

  ‘He will die!’ Abdul exclaimed.

  ‘Can’t you see he is dead already?’ replied Munir, pointing sadly towards him.

  ‘There are thousands of Christians like him piled in the dungeons of Tetuan. Save your pity. We’re taking him with us. Let’s go,’ Shamir ordered the Berbers.

  Munir drew strength from his despair. He took a deep breath before he spoke again. When he did so, his voice was firm and resolute, with no trace of the fear he felt inside.

  ‘I forbid you to do so!’

  He stood unflinching in front of the corsairs. Abdul’s hand went to his scimitar, as if he had been insulted, and had never been given such an order in his life. Munir continued, trying to make sure his voice did not tremble.

  ‘I am Munir. I am the holy man of Jarafuel and all the valley of Cofrentes. Thousands of Muslims accept my decisions. According to our traditions, my authority is the second highest in the principles our world is governed by, and in matters of law I am to be obeyed. This man is to stay here.’

  ‘And what if we don’t obey?’ asked Shamir.

  ‘Unless you kill me too, you will never embark on your vessels. I can guarantee that.’

  All the corsairs and Berbers stood staring at the holy man. Only Hernando still sat on the ground, head in his hands, lost in thought.

  ‘Brahim paid for his crimes,’ Shamir said. ‘This treacherous dog is not going to escape punishment.’

  ‘You have to respect the authority of those more learned than you,’ Munir insisted.

  One of the Berbers lowered his head when he heard this, and at that moment Hernando seemed to wake up. What had Shamir said?

  Abdul realized two things: his men would respect the laws, and he could not bring himself to kill a holy man either. His blue eyes met those of Hernando, who was gazing at him enquiringly. Brahim was dead . . . The corsair stepped towards his father.

  ‘Yes,’ he spat. ‘My mother killed him. She has more courage in one of her hands than you have in your whole being. Coward!’

  At that moment one of the Berbers guarding Hernando shook him roughly, while another hit him in the kidneys with the butt of his harquebus. Hernando fell to the ground again and they began to kick him. He did nothing to defend himself.

  ‘Enough, for God’s sake!’ Munir implored.

  ‘By that same God your holy man is invoking, by Allah,’ growled Abdul as he gestured to the men to stop beating Hernando, ‘I swear I will kill you if you ever cross my path again. Never forget that oath, you dog!’

  Brahim! Fátima could see him in the shouts and threats that Shamir made. But he was much more powerful than that simple muleteer from the Alpujarra, much more cunning. Fátima shuddered when she recognized the same voice, the same gestures, the same angry face in his son.

  As soon as they returned from Toga, Abdul and Shamir went to the palace to see her. Both looked grim and serious, but refused to tell her what had gone so badly. Fátima knew why they had travelled to Toga: she herself had helped raise a large sum of money from the Berbers for the new uprising. She listened to their news with interest, but there was something in her son’s expression that disturbed her.

  ‘Abdul,’
she said at last, laying her hand on her son’s muscular arm. ‘What’s the matter?’

  He shook his head and muttered something incomprehensible.

  ‘You can’t fool me. I’m your mother, and I know you too well.’

  Abdul and Shamir caught each other’s eye. Fátima waited expectantly.

  ‘We’ve seen the Nazarene,’ Shamir confessed finally. ‘That treacherous dog was in Toga.’

  Fátima’s jaw dropped. For an instant she could not breathe. ‘Ibn Hamid?’ As she said his name, she could feel her heart shrink, and lifted a bejewelled hand to her breast.

  ‘Don’t call him that!’ Abdul protested. ‘He doesn’t deserve it. He’s a Christian and a traitor! He dragged himself away like the cur he is.’

  She looked up in consternation. ‘What . . . what have you done to him?’ She tried to stand up from the divan, but did not have the strength.

  ‘We should have killed him!’ Shamir cried. ‘And I swear we will do so if our paths ever cross again!’

  ‘No!’ Fátima’s voice was a hoarse cry of fear. ‘I forbid it!’

  Abdul stared at his mother in surprise. Shamir took a step towards her.

  ‘Wait. What was he doing in Toga? Tell me everything,’ Fátima demanded.

  They did so. They spoke with hatred of the Nazarene, told her in detail what had happened in Toga, including the holy man’s pleas that had saved the traitor’s life. While she listened closely to every word they said, Fátima was busy thinking. Ibn Hamid was in Toga with those who were planning the revolt. He had dedicated years of his life to producing those texts. That meant he had not renounced his faith. As the two men spoke, her eyes came alive. If only it were true! If it were true that Ibn Hamid was still a believer! Then Shamir’s final, stinging words hit her like a slap to the face.

  ‘And you should know he has remarried . . . a Christian woman. So you are free, Fátima. You can marry again too. You are still beautiful.’

  ‘Who do you think you are to tell me what I can or cannot do? I will never marry again!’ she flung at him.

  It was when Shamir realized what emotions lay behind this vehement denial that Brahim’s demons resurfaced in him. He faced her threateningly.

  ‘You will never see him again, Fátima. If I ever hear there is any kind of communication between the two of you, I will kill him, do you hear me? I’ll tear his heart out with my own bare hands.’

  He went on raging in this way for several minutes. She was only a woman! A woman who ought to obey. The palace, the slaves, the furniture, the food, even the air she breathed: all of them belonged to him, Shamir. How could they allow her to be in contact with that cowardly dog who had not defended them in their childhood? If they did so they would forfeit the loyalty of their men and the entire community. They were all aware of the oath he had sworn in Toga about Hernando: the Berbers had told anyone who cared to listen. What authority would they have to impart justice to their men if they agreed to the slightest link with the Nazarene? What power would they have to ask their men to risk their lives in dangerous raids when behind their backs, in Shamir’s palace, a mere woman could disobey them? They would keep their promise if they ever saw him again. They would kill him like a dog.

  Fátima stood up to Shamir proudly, just as she had done on the night when she told Brahim he would never possess her again. She did so without turning to Abdul for help. She did not so much as look at him, anxious not to put her son in a dangerous position, to pit him against his companion, with whom, when all was said and done, he was the owner of everything.

  ‘Remember what I said: don’t do anything stupid,’ growled Shamir before he turned on his heel and left the room.

  After he had gone, Fátima tried to find a hint of understanding and support in her son’s face, but his eyes were cold, and his weather-beaten features were as harsh as those of the other corsair. She watched as he strode out of the room equally determinedly. Only when she was alone did she allow the tears to well up in her eyes.

  64

  Many Moriscos have been imprisoned in Valencia because of certain letters sent by the King of England. These letters were found amongst the papers of the former queen, whom the Moriscos had written to, asking for her to look favourably on a revolt by them and saying they would give the order for her to lay waste to the said city if she sent a fleet from England. Many of these Moriscos have been tortured to find out what happened in this affair, and some will be punished in order to set an example to the rest.

  Luis Cabrera de Córdoba, Relation of Events Occurring in the Spanish Court

  FOLLOWING THE death of Queen Elizabeth, Spain and England had signed a peace treaty at the end of August 1604. Amongst other undertakings, the Spanish King promised to relinquish his efforts to help put a Catholic king on the English throne. Perhaps for this reason, a few months later, as a token of gratitude after the signing of the treaty, James I sent Philip III a series of documents found in his predecessor’s archives. They revealed the Spanish Moriscos’ proposal to enlist the help of the English and French in a rebellion against their Catholic monarch in order to reconquer the kingdoms of Spain for Islam.

  The viceroy of Valencia and the Inquisition set to work as soon as the Council of State made the plot known. Hundreds of Moriscos were arrested and tortured until they confessed to the plan. Many of them were executed in the manner customary in Valencia. The prisoner was asked whether he wanted to die in the Christian or Muslim faith. If his answer was the former, he was hanged in the market place. If he insisted on remaining true to his faith, he was taken outside the walls of the city to the Rambla, and in accordance with the divine punishment laid down in Deuteronomy for idolaters, he was stoned and his body burnt.

  Apart from a few exceptions, the Moriscos chose the quicker death. They chose to die as Christians, but at the moment the rope was pulled tight around their neck, they cried out their allegiance to Allah. This trick became so well known that the townspeople went to executions armed with stones to throw at the hanged man just as he was calling on the Prophet. Afterwards, the Morisco families would collect up the stones and keep them as a memento of the death of their loved ones.

  Three months after his return to Córdoba, Hernando learnt that the attempted revolt in Toga had been suppressed. Throughout those three months, the only thing to relieve his permanent feeling of despair was the letter he had managed to write to Fátima.

  He and Munir had made the journey back from Toga in silence. Hernando’s mule plodded along behind Munir’s, as if it were being pulled along to Jarafuel. His mother had deceived him. Fátima was alive, and had killed Brahim. His son had sworn to kill him if their paths ever crossed again. To kill him! His own son! Wouldn’t he have done so in Toga if he had been able to? Hernando recalled Francisco’s innocent, expressive eyes in the courtyard of their house in Córdoba. And what could have become of little Inés? Hernando’s head was still spinning from all the revelations of the past few hours. Images and questions crowded into his mind. Every short step his mount took seemed to bring a fresh stab of pain.

  Fátima! His wife’s features appeared and disappeared in his memory as if mocking his suffering. What could she have thought of him? Had she been expecting him to come and find her? How long – how many years – had she thought he would come to her aid? His stomach clenched as he imagined her in Brahim’s power, waiting for him to come. His Fátima! He had betrayed her.

  Why did you do it, Mother? He raised his eyes to the heavens a thousand times. Why did you hide the truth from me?

  The journey to Toga had taken them seven days, but on the way back they covered the same distance in four. Munir, who stubbornly refused to say a word, only stopped when strictly necessary, and they travelled at night by the light of the moon. Hernando did nothing more than obey his travelling companion’s instructions: let’s have a rest here; let’s eat something; let’s water the mules; tonight we’ll halt close to this village . . . Why had Munir saved his life?

&nbs
p; In Jarafuel, the holy man made him wait outside his house without asking him in. After a while, he reappeared, leading Hernando’s horse.

  Hernando tried to explain: ‘Apart from the duke, I only saved a young girl’s life. The rest are rumours—’

  ‘I’m not interested,’ Munir cut in sharply.

  Hernando scanned his face: Munir was staring at him harshly, and yet after a few moments Hernando thought he could detect a glint of compassion in his eyes.

  ‘I have saved your life, Hernando, but it is God who will judge you.’

  During the rest of his journey back to Córdoba Hernando avoided any contact with the friars, pedlars, minstrels or travellers who were usually to be met on the main roads. He kept himself to himself, wrapped up in his own thoughts. Guilt weighed on him like a tombstone, and there were moments when he thought he could bear it no longer. As he drew nearer to the city, his troubles gave way to an even greater concern: he had no wish to arrive. What was he going to tell Rafaela? That his marriage to her was a fraud? That his first wife was still alive?

  He delayed his arrival for as long as possible. He was afraid of confronting Rafaela, who was pregnant again. He was equally afraid of having to face up to himself if he were obliged to confess the truth. When he finally crossed the threshold into his home, he could not bring himself to look at her.

  He saw out of the corner of his eye how Rafaela’s welcoming smile vanished as she ran towards him. When she saw the cuts and bruises the Berbers had given him she came to a sudden halt.

  ‘What happened to you?’ she said, reaching out to touch his injured face. ‘Who . . .?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he replied, instinctively brushing her hand away. ‘I fell off my horse.’

  ‘But are you all right?’

  Hernando turned his back on her, leaving her speechless. He went to the stables to unbridle his horse, and then walked across the courtyard to the gallery stairs.

  ‘I’ll eat my meals in the library,’ he told her coldly as he passed by.