The Hand of Fatima Page 15

  ‘Is something wrong, Ibn Hamid?’

  It was the King, who had come over to him, his face showing his concern. Wiping the bile from the corner of his mouth, Hernando took a deep breath before he spoke. Why not tell him everything?

  ‘Your Majesty has said he was in my debt . . .’

  ‘So I am.’

  ‘Then I need to ask a favour of you,’ Hernando added disconsolately.

  Even before Hernando had finished his story, Aben Humeya smiled at him. What did he not know about love affairs? Demonstrating yet again his changeable nature, he grasped the lad by the arm and, without thinking twice, led him back to the group of men.

  ‘Brahim!’ he shouted. The muleteer turned round. His face fell when he saw the King and his stepson together. ‘I have decided not to allow you to marry that girl. Someone to whom our people are greatly indebted wants her for himself: your son. I offer her to him.’

  The muleteer clenched his fists, containing the anger that made him tense every muscle in his body. This was the King! The other Moriscos fell silent, staring directly at Hernando.

  ‘And now,’ the King added, ‘let us all enjoy my cousin Ibn Abbu’s hospitality. Eat and drink!’

  Hernando stumbled off in Aben Humeya’s wake. The King came to a halt a couple of yards further on in order to speak to one of the outlaw leaders. Hernando was breathing so heavily he could hardly hear what they were saying. He did, however, see out of the corner of his eye that Brahim had left Aben Aboo’s house with a furious sweep of his hand.

  He did not get a glimpse of Fátima. During the feast, the women stayed hidden inside the house. Hernando made sure he drank only clear fresh water, after first carefully checking it contained no hashish paste. His mind was racing. People were already starting to leave, and as the crush diminished, he realized he would soon have to explain himself to her. Aben Humeya had told Brahim that Hernando was claiming her for himself . . . and he had agreed! Did that mean he must marry her? All he had wanted was for her not to marry Brahim! As the night wore on, many of the wedding guests stared at him and whispered to their neighbours; some even pointed at him. Everyone knew already! How could he explain to Fátima? And what about Brahim? How would his stepfather react to losing Fátima to him? The King was on his side, but even so . . .

  There were only about ten guests left at Aben Aboo’s house, among them Aben Humeya, El Zaguer and El Dalay, the bailiff of Mecina, when a Morisco soldier came running in.

  ‘The Christians have surrounded us!’ he announced to the King. ‘One detachment has gone to Válor, another has already reached Mecina,’ he explained when Aben Humeya pressed him. ‘They are heading straight here. I heard their captains give the order.’

  Aben Humeya did not need to tell any of his followers what to do. All of them who did not live in Mecina or had not been pardoned by the marquis leapt over the garden walls and disappeared into the night, heading for the hills.

  Hernando suddenly found himself alone in the garden with Aben Aboo.

  ‘Run away!’ the Morisco urged him, pointing to the wall.

  The women still inside the house came rushing out. Their faces were uncovered because of the emergency.

  ‘Fátima!’ shouted Hernando.

  The girl came to a halt. By the light of a torch, Hernando saw her huge black eyes gleam. At that moment, a group of Christians broke into the garden and collided with the fleeing women. In the precious few seconds of chaos, Hernando ran to Fátima, grabbed her by the arm, and ran with her inside the house. They heard the soldiers shouting in the garden: ‘Where is Fernando de Válor and Córdoba, the falsely named King of Granada?’

  Those were the last words Hernando heard as he scrambled with Fátima out of a window that gave on to the street.

  These were not soldiers. The Marquis of Mondéjar’s army had disbanded after it had seized the plunder from a punitive expedition to the Guájaras. Most of the men who left the Christian camp that night to trap Aben Humeya were adventurers fighting for the rich pickings to be had; men with little experience of war and even fewer scruples, whose only objective was to get their hands on as much loot as possible.

  Válor was laid waste. When the old men of the village came out to receive the Christians and offer them food, they were killed on the spot. The Christians surged on into the village. The same fate awaited Mecina. The mob, utterly out of control, killed the men, sacked the houses, and took the women and children captive to sell as slaves.

  A group of them burst into Aben Aboo’s garden in a vain attempt to find Aben Humeya.

  ‘Where is Fernando de Válor?’ one of them asked repeatedly, smashing the butt of his harquebus into Aben Aboo’s face. Despite the repeated blows, the Morisco refused to say a word.

  ‘You will talk, you accursed heretic!’ muttered a soldier with a bushy beard and blackened teeth. ‘Strip him and tie his hands behind his back!’

  The soldiers tore off Aben Aboo’s clothes and tied him up. Their leader pushed him over to the mulberry tree with his harquebus. He took a slender rope and threw it over a branch. One end dangled above Aben Aboo’s head. The man took the rope and made as if to tie it round his neck.

  Aben Aboo spat in his face. The corporal ignored this and swung the rope in front of the other man’s face.

  ‘You’ll wish you had been hanged,’ he told him. He knelt down and tied the end of the rope round the Morisco’s scrotum, above the testicles. As the soldier tightened the knot, Aben Aboo stifled a cry of pain. ‘You’ll end up wishing I had tied it round your filthy gizzard,’ he growled, grasping the other end of the rope.

  He pulled as hard as he could. As the rope tightened, Aben Aboo tried to stand on tiptoe, but the pain in his scrotum was almost unbearable. When he saw Aben Aboo could not reach any higher without falling over, the corporal handed the rope to one of the soldiers. He tied it round the trunk of the mulberry.

  ‘You will talk, you Muslim dog. You’ll talk until you renounce your sect and your Prophet,’ the corporal spat, thrusting his face at him. ‘You’ll curse your Allah, your god’s lapdog, the worst excrement in the world, you worthless—’

  Aben Aboo lashed out with his right foot and caught the man squarely in the groin. He doubled up in pain, but in lashing out Aben Aboo lost his balance and toppled over.

  His scrotum was ripped off. His testicles flew through the air, spattering everyone under the mulberry tree with blood. Aben Aboo lay writhing on the ground.

  ‘You can bleed to death like the pig you are,’ the corporal muttered, still recovering.

  ‘May Allah grant that Ibn Umayya live even if I die,’ Aben Aboo managed to gasp.

  After leaving the wedding feast, Brahim had wandered through Mecina in search of hashish and a woman who would help him forget the King’s rebuff. He found both, but when he saw the Christian soldiers starting to sack the village, he thought he might be able to turn the chaos to his advantage and gain revenge on Hernando. Avoiding all the lit torches, he ran back to Aben Aboo’s house.

  He arrived just as the soldiers were leaving, carrying their booty. Brahim sneaked past them and found the King’s cousin bleeding to death in the garden.

  ‘Let me die,’ Aben Aboo begged.

  Brahim did not listen to him. Instead, he helped the wounded man into the house, settled him as best he could on a bed, then left in search of help.

  15

  Our enemy is too cruel for us to surrender to them, as they are so enraged. Let us hasten therefore and go to meet an honourable death with manly pride, defending our women and children, and doing what we must to save the lives and honour that nature obliges us to defend.

  Luis de Mármol, History of the Rebellion and Punishment of the Moriscos in the Kingdom of Granada

  HERNANDO AND Fátima fled from Mecina. They ran across the countryside through the night, heading for the mountains. They stumbled and fell many times, but only when the noise from the looting became a distant murmur did they stop to catch their breath.
Hernando tried to say something to Fátima, but she prevented him.

  ‘“In death, hope is everlasting,”’ she said. ‘Do you remember saying that?’

  High above the ravine, with its towering rocks and thick undergrowth, the moon seemed to be shining directly on their faces.

  ‘I—’ Hernando started trying to excuse himself.

  ‘Your stepfather has asked the King for my hand,’ the girl cut in, ‘and—’

  ‘The King has changed his mind. ‘

  He would have liked to see the moon’s reflection shimmer on Fátima’s features, to see her white teeth flash in its amber light, or the gleam of her dark eyes. All he met with, though, was a stony face and a painful silence.

  ‘He gave you in marriage to me instead,’ he admitted.

  For a few moments they were both silent.

  ‘I am yours then.’ Fátima betrayed no emotion as she spoke these words; they cut through the icy air between them. ‘You have saved my life several times. Tonight you did so again. You can enjoy me as the Prophet decrees, but—’

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘You can have me, but you will never win my heart.’

  ‘No!’

  Turning on his heel, Hernando walked a few steps away. He would have given anything not to hear what she had just said. What could he say to excuse the way he had behaved that night in the camp? Nothing.

  ‘Try to follow my footsteps,’ he said eventually, his voice strained. Disconsolately, he renewed the climb up the mountain, keeping his face hidden. ‘Otherwise you might fall over the edge.’

  In the month that Hernando was away in Adra, Brahim had found shelter in one of the many caves in the mountainside above Válor and Mecina. Aben Humeya and his most faithful followers had done the same.

  After Hernando and Fátima had climbed the slopes up to the snow-covered February peaks, it was she who guided them to this cave. Hernando saw the team of mules silhouetted in the moonlight by the cave entrance. He made to go up to them, but Fátima hung back, hesitating to approach.

  ‘Brahim?’ He heard the sound of someone’s voice before he saw who it was in the cave mouth: Aisha.

  ‘No, this is Fátima,’ the girl replied. ‘I’m here with Ibn Hamid. He . . . What about Brahim? Is he back?’

  ‘No. He hasn’t arrived yet.’

  Hearing this, Fátima rushed inside the cave.

  ‘Wait! I’ll—’ said Hernando, trying to stop her.

  She did not even hesitate.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ he said. ‘I had to leave. It was the King’s orders. Didn’t Brahim tell you?’

  Almost in spite of herself, his mother hugged him tight. Then, wiping away her tears and shaking her head, she stepped away from him and followed the girl back into the dark cave. Hernando was left outside on his own: he stood there, arms hanging limply by his sides. He looked at the mule team, and went over to them. He felt his way along until he reached La Vieja, who brayed gently and turned her head towards him. He stroked her with all the affection he wished he could have shown his mother.

  Brahim did not return for another fortnight. He spent all that time at Aben Aboo’s side, waiting for him to recover. During this time, Hernando never once entered the cave. He slept out in the open, and neither Aisha nor Fátima said a word to him, apart from on the morning after his arrival, when his mother came out to give him breakfast alongside the mules.

  ‘You ran away with no explanation.’

  Hernando tried to stammer an excuse, but Aisha stopped him with a brusque gesture. ‘You ran away, and that gave full rein to your father’s appetites, which you are well aware of. You left Fátima to him. Like a coward, you handed her over to your stepfather . . . and me as well.’

  ‘I did not run away! The King entrusted me with a mission. Brahim knew all about it, and promised he would tell you!’ Hernando managed to say. ‘And I’ve made amends for what I did to Fátima. The King has changed his mind: she will not have to marry Brahim.’

  Aisha shook her head. Her mouth was drawn in a tight line. Then her chin began to tremble, and she turned aside to hide the tears welling in her eyes.

  Taken aback by his mother’s reaction, Hernando stopped speaking.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ she wailed. ‘You have no idea what the consequences of the King’s change of heart will be.’

  But Aisha did not cry when Brahim hit her as hard as he could. He struck her outside the cave as soon as he returned. Fátima, the children, and several Moriscos who were sharing out their scant provisions nearby were all witnesses. When Hernando saw his mother collapse to the ground, he drew his scimitar.

  ‘He is my husband!’ Aisha screamed as she lay prone.

  For a few long moments Brahim and his stepson stared at each other defiantly. In the end, the lad lowered his gaze; the scene had taken him back to his childhood and, despite himself, he felt powerless faced with the utter hatred glinting in his stepfather’s eyes. He knew Brahim was capable of unleashing all that hate on his innocent mother. Seeing Hernando hesitate, the muleteer knocked him down with a single blow, then threw himself on the boy and went on furiously punching him. Hernando did not fight back: better that than to see his mother beaten.

  ‘Stay away from Fátima!’ Brahim muttered, sweating from the punishment he had meted out. ‘Or your mother will be the one to feel the weight of my fists. Is that clear? The King may hold you in high regard, you Nazarene dog, but nobody would dare interfere in the way a Morisco treats his wife. I don’t want to see you in my house.’

  In spite of his other shortcomings, Aben Humeya had remained constant in his affection for the young muleteer. Following the Christian attack on Mecina, the King had been concerned about what had happened to Hernando. He had sent for him, and been happy to learn he had escaped safe and sound. He had smiled at him and asked after Fátima: Hernando had muttered an incomprehensible reply that Aben Humeya had taken to be shyness. He then ordered him to look after the animals in the camp. ‘We need your skill with horses,’ the King had said. ‘I told you the men would be back, didn’t I?’

  It was true. Over the past fortnight Hernando had seen how the number of horses in the camp had grown. The Moriscos had returned to the mountains to accompany their King, and were swearing to be faithful to him until death.

  ‘The Marquis of Mondéjar has been stripped of his command as captain-general of the kingdom. They have called him back to court,’ El Gironcillo explained to Hernando one day as he was shoeing his dappled stallion, which still bore not only his immense weight but that of his harquebus, the longest and heaviest in all the Alpujarra. With the horse’s hoof on his thigh, Hernando raised his head towards him. ‘The lawyers and clerks in the chancery have won. They are the ones who stole our lands, and now they have been quick to complain to the King about the way the marquis was pardoning our people. They want to wipe us out!’

  Hernando waved to El Gironcillo to pass him the horseshoe as quickly as possible. ‘Who is in command of the Christian troops now?’ the lad asked, before he hammered on the nail fixing the shoe to the hoof.

  El Gironcillo was silent for a while, admiring Hernando’s prowess. ‘Prince John of Austria,’ he said when the shoe was in place. ‘He’s the Emperor’s bastard son, the half-brother of King Philip II. He’s a haughty, arrogant youth. It’s said the Spanish King has ordered the regular troops and the Naples galleys to return to Spain to serve under the Prince, the Duke of Sesa and the Knight Commander of Castile. They are taking this seriously.’

  Hernando let go of the dappled stallion and straightened up in front of the Morisco warrior. Despite the winter cold, he was pouring with sweat.

  ‘If things are so serious, why are so many men coming back to the mountains? Wouldn’t it be better for them to surrender?’

  It was a saddler who had recently arrived in the camp, and whom Aben Humeya had put in charge of looking after the bits, tackle and saddles, who provided the answer. He came towards them, keen to h
ear what El Gironcillo had to say.

  ‘We already have done,’ he called out, still some way from them. They both turned to look at him. ‘Some of us did surrender, and where did it get us? They stole from us. They killed the men and made our women and children their slaves. None of the Christians respected the safe conducts the Marquis of Mondéjar promised. Better to die fighting for our cause than to be betrayed and killed by those wretches.’

  ‘The Prince and the fresh troops will take some time to reach Granada,’ said El Gironcillo. ‘In the meantime, there is no one in command. Mondéjar has been ousted; most of the Marquis of los Vélez’s men have deserted, and he does not yet know what his new role will be. There are thousands of wild, leaderless men roaming the Alpujarra, looting, killing and taking prisoner people who only want peace. They want to make money and return home before John of Austria takes charge.’

  What had begun four months earlier as a rebellion in defence of Muslim customs, justice and their traditional way of life had now turned into a fresh revolt, a fight for life and freedom. Surrender and submission led only to death and slavery. So from all over the Alpujarra, the Moriscos, with their families and their few possessions, came flooding to the Sierra Nevada to be with their King.

  Despite Aisha’s constant exhortations to do so, Fátima refused to leave her. Brahim submitted Aisha to daily humiliation, making sure the girl was present on each occasion, as though constantly to remind her she was the one responsible. Seven-year-old Aquil imitated his father, seeking his approval with violent, disdainful behaviour towards his mother. As a consequence, the two women sought solace in each other: Fátima tried to comfort Aisha silently, feeling she was the one to blame. Aisha welcomed her as if she were one of her daughters lost at Juviles, and tried to show by her affection that she did not consider her responsible for her troubles. Neither of them spoke of their grief. Every rough gesture or insult from Brahim brought the two women closer together.