The Hand of Fatima Page 22

  Hernando replied by making the sign of the cross openly in front of him. Profess the faith . . . to profess the faith would be the first step towards succumbing to the corsair. How ridiculous! Old Hamid had had to persuade his neighbours in Juviles that Hernando was a genuine Muslim and now . . . now he had to pretend to be a Christian to avoid falling into the clutches of Barrax. Or was he a Christian? What was he? He was not in any frame of mind to pursue the question: for now it was a matter of defending his Christianity. Barrax frowned at his defiance, and loomed over him, but went on speaking calmly.

  ‘You have lost everything, Ibn Hamid: the King’s favour, your beloved and your freedom. I am offering you a new life. Become one of my “sons” and you will flourish in Algiers; I know you will, I can foresee it. You will live well, wanting for nothing, and when your time comes you will be as important a corsair as myself; perhaps more important, yes, probably more important. I will help you. The prince of the corsairs, Khair ad-Din, named his “boy” Hasan Agá captain-general; then Dragut the Indomitable, who was also one of Khair ad-Din’s “boys”, succeeded him as beylerbey, and after him our great Uluch Ali, who in his time had been one of Dragut’s “boys”. I myself . . . Don’t you understand? You have nothing and I’m offering you everything.’

  Hernando made the sign of the cross once more.

  ‘You are my slave, Ibn Hamid. You are regarded as a Christian. Give in, because if you do not you will become a slave in one of my galleys, and will regret your decision. I will wait, but bear in mind that time is passing for you and without your youth . . . I don’t want your body, I have as many as I could possibly desire, boys or women; I want you at my side, ready for anything. Think about it, Ibn Hamid. Untie him from the tree!’ he suddenly ordered his men, looking straight into Hernando’s sunken eyes. ‘Shackle his ankles and set him to work. If he is going to eat, at least let him earn his food. You!’ he added, addressing Ubaid, well aware of the hatred that existed between him and Hernando, ‘you will answer with your life if anything happens to him. I promise you that your death will be much slower and more painful than any you could inflict on him.’ And finally: ‘Take a good look at this white mule,’ he said to Hernando. ‘With her your hopes and dreams in al-Andalus are at an end.’

  Aisha prepared Fátima in the same inn where Brahim and Aben Aboo were staying; they were in a room that one of the Turkish captains had lent them. Brahim accompanied the two women as far as the door.

  ‘Woman,’ he growled to Aisha, while he busily undressed Fátima with his eyes, ‘I want her to be the most beautiful bride ever to enter into marriage in al-Andalus. Make her ready. As for you, Fátima, you have no family, and therefore the King has offered to give you away. You are a widow. You must give authority to a wali or guardian to give you away. Do you consent to him?’

  Fatima remained silent, staring at the floor, fighting against the grief she knew lay in store for her.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing for sure: you will be mine. You can be so as my second wife or as my slave. You must have known what was hidden in the merchant’s cellars, and I’m also certain you knew about the Nazarene’s Christian practices and said nothing, or perhaps even took part in them yourself . . . in front of your son!’ Fátima trembled. ‘Speak. Do you give the King the authority to hand you over in marriage?’ She nodded without a word. ‘Remember what I have told you. If you do not consent to the request for your hand in marriage, or if you object to any of the vows, your son and the Nazarene will die just like the merchant; that is what I have agreed with the corsair commander. If you don’t consent, he will hand me back the Nazarene dog, and I will roast him on a spit myself, side by side with your son.’

  The thought of Humam and Hernando dying in the same agonizing manner as Salah made Fátima retch. Brahim had forced them to witness his execution: the merchant had squealed just like the pigs the Christians slaughtered. Several Moriscos held his fat, naked body down on all fours, while another man thrust a spear into his rectum. The onlookers applauded when Salah’s screams of panic turned into howls of pain: howls that died away as the spear, driven by a couple of soldiers, bored through his body until the tip appeared out of his mouth. By the time he was hung on the spit ready to rotate above the hot coals, surrounded by a gang of excited children, the merchant was already dead. The stench of burnt flesh engulfed the square at Laujar and its surroundings for a full day, clinging to clothes and seeping into the nearby houses.

  Brahim smiled grimly and left the room.

  Fátima refused to allow Aisha to wash her.

  ‘What makes you think he will notice?’ she said hoarsely, when Aisha insisted on performing the ablutions. ‘I don’t want to be clean when I enter into this marriage.’

  Aisha did not argue: the girl was sacrificing herself for Hernando. She lowered her gaze.

  Fátima also asked her not to renew the tattoos she had painted on her feet the night Fátima had given herself to Hernando, and refused to perfume her body with orange-blossom water. Instead, Aisha left the room and found some jasmine oil. Then, with a heavy heart, she adorned the bride with the jewellery Brahim had sent, giving instructions it was to be used only for the wedding and was not part of the dowry. She handed Fátima a necklace, and the girl made as if to tear off the gold amulet hanging around her neck. Aisha stopped her, placing her hand on the precious object.

  ‘Don’t give up hope,’ she told her, at the same time pressing the golden image against her breast.

  For the first time, Fátima burst into tears.

  ‘Hope?’ she stammered. ‘Only death can offer me any hope . . . an everlasting hope.’

  The engagement took place in the same inn, in a small, cold interior garden, in the presence of the King in his role as wali, and of the motley retinue who accompanied him. Dalí, captain-general of the Turks, and Hussein stood as witnesses. Brahim presented himself and, as was the custom, asked for Fátima’s hand from Aben Aboo, who acquiesced. Then an old holy man from Laujar recited the marriage vows. As a widow, Fátima had to respond to these herself, and swore that there was no God but God, and that, swearing on the Koran, the answers she gave were truthful: she wished to be wed in honour of and according to the Sunna of the Prophet.

  ‘If you swear in good faith,’ the holy man concluded, ‘Allah is your witness and He will bestow grace upon you. Likewise, if you do not swear in good faith, may Allah destroy you and not bestow His grace upon you.’

  Before the King recited the thirty-sixth sura of the Koran, Fátima raised her eyes to heaven and repeated quietly, ‘May Allah destroy us.’

  Her tattooed feet were all that could be seen of Fátima as she rode the white mule. Covered from head to foot in a white tunic, she sat side-saddle, led by a black slave. Applauded and encouraged by thousands of Moriscos, she made her way through the village back to the inn. When she arrived, she went straight up to Brahim’s bedroom. There, as Muslim tradition ordained, she was silently covered with a white sheet, under which she was to lie with her eyes closed. While the celebrations continued with music and dancing outside in the streets, Fátima could sense the comings and goings of dozens of people in the room. Only once was the light robe that covered her raised up.

  ‘I understand your desire,’ she heard Aben Aboo sigh as he raised the sheet more than was necessary to see her face. ‘Enjoy her for me, my friend, and may Allah bless you with many children.’

  Once the visits had come to an end, Fátima got out of bed, sat on the cushions on the floor and tried to put the forthcoming encounter with Brahim out of her mind. She ignored the shameless, non-stop advice of the gloating women who stayed with her; she refused any food they offered and, as she waited, hearing the music drifting up from the streets, she tried to call up a memory she could seek refuge in . . . but they were singing for her! They were celebrating her marriage to Brahim! The sight of Aisha, seated motionless opposite her next to a brazier, her eyes filled with tears at the thought of her newly enslaved son, afforded
her no comfort. She clung to the only consolation she had: prayer. She prayed in silence, like someone condemned to death; she recited every prayer she knew, letting her fears mingle with her prayers. It was a desperate act of faith but her strength grew with each word and invocation.

  After midnight, a commotion among the women announced Brahim’s arrival in the bedroom. One of them tidied her hair and settled the tunic on her shoulders. Fátima refused to look anywhere near the door through which the women were hurriedly leaving, but gazed instead at the brazier. ‘In death, hope is everlasting,’ she murmured, closing her eyes, but it was not death that awaited her. What hope could there possibly be? The sound of the key in the lock silenced the songs and music. All Fátima could hear was Brahim’s excited breathing. She shuddered.

  ‘Reveal yourself to your husband,’ the muleteer ordered.

  When Fátima tried to stand up, her legs almost gave way beneath her. She finally managed to get up from the bed, and turned towards Brahim.

  ‘Undress,’ he gasped, moving towards her.

  Fátima straightened up, trembling, scarcely able to breathe. She could smell the muleteer’s putrid breath. Brahim gestured with his greasy, bearded chin towards her tunic. Fátima’s fingers struggled clumsily with the knots until it slipped from her shoulders and she stood naked before him. He took pleasure in letting his lascivious eyes roam all over her body: she was not yet fourteen years old. He reached out a calloused hand towards her full breasts; Fátima sobbed and half closed her eyes. Then she became aware that he was stroking her breasts, scraping the delicate skin where Humam’s head was meant to rest, before grasping one of her nipples. Silently, her eyes tightly shut, she commended herself to God and to the Prophet, to all the angels. Droplets of milk began to flow from her nipple and trickle down Brahim’s fingers. Still squeezing her nipple, Brahim thrust the fingers of his other hand into her vulva, forcing them into her vagina before flinging her on to the cushions and taking her violently.

  The music and dancing, the shouts and shrieks from the streets of Laujar rang in Fátima’s ears all through an endless night during which Brahim took his pleasure with her time and time again. Fátima bore it all silently. Fátima obeyed silently. Fátima submitted silently. She only wept, for the second and last time that day, when Brahim sucked her breasts.

  20

  TOWARDS THE end of October Aben Aboo, with ten thousand men under his command, attacked Órgiva, the most significant town under Christian control anywhere in the Alpujarra. Following some initial attacks which the soldiers repelled from their fortress, the Morisco King set about wearing them down through hunger and thirst.

  Laying siege meant little action, so that boredom spread throughout the Morisco camp. His feet shackled, Hernando followed behind the army with the rest of the non-combatants. He made his way to Órgiva mounted on La Vieja. He had to sit side-saddle like a woman, suffering torments as the bones of the starving mule thrust into him – exactly as Ubaid had intended. Throughout the journey he was a constant object of scorn for the women and youngsters accompanying the army. Only Yusuf, who had followed the mules as though he were part of the agreement between Brahim and the corsair captain, showed him any kindness. Whenever Ubaid was not on the lookout, Yusuf drove away the youngsters who came up to Hernando to mock him. In spite of his discomfort and shame, Hernando tried unsuccessfully to catch sight of Fátima or his mother among the people on the road. He did not come across them until a few days after Aben Aboo’s troops had taken up position around the town.

  ‘Humiliate him,’ Barrax instructed his two ‘sons’. ‘Don’t mistreat him unless it is absolutely necessary. Humiliate him in front of captains, janissaries and soldiers, but above all in front of that Morisco woman. Strip away all his pride: he’s blinded by it. Make him forget he is a man.’

  In the army camp, the two boys dressed Hernando in a tunic of fine green silk and baggy trousers adorned with jewels, clothes that belonged to the elder of the two boys. Hernando tried to resist, but the intervention of several Berbers standing idly by rendered his efforts useless. When he tried to tear off the clothes, they tied his hands in front of him. Hands tied, ankles in chains, and clad in green silk, the boys paraded him through the camp, among the tents and huts, past soldiers and women cooking.

  They had taken no more than a couple of paces before Hernando threw himself to the ground. The older boy hit him on the back of the head several times with a stick, but this only encouraged Hernando to offer him his face.

  ‘Hit me!’ he challenged the boy.

  Soldiers, women and children were looking on. The boy raised his stick but just as he was about to strike another blow, his younger companion stopped him.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, winking at him.

  He was prettily dressed in a scarlet linen djellaba. He knelt beside Hernando and licked his cheek. Hernando went red with fury, and there was a deathly silence until some of the onlookers began to clap and yell, while others booed. Many women showed their disgust with gestures and insults while the children simply looked on wide-eyed. The older boy began to laugh, his stick now by his side, while his companion slid his tongue from Hernando’s cheek to his neck, at the same time feeling with his right hand between Hernando’s legs. Hernando twisted away at his touch although, tied up as he was, it was almost impossible for him to evade the groping. He tried to bite the boy but could not do that either. All he heard were shouts and laughter. The older boy came closer to him as well, a smile on his face.

  ‘Enough!’ shouted Hernando. ‘You win.’

  The two boys hauled him to his feet and continued on their way.

  Hernando shuffled through the camp as fast as the chains round his ankles would allow. It was not long before they bumped into Aisha and Fátima, their faces hidden beneath veils. Hernando recognized them without having to look at Humam and Musa, who were with them. His stepbrother ran to join the gaggle of youngsters escorting the procession. This was no chance encounter: the boys had gone to Brahim’s tent under orders from Barrax.

  Ashamed and humiliated, Hernando gazed down at the irons on his ankles. Fátima looked away, while Aisha burst into tears.

  ‘Take a good look!’ Standing at the entrance to his tent, Brahim roared so loudly his words were plainly audible above the laughter, murmuring and chatter of the crowd. Hernando raised his head instinctively just as Fátima and his mother obeyed their husband. Their eyes met, although none of them betrayed any emotion. ‘This is what all Nazarenes deserve,’ laughed Brahim.

  ‘He will try to escape,’ Barrax warned the captain of his guard and the boys that same evening, after Hernando had been displayed to the entire army as yet another of the corsair’s lovers. ‘Perhaps this very night, perhaps tomorrow or within a day or two, but he will certainly try. Don’t let him out of your sight, but don’t stop him. Let me know.’

  Hernando made his attempt after three days. After parading him through the camp once more, the boys took him to the stream where the women washed clothes and made him clean Barrax’s clothes. That same night, with no moon in the sky and without caring whether the guards were keeping watch or not, Hernando dragged himself under the mules, hands and feet bound, until he came to a small ravine. He threw himself down the slope without a second thought. He crashed into stones, bushes and branches, but felt no pain. He felt nothing. On elbows and knees, he followed the course of the stream in the dark. He crawled ever more determinedly as the sounds from the camp fell further and further behind. He began to laugh nervously. He was going to make it! Suddenly he bumped into a pair of legs. The corsair commander was standing upright in the middle of the stream.

  ‘I warned you my boat was called the Flying Horse,’ Barrax said to him calmly. Hernando’s head fell like a dead weight on the sand. ‘Few Spanish ships have escaped my clutches once I have set my sights on them. You will not succeed either, my boy. Never!’

  Aben Aboo defeated the Duke of Sesa’s army, which had rushed to the defence of Órgiva.
This victory gave the Moriscos control of the Alpujarra, from the mountains to the Mediterranean, as well as strategic positions close to the capital of the kingdom of Granada itself, including Güéjar and many other more remote locations, among them Galera, from where the Christians feared the rebellion might spread all the way to the kingdom of Valencia.

  Faced with this danger, King Philip II gave the order to expel all the Moriscos in the Albaicín from the kingdom of Granada, and for the first time since the uprising, he declared all-out war. He gave a free hand to all those who fought under his flag or standard, authorizing them to keep any goods, money, jewellery, cattle or slaves they captured from the enemy. Also, as a way of recruiting more men, he exempted the soldiers from paying the royal share on any of their booty.

  In December, months after he had been appointed captain-general, Don John of Austria obtained permission from his stepbrother King Philip II to join the battle himself. The Prince formed two powerful armies to carry out a pincer movement against the Moriscos: one under his command, which would approach from the east by way of the river Almanzora, and the other led by the Duke of Sesa, which would attack from the west through the Alpujarra. The Marquis of los Vélez fought on separately with his scant forces.

  In the meantime, weapons and reinforcements for the rebels were continually arriving from Barbary.

  The Christians recaptured Güéjar. Don John, with the Neapolitan infantry and almost five hundred horsemen under his command, set out to lay siege to the hilltop fortress of Galera. The first thing he saw were the heads of twenty soldiers and a captain of the Marquis of los Vélez’s army skewered on lances on top of the castle keep. Despite all the veteran soldiers’ experience and the use of artillery brought especially from Italy, the Prince’s army lost so many dead and wounded that in the wake of the Christians’ hard-won victory, the Moriscos of Galera paid with their lives. They were executed en masse in the presence of Don John of Austria himself. He then ordered the destruction of the town, which was burnt, razed to the ground, and then sown with salt.