The Hand of Fatima Read online

  He had almost made up his mind when two women and a number of children passed by him, hurrying on their way to Córdoba with a basket of vegetables, but neither of them displayed a miserable bracelet, not even an iron one, on either their wrists or their ankles. What was he going to do with a basket of vegetables?

  Darkness descended, and the road, despite being right in front of him, disappeared from sight. No other merchant dared take that route as the shadows lengthened, and the road became silent, leaving him to regret his cowardice still more.

  More than half of the two-month term the elders had granted him to prove he could provide for Fátima had passed, and Brahim had not acquired a single coin beyond what they paid him in the fields. In addition, part of his daily wages since then had to be used to pay off the loan for Shamir’s baptism. It was impossible to make money working, but equally impossible to steal it.

  The Nazarene would keep Fátima. Not even that possibility, which tormented his conscience without respite, infused him with the courage to risk his life against a handful of Christians, however lightly armed they were.

  Brahim knew about Hernando. Aisha had seen it as her duty to tell him about his son, and seeing that her husband did not react violently but bottled it up inside himself, panic overcame her as she finally grasped the magnitude of what was happening: Brahim would lose Fátima; Brahim would be insulted and humiliated in front of the community . . . Him! The muleteer from Juviles, Aben Aboo’s deputy! On the other hand, that stepson of his, whom he had taken in exchange for a mule and whom he had always despised, was flourishing. He had a well-paid job and, most important of all, would snatch his precious Fátima from him.

  Two horsemen racing along the road at full gallop startled him.

  ‘Noblemen!’ spat Brahim.

  ‘Ask the Sierra Morena bandits for money,’ the dagger man advised him the next day, after Brahim handed it back and admitted his incompetence. ‘They always need people in the cities or in the fields, brothers who can supply them with information about when convoys are about to set off and about the comings and goings of people or what the Holy Brotherhood is up to. They need spies and collaborators. I got the dagger from them.’

  ‘How can I find the bandits?’ Brahim asked. ‘The Sierra Morena is vast.’

  ‘It’ll be a case of them coming across you if you venture into the Sierra Morena,’ the man replied, ‘but be careful the Holy Brotherhood don’t get to you first.’

  The Holy Brotherhood was a municipal militia made up of two captains and platoons of soldiers, usually a dozen, who kept watch for crimes committed outside the town centres: in the countryside, in the mountains and in villages with fewer than fifty inhabitants that were beyond the reach of all municipal administration. Their justice was usually summary and cruel, and at that time they were hunting for Morisco brigands who kept terrorizing good Christians, ruffians like El Sobahet, a ruthless Valencian outlaw who led one of the bands that held sway in the Sierra Morena, to the north of Córdoba. These were mostly made up of desperate slaves, fugitives from some lord’s estate, where vigilance was more lax than in the city, who, owing to the brand on their faces, could not hide in the cities and so opted to do so in the mountains.

  The bandits were his only hope, thought Brahim.

  At dawn the next day, after passing the church and the cemetery of Santa Marina and leaving behind on their left the Malmuerta tower, which served as a prison for noblemen, Brahim, Aisha and little Shamir left Córdoba through the Colodro gate, heading north towards the Sierra Morena.

  He had instructed Aisha to get ready to leave with him and the child. He told her she should bring food and warm clothing. So emphatic was his tone that the woman did not dare ask questions. They went through the Colodro gate in the midst of a swarm of people off to work in the fields or at the slaughterhouse, and then headed in the direction of Adamuz, above Montoro, on the Camino de Las Ventas, the route that linked Córdoba with Toledo across the Sierra Morena. Not far from Montoro they came across four Christians with their throats slit and their tongues cut out; the outlaws must be patrolling the area.

  There were several inns on the Camino de Las Ventas for travellers making the journey, so Brahim was careful to take paths away from the main route, even going across country, but their first encounter with the Holy Brotherhood came before they reached Alcolea. Tied to a post sunk in the ground was the decomposing, arrow-pierced body of a man, food for the scavengers and a warning to the local inhabitants: this was the death sentence the Brotherhood imposed on delinquents who dared commit a crime outside the cities. Brahim remembered the precautions he had been advised to take, and forced Aisha to abandon the path they were on and head straight into the sierra, even though it was off the beaten track and they were using it to try to get round the foothills of the Sierra Morena. Among cork oak trees and ravines, his muleteer’s instincts enabled him to get his bearings easily and find those little, unknown tracks that only goatherds or people who knew the mountain inside out used.

  He and Aisha, who was walking silently behind him with the child on her back, took all day to cover the distance separating Córdoba from Adamuz, a small village owned by the lord of Carpio; they camped on the outskirts, among the trees, hidden from travellers and from the Brotherhood.

  ‘Why are we fleeing from Córdoba?’ Aisha dared to ask her husband as she handed him a piece of stale bread. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘We are not fleeing,’ her husband replied brusquely.

  The conversation finished there, and Aisha turned her attention to the child. They spent the night in the open air without lighting a fire and fighting off sleep, petrified by the howling of wolves, the grunts of the wild boars, or any sound that might indicate the presence of a bear. Aisha shielded Shamir with her body. Brahim, however, seemed happy; he looked at the moon and let his gaze drift among the shadows, greatly enjoying what had been his way of life before the deportation.

  At dawn, in fact, it was the bandits who came upon them. The brigands lay in wait along the Camino de Las Ventas, on the lookout for any traveller coming from Madrid, Ciudad Real or Toledo who had not been prudent enough to travel in company or with protection. They had already noticed them the day before, keeping watch as they always did for any movement that might indicate the arrival of the troops from the Brotherhood, but they had not taken much notice of them: a man and a woman with a child, who were travelling on foot and without baggage, staying off the main roads, were of little interest to them. Despite this, it suited them to know what the three of them were doing in the mountains.

  ‘Who are you and what are you after?’

  Brahim and Aisha, who were sitting eating breakfast, had not even heard them approach. Suddenly, two fugitive slaves, their faces branded by red-hot irons and armed with swords and daggers, stood in front of them. Aisha clasped the child to her breast; Brahim made a move to get up but one of the slaves gestured him not to.

  ‘My name is Brahim of Juviles, muleteer of the Alpujarra.’ The bandit nodded that he knew the place. ‘My son and my wife,’ he added. ‘I want to see El Sobahet.’

  Aisha turned to look at her husband. What was Brahim after? An immense foreboding overcame her, tightening her stomach. Shamir responded to his mother’s distress and burst out crying.

  ‘What do you want to see El Sobahet for?’ asked the second bandit.

  ‘That’s my business.’

  Immediately, the two escaped slaves reached for their swords.

  ‘In the mountains, everything is our business,’ one of them replied. ‘It doesn’t look as though you’re in a position to make demands.’

  ‘I want to offer him my services,’ Brahim admitted.

  ‘Burdened with a woman and child?’ laughed one of the slaves.

  Shamir wailed.

  ‘Shut him up, woman!’ Brahim ordered his wife.

  ‘Come with us,’ the slaves conceded, after exchanging glances and shrugging their shoulders.

  Th
ey made their way right into the heart of the mountains. Aisha stumbled behind the men, trying to soothe Shamir. Brahim had said he wanted to offer himself to the bandit. It was obvious that Brahim was looking for money to claim back Fátima, but why was he bringing them along? Why did he need little Shamir? She trembled. Her legs gave way and she fell on her knees to the ground with the child clutched to her breast, but she got up and forced herself to keep going. None of the men turned towards her . . . and Shamir would not stop crying.

  They came to a small clearing that had been used as a camp by the bandits. There were no tents or shacks; only blankets scattered on the ground and the embers of a bonfire in the centre of the clearing. Leaning against a tree, El Sobahet, tall with bushy eyebrows and an unkempt black beard, was listening to the two slaves who had accompanied Brahim and Aisha. He scrutinized Brahim from where he was, and then ordered him to step forward.

  Nearly half a dozen bandits, all branded and in rags, were breaking camp: some of them kept an eye on the new arrivals; others looked at Aisha with undisguised desire.

  ‘Say whatever you have to say quickly,’ the outlaw chief warned Brahim before the latter had even reached him. ‘As soon as the men we’re missing return, we’re off. What makes you think I might be interested in your services?’

  ‘Because I need money,’ Brahim answered honestly.

  El Sobahet grinned cynically. ‘All Moriscos need money.’

  ‘But how many of them escape from Córdoba, go deep into the Sierra Morena and reach you?’

  The bandit weighed Brahim’s words. Aisha tried to listen to the conversation from a few paces off. By now the child had settled.

  ‘The Christians would pay good money to capture me and my men. Who’s going to guarantee me that you’re not a spy?’

  ‘There you have my wife and my boy child,’ argued Brahim pointing towards Aisha. ‘I place their lives in your hands.’

  ‘What could you do for us?’ El Sobahet asked, satisfied by the answer.

  ‘I’m a muleteer by trade. I took part in the uprising and was deputy to Ibn Abbu in the Alpujarra. I know mule trains; I only have to see them, to glance at their tack and trappings to work out what they are carrying and what their shortcomings are. I can travel with a pack of mules through any place, however dangerous it might be, by day or night.’

  ‘We already have a muleteer with us: my second-in-command, my confidant,’ El Sobahet interrupted him. Brahim turned to look at the slaves. ‘No. It’s none of them. We’re waiting for him. And we’ve already thought about using mules to help us but we move quickly; they would only slow us up.’

  ‘With good animals I can move as fast as any of your outlaws and through places no man would ever reach. You should have them, they would swell your profits.’

  ‘No.’ The bandit’s no was accompanied by a wave of the hand. ‘I’m not interested . . .’ he began to say as if to put an end to the conversation.

  ‘Just let me show you!’ Brahim persisted. ‘What risk would you be taking?’

  ‘Putting our loot in your hands, muleteer. That’s the risk we’d be taking. What would happen if you fell behind with your laden mules? We’d have to wait for you and risk our lives . . . or trust you.’

  ‘I won’t let you down.’

  ‘I’ve heard that promise too many times,’ El Sobahet said with a frown.

  ‘I could act as a spy?’

  ‘I already have spies in Córdoba and in the towns around it. I know about every convoy that moves on the Ventas road. If you want to join my band, I’ll test you, as I do with everybody. It’s the best I can offer you.’ At that moment, another group of bandits appeared through the trees. ‘Let’s go!’ shouted El Sobahet. ‘I’m thinking about what you said, muleteer, and you can come if you want. But only you, without your wife or child.’

  ‘Bitch! What’s that whore doing here?’ The roar rang out in the midst of the bustle of men getting ready to leave. El Sobahet gave a start. Brahim turned to where Aisha was.

  Ubaid! Aisha stood paralysed in front of the muleteer from Narila who had just arrived back at the camp. In the sudden silence that followed his insults, Ubaid turned to look at Brahim, as if after having come across his wife, he sensed his presence. The two muleteers stared at each other.

  ‘All I need is the Nazarene to make my best dreams come true,’ smiled the one-handed muleteer. Brahim trembled and turned towards the bandit chief for help. ‘This is the man I’ve told you about so often.’ El Sobahet’s expression hardened. ‘It was he who cut off my hand.’

  ‘He’s yours, my friend. Him and his family,’ muttered El Sobahet, pointing to Aisha and the child, ‘but be quick about it. We have to get on the road.’

  ‘What a shame the Nazarene is missing! Cut off his hand,’ Ubaid ordered. ‘Cut it off! His hand and his son’s. So that generations to come will always know why they call Ubaid of Narila the One-handed.’

  Before Ubaid finished speaking, two men seized Brahim. Aisha screamed and shielded Shamir just as other bandits tried to snatch him away. The child started wailing again and while Aisha defended her child, lying on top of him on the ground, the men who were struggling with Brahim forced him to his knees. Brahim was shouting, hurling insults and trying to defend himself. The two men stretched out his arm and held it tight before a third bandit sliced the wrist with a scimitar. Brahim, staring wide-eyed at the horrific sight of his chopped-off hand, was immediately dragged to the embers of the fire, where they held the stump to cauterize the wound. Brahim’s screams, Aisha’s groans and the baby’s weeping all mingled together in a single lament when the bandits managed to wrestle the child from his mother’s arms.

  Aisha leapt after them until she fell at Ubaid’s legs.

  ‘I am the Nazarene’s mother!’ she shouted on her knees, grabbing the bandit’s tunic in both hands. ‘The child will die. What will hurt Hernando more? Kill me! I give my life for his, but spare my little one, what is he to blame for?’ she sobbed. ‘What blame . . .?’ she tried to say again before she fell, overcome by uncontrollable weeping.

  Ubaid did not try to push the woman away, and this made the outlaws carrying the child stop. The man from Narila hesitated.

  ‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘Let the child go and kill her. You,’ he added, addressing Brahim as he writhed in agony on the ground, ‘you will take her head to the Nazarene. And tell him that I have finished here, in Córdoba, what I should have finished in the Alpujarra.’

  Aisha let go of Ubaid’s tunic and he strode away, leaving the woman alone on her knees. He designated one of the bandits, a branded slave, to execute her. The man approached her with his sword unsheathed.

  ‘There is no god but God, and Muhammad is the messenger of God,’ Aisha recited with her eyes closed, surrendering herself to death.

  On hearing this profession of faith, the slave halted. He lowered his head. Ubaid raised the fingers of his left hand to the bridge of his nose; El Sobahet observed the scene. The bandit’s sword hung in the air for a few moments. Even Shamir was silent. Then the man looked to his companions for support. They were not murderers! Among their number were a silversmith from Granada, three dyers, a shopkeeper . . . they had been forced to become bandits to escape unjust slavery and ignominious treatment. Fight and kill Christians? Yes. Christians had robbed them of their freedom and their beliefs. They were the ones who had enslaved their wives and daughters. But killing a Muslim woman . . .

  Before the bandit laid down his sword, El Sobahet and Ubaid exchanged glances. It was not possible to ask that of his men, the bandit chief seemed to say to his deputy, nor should he do it himself; she was a Muslim. Then Ubaid intervened: ‘Take your child and your husband and go. You are free. I, Ubaid, grant you your life, the very thing I will take away from your other son.’

  Aisha opened her eyes without looking at anybody. She stood up slowly, trembling, and went to the man holding Shamir; he offered him to her without a word. Then she went to where Brahim was sprawled n
ear the embers. She looked at him with contempt and spat at him. ‘Dog,’ she insulted him.

  She left the clearing in the woods in tears, without knowing where to head for.

  ‘Show her where the Ventas road is,’ El Sobahet ordered one of the bandits when he saw her heading in the wrong direction, towards the rugged mountains.

  33

  HERNANDO HANDED a fine three-year-old over to Rodrigo. It was a proud skewbald, with large brown patches on its white coat. Once the colts had been broken in and allowed themselves to be ridden in the riding school at the royal stables, they had to get used to the countryside, to bulls and other animals, to learn to cross rivers and jump obstacles, to gallop along roads but to pull up short with a single tug on the reins. They also had to get to know life in the city: to stay quietly at the blacksmith’s and not to react to the blows of the hammer on the anvil; to move among people without being affected by children darting about or the many animals that ran loose in the streets of Córdoba – dogs, hens, and of course the many dark, hairy, black-tailed pigs with pointed ears and snouts often concealing an impressive row of sharp teeth; not to shy at the sound of music and fiestas, as well as all other kinds of unexpected noise. What would happen to these horses, or more especially to their trainers, if the King or any of his family or favourites fell off because their mount was startled by the sound of fifes and drums during a military parade, or the cheering of a crowd at the sight of their lord?

  The new colts had not yet been brought in from pasture, and so Hernando did not have any specific tasks in the stables. Every morning Rodrigo mounted the skewbald, while Hernando walked alongside with a long, flexible rod in his hand, as the two of them set off into the city to expose the spirited colt to all kinds of new experiences.

  ‘I’ve seen you working in the stables and I’m pleased with what you’re doing,’ said the rider as he put a foot into the stirrup. ‘But at the moment you’re no different from the other grooms. I want to see if you really do have that special talent that Don Diego thought he spotted in you. Let’s ride through Córdoba and show this colt the streets. It’s bound to be frightened. When that happens, if you think there is nothing more I can do and that to use my spurs or your rod would be counter-productive, I want you to step in and control it as you see fit. Do you understand?’