The Hand of Fatima Read online

  Hernando nodded, and Rodrigo mounted the horse. How was he supposed to know when and how to intervene?

  ‘If the colt throws me, which often happens on these first outings,’ Rodrigo went on, settling in the saddle, ‘your concern is the horse. Whatever happens – if I crash against a wall, or the horse kicks an old woman or destroys a market stall – you must get control of it, make sure it doesn’t gallop off through the city, and above all see that it comes to no harm. And remember one thing: by royal order, nobody – I repeat: nobody – not the chief magistrate, nor the bailiffs, nor the officials, nor even the city councillors has any authority or jurisdiction over the horses and staff of the royal stables. Your mission is to protect this animal. If anything happens to me, you are to bring it back safe and sound to the stables, whatever happens and whatever anyone says to you.’

  Hernando followed Rodrigo to the stable door, still wondering exactly what was expected of him, but like the horse he had no time to reflect on this much further. As soon as the colt took its first step outside the building and pricked up its ears, bewildered by all the people walking in the Campo Real and by the unknown buildings all round it, Rodrigo spurred it on firmly. The colt leapt forward, and Hernando had to run in order not to fall behind. From then on they spent a hectic morning: the rider forced his mount to gallop down narrow alleyways through throngs of passersby. He looked for places and situations that were most likely to disturb the animal, while Hernando struggled to keep up. They rode along Calle de los Caldereros in the cathedral district, where the colt had to withstand the noise of hammering on copper cauldrons. Then they went to the tannery, with all the hustle and bustle there; they paused at the wool carding and dyers’ workshops, as well as those of the silversmiths and needle-makers. They passed through Plaza de la Corredera and the markets several times, and went as far as the slaughterhouse and the pottery district. Rodrigo’s experience and skill made Hernando’s presence almost unnecessary.

  In fact he was only called upon on one occasion. Rodrigo pushed his mount close to one of the many pigs that wandered loose on the streets. The huge hog snapped at the horse, squealing and showing its teeth. Terrified, the horse turned and reared, catching its rider unawares. But before it could bolt away from the pig, Hernando whipped it across the haunches, forcing it to stay where it was until its rider regained control. Apart from this incident, all he had to do was to keep the rod close behind the horse and to click his tongue whenever, despite the spurs and its rider’s encouragement, it was scared by a noise or sudden movement and did not want to go on.

  By the end of the morning, both the colt and Hernando returned to the stables sweating and out of breath.

  ‘Well done, lad,’ Rodrigo congratulated him as he jumped to the ground. ‘We’ll continue tomorrow.’

  Hernando led the colt into the stalls and handed it over to a groom. As he was about to leave the stables, a blacksmith who was inspecting the shoes on another horse, someone he had seen several times already, shouted to him.

  ‘Come and help me. Hold this up!’ he said. The dark-skinned man passed him one of the colt’s rear hooves. When Hernando held it up on his thigh with his back to the horse, the smith started to scrape all the dirt off the shoe. ‘I have a message for you,’ he whispered, still scraping. ‘Your mother’s been put in prison.’ Hernando almost dropped the horse’s hoof. The animal stirred nervously. ‘Keep hold!’ the smith said, this time in a loud voice.

  ‘How . . . how do you know? What’s happened? he asked, his mouth almost pressed against the smith’s ear.

  ‘The elders gave me the message.’ From the respectful way he spoke of them, Hernando could tell he was a brother in faith. ‘The Inquisition arrested her on the Camino de Las Ventas as she was coming back to Córdoba with her baby in her arms She had no permit to be outside the city, and has been condemned to sixty days in jail.’

  ‘What was she doing there?’

  ‘Your stepfather has disappeared. Your mother told the Inquisition official that her husband had forced her to leave Córdoba, but that she had given him the slip and was on her way back.’ Aisha of course had been careful not to tell the men, and then the official, that they had gone to meet the Muslim outlaws. ‘They told me to tell you not to worry, that she is safe, and that they have found a blanket for her and clothing for the baby, and that they are taking them food.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s well. Both of them are well.’

  ‘And my . . . Did you hear anything about Fátima?’ If Brahim had decided to flee from Córdoba, Hernando reasoned, he might have taken Fátima with him. Or had she given herself up?

  ‘She is still living with Karim,’ the smith replied. He seemed to know the whole story.

  Still apparently concentrating on the smith’s efforts to clean the horseshoe, Hernando could not help wondering what exactly this meant: Brahim had fled, leaving Fátima in Córdoba! How much time had to elapse before the idda was completed? Two or three weeks?

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked when the smith finished his work and indicated that he could put the hoof down.

  ‘My name is Jerónimo Carvajal,’ the man said, straightening up.

  ‘Where are you from? When—?’

  ‘Not here.’ Jerónimo quelled the lad’s curiosity. He paused and rubbed his kidneys, waving his hand as though in pain. ‘This work will be the death of me. Follow me,’ he said, gathering up his tools and heading for the stable exit.

  They passed by the entrance to the building, on the right of which stood a small room that served as the administration office for the stables. There they found the assistant head groom and a clerk who was scribbling in some ledgers.

  ‘Ramón,’ the smith said firmly to the groom from the doorway, ‘I need some things. I’m taking the new lad with me.’

  Ramón, who was standing beside the clerk, merely waved his hand in agreement without even looking up from what the other man was writing. Jerónimo and Hernando went out into the street.

  ‘I am from Oran. My true name is Abbas,’ Jerónimo told him once they had left the stables behind. ‘I came to Spain to work in the stables of one of the noblemen who defended the city ten years ago. After that, Don Diego took me on in the royal stables.’

  They walked beyond the bishop’s palace and came to the rear wall of the mosque. Hernando took a good look at Abbas. His African origins were plain to see: his skin was considerably darker than that of the Spanish Moriscos, who were often indistinguishable from the Christians; he was slightly taller than Hernando and had the powerful chest and arms of someone used to hammering on the anvil and to shoeing horses. He had a thick mop of jet-black hair, dark eyes and well-defined features spoilt only by a bulbous nose, which looked as if it had been broken at some point in the past.

  ‘What are we going to buy?’ Hernando asked.

  ‘Nothing, although when we get back say we’ve been looking for things but that I could not find what I wanted.’

  By now they had reached the corner of the street with the Sol tavern in it, which flanked the mosque down to the Perdón gate.

  ‘Well then, could we . . .?’ Hernando suggested, pointing to the street on their right.

  ‘The prison?’ Abbas queried.

  ‘Yes. I’d like to see my mother. I know the governor,’ he added, seeing the other’s man’s hesitation. ‘There won’t be any problem. I have to speak to her.’

  Abbas finally accepted the idea, and they turned down Calle del Sol.

  ‘And I have to talk to you,’ he said as they were walking up towards the Perdón gate, leaving on their left the remains of Moorish culture in the shape of magnificent doorways and arabesques sculpted in the stone of the mosque. ‘I can understand you want to visit your mother, but don’t spend too long there.’

  ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘Afterwards,’ the smith replied.

  Hernando mixed with the stream of people going in and out of the prison until he fin
ally found the gatekeeper. Abbas stayed outside. Around an interior courtyard flanked with arcades, there were two floors that contained the cells, the governor’s quarters and other offices, as well as a small tavern. Hernando greeted the gatekeeper and asked after the fat, slovenly governor, who soon appeared when he heard that the Morisco was there.

  A stench of excrement accompanied his arrival. Hernando backed off in horror as the governor held out a right hand smeared with faeces and soaked with urine.

  ‘Someone else trying to hide in the latrines?’ Hernando said by way of greeting, after gingerly taking the prison governor’s hand.

  ‘Yes,’ the other man said. ‘He’s been condemned to the galleys. This is the third time he’s rolled around in shit to try to stop us getting hold of him.’ Hernando could not help but smile, in spite of the warm dampness of the hand clutching his. This was a common ruse employed by prisoners about to be taken out to serve their punishment: they would hide in the latrines and roll in the filth left by the other prisoners. None of the guards wanted to have to go in and arrest them, but three times was probably too much, and the governor himself had been called on to get the condemned man out to the galleys. ‘I was told we wouldn’t be seeing you here again,’ said the governor, finally withdrawing his hand.

  ‘I’m here on a personal matter.’ Hernando noted how the prisoner governor’s eyes suddenly shone with interest. ‘The Inquisition has sent a woman and child here.’ The governor appeared to be thinking this over. ‘Her name is Aisha: María Ruiz.’

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’ the governor began, shamelessly rubbing his thumb and forefinger together to show he expected the usual bribe.

  ‘Governor,’ Hernando protested, ‘that woman is my mother.’

  ‘Your mother? And what was your mother doing on the Camino de Las Ventas?’

  ‘I see you remember her. That’s what I’d like to know: what was she doing there? And don’t worry, I’ll see you’re looked after.’

  ‘Wait here.’

  He walked off towards one of the cells hidden behind the arcades. Hernando saw two guards appear, grumbling and cursing the whole time and filthy from excrement and urine, flanking the prisoner condemned to the galleys. His face caked in dirt, the prisoner was smiling at the bad-tempered guards, while from the cells came shouts of farewell. Everyone quickly stepped aside in disgust as he came near. Hernando watched the trio until they had gone out of the prison, and when he turned back towards the courtyard, he found Aisha standing there. She was on her own, as she had left Shamir with another female prisoner.

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Hernando,’ Aisha muttered when she saw who it was.

  ‘Where can we be alone for a while?’ Hernando asked the governor.

  He let them have a small windowless room next to the gatehouse, which was used as a store.

  ‘What were you doing—?’ Hernando began the moment the governor had shut the door behind him.

  ‘Hold me,’ Aisha cried.

  He stared at his mother standing there with her arms raised, as if she did not dare take a step towards him. She had never asked him to hold her! He briefly remembered how, in Juviles, she had suppressed any show of affection if there was even the slightest chance she might be found out, and now . . . He threw himself into her arms and hugged her tight. Aisha cradled him and began to croon a lullaby, although she could not help her voice choking with sobs.

  ‘What were you doing on the Las Ventas road, Mother?’ he eventually asked, his own voice unsteady with emotion.

  Aisha told him about the flight into the mountains, and their meeting with the outlaws and Ubaid. She told him how his stepfather’s hand had been chopped off, and her own life been spared.

  ‘I spat on him and insulted him,’ she concluded hesitantly, still unable to accept the fact that she had abandoned her husband in the Sierra Morena after his hand had been cut off.

  Hernando was tempted to laugh or shout out loud. Dog! he thought. At last his mother had rebelled! Yet something told him to keep quiet.

  ‘He brought it on himself,’ was all he eventually said.

  Aisha hesitated again before nodding her head slightly. ‘Ubaid wants to kill you,’ she warned her son. ‘He’s dangerous. He’s become one of the outlaw chief’s right-hand men.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Mother,’ Hernando cut her short, although he was perturbed. ‘He will never come down to Córdoba to find me or anyone else. Just think of yourself and the boy. How are they treating you here?’

  ‘Nobody bothers us . . . and we eat.’

  As they walked away together Abbas respected his companion’s silence. It had been a long farewell: Aisha was sobbing and seemed to want to keep Hernando with her for ever, and he . . . he did not want to leave her there either. However, when Aisha noticed her son’s chin trembling and his breathing becoming agitated, she forced him to go before he too could burst into tears. Hernando found the governor and promised him money and anything else he wanted if he would treat his mother well and keep an eye on her. He left the prison looking back time and again at the cell his mother had disappeared into.

  ‘What did you want to talk about earlier?’ he asked Abbas once he felt calmer.

  ‘Is your mother all right?’ his companion wanted to know. Hernando nodded. ‘Has she been whipped?’

  ‘No . . . not that I know of.’

  ‘In that case they have given her a light punishment. They would have condemned a man to death if he had gone to Granada, to the galleys for life if he had gone ten leagues out of Valencia, Aragón or Navarre, plus a good whipping, or four years in the galleys if he had been found anywhere else outside his place of residence.’

  Hernando thought about it: he had hugged his mother tight, and she had not complained. They must not have flogged her . . . or had they?

  ‘Later you can tell me everything that happened, especially to your stepfather,’ said Abbas. ‘We need to know.’

  ‘We need to?’

  ‘Yes. All of us. People are watching us. Someone who flees . . . affects the whole community. They will investigate all his family.’

  ‘Nobody will say a word.’

  They were wandering around the medina, an intricate network of narrow, twisting lanes, surrounded by areas of wasteland with countless more alleyways leading off it.

  ‘Make no mistake, Hernando. That’s the first thing you must learn: there are traitors amongst us, believers who act as spies for the Christians.’

  Hernando halted and frowned at him.

  ‘Yes,’ Abbas insisted. ‘Spies. The council of elders has chosen you—’

  ‘One moment. Who are you really? How do you know so much?’

  Abbas gave a sigh. Both men started walking again.

  ‘They took advantage of the fact that I work in the royal stables for me to warn you as quickly as possible about what had happened to your mother, but they also have a proposal for you.’ At this point he fell silent, but seeing that Hernando said nothing, he went on, ‘All the Muslim districts of Spain are getting organized. They all have religious leaders and holy men who are working in secret. Valencia, Aragón, Catalonia, Toledo, Castile . . . in all those regions communities of true believers have been established: in some of them there is even someone they call their king! All the other towns where the Granadan Moriscos have been deported are organizing themselves, either joining the groups of Moriscos who were already there, or, as in Córdoba where there was almost no one left, setting up their organization once more.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Quiet. The first thing you need to remember is to trust no one. Not only are there spies, but there are many more of our brothers who, without wishing to, will give way under torture from the Inquisition. We can discuss anything you wish, and I’ll try to answer all the questions you want to ask, but swear to me that if you do not accept our proposal you will never tell anyone anything about what we have said.’

  Their walk had brought them to Calle
del Reloj, so called because here stood a low tower with the town clock on it. The two men stood for a moment watching a group of small boys throwing stones up at the clock face. ‘Do you swear?’ Abbas insisted. A Jesuit priest came out, shouting and waving his arms, trying to stop the boys.

  ‘Yes,’ Hernando promised, watching the little urchins scattering in front of the priest. ‘But how do I know I can trust you?’

  Abbas smiled. ‘You learn quickly! Do you trust Hamid, the slave who works in the brothel?’

  ‘More than I do myself!’ Hernando replied.

  So the two of them turned their steps towards the brothel. Hamid was busy and could not come out, but made a sign of approval from the doorway that Hernando immediately understood: the blacksmith could be trusted.

  That night, shut in his room and after checking more than once that the door was properly barred from the inside, Hernando sat on the floor and slid his fingers under the cover of a threadbare copy of the Koran written in aljamiado. Then he opened the holy book and leafed through its pages.

  ‘I am not in a position to speak of your virtues or defects,’ Abbas had told him that morning, ‘but you do have something that is very important for the needs of our brothers in faith: you know how to read and write, which is something most of us cannot do.’

  Books written in Arabic or that contained references to Islam were strictly forbidden. Anyone found in possession of one ended up in the dungeons of the Inquisition. Abbas, who lived with his family above the royal stables, seemed relieved when he could secretly pass the Koran on to Hernando.

  ‘There are many more books spread among our people,’ he said. ‘Translations, and the works of the great scholar Iyad on the miracles and virtues of the Prophet, but also simple verse manuscripts or prophecies in Arabic or aljamiado. They are kept hidden as best we can in order to preserve our laws and beliefs. Each one of them is a real treasure. Cardinal Cisneros, the man who convinced the Catholic monarchs to go back on the peace treaties they had signed with the Muslims, burnt more than eighty thousand copies of our writings in Granada. You must cherish this divine work for what it is: the treasure of our people.’