The Hand of Fatima Page 41

  None of them got to see the auto-da-fé, which was celebrated on a platform next to the old chancel. Only the rows of people closest to the security cordon mounted by the justices and bailiffs around the protagonists were able to watch the event. However, they heard the short public reading of the charges and sentences. No justifications were given; mention was made only of the sins committed by the forty-three accused from the kingdom of Córdoba and their punishment. Twenty-nine of them were Moriscos, over whom the tribunal exercised its jurisdiction. The Christians listened to the verdicts in silence, then cheered or booed when they heard the sentences.

  Two hundred lashes for a Christian from Santa Cruz de Mudela, for maintaining that the assurance that God would come to judge the living and the dead, as affirmed by the Creed, was false. ‘He has already come once!’ the accused maintained. ‘Why should he come back?’ Various other floggings were handed down to other Christians for having stated publicly that it was not a sin to have carnal relations or to live together outside marriage. Two hundred lashes and three years in the galleys for a man from Andújar for bigamy; a fine for a weaver from Aguilar de la Frontera for declaring that hell only existed for Moors and bandits (‘Why should Christians go to hell when there are Moors?’); a fine and exposure to public scorn bound and gagged for another man for saying that it was not a sin to pay to sleep with a woman. There were lesser sentences of fines and the wearing of penitential garments for several men and women for blasphemy and casting doubt on the effectiveness of excommunication, or for uttering rude, scandalous or heretical words. Two Frenchmen who were followers of the sect of Luther had their properties confiscated and were given lashes and lifetime sentences on the galleys. Three people from Alcalá la Real who had renounced Catholicism in Algiers after being captured by corsairs were sentenced to having their effigies burnt at the stake.

  ‘Elvira Bolat,’ the clerk of the court called out. ‘New Christian from Terque.’

  ‘Elvira!’ gasped Fátima. A man and a woman in front of them turned round in surprise, looking first at her and then towards Hernando. Fátima tried to explain: ‘She was my friend before—’

  Abbas crossed himself ostentatiously.

  ‘Fátima,’ Hernando interrupted her, crossing himself like the blacksmith, ‘you must renounce this kind of childhood friendship. They will bring you no good. Pray for her,’ he added, squeezing her arm. ‘Pray for the intervention of the Virgin Mary so that Our Lord will guide her on the right path.’ The man who had turned round nodded in agreement with the reprimand, and he and his wife went back to listening to the sentences.

  A fine, penitential garments, and one hundred lashes. Fifty in Córdoba and fifty more in Écija, where Elvira lived, for ‘Moorish activities’. Similar fates, plus an order to attend catechism classes in their parishes and either one or two hundred lashes, according to gender, befell the rest of the Morisco defendants. All were reconciled with the Church after admitting their offences and heresies.

  The next accused was a slave, recently captured trying to flee to Barbary, who had remained faithful to the sect of Muhammad. To be burnt at the stake. The crowd burst into cheers and applause. Now they were guaranteed their spectacle! The burning of the three inanimate effigies of the apostates from Alcalá held captive in Algiers did not satisfy anyone. The unrepentant slave, whose insistence denied him the opportunity of being garrotted first, would be burnt alive. This appealed to the crowd.

  ‘We pronounce and declare it thus.’

  The members of the tribunal brought an end to the auto-da-fé and the accused were handed over to the secular arm of the Church, which was to carry out the sentences imposed. Before they even heard the final words, many people were already running towards the site of the burnings, in the fields of Marrubial, on the eastern outskirts of the city.

  The noise of the departing crowd allowed Hernando to speak to Abbas freely. He was horrified at the way men and women of all ages were rushing to get out, laughing and shouting.

  ‘One less Moor!’ he heard one of them say.

  A chorus of guffaws greeted the words.

  ‘Do we also have to watch how they burn one of our own?’ Hernando asked.

  ‘No, because they are waiting for us in the library,’ replied the blacksmith coldly, ‘but we ought to.’ Hernando suddenly realized his mistake. ‘He will die proclaiming the true religion in front of thousands of zealous Christians, all baying for blood and revenge. Think of how all the believers condemned today will feel proud of this. The women will use the cold as an excuse to ask for penitential garments for their young children to wear so that they can accompany them. We will show them all that we have not forgotten our God, that the faith is still alive among the believers.’ Fátima listened, her eyes half closed and with both hands over her belly. Hernando started to apologize, but Abbas wouldn’t allow him to. ‘Not long ago, we were informed that several days after the celebration of an auto-da-fé in Valencia, the executioner who carried out the sentences visited the small mountain village of Gestalgar to charge our brothers for the costs of his monstrous work. One of them refused to pay because he had not been lashed. They confirmed the mistake and the man received the one hundred lashes in front of his family and neighbours. Only then, with his back red raw, did he pay the executioner. He could have just paid and saved himself from the lashes, but he preferred to suffer the sentence like his brothers. That is how our people are!’ The blacksmith paused for a moment. He cast his gaze over the forest of columns and arches as if those witnesses to the power of the Muslims could confirm his assertion. ‘Let’s go,’ he concluded.

  They left the mosque among the stragglers and those who for one reason or another were unable to attend the burning. None of the authorities now remained inside the mosque. They circled the transept of the cathedral that was under construction, whose arms had been adapted to the dimensions of the original Muslim naves. They left behind the three small Renaissance chapels situated behind the high altar. The chancel was already finished, but the elliptical dome destined to cover it was yet to be built, and a temporary cover was supported on scaffolding. They headed for the cathedral’s southeastern corner, where the magnificent cathedral library occupied an ancient chapel. It contained hundreds of documents and books: some were manuscripts more than eight hundred years old. Although the library was enclosed by a magnificent wrought-iron railing, the door was open.

  ‘Is your wife capable of waiting here for us without doing anything stupid?’ said Abbas, who had already reached the railing.

  Fátima moved to confront the blacksmith, but Hernando stopped her with a simple gesture.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  ‘Does she understand that the lives of many men and women depend on our discretion?’

  ‘Yes, she does,’ Hernando confirmed again, as Fátima nodded ashamedly.

  ‘Let’s go in then.’

  The two men passed through the railings that led to the library and stopped. Inside, on shelves, were hundreds of bound volumes, rolls of parchment and some reading tables. Around two of them sat a circle of five priests. When the blacksmith realized that a meeting was taking place he tried to withdraw, but one of the priests noticed their presence and called them over. Big as he was, Abbas bent his head, raised his hands to his chest and entwined his fingers in a sign of prayer. Hernando did likewise, and both approached the group.

  ‘What do you want?’ the priest who had called to them asked irritably before they had even reached the group.

  ‘I know him, Don Salvador,’ said the oldest priest among them. He was short, bald and fat but with a gentle voice that belied his appearance. ‘He is a good Christian and collaborates with the Inquisition.’

  ‘Good day, Don Julián,’ Abbas greeted him.

  Hernando murmured a greeting.

  ‘Good day, Jerónimo,’ replied the priest . ‘What brings you here?’

  One of the priests went to a shelf to get a book. The others, apart from Don Salvador
who was still glaring at them, looked on apparently uninterested until Jerónimo’s words caught their attention.

  ‘Some time ago . . .’ Abbas cleared his throat a couple of times. ‘Some time ago, when the Moriscos from Granada arrived, you asked that if I found a good Christian among them who knew how to write Arabic well, then I should bring him to you. My friend here’s name is Hernando,’ added the blacksmith, taking his companion’s arm and pushing him forwards.

  Write in Arabic! Hernando felt even the eyes of the crucified Christ presiding over the library upon him. Had Abbas gone mad? Hamid had shown him the rudiments of reading and writing in the universal language that united all the believers, but from that to being presented in the cathedral library as an expert . . . Something compelled him to turn towards the entrance, where Fátima was listening behind the railing. The girl encouraged him with an imperceptible movement of her lips.

  ‘Good, good . . .’ Don Julián began.

  ‘Isn’t he too young to know how to write Arabic?’ Don Salvador interrupted.

  Hernando sensed Abbas stir uneasily. Perhaps he had not thought about the consequences of what he had said? He could sense the hostility dripping from Don Salvador´s words.

  ‘You are right, Father,’ Hernando answered meekly, turning towards him. ‘I think my friend places too much value on my limited knowledge.’

  Don Salvador raised his head to meet the Morisco’s blue eyes. He hesitated for a moment. ‘Even if it is limited, where did you acquire it?’ he queried, in a tone of voice possibly slightly less harsh than that which he had used previously.

  ‘In the Alpujarra. In the parish of Juviles. Don Martín, God rest his soul, taught me all I know.’

  Under no circumstances was he going to mention Hamid, and as for poor Don Martín . . . the image of his mother stabbing him flashed into his memory. What would the members of the Córdoba cathedral chapter know about the parish priest of a little village lost in the mountains of Granada?

  ‘And how is it that a Christian priest knew Arabic?’ the youngest priest wanted to know.

  Don Julián was going to answer, but Don Salvador spoke first. They all seemed to respect him.

  ‘It is perfectly possible,’ he confirmed. ‘Many years ago now the King ruled that it was advisable for the preachers to know Arabic in order to convert the heretics. Many of them know no Spanish and are not even capable of expressing themselves in aljamiado, especially in Granada and Valencia. We need to know Arabic to be able to contradict their polemic writings, to know what it is that they think. Well, lad, show us what you know, little as it may be. Father,’ he added to Don Julián, ‘fetch me the most recent polemical manuscript that has fallen into our hands.’

  Don Julián hesitated, but Don Salvador urged him to go, waving the fingers of his outstretched right hand. Hernando felt a shiver go down his spine. Avoiding eye contact with Abbas, he looked towards Fátima, who winked at him from the other side of the railing. How could she wink at him in a moment like this? What was she trying to tell him? His wife encouraged him with a movement of her chin and a smile, and then he understood her. Why not? What did those priests know about Arabic? Were they not looking for him to be their translator?

  He took the ragged piece of paper that Don Julián held out to him and studied it. It was written in a cultured Arabic. To judge by the language, it came from much further away than al-Andalus, and was different, as Hamid had repeated over and over again, from the dialect established in Spain over the course of centuries. What was the text about?

  ‘It is signed as being from Tunis,’ he announced confidently, quickly trying to get the gist of the text. ‘It is about the Holy Trinity,’ he added as he read the characters. ‘It says the following, more or less: In the name of he who judges with truth,’ he extemporized, pretending that he was reading, ‘of he who is understanding, of the Compassionate One, the All-merciful, of the Creator—’

  ‘Yes, yes, all right,’ Don Salvador interrupted him, waving his arms angrily, ‘forget those blasphemies. What does it say about the dogma of the Trinity?’

  Hernando tried to decipher the writing. He was well aware what the dispute between Muslims and Christians was: There is only one God, so how can Christians maintain that three Gods, father, son and holy spirit, exist in one? He could have spoken about that polemic without needing to work out the exact content of the text, but . . . He crossed himself solemnly and then made the sign of the cross and laid the piece of paper down on the desk.

  ‘Father, do you truly want me to repeat in this holy place’ – he gestured towards the cathedral – ‘what is written on this paper? Many people were condemned this morning for much less.’

  ‘You’re right,’ conceded Don Salvador. ‘Don Julián,’ he added, turning to him, ‘prepare me a report on the contents of these documents.’ Hernando heard Abbas breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Where do you work?’ the priest asked him.

  ‘In the royal stables.’

  ‘Don Julián, speak with the royal stable master, Don Diego López de Haro, and arrange it so that this young boy can teach us Arabic and assist with the books and documents alongside his work with the King’s horses. Convey to him that both the bishop and the cathedral chapter would greatly appreciate it.’

  ‘I will do so, Father.’

  ‘You may leave.’ Don Salvador dismissed Hernando and Abbas.

  Fátima smiled at her husband as he crossed the library railing.

  ‘Well done!’ she whispered.

  ‘Silence!’ urged Abbas.

  They headed towards the San Miguel gate at the far west of the mosque. Hernando and Fátima followed the blacksmith the length of the south wall. They passed in front of the chapel of Don Alonso Fernández de Montemayor, a governor of the border provinces in the time of King Henry II. Abbas stopped.

  ‘This chapel, dedicated to Saint Peter’ – he knelt reverently before it, inviting Hernando and Fátima to do the same – ‘is built in the entrance to the mihrab of al-Hakam II.’ The three of them remained kneeling there for several moments a little beyond the magnificent lobular arches so different from the horseshoe-shaped ones in the rest of the mosque. Inside the entrance had stood the maqsura, the area reserved for the Caliph and his court. ‘Back there’ – Abbas indicated with his chin – ‘in what is now the chapel sacristy, is the mihrab, where the King prohibited the burial of any Christian.’ Unlike most of these burials, which were inlaid in the floor, the remains of Don Alonso, the King’s lieutenant, were displayed in a large, plain white marble sarcophagus. ‘Here, yes,’ the blacksmith whispered to Fátima, ‘here you can pray.’

  ‘Allah is great,’ she murmured, keeping her head down as she stood up.

  Each of them, in their own way, tried to picture what al-Hakam’s famous mihrab must have looked like, although now it had been desecrated and converted into a simple and common sacristy of the chapel of Saint Peter. There, in the mihrab, their people had once read the Koran. The copy of the Koran kept in the treasury was brought to the mihrab every Friday, and placed on a lectern of green aloe studded with gold. It had been handwritten by the Prince of the Believers, Usman ibn Affan, and was decorated with gold, pearls and jacinths, and was so heavy it had to be carried by two men. In the entrance, as in the mihrab itself, the Caliph further demonstrated the magnificence of Moorish culture in Córdoba by merging various architectural styles until he achieved a combination of incomparable beauty. The niche where the Koran was guarded was reached by passing beneath a carved octagonal dome. It was in the Armenian style and its arches did not meet in the centre but crossed along the walls. Byzantium was also there, with its veined or white marbles, and above all in the coloured mosaics made from stone brought by artisans who had come specially from the capital of the Eastern empire. Inscriptions from the Koran in Byzantine gold and marble. Arabesques. Elements from the Greco-Romans and the Christians, whose masters also contributed to the construction, had made the site of the chapel of Saint Peter one of the most
beautiful places in the world.

  The three of them prayed in silence for a few moments and, deep in thought, left the mosque through the San Miguel gate. They came out into Calle de los Arquillos, where the episcopal palace was built on top of the ancient palace of the caliphs of Córdoba. They crossed under one of the three arches of the bridge that passed above the street and linked the ancient palace with the cathedral. They went on towards the stables. As they got beyond the fortress of the Christian monarchs, Hernando decided to tackle the issue that was worrying him.

  ‘I can’t translate those documents,’ he admitted. ‘They are written in classical Arabic. How am I going to teach classical Arabic to this priest?’

  Abbas walked on a few more paces without answering. Doubts were crowding his mind. Fátima had seemed reckless and unaware of what she was doing; and yet, he reminded himself, everyone relied on her. Besides, he acknowledged, was it not he himself who had just shown her the hidden site of the mihrab, urging her to pray? Did they not all feel the same deep down?

  ‘On the contrary,’ said the smith, when they were near the door of the stables. ‘It is Don Julián who will teach you classical Arabic, the Arabic of our divine book.’

  Hernando stopped in his tracks, surprise written on his face.

  ‘Yes,’ Abbas nodded, ‘Don Julián is one of our brothers, and the most knowledgeable of all the Muslims in Córdoba.’

  36

  AT AROUND the same time as Aisha was being released following her arrest in the Sierra Morena, Brahim left El Sobahet’s band of outlaws together with two fugitive slaves. The gob of spittle his wife had launched at him before leaving the camp only added to the intense pain in his arm. Shortly after Aisha had disappeared amongst the trees, the outlaws were on the move, and Brahim had dragged himself after them. He could not stay in the mountains alone, or return defeated and with a hand missing to Córdoba. So he followed them, always at a distance, like a beaten dog. El Sobahet did nothing to stop him. Ubaid laughed at him and threw him his leftovers. When Brahim heard that two of the men were going to try and escape to Barbary, he joined them and together they headed for the Valencian coast. For several long days they stole food and sought assistance in the houses of Moriscos, always careful to avoid the bands of the Holy Brotherhood who patrolled those ancient and now neglected Roman roads. They headed eastwards towards Albacete, from where they took the road to Xátiva. From there they could reach the coastal villages of the kingdom of Valencia between Cullera and Gandía, all inhabited almost exclusively by Moriscos.