The Hand of Fatima Read online

  Despite the efforts of successive viceroys of Valencia, there was a constant flow of Moriscos to Barbary from this coast. They were helped by the corsairs who came to plunder the kingdom. The Spanish would not leave the new, forcibly baptized Christians in peace, but neither would they let them escape. Not only would the nobles and landowners lose cheap labour but the Church was committed to saving their souls. The Duke of Gandía, Francis Borgia, the Jesuit Superior General, championed the cause. His view was that ‘we must save all these souls that might otherwise be lost’. But the Moriscos were already planning on saving their souls – by heading for the lands where Muhammad was worshipped. Their Valencian brothers helped everyone who had decided to leave kingdoms that had been theirs for centuries and cross to Barbary.

  Brahim and his companions, together with half a dozen more Moriscos, achieved this goal when one September dawn nearly fifty corsairs travelled along the coast to plunder the outskirts of Cullera. The corsairs employed their usual tactic: under the cover of night three small galleys dropped anchor beyond the mouth of the river Júcar. They disembarked there, some way from the place they intended to attack. The following day, at dawn, they headed on foot towards their objective. Unless they were attacking as part of a large fleet, the corsairs relied on surprise and speed for their raids. Any looting needed to be done speedily before the alarm was raised and the city under attack and the surrounding area responded. The corsairs did not want a pitched battle. Their galleys would come to pick them and their plunder up at some pre-arranged spot on the coast.

  On that September night, a scouting party of corsairs went inland to meet the local Moriscos and gather intelligence to help their looting; the new Christians were banned from going near the coast under threat of a three-year sentence in the galleys. It was then that Brahim, the two slaves and some other Moriscos joined up with the expedition. Two men who knew the area accompanied them to show the corsairs the route to Cullera.

  ‘Give me a sword, and I’ll go with you,’ Brahim asked a man who seemed to be the leader. They were on the beach where the corsairs were hiding until daybreak. The galleys remained well off shore in order not to be sighted.

  ‘Morisco and one-handed?’ the corsair growled. ‘Stay out of the way!’

  Brahim gritted his teeth and headed for the group of Moriscos sitting silently on the sand, far away from the corsairs.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Brahim cursed one of the slaves who had escaped from Ubaid’s band, lashing out with a kick that caught him in the face. Still raging, Brahim remained standing until one of the corsairs rudely ordered him to sit down like the rest and stay quiet.

  At dawn, the corsairs swooped on the outskirts of Cullera. They took the peasants who had come to work their lands by surprise, and seized nineteen captives. Instead of chasing after the many others who had fled in terror, the corsairs returned quickly to the point where they had arranged to meet the galleys, on this occasion close to Cullera. Neither the forces inside the city nor those nearby had the opportunity to counter-attack. Before they had even realized what had happened, corsairs, captives and runaway Moriscos were already aboard their ships, heading for the open seas.

  However, once they were out of range of the shore, the three galleys turned back towards the coast and hoisted the flag of truce. The ships were already sufficiently laden with plunder from other incursions, and the sailing season was coming to a close. The Valencians knew what the white flag meant: the corsair captains were willing to negotiate there and then the ransom of their captives. The Christians accepted the truce and began the negotiations, with small boats ferrying back and forth. By the end of the morning fifteen men had been released. The other four would journey on to the slave markets of Algiers.

  During two peaceful days of return voyage, the galleys had to work hard to make progress in a calm sea. Brahim could see the contempt of the corsair crew, made up of Turks and renegade Christians, for the Moriscos; it was exactly the same as they had suffered during the uprising in the Alpujarra. Nobody wanted anything to do with them. They fed them as if they were dogs, and did not even use them to row across the Mediterranean. Why did they agree to carry them then? He recalled how delighted the Valencian Moriscos had been to see the corsairs. The mere thought of the damage the corsairs would inflict on the Christians was satisfaction enough for them, especially as it kept alive the hope of future assistance from the Sublime Porte. Brahim watched the slaves rowing hard to the commands of the galley overseer. The fleeing Moriscos had been divided into groups so they could be accommodated in the limited space left between the sides of the galley and the rowing benches. Brahim turned his attention to the captain of his ship, who was standing in the prow. His long blond hair, typical of the renegade Christians of the Adriatic, fell over his shoulders, swaying gently to the rhythm marked out by the rowers. Brahim spat into the sea. Helping them escape was merely a business transaction: the corsairs only agreed to transport the worthless human cargo to obtain the locals’ favour.

  The flotilla of galleys made port in Algiers. To the sound of kettledrums, officials, holy men and assorted individuals ran to receive them. As soon as Brahim glimpsed the city’s huge, imposing walls he decided he was not going to spend any length of time there. That nest of corsairs could only be hostile to the Moriscos of al-Andalus. For a couple of days he drifted about the streets. He stayed away from the Moriscos who, as in Spain, came to sell themselves as cheap labour to the owners of the numerous market gardens and orchards surrounding the city, or even in the vast wheat-fields of the Yiyelli plains. Finally in the souk he came across a caravan that was leaving for Fez and tried to join it. He promised to work as hard as anyone in return for leftover food. He was ravenous! All he’d had to eat were scraps discarded by the Algerians, and he’d had to fight for those with men stronger than he was, who had two arms.

  ‘I am a mule-driver,’ said Brahim when he saw how the man in charge of the caravan, an Arab from the desert in Bedouin dress, looked at the stump of his arm and shook his head. Brahim wanted to show his worth with animals, even with only one hand. He hesitated as he remembered the problems that Ubaid had faced managing the mules in the Alpujarra, but in the end he made for a large group of resting camels that were lying down, their four legs tucked under them. It was the first time he had ever seen a camel, and even with their legs bent in that complicated position their humps were higher than any of the mules Brahim had handled.

  To the caravan leader’s puzzlement and the camel’s complete indifference, Brahim made to stroke the animal’s head. He tried to get the camel to its feet, tugging its halter with his left hand. The camel did not even turn its head. As he used to do with his mules when they refused to move forwards, Brahim pulled the halter from side to side to trick it into setting off moving to the side. However, this animal remained stubbornly impassive. Brahim noticed that a small group of people had gathered around the Arab and were watching the scene, smiling. One of them pointed at him, and urged another camel-driver to come and see the spectacle. What was all the hurry? Brahim wondered. He felt a burning embarrassment and yanked sharply at the camel’s halter to get it on its feet. He was about to give another yank when the animal lashed out and bit him in the stomach. Brahim leapt back, tripped and fell to the ground right in the middle of the camels’ pile of dung. The onlookers burst out laughing. That was why! They knew the camel was going to bite him. He got to his knees, keeping his back to the group of camel-drivers. The laughter stopped, except for a shrill childish giggle that continued to echo around the camp.

  As Brahim rose to his feet, he resisted turning to face the source of that laughter, which was both innocent and irritating. Finally he looked round and was confronted with a boy of about eight, dressed from head to toe in embroidered green silk, like a little prince. At his side stood a bejewelled man armed with a scimitar, its shining scabbard inlaid with numerous precious stones. The man was dressed as richly as the boy. Behind them three women were wearing bl
ack full-sleeved tunics, covered in black or blue cloaks fastened with silver pins. Their faces were covered by veils with a slit for their eyes, and their wrists and ankles were adorned with thick silver rings. Brahim looked straight at the boy. He was hungry! Very hungry. Staying in the city would mean dying of starvation or being killed at the hands of some janissary or corsair. That was the only fate ahead of him – either that, or a return to work in the fields. With only one hand he could not even enlist as an oarsman or sell himself as a galley slave.

  He saw how the man with the scimitar rested an affectionate hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy had stopped laughing now, and it was then that an idea occurred to Brahim. He winked at the child and stepped forward. He placed his bare foot on one of the many droppings that seemed to be scattered everywhere, and let himself slip, exaggerating a heavy fall on his backside. The peals of childish laughter burst out again and from the corner of his eye Brahim saw the man’s lips twist in a smile. On the ground, Brahim waved his arms and made ridiculous gestures as he thought what more he could do to win over the boy and his father. He had never acted the fool, but he needed to now. He had to leave that city where everyone looked down at him, just as they had in Córdoba! He had not made such a long journey only to end up a vulgar peasant again, no matter how many mosques he could attend to bemoan his fate! Encouraged by the child’s laughter, he feigned tripping up again and again as he tried to get back to his feet. He approached another resting camel and jumped on to its hump, letting himself fall like a sack straight over the other side. The child’s laugh was joined by others he did not recognize but which he assumed came from the camel-drivers. He tried to climb on again with the same result. He finished up by walking around the camel, examining it carefully and lifting up its tail, as if he was trying to discover where it hid its secrets.

  When Brahim heard the first guffaw of the man with the scimitar, he went up to them and bowed. The child’s huge brown eyes were moist with tears. The man nodded and handed him a gold coin, minted there in Algiers. Only then did Brahim notice the pain that gripped his whole body, especially his stomach where the camel had bitten him.

  The rich merchant, Umar ibn Sawan, allowed Brahim to travel with them as his son’s jester. Umar had almost fifty camels laden with expensive merchandise, guarded by a small army he had hired. They set off on a journey across central Barbary, from Algiers to Tlemcen, and from there to the magnificent and rich city of Fez, built among the hills and peaks in the centre of the Moroccan realm. On the journey Brahim realized why the camel had bitten him; their drivers treated them affectionately and extremely gently. All they used to make the camels get up or lie down was a thin stick that they brushed against their knees and neck. Instead of whipping them on faster during the long days, they sang to them when tiredness started to take hold. To the Alpujarra muleteer’s amazement, the animals responded by trying harder and taking more determined strides. Umar and his son, Yusuf, travelled on horseback. They rode Arabian desert horses; their steeds were small and lean from their diet of camel milk twice a day, but, Brahim discovered, the father’s horse was worth a fortune. It had beaten an ostrich in a race in the Numidian deserts, where the merchant had acquired it. Umar’s three wives travelled concealed in wickerwork cages covered with beautiful tapestries that swayed to and fro with the movement of the camels transporting them.

  Using part of the money the merchant had rewarded him with, Brahim had bought a pair of old shoes and a turban before he joined the train. He travelled on foot with the camels, drivers, slaves, servants and soldiers, amongst whom he was the butt of endless jokes and an object of ridicule and derision. The members of the caravan constantly pushed him around. The muleteer feigned grotesque falls, so that at any given moment they could make fun of him. He responded to their taunts with smiles and comic gestures. He discovered that if he walked on all fours, protecting his stump with the cloth of his turban and feeling a stab of pain every time it touched the ground, he could make the travellers laugh out loud. They also laughed when, for absolutely no reason, he started to run in circles around a camel or a person, shrieking like an idiot. Little Yusuf laughed too from atop his horse; he travelled apart from the procession and always accompanied by his father.

  They’re all fools! thought Brahim whenever they stopped to rest. Could they not see the rage in his eyes? Every time Brahim made them laugh, an uncontrollable burning sensation started in the pit of his stomach and spread through his entire body. Surely it was impossible for them not to notice the fire burning in his eyes? He walked among the camels and looked out of the corner of his eye at the two horse riders, seeing how they chatted and galloped up and down the caravan, continually giving orders that the men carried out with humble obedience. He also looked at the luxurious tapestries that covered the cages where the three women sat. At night, after having spent a good while entertaining little Yusuf, he would look enviously at the big tents where the merchant and his family lived. They were overflowing with comfortable fabrics, cushions, all kinds of furniture, and copper or iron pots and pans: the tents were far more luxurious than any of the dwellings Brahim had ever known. When Umar, Yusuf and his women retired for the night, Brahim lay down on the ground outside.

  When they were a day’s journey from Tlemcen, Brahim came to the conclusion that he had to escape. They had crossed mountains and deserts, and among the caravan the talk was of the next desert awaiting them after they had passed the city. This was the Angad desert, where bands of Arabs attacked caravans travelling the route between Tlemcen and Fez. Arabs. He was among Arabs now: the kingdoms of Tlemcen, Morocco and Fez. He was tired of humiliation, beatings and ridicule! He was sick of deserts and camels that moved to the sound of stupid songs!

  The soldiers guarding the tents took him for a crazy fool, as did the slaves and the majority of those who made up the caravan. For some time now they had stopped watching his movements or what he did while he slept beside the tent. Therefore the night they camped a few leagues from Tlemcen, Brahim had no trouble in crawling under one of the side flaps and sneaking into Umar’s tent. Father and son were fast asleep. He listened to their regular breathing, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the faint glimmer from the bonfire outside the tent, around which the three guards were sleeping. He studied the interior, the silks and tapestries, the merchant and his son’s rich clothes – and, next to Umar, a small metal chest set with precious stones. Almost crawling, so that no shadow could be seen from the outside, he moved over to Umar and grabbed the chest. He had to put it down in order to hang the merchant’s magnificent dagger at his own waist. He picked up the chest with his one hand and left as he had entered. He crawled out of the tent and realized that he had just taken a terrible gamble: escape or death. If they found him . . . He hid the little chest inside his turban, tied it securely to his belt and walked nervously between the camels and the sleeping people. He advanced very slowly to minimize the clinking noise coming from inside the chest, which was audible in spite of the cloth he had wrapped round it. He reached the place where they stored the merchandise the camels carried, which was also under guard. Brahim looked around him for one of the fires that had been lit during the night. Spotting one, he headed towards it. He took off his shoe and placed a glowing ember inside it, then went back to the piles of merchandise and, hiding a few feet away, waited for the patrol of guards to go past. He threw both ember and shoe towards the pile. They landed on some bundles of what seemed to be rich lengths of silk. Without checking the result of his throw, Brahim headed for where Umar and his son’s horses were sleeping.

  He stroked the horses to calm them and get them used to his presence. These animals he knew. Several men were asleep nearby. When he thought the horses would accept his handling without getting upset and waking their grooms, he silently untied them, and bridled Umar’s horse, the one that had beaten the ostrich. He crouched down and waited. Someone would soon raise the alarm. Time passed slowly and nothing happened. Brahim could already imagi
ne Umar’s scimitar against his neck, in swift retribution for the theft he had just committed, when the first shout rang out, followed by many more. A dense cloud of smoke was rising into the dark night from the pile of merchandise. The men jumped to their feet and to Brahim’s surprise a spectacular roaring blaze erupted. Chaos seized the camp. For a few moments he was captivated by the sight of the tongue of intense red fire licking at the sky.

  ‘What are you doing with the horses?’ shouted the groom who looked after them, making for the animals instead of heading towards the fire.

  Brahim came to his senses. He pulled a grotesque face, trying to hoodwink the lad. When the youngster stared at him, puzzled by his reaction, Brahim drew the dagger and sank it into his chest. That would be the last act of foolery of his life, Brahim vowed to himself, as with one jump he mounted the horse bareback, wearing only one shoe.

  As people ran hither and thither trying to put out the fire, Brahim set off at full gallop northwards. Yusuf’s horse galloped at his side, heading for home. Horses and rider were soon lost in the night.