The Hand of Fatima Read online

  In December 1576 events repeated themselves. Copies circulated of a letter from the Sultan of the Sublime Porte, which announced the arrival of three Muslim fleets that would land simultaneously in Barcelona, Denia and Cartagena. In May of the following year, the Inquisition got hold of a letter from the governor-general of Algiers. It warned the Spanish Moriscos that the fleet would not arrive until August and its landing would coincide with an invasion from France. It urged the Moriscos to capture the mountains when this happened. However, by October 1578 nothing had been heard of fleets or landings.

  ‘Our brothers in faith are only concerned with their own interests,’ Karim affirmed. It was Sunday after mass and unusually all of them except Don Julián had managed to meet in Jalil’s house. They were sitting on mats on the floor whilst the youngsters kept a lookout in Calle de los Moriscos for the arrival of any justices or priests. Hamid and Jalil lowered their gaze at Karim’s assertion. Abbas started to object, but Karim stopped him. ‘No, Abbas, it’s true. In the Alpujarra uprising all they did was send corsairs and renegades, whilst the troops they had promised us attacked Tunis and the Sultan invaded Cyprus. Not long ago the Algerians occupied Tunis and Bizerte and have succeeded in expelling the Spanish from La Goulette, and as for the Sultan—’

  ‘It has been some time now since the Sultan came to an agreement with King Philip that the Turkish fleet would not attack Mediterranean ports,’ Hernando butted in. The three elders looked at him in surprise, and Abbas gave a snort of incredulity. ‘He who all of you will know’ – not even in private did they want to name Don Julián, as they were the only five people in Córdoba who knew the priest’s real allegiance – ‘has heard of this situation. These are secret agreements. The King does not want to send a formal ambassador but has despatched a Milanese nobleman to negotiate peace. He is so anxious to keep the negotiations secret that the noble goes about Constantinople dressed as a slave. King Philip does not want either the French interfering in his negotiations or the Christian world considering him a traitor for agreeing to make peace with the heretics, but that is how it is. The Turks are directing their efforts towards Persia, with whom they are at war, and therefore they are as interested as the Christians in these peace agreements.’

  ‘That means . . .’ Karim started to say.

  ‘That all the promises of liberation made to our people are once again false,’ Hamid concluded.

  As Hernando listened to the holy scholar his stomach clenched. It had been an effort for Hamid to speak. His words were harsh, cutting and cold, but after speaking he seemed empty. He appeared to age suddenly, growing almost visibly older before Hernando’s eyes.

  For several moments silence reigned in the large room, as each one considered the reality of the situation.

  ‘They must not know this!’ exclaimed Karim. ‘The community must not know what’s going on.’

  ‘What good would it do them?’ said Hernando.

  ‘We can’t take away their hope,’ Jalil added. Hernando saw Hamid nod in agreement. ‘That’s all we have left. The people speak of Turks, Algerians and corsairs with their eyes glowing. What could we do without their help? Rise up again?’ Jalil punched the air violently with one hand. ‘We don’t have weapons, and the Christians control our every movement. We were defeated in the mountains, when we were armed and enthusiastic and on our own rugged territory; this time they will annihilate us! If we deny our people the hope that help from the Sublime Porte represents, they will sink into despair and throw themselves into the arms of the Christians and their religion. That is what the Christians want, but we must keep the dream alive. All our prophecies announce it: We Muslims will rule again in al-Andalus!’

  Hernando had no choice but to agree.

  ‘God, He who grants power, He who humbles the mighty,’ said Hernando, his eyes meeting Hamid’s, ‘will protect us.’

  Hernando and Hamid gazed intently at one another; the others respected that moment of communion.

  ‘God’, whispered the holy man in a sing-song voice, as he had done in the Alpujarra, ‘leads whomsoever He wishes astray, and guides whomsoever He wants. May your soul, O Muhammad, not waver in the face of affliction. God knows what He is doing.’

  Several moments passed by in silence.

  ‘So then we continue to accept the promises of help that reach us on behalf of the Turks.’ It was Jalil who broke the spell cast by Hamid’s words. ‘We shall pretend to receive them with hope, but at the same time will try to ensure our brothers do not get swept up in imaginary plans.’

  They considered the session closed, and Abbas helped Hamid to his feet. As a precaution they were in the habit of leaving their meeting places separately, allowing some time to elapse between each departure. Hamid limped to the door of the house.

  ‘Lean on me,’ said Hernando, offering him his arm.

  ‘We shouldn’t . . .’

  ‘A son always has a duty to his father. It’s the law.’

  Hamid relented. Forcing a smile, he leant on the arm offered him. The brand marking him out as a slave was blurred by the myriad lines scored in his face.

  ‘It fades over time, doesn’t it?’ he said when they were in the street, conscious that Hernando was casting sidelong glances at the degrading mark.

  ‘Yes,’ Hernando acknowledged.

  ‘Not even slavery can defeat death.’

  ‘But you can still clearly see the outline of the letter,’ Hernando tried to encourage him as they said goodbye with a brief nod of the head to one of the watching youngsters who continued pretending to play in Calle de los Moriscos.

  Hamid walked slowly, trying to hide the pain caused by his bad leg. The sky seemed grey and heavy. They passed the back of the Church of Santa Marina and walked down Calle Aceituno and Calle Arhonas to reach the Potro district. By going this way they avoided the crowded cobbled streets near Calle de Feria, where the people of Córdoba took their Sunday strolls. Besides, thought Hernando, in La Ajerquía they were less likely to run into any young nobles who might have decided to woo some girl by running a bull under her window. Hamid would not have been able to get out of the way. However, the walk was not at all pleasant. In this year of 1578 drought had again devastated Córdoba, as it had the year before. Even now in October the lack of rain caused the cesspits to give off a strong, foul smell because there were no drains. Added to this was the stench from the many dumps where the population deposited their rubbish.

  ‘How’s your family?’ asked Hamid.

  ‘Well,’ replied Hernando. In five years of marriage he and Fátima had had two children. ‘Francisco’ – the eldest was called Francisco in honour of Hamid, but had no Muslim name for fear that the children might start to use it – ‘is growing strong and healthy, and Inés is beautiful. She looks more like her mother every day; she has her eyes.’

  ‘If she also grows like her in character,’ the holy man went on, in acknowledgement of Fátima’s work, ‘she will be a great woman. And Aisha, has she got over—?’

  ‘No,’ cut in Hernando, ‘she hasn’t got over it.’

  They had talked about Aisha on other occasions. When she came out of prison and took stock of her new situation after Brahim’s flight, she also accepted that, given the circumstances, she could never again have a man by her side. Hernando explained to her how under Morisco law after a period of four years with no word of her husband, she had the right to ask the council to grant her a divorce.

  ‘I’d also have to ask the bishop,’ she retorted. ‘Any new marriage would not be valid in the eyes of the Christians. Brahim is declared a fugitive. It’s what I said when I was arrested, without thinking of the consequences it could have for me in the future. The bishop will never allow me to marry again . . . and I will never subject myself to his judgement. Nor do I need to marry again.’

  Determined that Shamir should not know the truth about his father, Aisha had prepared a story she would tell him when the child was old enough to ask. It was a story in which he
was the son of a hero, killed in the Alpujarra during the Morisco uprising; a story in which she remained faithful to her husband’s memory. From that moment onwards, Aisha threw herself into recovering her family, the children the Christians had stolen from her as soon as she had arrived in Córdoba. She spoke of it with her first-born.

  ‘You are the head of the family now,’ she told him. ‘You earn a good wage and we have two rooms at our disposal, something that the great majority of Moriscos don’t have. Now you work in the cathedral’ – unlike Fátima, his mother did not know the whole truth about what he did in the library – ‘so nobody could complain that your brothers would not be instructed in the Christian faith. They are your brothers. They are my children! I want them with me, like you and Shamir!’

  And they were the children of that animal Brahim! thought Hernando. However, he kept quiet. The tears that ran down his mother’s cheeks, and the sight of her trembling, clenched hands awaiting his decision, were enough to make him promise he would do everything possible to find and free them. Musa would then be about thirteen or fourteen and Aquil about seventeen. He let Fátima know he was going to do what his mother asked, but did not discuss it with her or give her the chance to argue. He explained it all to Don Julián and obtained a recommendation signed by Don Salvador, who turned out to be the cathedral precentor, in charge of the hymn books that were chained to the benches, mending them when necessary or ordering new ones. Don Salvador examined him on his knowledge of the Arabic language, and over time, sometimes indirectly and at others openly, he also sought to verify the assertion that Abbas made when he presented Hernando as a good Christian. Hernando demonstrated his beliefs and knowledge with both firmness and humility, always seeking Don Salvador’s advice and explanations, and the cathedral precentor was satisfied. With the help of the priests, Hernando managed to get the municipal council to tell him which families his brothers had been given to for their conversion. However, when everything was ready for them to be returned, the potter and the baker, the devout Christians who had taken charge of them, declared that the children had fled. By way of proof they produced the reports they had filed with the council at the time.

  In reality, as Hamid explained, they had sold them, as was the case with many other Morisco children. In spite of being below the age stipulated by King Philip, children from every Spanish kingdom had been enslaved. Hamid told Hernando that some, when they reached adulthood, went to court and demanded their freedom, but it was a lengthy and costly process. Many others did not even try or were unaware of the fact they could do so. In the case of Aisha’s sons, not knowing where they had been taken or to whom they had been sold, there was little that could be done to help them.

  Aisha found the news unbearable and sank into a despair that with the passing of time degenerated into an empty, meaningless life devoid of all hope. In Córdoba they had stolen two of her sons and in Juviles they had murdered her two daughters. Not even the presence of Shamir could draw her out of her depression.

  ‘She hasn’t got over it,’ said Hernando, and Hamid squeezed his arm in consolation.

  They passed in front of a large mural on the wall of a building that depicted a crucified Christ. Several people were praying; others lit candles at the foot of the mural, and a man asking for alms for the altar approached them. Hernando gave him a penny and crossed himself as he murmured what the man took to be a prayer. Why would God, as good and compassionate as they told him He was, allow four of his half-brothers and -sisters to have come to such an end? Why had they stolen the freedom and the way of life of an entire people? He watched how Hamid copied him and crossed himself as well, and they continued on their way.

  Reaching the intersection of Calle Arhonas with Calle de Mucho Trigo and Calle del Potro, where five streets met, they turned and walked in silence towards the brothel.

  ‘And you,’ Hernando dared to ask a few steps from the door of the brothel, ‘how are you feeling?

  ‘Good, good,’ muttered Hamid.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Hernando insisted. He stopped and squeezed the wasted hand resting on his arm, to show he did not believe him.

  ‘I’m getting old, my lad. That’s all.’

  ‘Francisco!’ The shriek made Hernando jump. He looked towards the door of the brothel and saw before him a large, thick-set woman with greasy hair. She was sweating and her sleeves were rolled up above her elbows. ‘Where were you?’ the woman continued shouting, in spite of the fact they were only a few steps from her. ‘There’s a lot to do. Come in!’

  Hamid went to go in, but Hernando held him back.

  ‘Who is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Get in now, Moor!’ the woman insisted.

  ‘No one . . .’ Hernando tightened his grip on the hand he was still holding. ‘She’s the new slave who looks after the women,’ Hamid conceded.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I have to go in, my son. Peace be with you.’ Hamid extricated himself from Hernando’s grasp and limped to the brothel without looking back. The woman was waiting for him, arms akimbo.

  Hernando watched him enter the brothel slowly and awkwardly. He frowned and clenched his fists, remembering the grimaces of pain he had seen etched on Hamid’s features.

  When the holy man passed by the woman, she shoved him in the back. ‘Get a move on, old man!’ she shouted.

  Hamid stumbled and almost fell to the floor.

  Hernando felt sick. His stomach churning, he stood motionless until the gate to the brothel alley closed behind the woman. Then he heard more shouts and curses. A new slave: that meant Hamid was no longer useful to them!

  Several men on their way down Calle del Potro bumped into him as they went past.

  What would become of Hamid? he wondered as he wandered on. How long had he been in that situation? How could he not have realized, not have understood the significance of the pain and resignation shown by his . . . father? Had he been so blinded by his own happiness that he could no longer see the suffering of others?

  ‘Ungrateful wretch!’ His exclamation surprised one of the innkeepers in Plaza del Potro, where Hernando had walked without meaning to. The man studied the new arrival for a few moments, weighing him up; well dressed in his riding boots, yet another of the eccentric characters who hung around the area. ‘You wretch!’ Hernando reproached himself again. The innkeeper scowled.

  ‘A glass of wine?’ he offered. ‘It will cure your troubles.’

  Hernando turned to the man. What troubles? He had never been happier! Fátima adored him and he adored her in return. They talked and laughed, made love at every opportunity and worked for the community, both of them. They wanted for nothing and felt they led full lives, satisfied and proud. They could see their children were growing up strong and healthy, happy and loving. Whereas Hamid . . . A glass of wine? Why not?

  Hernando drained his glass, and the innkeeper filled it a second time.

  ‘The old Moor of the brothel?’ the innkeeper asked when Hernando, his mind slightly befuddled by the two glasses of wine, enquired about him.

  Hernando nodded sadly. ‘Yes, the old Moor.’

  ‘He’s for sale. The landlord has been trying to get rid of him for some time, to save on the leftovers that he has to feed him. Every night he offers him to everyone who passes through the Potro.’

  Hamid had been up for sale for some time! Why hadn’t he said anything? Why had he allowed his son to sleep peacefully at nights alongside his wife, giving thanks to God for everything he had, when those same nights the landlord was trying to sell him?

  ‘Nobody wants to buy him.’ The innkeeper burst out laughing as he filled the wine glass again. ‘He is good for nothing!’

  Hernando put down the glass he had raised unconsciously to his lips, and refused to drink another drop. What was the man saying? He was talking about a holy scholar! ‘Children, Hamid taught me . . .’ How often had he begun a conversation with them using that very phrase? They were only little, but he enjoyed telling
them things. In those moments Fátima took his hand and squeezed it with great tenderness, and Aisha let her memories drift towards that small mountain village in the Alpujarra. The children watched him wide-eyed, hanging on his every word. Maybe they were too young to understand what he was trying to communicate, but Hamid was always there with them. He was with them in their most intimate moments, in those of the greatest happiness; the family all together, healthy, without hunger, all their needs satisfied. And he was good for nothing? How could Hernando not have realized? Again he reproached himself. How could he have been so blind?

  ‘Why?’ The innkeeper interrupted his thoughts. ‘Why are you interested in that old cripple?’

  Hernando looked the man straight in the eye. He took out a coin and left it on the counter. He shook his head and got up to leave, but . . .

  ‘How much is the landlord asking for the slave?’

  The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘A pittance,’ he answered, with a lazy wave of his hand.

  ‘He asked . . . no, he insisted we should not tell you about it,’ Abbas explained to him.

  After speaking with the innkeeper, Hernando had gone straight to the stables. As he soon as he passed through the gate he headed for the forge.