The Hand of Fatima

by Falcones, Ildefonso

  ‘He is like a young religious teacher,’ Brahim blustered to El Partal and El Seniz when they were surprised at the sight of his stepson, La Vieja with the Christian boy on its back, and Isabel walking into the village. ‘Do you know Hamid from Juviles?’ The two men nodded. Who in the Alpujarra had not heard of the lame Hamid? ‘He has taken the boy under his wing. He has taught him the true faith,’ Brahim explained.

  El Partal narrowed his eyes and watched Hernando, the mule and the boy arrive. Seeing such a young boy convert could do more to undermine the faith of those stubborn Christians than any threat, he thought to himself.

  ‘Come over here,’ he ordered Hernando. ‘If what your stepfather says is true, tonight you will stay with the young Christian boy and make him renounce his faith.’

  While the rebellious Moriscos were attempting to convert the Christians, the uprising in the Alpujarra suffered its first important setback. On that same Christmas night, neither the Moriscos in Granada nor those on the plains joined the uprising. Farax, the rich dyer who was leading the rebellion, entered the Albaicín at the head of 180 armed men, all of them disguised as Turks to give the impression that reinforcements had landed. They ran through the Morisco quarter of Granada calling for the populace to join them. But while they chased up and down the twisting streets, the few Christian soldiers in the garrison barricaded themselves in the Alhambra. Worse still, the doors and windows of the Morisco houses stayed shut.

  ‘How many of you are there?’ someone demanded through a gap in a window.

  ‘Six thousand,’ Farax lied.

  ‘There are too few of you, and you’ve come too soon.’

  At that, the window slammed shut.

  6

  WHEN GONZALICO was forced to hand back the blankets that had protected him during the night, he began to tremble.

  ‘Has he renounced his faith?’ one of El Seniz’s armed followers asked Hernando at first light.

  Hernando and Gonzalico had talked long into the night beside a bonfire in the field where the mules were resting. The outlaw’s question surprised them as they sat quietly beside the fire, staring at its embers. Renounced it? No: Gonzalico had proclaimed his faith with a child’s voice but an adult’s conviction. He had prayed to his God. He had entrusted his soul to the Christian Lord.

  Hernando shook his head sadly. The soldier roughly dragged Gonzalico off. All Hernando could see were his tiny feet scurrying away towards the village.

  Should he follow them? What if the boy renounced his faith in the end? He raised his head from the embers, which were now dying. ‘Like Gonzalico’s life!’ he said to himself. Perhaps the boy would not live long enough to burn as brightly and as passionately as the fire had done that night. He was only a boy! He watched Gonzalico trotting along, trying to keep up with the Morisco, stumbling as he trod on a rock, or falling and being dragged along for a few steps before he could recover his feet. Tears welled up in Hernando’s eyes. He stood up to follow the pair.

  ‘Your kings forced us to give up our faith,’ Hernando had tried to explain to Gonzalico. ‘And we did so. They had all of us baptized.’ Gonzalico did not take his huge grey-brown eyes off him. ‘So now that we are going to reign—’

  ‘You will never reign in heaven,’ the boy interrupted him.

  ‘If that were true,’ he remembered saying, without wanting to get drawn into any discussion about it, ‘why does it matter if you renounce your faith here on earth?’

  The boy looked startled. ‘Renounce Christ?’ he said, in the faintest of voices.

  Why were these Christians so stubborn? Hernando told him of the fatwa decreed by the mufti of Oran when the Spanish Muslims were forced to convert: ‘If they force you to drink wine, then drink it, but do not make a vice of it,’ the Muslim scholar had instructed his brothers in al-Andalus, a ruling which all the Moriscos had accepted. ‘And the mufti said: “If they force you to eat pork, eat it against your will and in the knowledge that it is forbidden.” All of which means that if you are forced to do something against your will,’ Hernando explained, ‘you are not in fact abandoning your faith – provided you remain true to your God.’

  ‘You are admitting your own heresy,’ Gonzalico insisted.

  Hernando sighed and looked away at La Vieja, who was still close by them, dozing as she stood upright.

  ‘You will be killed,’ he declared eventually.

  ‘I will die for Christ,’ the boy exclaimed, with a shudder that neither the darkness nor the blanket wrapped around him could hide.

  At this, they both fell silent. Hernando heard Gonzalico crying softly. I will die for Christ! But he was no more than a boy! Hernando looked for another blanket to cover him with, and although he knew he was not asleep, stretched out beside him.

  ‘Thank you,’ Gonzalico snuffled.

  Thank you? Hernando said to himself as he felt the boy’s hand reaching out from under the blankets to clutch one of his own. He let him hold on tightly until the sobs gave way to the sound of regular breathing. For the rest of the night he stayed next to Gonzalico, not daring to let go of his hand in case he woke up.

  They had woken shortly before El Seniz’s armed bandits arrived.

  Gonzalico smiled at Hernando, but when Hernando tried to respond, the smile froze on his face. How could Gonzalico smile? He’s only an innocent child! he told himself. The night, their talk, the danger, the different gods: all that was in the past, and now he was simply a little boy again. Wasn’t this a new day? Wouldn’t the sun shine just as it always did? Hernando did not insist again that he renounce his faith, and now smiled openly at him.

  They had nothing to eat.

  ‘We’ll eat later on,’ Gonzalico said in his childish voice.

  ‘Yes, later,’ Hernando forced himself to agree.

  Not a single one of the Christians had renounced their faith. I will die for Christ . . . Hernando recalled the boy’s defiant affirmation as he saw him being thrown into the crowd of Christian men who had been herded naked outside the church in the centre of Cuxurio. The wild ululations of the Morisco women mingled with the tears of the Christian women, who were kept at a distance from their fathers, husbands and sons. If any of them looked down or closed their eyes, the Moriscos immediately beat them and forced them to watch. All the Christian men from Alcútar, Narila and Cuxurio de Bérchules were there: more than eighty of them, from old men to children over ten. El Seniz and El Partal were arguing with the scholar who had been with the Christians all night. El Seniz was the first to move away: he headed straight for the group of Christians. He stood in front of them, lit the fuse on his ancient gold-inlayed harquebus and placed it in the serpentine.

  Everyone in the square fell silent. All of them were staring at the sputtering linen rag soaked in saltpetre.

  El Seniz leant the gun butt on the ground, and then poured gunpowder into the barrel. He put a small piece of rag in and tamped it down with a ramrod. El Seniz was concentrating entirely on his weapon. He dropped a lead ball in, and rammed that down too. He raised the gun and took aim.

  A cry went up from the group of Christians. One woman fell to her knees, hands raised in prayer, but a Morisco pulled her by the hair, forcing her to watch. El Seniz did not even turn his head, but poured fine powder into the flash pan. Then, without warning, he shot a Christian straight in the chest.

  ‘Allah is great!’ he cried. The sound of the shot echoed in the air. ‘Kill them! Kill them all!’

  The outlaws, youths and Morisco villagers flung themselves on the Christians, wielding harquebuses, lances, swords, daggers and even farming tools. Cuxurio was in uproar. The Morisco women and youths held back the Christian women and forced them to witness the massacre. Naked and overwhelmed by the enraged mob, their men could do nothing to defend themselves. Some of them knelt down, making the sign of the cross. Others tried to protect their sons in their arms. Hernando watched the scene with the Christian women. A huge Morisco woman thrust a knife in his hand and urged him to join
the killing. The knife-blade glinted as the woman pushed him forward. Hernando took a step towards the men under attack. What was he to do? How could he kill anyone? As he advanced, Gonzalico’s sister Isabel rushed forward and gripped his hand.

  ‘Save him!’ she begged.

  Save him? He was supposed to kill him! The enormous Morisco woman was staring at him, and . . .

  He seized Isabel by the arm and moved behind her. Pressing the knife to her throat, he forced her to watch the massacre, as other men were doing with their captives. This seemed to satisfy the Morisco woman.

  ‘Save him,’ Isabel said over and over between her sobs, without making any attempt to free herself.

  Her pleas seared Hernando’s chest.

  Still he forced her to watch and, over her shoulder, he did the same. Ubaid had headed straight for Gonzalico. For a moment the mule-driver turned to look back at Hernando and Isabel, then he seized the little boy by the hair and twisted his head until his throat was exposed. The boy did not resist. Ubaid slashed his throat, silencing the prayer forming on his lips. Isabel stopped pleading with Hernando, and seemed to stop breathing too. Ubaid let the dead boy’s body slump forward, and then knelt down to plunge his dagger in the back. He searched until he found the heart, pulled it out, and with a triumphant shout raised it high in the air as the blood streamed down his arm. He rushed back towards Isabel and Hernando and flung it at their feet.

  Hernando had relaxed his grip on the girl, but she still clung to him. Neither of them could bear to look down at the heart, but kept their eyes on Ubaid as he rejoined the slaughter. The deacon Montoya had one eye gouged out before the mob stabbed him time and again; another two priests were martyred with crossbow bolts fired at them until their bodies bristled with arrows; still others were hacked to pieces before they expired. One man was frenziedly plunging a hoe into an unrecognizable bloody mass. A Morisco ran over to the captive Christian women brandishing a head on a pole, then he danced about, waving it in their faces. Eventually, the shrieking turned into chants of celebration at the cruel massacre. I will die for Christ. Hernando could not take his eyes off Gonzalico’s mutilated body, piled with the others in front of the church in a sea of blood. He forced back his tears. A few armed Moriscos clambered over the bodies, finishing off any they thought might still be alive; the rest were laughing and talking among themselves. Somebody began to play a clarinet, and the Morisco villagers started to dance. Nobody paid any attention to the captive Christian women. The same enormous Morisco woman who had given Hernando the dagger pulled Isabel away from him and shoved her with the others. Then she demanded the dagger back.

  Hernando was still clutching it. He could not tear his gaze away from the pile of bodies.

  ‘Give me the dagger,’ the woman insisted.

  Hernando did not move.

  She shook him roughly. ‘My dagger!’ Hernando mechanically passed it to her. ‘What’s your name?’

  When his only reply was a confused stammer, she shook him again.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Hamid,’ said Hernando, coming back to reality. ‘Ibn Hamid.’

  *

  The same day as the massacre at Cuxurio de Bérchules, El Seniz, El Partal and their men received orders from Farax, the dyer from the Albaicín who was one of the leaders of the uprising, to take the booty and the female Christian captives to the castle at Juviles. On Christmas Day at Béznar, a village at the western entrance to the Alpujarra, the Moriscos proclaimed Don Fernando de Válor as King of Granada and Córdoba.

  Like Hamid, the new King was a descendant of the Muslim royal house of Granada. Unlike the scholar of Juviles, however, he claimed to descend from the Umayyad dynasty of the caliphs of Córdoba. And again unlike Hamid, his family had integrated with the Christians after the fall of Granada. His father had become a councillor, forming part of the group of nobles who dominated and ran the city government, until he was condemned to the galleys for a crime. His son inherited his position, but was soon also put on trial, accused of killing the man who betrayed his father and several witnesses to the crime. Don Fernando de Válor then sold the councillor’s position to another Morisco who had been his guarantor at the trial, but this man, who did not entirely trust Don Fernando and was afraid he might lose his surety, arranged things so that at the moment he paid for purchasing the right to be councillor, the authorities immediately seized the money on his behalf. On 24 December 1568, learning of the uprising in the Alpujarra, Don Fernando de Válor y de Córdoba fled Granada, no longer a councillor and no longer a rich man. With only a lover and a negro slave for company, he went to join those who, he argued, were his true people.

  The new King of Granada and Córdoba was twenty-two years old. His skin was a dark olive colour; his dark eyebrows formed one solid line above his big dark eyes. Courteous and distinguished-looking, he was loved and respected by all the Moriscos, both for the high position he had held in Granada and for his royal blood. He was proclaimed King at Béznar, under an olive tree, surrounded by a huge gathering of Moriscos. Farax was violently opposed to the idea, as he claimed the title for himself, but the new monarch silenced him by appointing him his chancellor. The dyer kissed the ground beneath the new King’s feet after Don Fernando, dressed in purple, had prayed on four banners laid out to the four cardinal points, and had sworn to die in his kingdom and in the faith and teaching of Muhammad. He was crowned King with a tin crown stolen from a statue of the Virgin, and given the name Muhammad ibn Umayya (which the Christians turned into Aben Humeya) to the acclamation of all those present.

  7

  ABEN HUMEYA’S first measure was to send Farax through the Alpujarra at the head of an army of three hundred battle-hardened men. They were to gather all the booty so that it could be traded for weapons from the Berbers. This meant Hernando had to set off once more with his mule team to the castle at Juviles. He dreaded being with Ubaid again: he could not erase the image of the mule-driver’s crazed features as he joined the slaughter at Juviles. He also remembered what Ubaid had said about how some of the spoils might accidentally be lost.

  ‘I have to keep an eye on La Vieja,’ Hernando told him. ‘She’s always lagging behind.’ Hernando wanted to make sure he brought up the rear: he did not like the idea of having Ubaid behind his back.

  ‘An old mule eats as much as a young one,’ Ubaid retorted. ‘Kill it.’ Hernando did not reply. ‘Do you want me to do that for you too?’ the muleteer added, moving his hand towards the dagger at his belt.

  ‘This mule knows the trails of the Alpujarra better than you do,’ Hernando blurted out.

  They stared at each other; Ubaid’s eyes flashed with hatred. He was muttering something under his breath when a shout from Brahim made him turn his head. The line of captive Christian women had already set off, and it was time for the mules to get under way too. Ubaid frowned, shouted back at Brahim, then made his way to the front of the mule team, glaring angrily at Hernando as he did so.

  It was then that Ubaid decided he had to get rid of the lad. After all, he represented Brahim, the muleteer from Juviles with whom he had had so many problems on the trails of the Alpujarra . . . as he had with most of the other drivers. The gold and other valuables they were carrying had aroused Ubaid’s greed. Who would notice if some went missing? Nobody was checking what they loaded the mules with. Yes, his people’s fight was important, but some day it would be over, and would he then still be nothing more than a poor mule-driver forced to roam the snowy peaks to scrape a miserable living? He had no desire to do that. The Moriscos’ victory would not be threatened if they had a little less treasure. He had tried to enlist Hernando on his side, to win him over by reminding him how badly they both got on with his stepfather, but the stubborn fool had not shown any interest. So be it! Too bad for him! Now was the time, at the start of the uprising, before everyone became more organized. Later on . . . later on, who knew how many muleteers might join them, or what arrangements the new King might make? Any
way, it was obvious that nobody, not even his stepfather, would miss this boy they called the Nazarene.

  Ubaid knew the trail well. He chose a bend in the narrow track winding along by the mountainside. Rocky outcrops made it impossible to see who was in front or behind, and it was so narrow that no one could turn round: nobody could catch him by surprise. The mules were at the back of the line; last of all came La Vieja and Hernando. It would be easy for Ubaid: he could hide round the bend, slit the boy’s throat when he appeared, put him on a well-loaded mule, then hide the body and the animal in one of the many caves in the mountain. He would not even have to slow up. Everyone would think that Hernando had gone off with part of the spoils. It would be Brahim’s fault for trusting in a bastard Nazarene; all Ubaid needed to do was return after nightfall and hide his share of the booty until the war was over.

  He put his plan into practice. He urged his mules forward. Used to these trails, the animals moved on obediently. He drew his knife and raised it as the first mules of Hernando’s team came round the bend. Ubaid knew there were twelve of them. He counted as they went past, pushing them on without a word. When the eleventh mule appeared round the corner, Ubaid stiffened: after the last one had gone by, it was the boy’s turn.

  But La Vieja halted. Hernando shouted for her to continue, but the beast stubbornly refused: she knew there was someone lurking round the corner.

  ‘What’s wrong, Vieja?’ Hernando said, making his way round her to see what . . .

  As the boy approached the bend, the mule backed into him, as if trying to prevent him going any further. He stood rooted to the spot. All at once, Ubaid appeared on the path, brandishing his weapon; the other mules were some distance away, so he had to finish it quickly. Protected behind La Vieja, Hernando at first made to run, but then changed his mind, and instead seized a big silver five-branched candelabra from one of the bags.