‘The Christians are only interested in what they can steal from us!’ somebody shouted.
‘All they want is more riches!’ said another man.
‘Both the marquises are facing mutinies in their armies.’ Hernando recognized the spy’s voice again. More men had come to listen and he found himself encircled by a crowd of Moriscos. ‘The moment they get their hands on a slave or any booty their soldiers are deserting . . . Mondéjar has lost many men because of all the spoils he won after crossing the bridge at Tablate and entering the Alpujarra, but they are constantly being replaced by more soldiers who think they can become rich before returning home.’
‘What happened to the old people, the women and the children from Juviles?’ someone asked.
More than two thousand Moriscos had left their families in the castle there. The rumours that had sprung up after they heard Hernando’s news had left them all anxious to learn what had become of them.
‘Almost a thousand women and children were sold at auction in the square at Bibarrambla as the spoils of war . . .’
The spy’s voice trailed off.
‘Speak louder!’ several men shouted.
‘They were sold as slaves,’ the spy said, raising his voice as loud as he could. ‘A thousand of them!’
‘Only a thousand!’ Hernando heard the stifled cry behind him, and began to tremble.
‘They put them on display in the square. In rags, and facing public scorn.’ A reverential silence descended on the group as the informer’s voice faded once more. ‘The Christian traders fondled them shamelessly, pretending they wanted to know how healthy they were. The auctioneers cried out the bids, and handed them over while the people of Granada shouted insults, threw stones and spat on them. And all the money raised went into the Christian King’s coffers!’
‘What about the children?’ a voice called out. ‘Were they sold as slaves too?’
‘They sold boys aged over ten and girls over the age of eleven at a public auction in Bibarrambla. That was the royal decree.’
‘What about the younger ones?’
Several people asked the question at once. The spy paused for a moment before replying. The onlookers were pushing, standing on tiptoe, or even climbing on each other’s backs to see or hear more easily.
‘They were sold as well, but not in public. No one respected the King’s decree,’ the spy suddenly burst out. ‘I saw them. They branded them on the face . . . young children . . . so that everyone could see they were slaves. Then they were quickly carted off to Castile, and even to Italy.’
Hernando saw someone who had climbed on the back of the man in front slide off and fall to the ground. For a long while, nobody dared speak: the grief was almost palpable.
‘What about the old people and the invalids in Juviles?’ a desperate cry came from somewhere in the crowd. ‘There were almost four hundred of them.’
Hernando was all ears: Hamid!
‘They were enslaved by Mondéjar’s men when they deserted.’
Hamid a slave! Hernando could feel his legs buckling beneath him. He clung to his neighbour for support.
But there was one question nobody dared ask. Over the past few days, Hernando had been assailed by groups of Moriscos, all wanting to hear directly from him the truth about the rumours circulating throughout the camp. They all had wives and children in Juviles, and he was forced to repeat time and again what had happened there. ‘But it was pitch black when you fled from the square, wasn’t it?’ they argued, desperate to deny the possibility that so many women and children had been murdered. ‘It was impossible for you to see how many of them were really killed . . .’ Hernando always agreed. Although that night he had clambered over hundreds of bodies, hearing and sensing the hateful madness that had taken hold of the Christian soldiers, there was no reason for him to drive these husbands and fathers still further to despair.
‘Everyone who was outside the church in Juviles died!’ the informer cried. ‘All of them! More than a thousand women and children! Not one of them escaped.’
Shortly afterwards, camp fires on the hilltops and mountains told the Moriscos that the Marquis of Mondéjar was marching on Ugíjar with his troops. Aben Humeya was convinced by the other leaders that his father-in-law Miguel de Rojas had advised him to make a stand in Ugíjar because he had made a pact with the Christian commander. In exchange for the King of Granada’s head, Miguel de Rojas and his family would go free and be rewarded with the Morisco army’s spoils. Hearing this, Aben Humeya summarily executed his father-in-law and most of his family, and repudiated his first wife.
After this, Aben Humeya and his men headed for Paterna del Río on the slopes of the Sierra Nevada. Above the village was nothing but rocks, ravines, mountains and snow. Leaving the other muleteers in the rear, Hernando accompanied the King and his commanders. His mules were laden with gold and silver coins, as well as all kinds of jewels and gold-embroidered clothing. This had been done on the King’s orders: Brahim instructed the muleteers to load all the gold and jewels on to his stepson’s mules, which were to go in the vanguard. The other mules, carrying the rest of the spoils, brought up the rear as usual.
Occasionally, when the winding path allowed, Hernando would turn his head to try to glimpse the far end of the column of some six thousand people. This was where Aisha, his stepbrothers and Fátima and her baby must be, in the group of women. He could not get the image of the girl’s black almond eyes out of his mind. Sometimes they were flashing with life; at others they were bathed in tears or downcast in fear.
‘Get on!’ he shouted at his mules, to rid himself of these sensations.
When they reached Paterna, the King deployed his troops half a league away on a crest that he thought was almost impregnable, and then entered the village with his baggage train and all those unable to fight.
Hernando wanted to avoid meeting Ubaid again, and so as soon as he reached the village he made for a pasture on the outskirts: none of the gardens in the centre was big enough for his team. Nobody tried to stop him. Seeing his own position threatened, Brahim was in despair when Aben Humeya publicly supported his stepson.
‘Do as the lad tells you,’ he instructed the soldiers guarding the treasure. ‘He is in charge of the gold that will bring us victory.’
So Hernando did not even have to justify his decision. While Aben Humeya was installing himself in one of the principal houses, he waited for the last mules to appear, knowing Aisha and Fátima would be with them. He saw them arrive, both weighed down with their sorrows: Aisha because after what the spy had said she was sure that there was no hope her daughters were still alive, Fátima because of her husband and the uncertain future facing her and her son. Aquil and Musa, though, were happily playing at soldiers. The guards accompanied them all to the field with the mules. When they saw Hernando busily tending to his animals, and confident that the Morisco army would repulse the marquis’s troops in the natural fortress chosen by Aben Humeya, the guards left and scattered through the village.
It began to snow.
But Aben Humeya was wrong about how impregnable the hillcrest was. Ignoring their own commander’s orders, the Christian soldiers rushed to the attack and succeeded in routing the force meant to be defending the village. They charged into Paterna, lusting for blood and plunder: they were sick and tired of the way their captain-general pardoned all the heretics and murderers who laid down their arms.
Chaos reigned in Paterna. The Morisco troops fled. The women and children searched desperately for their men. The freed Christian captives whooped with delight when their saviours arrived, and tried to stop the Muslim women escaping. They were the only ones fighting: apart from the occasional gunshot, the marquis’s men launched themselves in search of booty. They found it on the mules that had been abandoned unguarded outside the village church. The fabulous treasure soon led to disputes: the greedy soldiers fought over silks, seed pearls and other riches heaped beside the mules.
In
the confusion, none of them seemed to realize there was no gold. There were so many mules that when the soldiers failed to find any of the precious metal, they assumed it must be on another team further off.
With the Sierra Nevada at their backs, and with no houses to block his view, Hernando was the first to see how the Morisco army was fleeing helplessly towards the higher mountains. Half a league from him he saw hundreds of tiny figures dotted in the snow, climbing in complete disarray towards the peaks. Many of the figures fell and slid down ravines and crags; others suddenly stopped moving. It was too far for Hernando to hear the roar of the harquebuses, but he could see their flashes and the dense smoke the Christian weapons created each time they were fired.
‘We have to go!’ he urged Aisha and Fátima.
Neither woman moved: they were transfixed by the rout of their army.
‘Help me!’ shouted Hernando.
He didn’t have to wait for orders. By the time he had harnessed his team of mules, he saw Aben Humeya galloping as fast as he could out of the far side of the village. Brahim and other riders were spurring their horses on behind him. The soldiers who had been inside Paterna were also on the run. The shots and cries of ‘Santiago!’ from the advancing Christians were clearly audible.
‘What now?’ he heard Fátima ask behind him.
‘Up this way! We’ll head for the pass at La Ragua!’ he said, pointing in the opposite direction to the one the King and his followers were taking, hotly pursued by the Christians.
Fátima and Aisha looked where he was indicating. The girl tried to speak, but could only produce a few unintelligible words. She pressed Humam to her breast. Aisha stood open-mouthed. There was no sign of a path, only snow and rocks.
‘Come on, Vieja,’ Hernando said, grabbing the mule’s halter and dragging her to the head of the team. ‘Find us a path to the top,’ he whispered, slapping her neck.
La Vieja cautiously advanced step by step through the snow. They began their slow climb. By now it was snowing heavily, and the blizzard hid them from the Christians.
12
THE PASS AT La Ragua was situated at more than six thousand feet. It offered a way to cross the Sierra Nevada to Granada without having to skirt the mountain range. Hernando knew the pass well. High up were meadows that offered good pasture in the spring; now, he thought, this must have been where the fleeing Moriscos were headed, since there were few other places for them to hide and regroup. On the northern side of the pass, facing Granada, lay the imposing castle of Calahorra; on this southern side there were no defences.
Hernando also knew of a gorge that lay at the foot of a nearby peak that he used as a reference point. In the past he had gone there to pick the herbs he needed for the potions with which he tended his animals. At the end of summer the ground was covered in a bed of deadly blue flowers: aconite. Everything about them was poisonous, from petals to roots. Extreme care had to be taken if they were to be used for medicinal purposes, and they had been the first thing Brahim had asked him for when the revolt broke out. Since olden times, the Moors had dipped the tips of their arrows in the juice of the plant: anyone hit by one was condemned to die writhing in agony and foaming at the mouth, unless they were immediately treated with quince juice. That summer, however, nobody had foreseen that war would be declared, and so by winter the Moriscos’ stocks of aconite were running low.
Now Hernando tried to remember where that field of brilliant blue had been. The snowstorm made it impossible for him to spot it from a distance. He was still at the head of the group, clinging on to La Vieja to avoid missing his step. He kept driving her upwards, making sure she stayed on the path. He continually turned his frost-covered face back to see that the other mules were following. He told his mother and Fátima to grab hold of a mule’s tail and to follow the quickly vanishing imprints La Vieja made in the snow. Musa, his younger stepbrother, was walking alongside Aisha; Aquil struggled on his own. The other mules seemed to understand that they should follow La Vieja. They all edged slowly up the mountain. But the sun was setting, and in darkness not even La Vieja would be able to go on.
They needed a refuge. From Paterna they had headed east, avoiding the areas where the Christians were likely to be. Hernando was hoping to find the track that led from Bayárcal up over the pass at La Ragua, but he now realized this would be impossible before night fell. Through the snowstorm, Hernando thought he could spy a rocky outcrop. He led La Vieja up to it.
There were no caves underneath the crag, but even so he thought they could find some shelter from the storm under its overhangs. Stumbling behind the mules, the others appeared. They were hunched up, lips blue with cold, their hands tightly gripping the animals’ tails. Fátima was clinging on with one hand; in the other she clutched a bundle to her body.
Hernando lined the mules up against the wind. He cast a quick glance around him: the flint and steel he always carried with him would be no use here. The thick snow made it impossible for him to light a fire, and there were no dry branches or leaves to be seen anyway. Only rocks and snow! Perhaps it would have been better to be captured by the Christians, he thought to himself as he watched the last glow of day fading in the sky.
‘How is the baby?’ he asked Fátima. She did not reply. She was rubbing the infant’s body through her clothes with both hands. ‘Is he moving?’ Hernando asked. ‘Is he alive?’ The question died in his throat.
Still rubbing hard, Fátima nodded. Then she looked out at the storm and the darkening sky. A fearful sigh left her lips.
Why had he made them all flee? Hernando turned to look at his mother: she was hugging both his stepbrothers, trying to warm them. Aquil could not stop his teeth chattering. Musa, who was only four, looked frozen stiff. Why had he forced them to come with him? They were only women and children! Night had fallen. Night . . .
Hernando scooped up handfuls of snow and washed his face, head and neck with them. He used more to wash his hands, then knelt on the wet white blanket and began to pray out loud. He called on the All-merciful, the one they fought and risked their lives for, to help, but he did not reach the end of his prayers. Instead, he clambered to his feet. The gold! The mules were loaded with precious clothes! Dozens of chasubles and other silk vestments embroidered with gold and silver. What use would they be to his people if he and the others died up here? He searched among the bags and in no time had wrapped the women and children in priceless garments. Then he unloaded the animals: their bags would be useful too – some of them were made of leather. So would their harnesses! He heaped all the gold coins into one of the esparto grass bags, flung the rest on the ground, then used the bags and harnesses to make a cover on top of the snow, right next to the wall of rock.
‘Huddle as close to the rocks as you can,’ he told them. ‘Don’t lie down on the snow. Keep pressed against the rock wall all night.’
Hernando also wrapped himself up, but only as much as necessary, because he still wanted to be free to move in a way the others no longer could. He had to make sure none of them collapsed on to the snow and got their clothes soaking wet. He pushed the line of mules as close as he could to the rocks. He tethered them to each other so that they could not move, and shoved them towards the huddled women and children. He threw the last mule’s halter against the rock, and then crawled under their bellies until he was inside the improvised shelter too. He struggled back to his feet between Fátima and Aisha. La Vieja, who was closest to them, looked on impassively.
‘Vieja,’ he said, making room for himself, ‘there will be more work for you tomorrow, I promise.’ He pulled on the halter he had thrown inside, and held on tight: none of them could move. ‘Allahu Akbar!’ He sighed, feeling the warmth from the clothes and the mules.
The storm raged all night, but Hernando managed to doze off to sleep, satisfied that they were so tightly packed between the rocks and the mules that none of them would collapse on to the wet snow.
The next day dawned sunny and quiet. The sun glinted
so fiercely off the snow it hurt to look at.
‘Mother?’ asked Hernando.
Aisha succeeded in making a slit in all the clothes covering her. When he turned towards Fátima, she also uncovered her face and smiled at him.
‘What about the boy?’ he asked.
‘He took some milk a while ago.’
This time it was Hernando’s turn to smile. ‘And my . . . brothers?’ He noticed that his mother was pleased he had called them this.
‘Don’t worry. They’re fine.’
The same could not be said of the mules. Crawling back out under them, Hernando found that the two most exposed to the wind had frozen stiff and were covered in frost. They were from the team that Brahim had brought from Cádiar, but even so it was a loss. He remembered the stone he had thrown at one of them, and patted her neck. The frost came off in a myriad glittering crystals.
‘It’ll take me a while to get you out of there,’ he shouted to the others.
In fact it did not take long. He unhitched the mules, and then simply pushed the two icy statues down the slope. They caused a small avalanche as they crashed to the foot of the rocky outcrop. The other animals were all rigid from the cold too, so he harnessed them slowly, waiting patiently for them to put one leg forward, then the other. When it was La Vieja’s turn, he rubbed her back for a long time before moving her away from the women. On the previous evening he had not thought to put their food in a safe place, and now he could not find any. Like most of the objects he had thrown off the mules’ backs, it was buried in deep snow.
‘It looks as though only the baby will be fed today,’ he said.
‘If his mother does not eat,’ Aisha warned him, ‘the baby is not likely to get anything either.’
Hernando surveyed them: they were stiff as well, and could move only slowly and painfully. He looked up at the sky.
The Hand of Fatima Page 12