‘Yesterday,’ the inquisitor snarled, ‘we arrested a heretic who copied, bound and distributed documents both defamatory and contrary to the doctrine of the Holy Mother Church. He will not be allowed a period of grace for his spontaneous confession. Given the gravity of the case and the need to arrest his possible accomplices before they can flee, we have begun the interrogation in the tribunal headquarters this very day. The books are written in an Arabic that our usual translator cannot fully understand. The council has given me excellent references about you, and you are therefore to present yourself here at the hour of terce to witness the questioning and act as translator of those documents.’
Hernando’s heart sank. His courage evaporated the second he imagined himself standing in front of Karim, witnessing his interrogation and possibly his torture . . . while he translated what he himself had written!
‘I . . .’ he stammered, trying to excuse himself, ‘I have to work in the stables . . .’
‘The persecution of heresy and the defence of Christianity take precedence over any work!’ the inquisitor snapped.
The sound of voices singing the canticles inside the cathedral reached them in the garden. The priest turned back to look at the gate of the Bendiciones arch and glided silently into the building.
‘At mid-morning prayers, remember,’ he insisted before leaving Hernando alone.
Hernando covered the short distance to his house with his mind blank, trying not to think, murmuring suras and hugging the Koran to his chest.
The fortress, ancient residence of the Catholic monarchs and now the seat of the inquisitional tribunal, had been built by King Alfonso XI on the ruins of part of the caliph’s palace. However, for a long time, all the monies collected by the tribunal for the conservation of the site were diverted to cover the inquisitors’ personal expenses. Consequently, the facilities had fallen into a steady decline. What should have been bedrooms, halls, offices and archives were now home to chickens, pigeons, stables and even linen laundries whose wares were sold openly by the inquisitors’ servants in the doorway on Campo Real. The hygiene levels in the fortress, with animals and dirt, insalubrious jails and two ponds of putrid stagnant water bordering on the river Guadalquivir, lent credence to the saying that everyone who lived in the fortress was ill until they died.
At terce Hernando presented himself as ordered at the door on Campo Real, beneath the Vela tower.
‘You’ll have to go round,’ one of the linen-sellers told him rudely. ‘Cross the cemetery and enter by the Palo gate, in the Vela tower next to the river.’
The Palo gate opened on to a walled courtyard, with poplars and oranges, overlooking the Guadalquivir. Two gatekeepers questioned him as if he was on trial until one, with an abrupt gesture, pointed to a small doorway in the southern façade. As soon as he went through the door and left the trees of the patio behind, Hernando felt the unhealthy damp of the place cling to his body. He entered a gloomy corridor that led to the tribunal hall. To his left were the cells, intricately arranged to make the best use of space within the ancient fortress. He knew they were crammed full of prisoners, but the stark silence was such that his footsteps echoed along the corridor.
The tribunal hall was rectangular with high vaulted ceilings. On one side several inquisitors were already seated behind desks, among them the one who had spoken to him in the cathedral garden, together with the prosecutor of the Holy Office and the notary. They swore him to secrecy about what he heard in the ‘hall of secrets’ and sat him down at a table lower than the others, next to the notary. Set out before them were three badly stitched copies of the Koran and some other loose papers.
Karim had been responsible for stitching the pages of the Koran together before distribution. With the murmur of the inquisitors’ conversation in the background, Hernando recognized each copy of the divine book. As he fixed his gaze on them he could recall the exact moment he had written each one: he almost did not need to copy them any more. The difficulties faced, the mistakes made, the quills he had to cut and in what sura he did so, the lack of ink, Don Julián’s remarks and comments, the worry and anxiety at any strange and unexpected noise . . . The dreams and the hopes of a people were represented in every character he had managed to write on those overly satiny and poor quality sheets of paper, brought with such difficulty from Xátiva.
At the sight of Karim entering the tribunal hall, Hernando shrank into the hard wooden chair. The old man looked dirty and unkempt, weak and shrunken. What would he think? That he was the informer? When Karim’s gaze landed on him it took no more than a second to convince him that nothing was further from the old man’s mind.
‘I forgive you!’ declared Karim to no one in particular when he reached the centre of the hall, interrupting the start of the notary’s reading.
The inquisitors were annoyed.
‘What have you to forgive, heretic?’ one exclaimed.
Hernando ignored the curses that followed. Those words were directed to him. I forgive you! Karim had avoided looking at anyone when he said them and had spoken in the singular. I forgive you! Hernando’s resolve had weakened when he saw Karim enter, but now he pulled himself together. He had felt strong that morning with the Koran pressed against his chest, only to be plunged into despair when he learnt that he would have to witness Karim’s trial. Fátima, Aisha and a downcast Hamid had bombarded him with questions, none of which he could answer. And now Karim forgave him, promising to take full responsibility on himself.
All morning Karim responded to the inevitable questions.
‘All Christians!’ he stated in answer to a question as to whether he had any known enemies. ‘Those who broke the peace treaty signed by your monarchs; those who insult us, ill-treat us and hate us; those who steal our papers so that we are arrested; those who prevent us from upholding our laws . . .’
Hernando, his voice shaking, translated a section from the books. To the evident satisfaction of the inquisitor, Karim had admitted they were his. The old man confessed how he had obtained the paper and the ink and how he himself had written them. He and he alone was responsible for everything!
‘You can burn me,’ he challenged, his forefinger stabbing at all those present. ‘I will never reconcile myself with your Church.’
Hernando fought to hold back his tears, aware of his trembling lips.
‘Heretic dog!’ burst out one of the inquisitors. ‘Do you take us for fools? We know for a fact that an old man like you is not capable of doing all this alone. We want to know who has helped you and who has the rest of the books.’
‘I have told you there is no one else,’ Karim responded.
Hernando watched him standing alone in the centre of the large hall, confronting the tribunal: a great spirit in a small body. In truth there was no one else. Hernando thought how indeed no one else was needed for the defence of the Prophet and the only God.
‘Yes there is,’ the reedy voice of the cathedral canon asserted, sharp but serene. ‘And you will tell us their names.’ His last words hung in the air until the inquisitor himself ordered proceedings suspended until the following day.
Hernando did not go to the stables that afternoon. After the justices had taken Karim away, and the inquisitors had left their desks, he tried to get himself excused from attending the following day’s session: he had now translated a part of the documents and the Korans were, in any case, interlined with aljamiado.
‘That is the reason you need to be here,’ countered the canon. ‘We don’t know if these interlineal translations are correct or if they are just another strategy designed to confuse us. You will stay with us for the entire trial.’
He dismissed Hernando with a disdainful wave of the hand.
Hernando took no meals and refused all food. He did not even speak. He shut himself away in his room and, facing the kiblah, prayed for the rest of the day and into the night, until he was exhausted.
Nobody interrupted or bothered him; the women kept the children
silent.
At mid-morning on the following day, Hernando was not taken to the hall of secrets. From the corridor leading to the tribunal they instead descended a stairway to some windowless vaults. The inquisitors were already present. They were whispering among themselves, standing in a circle around many and varied instruments of torture: there were ropes hanging from the ceiling, a rack, and 101 cruel iron contrivances for lacerating, immobilizing or dismembering the accused.
The stench inside the large room was warm and cloying, and it soon became unbearable. Hernando stifled the urge to retch at the sight of all those macabre implements.
‘Sit there and wait,’ the canon ordered, pointing to a nearby table, where the Korans and the court clerk’s files were already laid out. The clerk himself was chatting with inquisitors, the doctor and the torturer.
‘He is too old,’ Hernando overheard one of the inquisitors comment. ‘We should go carefully.’
‘Don’t worry,’ replied the torturer, a bald, well-built man. ‘I will take care of him,’ he added, with more than a touch of irony.
Some of those present smiled.
Hernando forced himself to look away from the group of men, and wished he could close his ears as well. He looked at the files on the table. ‘Mateo Hernández, new Christian, Moor’, appeared on the first page, written in the neat calligraphy of the Inquisition clerk. There followed details of date, place, the grounds on which the trial was brought, the account of the inquisitors present until, on the last line of that first page, he read:
Córdoba, the twenty-third of January in the year of Our Lord Fifteen hundred and eighty, before Juan de la Portilla, Inquisitor of the Tribunal of Córdoba, in the Hall of the Holy Office, for the purpose of reporting an act of heresy, there appeared the individual who gave his name as
The line ended there. Hernando looked up at the inquisitors. They were still chatting, waiting for the accused to be brought in. The twenty-third of January! More than a month ago. Who had appeared before the inquisitor over a month ago and made the denunciation that had led to the trial? It could only be . . . Suddenly the room fell silent as Karim was brought in by two guards. As soon as the inquisitors turned their attention to the accused, Hernando turned over the page. One glance was enough: Cristóbal Escandalet. His fists clenched, Hernando resisted the urge to check if anyone had noticed, and waited for the clerk to sit down beside him.
‘Cristóbal Escandalet,’ muttered Hernando as if he wanted to burn the name into his memory. He was the traitor!
Karim again denied that anyone had helped him. His confident tone of voice drew Hernando’s gaze. It contrasted sharply with Karim’s exhausted, dejected appearance, especially when they pulled off his shirt to reveal a scrawny, hairless torso.
‘Begin the interrogation,’ ordered Don Juan de la Portilla, standing with the other inquisitors. The clerk flourished his quill over the paper.
They laid the accused face down on the rack, his arms behind his back, and tied his thumbs together with a cord that connected to a stronger rope. It ran up to a winch suspended from the ceiling and back down again. Karim again refused to answer the inquisitor’s questions and the torturer began to pull on the end of the rope.
If anyone was hoping he would scream, they were disappointed. The old man pressed his face against the rack and only emitted some muffled grunts. Hernando felt sick. Karim’s groans were punctuated by the inquisitor’s persistent questions.
‘Who else is with you?’ he shouted time and again, becoming increasingly irate as Karim’s silence persisted.
When the torturer shook his head, and the inquisitors ceased their efforts and freed the old man from the rack, his thumbs were bent back, wrenched from their joints. Karim’s face was flushed, his breathing came in agonized gulps, his tired eyes watered, and trickles of blood ran from his lower lip. He could not have stood if it were not for the torturer holding him upright. The doctor approached Karim and examined his thumbs, manipulating them roughly. Hernando saw his friend’s face contort with the agony that until then he had kept concealed.
‘He is all right,’ the physician announced. However, he turned to Portilla and spoke into his ear. As he did so Hernando saw the clerk write: ‘The accused is in good health.’
‘The session is suspended until tomorrow,’ the inquisitor declared as soon as the doctor moved away from him.
‘You must eat,’ whispered Fátima, entering the room where Hernando had stayed praying since arriving home. ‘It’s after midnight.’
‘Karim doesn’t,’ he replied.
Fátima approached her husband, who was kneeling on his heels with his body uncovered. His arms and chest were scratched, bleeding in places as a result of the force with which he had washed, scrubbing at himself as if he wanted to tear off his skin and rid himself of the stench of the dungeon, which in spite of his efforts continued to cling to his body.
‘It’s cold. You should wrap up.’
‘Leave me, woman!’ Fátima obeyed and left the bowl of food and some water in a corner. ‘Tell Hamid to come,’ he added without looking at her.
The old scholar did not delay.
‘Peace . . .’ Hamid fell silent when he saw Hernando, who did not even turn towards him. ‘You shouldn’t punish yourself,’ he murmured.
‘The traitor is called Cristóbal Escandalet,’ was Hernando’s only response. ‘Tell Abbas. He will know what to do.’
He would have liked to kill the man himself with his bare hands, strangle him slowly and watch his dying eyes, to cause him as much pain as Karim had suffered. But since he was at the behest of the Inquisition he decided it was better for Abbas to deal with the dog, and the sooner the better.
‘The punishment for one who betrays our people is clear. Abbas will know exactly what he has to do. What worries me . . .’ Hamid left the words hanging in the air. He waited for a reaction from Hernando, but he merely continued his preparations for prayer. ‘What worries me,’ the old scholar insisted, ‘is if you know what you have to do.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Hernando, after a few moments of confusion.
‘Karim is sacrificing himself for us—’
‘He is protecting me,’ Hernando interrupted. He kept his back to Hamid.
‘Don’t be arrogant, Ibn Hamid. He is protecting all of us. You . . . you are but one weapon more in our fight. Karim is also protecting your wife, and the mothers to whom she teaches the revealed word, and the mothers when they teach it to their children, and the little ones who learn in secret, warned that they mustn’t speak of it outside their homes. He is protecting us all.’
Hamid saw Hernando shiver slightly.
‘My life is in his hands,’ Hernando said eventually, turning his head towards the holy man, who feared that his pupil was on the verge of collapse.
Hamid approached Hernando and with some difficulty knelt down beside him.
‘It may be you are right,’ conceded Hernando. ‘In fact it’s certain! He protects us all, but you can’t even begin to imagine the terror that grips me when I see such a weak, worn body, broken by torture, subjected to interrogation. How much can an old man like him stand? I’m scared, Hamid, yes. I shake. I can’t control my hands or my knees. I fear the pain will drive him mad and in the end he will denounce me.’
The old scholar gave the hint of a sad smile.
‘Strength does not reside in our body, Ibn Hamid. Strength is in our spirit. Trust in Karim’s! He will not betray you. To do so would mean betraying his people.’
Their eyes met.
‘Have you prayed yet?’ the holy man suddenly asked, breaking the spell. Hernando thought he heard in those words an echo from Hamid’s old house in Juviles. He pressed his lips together, knowing what came next: ‘The night prayer is the only one we can perform with any degree of safety. The Christians are asleep.’ With a lump in his throat from the nostalgia that flooded over him, Hernando was about to answer that he always did so, but Hamid stopped him. ‘We have f
ought many battles since then, haven’t we, my son?’
However, Hamid did not give Abbas the message. The blacksmith was young and strong. Karim would die, either during the torture or burnt as a heretic. Jalil, like Karim, was too old. Don Julián was also elderly, and as he always had to act clandestinely, there was no possibility of his moving among the Moriscos. But Hamid himself . . . He knew that his life would soon be over. Abbas should not take the risk. How could he, Hamid, kill that treacherous dog? These thoughts ran through Hamid’s mind yet again as he watched the man nonchalantly selling his buñuelos at the centre of the Rastro.
After two days of constant torture, Karim’s arms had been completely dislocated on the rack, yet the old man continued to be as stubborn in his silence as Hernando in his fasting and prayer. Fátima and Aisha were worried and even the children sensed that something terrible was drawing near.
‘Does he drink the water you leave him?’ Hamid asked Fátima.
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘In that case, he will survive.’
Hamid watched the buñolero move his wares over to an area where a large group of people had gathered. His eyes followed him until he saw him stop next to a knife-seller. The buñolero shouted out his wares, squeezing buñuelos de jeringuilla from the pastry bag. They formed circles in the frying pan and sizzled in the boiling oil until he cut them up for sale to the public. Knives! Even if Hamid managed to make off with one of them, the distance between Cristóbal and the knife-seller was too great for him to be able to take the buñolero by surprise and stab him. The cries of the knife-seller would certainly put him on his guard. Besides, he had to cut off his head! How . . .?
Suddenly, Hamid set his jaw. ‘Allah is great,’ he muttered through clenched teeth as he limped towards the buñolero.
Cristóbal saw Hamid heading purposefully towards him, his eyes fixed firmly on his own. He stopped calling out his buñuelos and frowned, but when the holy man drew level with him he smiled. It was just an old cripple!
The Hand of Fatima Page 49