Fifty royal galleys with four thousand soldiers on board, the Castilian cavalry, the Valencian militia and the Atlantic fleet were given the responsibility of supervising and carrying out the expulsion of the Moriscos from Valencia.
Even though it had been expected, the royal decree nonetheless dealt a severe blow to Hernando and all the Moriscos in the different kingdoms of Spain. Valencia was only the first: the others would soon follow. Every new Christian was to be expelled, and their possessions requisitioned either to the benefit of the Christian nobility, as in Valencia, or the Spanish Crown.
Hernando had not yet fully taken in the significance of the decree when he spied two soldiers on guard outside his house. The first time he noticed them, he didn’t think it was important. Just a coincidence, he thought. But when he saw they were posted there day after day he realized they must be watching his movements.
‘It’s by order of the magistrate Don Gil Ulloa,’ one of the soldiers answered mockingly when Hernando finally asked what they were doing there.
‘Gil Ulloa!’ he muttered, turning his back on the sneering soldiers. Rafaela’s brother, who had inherited the post of magistrate from his father. A bad man to have as an enemy.
In Córdoba, the Christians celebrated when they heard of the royal decree. To avoid any disturbances the city council threatened to punish anyone who mistreated the new Christians with a hundred lashes and four years in the galleys. At the same time, it threatened the Moriscos of the city with two hundred lashes and six years in the galleys if more than three of them met at any one time.
However, the decision that most affected Hernando’s interests was one passed immediately afterwards: the prohibition on Moriscos selling their homes or lands.
‘I can’t sell the horses either,’ Miguel told him one day. ‘I had a couple of sales agreed, but the buyers have backed out.’
‘They’re waiting for us to have to sell them at any price.’
Miguel nodded silently. ‘Our tenant farmers are refusing to pay their rents,’ he finally admitted.
Miguel knew these payments were essential to the family. It was he who, the year before, had convinced Hernando to make improvements to the farm buildings. They needed new stables, a new ring for the horses and a hayloft: the old ones were falling down. Hernando took his advice, and also invested a large part of his savings in livestock. What Miguel did not know was that Hernando had spent the rest of his money on his petition for ennoblement. He had to pay his lawyer, the lawyer in Granada, and for all the documents required to present his case to the Royal Chancery.
‘They will pay them,’ he reassured Miguel. ‘I’m not going to be deported. I’ve started a petition to be made a nobleman,’ he explained when he saw the look of surprise on Miguel’s face. ‘Tell the tenants that. If they don’t pay they will lose their lands. Tell that to anyone who wants to buy my horses too.’
He had spoken firmly, but all of a sudden he looked and sounded exhausted. ‘I need money, Miguel,’ he murmured.
News of what had happened to the Moriscos of Valencia began to reach Córdoba. The city had become one huge market place where speculators from all the Spanish realms flocked to buy the Moriscos’ possessions for next to nothing. The hatred between the two communities, previously latent or held in check by Christian lords defending the people who worked for them, now exploded into the open. The King’s threats to punish anyone attacking or robbing the Moriscos proved useless: it was not long before the roads to the ports they had to embark from were littered with dead bodies. Long columns of men and women, children and old people – some of them sick, all of them weighed down with bundles of goods like a vast group of defeated pedlars – set off for exile. The Christians made them pay to sit in the shade of trees or to drink water from rivers that for centuries had belonged to them. Many of them were starving, and some even sold their children to buy food that would keep the rest of their family going. More than a hundred thousand Moriscos from Valencia began to congregate, closely guarded, in the ports of El Grao, Dénia, Vinaroz and Moncófar.
Startled, Hernando lifted his head. Something serious must have happened for Rafaela to disturb him in the library without even knocking. She only rarely visited his sanctuary, where he was busy making another copy of the Koran, but whenever she did it was to discuss an important matter. She came in and stood at the far side of the desk. Hernando stared at her in the lamplight. She must be a little over thirty, and the frightened little girl he had first met in the stables had grown into a mature woman. Even so, to judge by her face, she was as terrified now as she had been then.
‘Do you know about the decree expelling the Moriscos from Valencia?’ she asked.
Hernando could feel her eyes fixed on him. He hesitated before replying. ‘Yes . . .well,’ he stammered, ‘I only know what everyone does: that they have been expelled from the kingdom.’
‘Don’t you know the details of the decree?’ she insisted.
‘You mean about the money?’
Rafaela waved her hand impatiently. ‘No.’
‘So what do you mean, Rafaela?’ It was unlike her to be so nervous.
‘I was told in the market that the King has imposed specific conditions on couples made up of new and old Christians.’
Hernando leant forward in his chair. He knew nothing about this. ‘Go on,’ he signalled to her.
‘Morisco women who are married to old Christians are permitted to remain in Spain, and so are their children. Morisco men married to old Christians have to leave Spain . . . and take with them all their children aged over six. Those younger than that are to stay here with their mothers.’ As she said these last two sentences, Rafaela’s voice began to quaver.
Hernando put his elbows on the desk, clasped his hands together, and dropped his forehead on to them. This meant that if the royal decree were applied in his case, Amin and Laila would be expelled with him. Muqla and the two younger children would stay in Spain with Rafaela, and live . . . on what? His lands and house would be seized, and his possessions . . .
‘That will not happen to our family,’ he swore. Tears were streaming down his wife’s cheeks. She did nothing to stop the flow. She was trembling all over, her eyes fixed on him. Hernando could feel his stomach churn. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added gently, getting up from his chair. ‘You know I’ve begun a petition to be made a noble. I’ve received the first documents from Granada. I have important friends there who are close to the King. They’ll plead on my behalf. We won’t be expelled.’ He went over to her and pulled her into his arms.
‘Today . . .’ Rafaela sobbed, ‘this morning I met my brother Gil round the corner from our house.’ Hernando frowned. ‘He mocked me. He laughed – so cruelly. I could hear it echoing behind me as I tried to get away from him as fast as I could.’
‘Why was he laughing?’
‘“A noble?” he shouted at me. When I turned back towards him, he spat on the ground.’ Rafaela burst into tears once more. Hernando urged her to go on. ‘“That heretic husband of yours will never become a noble!” he told me.’
So they knew, thought Hernando. It was to be expected. Miguel would have told his tenants and the nobles who were thinking of buying horses from him, and the news must have travelled from mouth to mouth.
‘Rafaela, even if I am not granted my petition, the mere fact of starting the process means they cannot expel me for years. Afterwards . . . afterwards, we’ll see. Things change.’
Nothing he said could stop her weeping. She raised her hands to her face as her sobs broke the silence of the night. Hernando, who had turned away from her anguish, came up behind her and started to gently stroke her hair, trying to project a calm he was far from feeling.
‘It’s all right,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Nothing will happen to us. We’ll all stay together.’
‘Miguel has had a feeling about this,’ she began, still weeping.
‘Miguel’s presentiments do not always come true. Everything will be
all right. Stay firm. Nothing will happen . . .’ he murmured. ‘Calm down. The children shouldn’t see you like this.’
Rafaela nodded. She took a deep breath, but clung to him. She was so afraid that only contact with Hernando could reassure her.
When she finally dried her eyes and left the library, Hernando was overwhelmed by a strong feeling of tenderness. He had learnt to live with two women, Fátima and Rafaela. He was with the former when he prayed, or in the mosque, when he was copying the holy texts, or when he heard Muqla whisper words in Arabic, his huge blue eyes fixed on him, hoping to win his approval. He was with Rafaela during his daily life, when he needed warmth and affection. She looked after him lovingly, and he returned her regard. Fátima had become no more than a kind of beacon he followed in the moments when he communed with God and his religion.
The expulsion of the Valencian Moriscos went ahead, though not without difficulty. To carry more than a hundred thousand people meant that the ships had to come and go from Spain’s east coast to Barbary time and again. Despite only having been given three days to leave, the whole process of expelling the Moriscos took several months to complete. This delay meant that, thanks to the crews of the ships making the journeys and the malicious cruelty of Christians who liked to repeat the stories, reports of how the new arrivals in Africa were treated soon began to reach the ears of the Moriscos still left in Spain. The most fortunate among them, the ones who disembarked in Algiers, were immediately transferred to the mosques. Once there, the men were made to line up; their penises were examined and they were circumcised on the spot, one after another. After that, they became part of the lowest caste of this pirate port ruled by the janissaries, and were sent to work the land in sub-human conditions.
Those less fortunate fell into the hands of the nomad tribes or Berbers, who lost no time in attacking, robbing and killing people they saw as nothing more than Christians: men and women who had been baptized and had renounced the Prophet. The rumour spread that almost three-quarters of the Moriscos from Valencia had been murdered by the Arabs. Even in the cities of Tetuan and Ceuta, where many Moriscos from al-Andalus lived, the new arrivals were tortured and executed. Declaring their allegiance to their faith, entire communities crowded round the walls of the Spanish prisons in the African enclaves, demanding protection. Hundreds of terrified, disillusioned Moriscos found their way back to Spain, where they handed themselves over as slaves to the first man they met, because slaves were exempt from deportation.
It was also said that entire shiploads of Moriscos were stripped of their possessions and thrown overboard.
News of the killings and other misfortunes spread like wildfire among the Valencian Moriscos still waiting to be expelled. Two communities rose up in revolt. Munir led the men of the valley of Cofrentes, who, under a new king called Turigi, took to the mountains and made a stand on the heights of Muela de Cortes. Several thousand other men and women in the Vall de Laguar did the same, under the command of King Melleni. But al-Fatimi on his green horse did not come to their aid, and the battle-hardened soldiers of the Spanish King’s army had no problem dealing with the uprisings. Thousands were executed; thousands more ended up as slaves.
Before the end of the year the decree ordering the expulsion of the Moriscos from the two Castiles and Extremadura was issued. The people of Andalusia knew it was their turn next.
One cold, uncomfortable morning in January of the following year, Hernando was in his library correcting the letters Amin had written on the blank tar-covered tablet he used as his notebook. He had tried giving his son a quill, but the boy just smudged the paper with ink, so he preferred him to write on the tablet, which he could wipe clean and then get him to write characters over and over again. Amin had managed to write a graceful, correctly proportioned alif. Hernando picked up the tablet and congratulated his son, ruffling his hair. Muqla came over and looked jealously at his elder brother.
‘If you carry on like this, you’ll soon be able to use the quill, and choose the point that most suits your hand.’
His son looked up at him with eyes full of hope, but just as he was about to say something they heard a loud pounding at the street door. The sound echoed across the courtyard and up into the library. Hernando froze on the spot.
‘Open up in the name of the council of Córdoba!’ they heard from out in the street.
Gesturing hastily to his son to hide everything on the desk, Hernando went out to the gallery, leading Muqla by the hand. Before he left the library he made sure Amin had tidied the desk and put a book of psalms on it: they had rehearsed this move many times.
‘Open up!’ they heard, the blows raining on the door again.
Hernando gripped the gallery railing and looked down into the courtyard. Rafaela was standing in the middle. She gazed up at him, terrified, asking him what to do.
‘Answer it,’ he said, and then ran down the stairs.
He caught up with his wife as she was undoing the bolt on the inside of the door. Out in the street, a bailiff and several soldiers stood behind a richly dressed man of about thirty. Behind them bobbed the head of a smiling Gil Ulloa, and beyond him stood a small crowd of curious onlookers. Hernando pushed in front of Rafaela, who was staring at her brother. He himself was trying to recognize the nobleman: his features . . .
‘Open in the name of the Córdoba council and the councillor Don Carlos de Córdoba, Duke of Monterreal,’ the bailiff shouted once more, despite the fact that Hernando was already out in the street.
Don Alfonso’s son! He had his father’s features, mixed with those of his mother, Doña Lucía. The duchess! The mere thought of her and the hatred she had shown towards him was enough to make Hernando’s legs go weak under him. He knew then that nothing good could come of this visit.
‘Are you Hernando Ruiz, a new Christian from Juviles?’ asked Don Carlos with the haughty, authoritarian voice nobles always used to speak to someone of lower rank.
‘Yes, I am he.’ Hernando smiled wanly. ‘As your excellency well knows.’
‘By order of the Royal Chancery of Granada I am delivering their decision regarding the petition for a title of nobility that you so presumptuously embarked upon.’ A clerk stepped forward and handed him a scroll. ‘Can you read?’ asked the duke.
The document seemed to scorch Hernando’s hand. Why had the duke taken the trouble to come to his house to hand it to him personally, when he could have simply called him to the council chamber? When he saw more and more people crowding round to see what was going on, he understood: the duke wanted this to be a public act. Out of the corner of his eye, Hernando could see Rafaela swaying: he had promised her the process would last for years!
‘If you cannot read,’ Don Carlos insisted, ‘the clerk will proceed to read the resolution in public.’
‘I read Christian books to your excellency’s father,’ Hernando lied, speaking out loud for all to hear, ‘as he lay dying in a corsair chief’s tent, before I risked my life to set him free.’
A murmur ran through the ranks of the onlookers, but Don Carlos’s expression did not change. ‘Keep your insolence for when you are in the lands of the Moors,’ was his only reply.
Hernando managed to catch Rafaela just as she fainted. The bundle of papers crumpled in his hand as she fell into his arms.
‘Thus resolves Don Ponce de Hervás, chief magistrate of the Royal Chancery of Granada, and head of the College of Arms.’
Hernando settled Rafaela into a chair on the gallery, splashed water on her face and gave her some to drink. He could not wait for her to recover completely, though, because he wanted to read the document properly. Don Ponce! Isabel’s husband! The magistrate had thrown out his petition ad limine, without even bothering to consider it.
‘A new Christian, as he himself has publicly declared on many occasions to the archbishopric of this city of Granada. His obstinate defence of the killings in Juviles of those pious Christians who became the martyrs of the Alpujarra amply demonst
rates his adherence to the sect of Muhammad.’
Hernando remembered the first document he had sent to the archbishop in Granada, in which he had indeed tried to justify the murders committed by the outlaws and Moriscos in the Alpujarra. Why were all his enemies seemingly conspiring to persecute him now? Don Ponce, Gil Ulloa and the Duke of Monterreal’s heir, brought up by a woman who hated him. Who else was left?
‘The outline of events and circumstances by which the petitioner attempts to support his claim before this tribunal is nothing more than a gross and clumsy distortion of reality, and as such does not merit the slightest attention.’
Hernando recalled the promises made by Don Pedro, Luna and Castillo. They had assured him everything could be faked. What use had that been to him? Don Ponce de Hervás had taken his revenge! He crushed the document in his fist.
‘That cuckold whoreson!’ he cried, and then fell back in his chair, defeated. All of a sudden he seemed weighed down by the years. Next to him, Rafaela stretched out her arm and rested her hand on his thigh. Her touch made him feel even worse. He looked down at his wife’s long, slender fingers, the skin roughened by years of housework. He turned to look her in the face. She was still pale. He felt paralysed, as though he could not move. Rafaela knelt at his feet and laid her head in his lap. They stayed like that for some time: silent, their eyes closed, as if reluctant to open them to a reality over which they had no control.
The Hand of Fatima Page 88