‘No one will ever keep us apart again, ever!’ she said again. Hernando turned to glance at his children.
What about them? And Rafaela? And the little ones left behind in Córdoba? An almost imperceptible shock of dismay ruined the magic of the moment. Was he going to betray them? Amin and Laila were still staring at him, silently posing a thousand questions and as many reproaches. Hernando felt their condemnation like sharp needles in his flesh. Who is this woman who is kissing you and whom you embraced with such passion? That was the accusation his daughter seemed to be flinging in his face. What life is it that you want to resume far from my mother? Amin demanded to know. Miguel . . . Miguel was staring at the ground, his legs more crumpled than ever. It was as if his whole life, all the efforts he had made and all he had been forced to renounce, was concentrated in that patch of mud beneath his crutches.
Fátima had fallen silent. The hubbub and laments of the thousands of Moriscos in the Arenal could be heard once more. The real world was back. The Christians had expelled them from Córdoba. Exile awaited him, and an uncertain future for him and his children. Perhaps it was God who had placed Fátima in his path at this very moment! Only He could have brought his first wife here.
He was about to say something to her when Laila’s voice caught him by surprise.
‘Mother!’ she suddenly shouted, then set off at a run.
‘Lai—’ Hernando began. Mother? Had she said ‘Mother’? He saw Amin running off to catch her.
Words failed him. He stood rooted to the spot. Only a few paces away from them, Rafaela was hugging Amin and Laila, showering their faces and heads with kisses. Next to her stood the three youngest, staring expectantly at him without a word.
Rafaela freed herself gently from the children and came up to her husband. She smiled at him, her lips stretched in a triumphant gesture. I did it! Here you are! they seemed to be saying. Hernando could not react. His wife was nonplussed, and felt her clothing, in case it was her appearance that had shocked him in this way. She knew she looked ragged and filthy. Feeling ashamed, she tried to smooth down her skirt.
‘Is this your Christian wife?’
To Hernando, Fátima’s words sounded more like a reproach or a lament than a question. He nodded without turning round.
It was only then that Rafaela became aware of the presence of a beautiful, richly dressed woman beside her husband. She came closer to him, her eyes on the stranger.
‘Who is this woman?’ she demanded.
‘Have you never told her about me, Hamid ibn Hamid?’ Fátima asked him, although she could not take her eyes off the dirty, dishevelled figure coming towards them.
Hernando was about to answer, but Rafaela forestalled him, with the same determination she had shown when she turned her mother out of their house in Córdoba when the plague had struck.
‘I am his wife. What right do you have to question us?’
‘The right which comes from being his first and only wife,’ Fátima responded, pointing her chin at Hernando.
Rafaela’s confusion was evident from her face. Hernando’s first wife had died, hadn’t she? She remembered Miguel’s sad story about it. With her eyes tight shut, she shook her head as if to drive away what she had heard.
‘What are you saying?’ she gasped. ‘Hernando, tell me it isn’t true.’
‘Yes, tell her, Hamid,’ Fátima said defiantly.
‘When I married you, I thought she was dead,’ was all Hernando managed to utter.
Rafaela shook her head violently. ‘When you married me!’ she cried. ‘And since then? Did you learn she was still alive? Holy Mother of God!’
She had abandoned everything for Hernando. She had walked leagues to find him. She was in rags, filthy, and her shoes were torn to pieces. Her feet were still bleeding! Where had this woman come from? What did she want from Hernando? What was she doing here among these thousands of defeated Moriscos, abandoned to their wretched fate? She could feel her strength ebbing away. The sense of determination that had driven her on was lost amidst the tears and laments of the others.
‘I have walked and walked,’ she sobbed, as if giving up entirely. ‘The children would not stop crying! Only Muqla was strong. I was afraid we would not get here in time . . . and all for what?’ At this, she half raised one of her arms in the air. As if this were a signal, Laila ran over to comfort her. ‘We’ve lost everything: house, furniture, all my clothes . . .’
Hernando went up to her, his hands spread out in the hope that they would speak for him. His face, however, betrayed his confusion. ‘Rafaela, I—’he began.
‘I could arrange it so that she came too,’ Fátima interrupted him in a loud voice. What was the Christian woman doing there? She herself was not going to renounce her dreams, even if that meant . . . She would find a way.
Hernando turned back to Fátima. Rafaela could see him hesitating. Why was that? What was the woman talking about? Go where? Why with her?
‘What is this madness?’ she asked.
‘That, if you so wish,’ Fátima calmly replied, ‘you and your children could come with us to Constantinople.’
‘Hernando,’ Rafaela said coldly to her husband. ‘I’ve given my life to you. I am . . . I am willing to renounce the teachings of my Church and to share a belief in Mary and in your destiny with you, but never – do you hear me? Never – will I share you with another woman.’ As she finished speaking, she pointed towards Fátima.
‘What choice do you have, Christian?’ Fátima replied. ‘Do you think they’ll allow you to sail to Barbary with him? They will not. And they will take your children from you! Both of you know that. I’ve seen it while I was waiting here: they tear them mercilessly from their mothers’ arms . . .’ Fátima left her words floating in the air. Her eyes narrowed when she saw how Rafaela’s expression changed at the thought of losing her little ones. She could understand what she was going through. She could feel her pain when she thought of her own son, killed by these same Christians, and yet remembering this only made her angry once more. This was a Christian; she did not deserve her compassion. ‘I’ve seen it!’ she insisted. ‘When they discover she has no papers proving she is a Morisco they will arrest her, accuse her of apostasy, and take the children from her.’
Rafaela raised her hands to her face.
‘There are hundreds of soldiers on guard here,’ Fátima went on.
Rafaela burst into sobs. The world was collapsing around her. Her exhaustion, the intense emotion, the shock . . . everything fused into one. She felt her legs give way. She could hardly breathe. All she could hear were this strange woman’s words, which were getting fainter and fainter, more and more distant . . .
‘There’s no escape for you. You’ll never get out of the Arenal. I’m the only one who can help you . . .’
Rafaela stifled a moan, and fainted.
The children ran to her, but Hernando pushed them away and knelt by her side. ‘Rafaela!’ he cried, patting her cheeks. ‘Rafaela!’ He looked desperately around him. For a fleeting second his eyes met Fátima’s. That was enough for her to understand, even before he did, that she had lost him.
‘Don’t abandon me,’ Rafaela begged Hernando, still feeling dazed. ‘Don’t leave us.’
Miguel, the children and Fátima looked on at the couple from a few paces away. Hernando had carried his wife to the riverbank. Her face was still pale, her voice weak and tremulous. She could not bring herself to look at him.
Hernando still had the smell of Fátima on his skin. Only a few minutes earlier he had given himself to her, desired her: for a few short moments he had even dreamt of being happy as she had suggested. But now . . . He looked down at Rafaela: tears ran down her cheeks, mingling with the dust of the roads that caked her face. He saw her chin tremble as she tried to control her sobs, doing her utmost to show him she was a tough, resolute woman. Hernando grimaced. He knew she was not that: she was the girl he had saved from the convent, the one whose sweet nature had won
his heart little by little. She was his wife.
‘I’ll never leave you,’ he heard himself say. He took her hands gently, and kissed her. Then he put his arms round her.
‘What are we going to do?’ he heard her ask.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he muttered, trying to sound convincing.
They were soon surrounded by all their children.
‘First there’s something I must do,’ Hernando said.
Miguel moved away when he saw Hernando coming towards him and Fátima.
‘I came to find you, Hamid ibn Hamid,’ she said solemnly as he reached her. ‘I thought that God—’
‘God will decide.’
‘You are right. God has decided this,’ she added, gesturing towards the multitude crammed into the Arenal.
‘My place is with Rafaela and my children,’ said Hernando. The firmness of his voice brooked no argument.
Fátima shuddered. Her face had become a beautiful, hard mask. She made to walk away, but before she had even taken a step, she turned and looked back at him: ‘I know you still love me.’
Having said that, Fátima turned on her heel and began to walk off.
‘Wait a moment,’ Hernando begged her. He ran over to the horses and came straight back, carrying a package. When he was near her again, he searched inside it. ‘This is yours,’ he said, handing her the old gold necklace. Fátima’s hand shook as she took it. ‘And this . . .’ Hernando gave her the copy in Arabic of the gospel of Barnabas from the time of Almanzor. ‘These are very precious writings. They’re very old, and belong to our people. I was meant to see that the Sultan received them.’ Fátima refused to take the sheets of paper. ‘I know you feel cheated,’ Hernando admitted. ‘As you said, it will be difficult to escape from here, but I’ll try, and if I succeed, I will go on fighting in Spain for our one God as well as for peace between our peoples. I hope you understand: I can put my life as risk, as well as that of my wife and children, I can even renounce you . . . but I can’t put our people’s heritage at risk. I cannot keep this, Fátima. The Christians must not get hold of it. You keep it, in honour of our fight to preserve our Muslim laws. Do with it whatever you see fit. Take it for Allah and the Prophet’s sake. Take it for all our brothers.’
Fátima stretched out a hand towards the bundle.
‘Remember, I loved you,’ Hernando went on, ‘and I will go on doing so until my . . .’ He cleared his throat, and was silent for a few moments. ‘In death, hope is everlasting,’ he whispered finally.
Before he could get the words out, Fátima had turned on her heel.
It was only after he saw Fátima disappear into the crowd that Hernando realized how true her words had been. As he looked round the Arenal, his stomach clenched. Thousands of Moriscos were trapped on the muddy expanse. Soldiers and clerks were shouting orders all the time; some people were being rowed out to board ships; merchants and pedlars were trying to get the last pennies out of all these destitute men and women; priests were there making sure no one escaped with young children . . .
‘What shall we do, Hernando?’ asked Rafaela. She sounded relieved to see the other woman walking off. They were together again, one family. The children pressed round them eagerly.
‘I have no idea.’ Hernando could not take his eyes off Rafaela and the children. He had been on the verge of losing them. ‘Even supposing we found some way to get you on board ship as a Morisco, they would never let us take the little ones. They would steal them from us. We have to escape from this nightmare, and there is no time to lose.’
The evening sun was glinting off the tiles of the Gold tower as Hernando surveyed the city walls. Rafaela and Miguel did the same. Directly behind them there was no way out: the wall and the fortress blocked their exit. A little further on stood the Jerez gate, but that was guarded by a company of soldiers. So were the Arenal and Triana gates. Only the river Guadalquivir offered an escape. Rafaela and Miguel saw Hernando shake his head. It was impossible! The officials and priests were keeping such a close watch on the riverbank that they had no chance of reaching a boat. The only way out was by the same way they had got into the Arenal, at the far end, where there were no walls, although this access was heavily guarded too. How could they manage it?
‘Wait for me here,’ Hernando ordered them.
He strode across the Arenal. The entrance was guarded by a company of soldiers, who were sheltering in some temporary shacks put up to supervise the arrival of the columns of Moriscos. Hernando could see, however, that the soldiers were passing the time talking or playing cards. No more Moriscos were arriving, and none of the people on the shore would dare try to break out. The Christians in the Arenal left by one of the city gates, not this distant gap in the walls. And yet . . . they had to get out!
Night was drawing in by the time Hernando returned to the foot of the Gold tower. It was the hour for prayer. He looked up at the sky, calling on God for help. Then he told Rafaela and Miguel, as well as Amin and Laila, to gather round. It was risky, very risky.
‘Where are the men who accompanied you with the horses?’ he asked Miguel.
‘In the city. There’s one left on guard.’
‘Tell him to go with his colleagues. Tell him . . . tell him I’d like to spend my last night with my horses. On my own. Will he believe that?’
‘He won’t care much about the reason. He’ll be happy to go and have a good time. I’ve paid them. They have money to burn, and the city is very lively.’
They waited where they were for Miguel to reappear. ‘Done,’ said the cripple.
‘Good. As a Christian, you can walk out of here . . .’ Miguel started to object, but Hernando cut him short. ‘Do as I say, Miguel. We will only have one chance. Get off the Arenal by any of the gates, cross the city, and leave it on the far side. Wait for us outside the walls.’
‘What about Rafaela?’ said the cripple, pointing to her. ‘She’s Christian as well. She could leave with me.’
‘With the children?’ Hernando objected. ‘She would not get past the guards. They’d think she was trying to smuggle them out, and we’d lose them. What excuse could a Christian woman have for being in the Arenal with her small children? They would be sure to arrest her.’
‘But . . .’
‘Do as I say, Miguel.’
Hernando embraced his friend, and then helped him up on to the mule. This might be the last time he saw him.
‘Peace, Miguel,’ Hernando said as the cripple set off. Miguel muttered a farewell. ‘Don’t cry, Rafaela,’ Hernando added, turning back towards her and seeing she had tears in her eyes. ‘We’ll manage it . . . with God’s aid we will. Children, there’s a lot to do and little time to do it,’ he warned Amin and Laila.
He went over to the horses, which were resting after their exhausting journey. Miguel had told them he had given them less feed to weaken them so that they would carry their loads of goods, women and old men more placidly. Most of them had cuts and sores from all they had carried. Hernando gathered their halters and ropes.
‘Tie them all together at their heads, as close together as you can,’ he explained to his children, handing them the halters but keeping back some long lengths of rope. ‘No,’ he corrected himself, realizing how hard it would be to control sixteen horses roped together, ‘tie . . . ten horses at most. Rafaela, I want you to take the three little ones and head for the far end of the shore. You’ll take longer than us. When you get there, stay as close to the guards as possible, but make sure they don’t see you or suspect what you’re doing. I’m going to launch the horses at them.’ Rafaela looked startled. ‘It’s all I can think of, my love. When you see me doing that, cross the lines of soldiers as quickly as you can, and then hide in the bushes by the riverside. But don’t stay still: get as far away as possible. Carry on along the bank until you leave the city behind and meet up with Miguel.’
‘What about you three?’ she asked in astonishment.
‘We’ll get through. Trust me,
’ Hernando said, though the tremor in his voice belied his confidence. Giving her a tender kiss, he urged her to set off across the Arenal. Rafaela hesitated.
‘We’ll do it. All of us,’ Hernando insisted. ‘Trust in God. Go on. Hurry up.’
It was little Muqla who pulled on his mother’s hand to make sure she got started towards the far end of the Arenal. For a few moments, Hernando stood and watched as part of his family disappeared into the crowd. Then he turned resolutely to help his other children.
‘Did you hear what I said to your mother?’ he asked the two eldest. They nodded. ‘All right then. One of you is to stand on either side of the horses. I’ll steer them. It will be hard to push our way through all these people, but we have to do it somehow. Fortunately most of the soldiers are off having a good time in the city, so they’re not patrolling. We shouldn’t be stopped.’ He spoke forcefully as he tied the horses together, so that the children would not have time to think about what they were going to do. ‘Keep them moving from behind and the sides,’ he ordered Amin and Laila. ‘Hurry them along, and don’t worry what anyone says. We have to get across this sand, whatever it takes. Do you understand?’ The two children nodded once more. ‘When we are close to the way out, keep behind them, then run past the soldiers as I told your mother to. All right?’
He did not wait for their answer. The ten horses were already tied together. Hernando took the two long ropes and tied them to the front legs of the two that would take the lead. Finally, he grasped the halter of one that he wanted to keep apart from the others.
‘All right?’ he repeated. Amin and Laila nodded again. Hernando smiled to encourage them. ‘Your mother is waiting for us! We can’t leave her on her own! Let’s go!’ he said, without pausing for breath. Amin was only thirteen; his sister two years younger. Would they be able to do it?
The Hand of Fatima Page 93