‘You will be there when we recover the city that we should never have lost. You will be a witness that our prophecies are fulfilled and that true believers reign once more in al-Andalus.’
4
Juviles, Friday, 24 December 1568
THE RUMOURS flying round the village for two days were confirmed by a band of armed outlaws who rode through on their way to Ugíjar.
All the armed men of the Alpujarra are to meet in Ugíjar,’ they told the Juviles villagers from on horseback. ‘The uprising has begun. We will win our lands back! Granada will be Muslim again!’
In spite of the hope of the leaders in the Albaicín of Granada that they could keep the revolt a secret, the news that ‘at the end of the year there will be a new world’ spread like wildfire through the mountains, and the armed bands and the men of the Alpujarra did not wait for New Year’s Day. One group attacked and butchered several Christian officials as they were crossing the Alpujarra on their way back to Granada to celebrate Christmas. As usual, these officials had been stealing indiscriminately and with impunity as they passed through villages and farmsteads. Other bands attacked a small detachment of soldiers, while the Moriscos in the village of Cádiar rose en masse, sacked the church and the Christians’ houses and slaughtered them all.
After the armed band had passed through Juviles, the Christians barricaded themselves in their homes. The rest of the village was a hive of activity. The men armed themselves with knives, daggers and even some old swords and harquebuses they had succeeded in zealously hiding from the Christian officials. The women donned veils and colourful silk, linen or woollen dresses embroidered with gold and silver and went out into the streets wearing these very unChristian garments, their hands and feet tattooed with henna. Some of them wore blouses, others long cowls ending in a point in the middle of the back, with embroidered tunics underneath; they wore baggy trousers pleated at their calves and thick stockings rolled up to their knees, where they were tucked under the trousers. On their feet they wore clogs with laces or slippers. The entire village was an explosion of colour: greens, blues, yellows . . . There were women dressed in their finery everywhere, although without exception they kept their heads covered: some only concealed their hair, but most of them hid their faces as well.
Hernando had been in the church since first light, helping Andrés to prepare the Christmas Eve mass. The sacristan was checking a magnificent gold-embroidered chasuble when the doors of the church were suddenly flung open, and a group of shrieking Moriscos burst in. The priest and his deacon, who had been dragged out of their house, were thrown to the floor by the gang, then kicked and prodded until they got to their feet again.
‘What are you doing?’ Andrés managed to say from the sacristy door before being seized and thrown to the ground by the Moriscos. The sacristan fell at the feet of Don Martín and Don Salvador, who were still being beaten and punched.
At first Hernando made to follow Andrés, but when he saw the enraged mob surging into the sacristy he cringed back. The attackers were howling, shouting, kicking out at anything in their way. One of them swept all the objects off the table with his arm: down went paper, inkwell, quills . . . Others headed for the cupboards and began to pull out everything they found. All at once a rough hand gripped Hernando by the throat and dragged him out of the sacristy, pushing him towards where the priest and his assistants were cowering. Hernando’s face was cut as he fell to the floor.
Several other groups of Moriscos started manhandling the village’s Christian families into the church. They pushed them up towards the altar where Hernando and the three churchmen were being guarded. By now, all Juviles was gathered inside the church. The Morisco women began dancing around the Christians, chanting their keen, ululating cries. In utter bewilderment, Hernando watched as one man urinated on the altar, another slashed the rope to silence the bell, and still others hacked at the holy images and altarpieces.
All the church’s treasures were piled in front of the priest and the other Christians: chalices, patens, lamps, gold-embroidered robes; and, all the while, there was a deafening noise as the Morisco men shouted and the women whooped with delight. Hernando watched as two burly men tried to rip the gold door off the tabernacle. All at once, the noise of the chanting died away as his senses became fixed on a single image: his mother’s ample breasts swaying to the rhythm of a wild dance. Her long black tresses hung loose over her shoulders; her tongue flicked in and out of her gaping mouth.
‘Mother,’ he whispered. What was she doing? This was a church! And . . . how could she show herself like that in front of all the men?
As if she had heard his frightened whisper, Aisha turned her face towards him. To Hernando it seemed she was doing this painfully slowly, but before he knew it, she was standing right in front of him.
‘Let him go,’ she ordered the Morisco men standing guard over him. ‘He’s my son. He’s a Muslim.’
Hernando found it impossible to take his eyes off his mother’s breasts, which now hung down limply.
‘He’s the Nazarene,’ he heard one of the men shout behind his back.
Hearing his nickname brought Hernando back to reality. The Nazarene again! He turned and saw who it was: an ill-tempered blacksmith his stepfather often quarrelled with. Grabbing her son by the arm, Aisha tried to drag him away, but the Morisco stopped her.
‘Wait for your man to come back with the mules,’ he said slyly. ‘He will decide.’
Mother and son exchanged glances: her eyes had narrowed, and her mouth was drawn in a tight, tremulous line. All of a sudden, Aisha turned on her heels and ran off. Next to Hernando, the sacristan tried to put his arm round his shoulder, but the terrified boy instinctively backed away, and pushed against the guards to catch a glimpse of his mother. As soon as Aisha’s black head of hair had disappeared beyond the church door, he became aware once more of the tumultuous noise inside.
Juviles became one huge celebration. The Moriscos sang and danced in the streets to the sound of pipes and tabors, rattles, drums, flutes and dulzainas. The doors to the Christian houses had been wrenched off their hinges. Brahim entered the village sitting proud and handsome on a dappled horse at the head of a band of armed Moriscos. His followers had difficulty pushing through the rejoicing crowd: all around them, men and women, were celebrating the uprising.
The muleteer had been working in Cádiar when the revolt caught him by surprise. He had fought side by side with El Partal and his men against a company of fifty Christian harquebusiers, whom they had wiped out.
Brahim asked after the village’s Christians, and several people paused in their rejoicing to point towards the church. He rode up to it on his horse. As he paused in the doorway while the horse panted nervously, the tumult inside died down sufficiently for the sound of Don Martín’s feeble protest to be heard: ‘Sacril—!’
A flurry of blows and kicks silenced the priest. As the noise swelled up again, Brahim urged his mount on over the debris of altarpieces, crosses and holy images that littered the church floor. Shihab, the village constable, waved from the altar where the Christians were gathered, and Brahim headed for him.
‘The whole of the Alpujarra is up in arms,’ Brahim shouted when he reached him. ‘El Partal ordered me to bring the women, children and old Moriscos who cannot fight to seek refuge in Juviles castle. I have also left the booty we took in Cádiar there.’
Juviles castle was almost within gunshot range to the east of the village, perched on a rocky outcrop almost a thousand feet high. Built in the tenth century, its walls and several half-ruined towers were still standing, and it was big enough to contain all the refugees from Cádiar, as well as the spoils they had taken from that rich town.
‘There are no Christians alive in Cádiar!’ Brahim shouted exultantly.
‘What shall we do with these?’ Shihab asked, pointing to the captives by the altar.
Brahim was about to reply, when somebody shouted another question: ‘And this one? Wha
t shall we do with him?’ The blacksmith came out from behind the group of Christians, dragging Hernando with him.
Catching sight of his stepson, a cruel smile flitted across Brahim’s face. Those blue Christian eyes of his! How he would love to tear them out . . .
‘You’ve always said he was a Christian dog!’ the blacksmith insisted.
It was true Brahim had said so a thousand times . . . but now he needed the lad. When Brahim had asked for the sword, harquebus and dappled horse that had belonged to Captain Herrera, the commander of the Christian garrison at Cádiar, El Partal had said straight out: ‘Your job is as a mule-driver. We need you to transport the goods we take from these infidels to exchange for arms in Barbary. You won’t need a horse to lead your mule teams.’ But Brahim wanted that horse. And he burnt with desire to use the sword and the gun against the hated Christians.
‘My stepson Hernando can look after the mules,’ he had told El Partal almost without thinking. ‘He is capable of it: he knows how to shoe and look after the animals, and they follow his commands. I will be in charge of whatever men you give me to guard the baggage and the spoils we transport.’
El Partal stroked his beard. Another of the Morisco leaders, El Zaguer, who knew Brahim well, spoke up on his behalf.
‘He could be more useful as a soldier than a muleteer,’ he said. ‘He is brave and capable. And I know his child: he is good with the mules.’
‘Very well,’ said El Partal after a few moments’ reflection. ‘Take the people to Juviles and guard the possessions we have taken. You and your son will answer for them with your lives.’
And now here was the blacksmith insisting Hernando be kept captive as a Christian. Brahim muttered a few unintelligible words from the saddle.
‘Your stepson is Christian!’ the blacksmith shouted again. ‘You have said so yourself time and again.’
‘Tell him, Hernando!’ Andrés said. The sacristan had struggled to his feet and approached the boy. One of the guards was about to throw himself on the sacristan, but Shahib held him back. ‘Proclaim your faith in Christ!’ Andrés cried, arms outstretched.
‘Yes, my son. Pray to the one and only God,’ added Don Martín, his bloody face bowed in pain. ‘Commend yourself to the true—’ A fresh blow cut him short.
Hernando surveyed the crowd of Muslims and Christians in front of him. What was he? Andrés had always paid more attention to him than to any of the other village boys. The sacristan had treated him better than his stepfather. ‘He can speak Arabic and Spanish, he knows how to read, write and count,’ was the extent of the Moriscos’ interest in him. Yet Hamid had also taken care of him, and in the fields and his hovel had patiently taught him the Muslim prayers and doctrine. There were no more Christians alive in Cádiar! That was what Brahim had said. Drops of cold sweat pearled Hernando’s brow: if they decided he was a Christian, he would be condemned to . . . The shouting in the church had died down, and a small group of Moriscos were muttering amongst themselves by their captives.
Brahim’s horse pawed the ground. Hernando was a Christian! his rider’s eyes seemed to be saying. Wasn’t he a priest’s son? Didn’t he know more about Christ’s teachings than any Muslim? Perhaps his second son, Aquil, could take care of the mules? El Partal did not know his children. What if he told him . . .?
‘Make your mind up!’ Shihab pressed him.
Brahim sighed; an evil smile appeared on his handsome face. ‘You decide . . .’
‘What is to be decided? What is going on here?’
Hamid’s voice silenced the muttering voices. The old holy man was wearing a simple robe that showed off the gold sheath of the long scimitar hanging from a cord he wore as a belt. He was walking as upright as his withered leg allowed. The tinkling of the strips of metal hanging from the sword sounded though the church. Some of the Moriscos seemed to be trying to read the inscriptions.
‘What is to be decided?’ Hamid repeated.
Aisha was panting for breath behind him. Knowing Hamid’s affection for her son and how respected the old man was in the village, she had run all the way to his hovel. Only he could save Hernando! If they were waiting for Brahim’s decision, as the blacksmith had suggested . . . The boy’s origins were never mentioned, but that was not necessary. Brahim never concealed his hatred: he treated Hernando badly and always talked contemptuously to him. If anyone in the village wanted to anger him, they had only to mention the Nazarene. Her husband always flew into a rage and cursed, and later the same night would take it out on Aisha. The only response she had found was to remind him time and again that she was the mother of his other four children. By devoting herself to them and winning their loyalty, she aroused in her husband the atavistic sense of a family clan that every Muslim respects. As a consequence, Brahim yielded reluctantly to her. But at a moment like this . . . at a moment like this it would be not merely her husband, but the entire village in the grip of battle frenzy who would take it out on the Nazarene.
At the sight of the bare-breasted Aisha at his door, Hamid had lowered his eyes to the ground. ‘Cover yourself,’ he begged, as troubled as she was when she suddenly became aware of her half-naked state. He tried to understand what she was saying, holding up his hands for her to calm down and speak more slowly. When Aisha finally managed to explain herself, the old man did not hesitate for a second. The two of them rushed back to the church, Hamid limping along behind her as best he could.
‘The boy is Christian!’ the blacksmith insisted, still shaking Hernando roughly.
Hamid frowned. ‘You, Yusuf’ – he pointed to the blacksmith – ‘recite the profession of faith.’
Many of the Moriscos in the church lowered their gaze, and the blacksmith hesitated.
‘What has this got to do with—?’ Brahim started to protest from his horse.
‘Be quiet,’ Hamid commanded, raising an arm. ‘Pray!’ he urged the blacksmith.
‘There is no god but God, and Muhammad is the messenger of God,’ Yusuf intoned.
‘Go on.’
‘That is the profession of faith. That’s enough,’ the blacksmith argued.
‘No, it’s not. In al-Andalus, it is not enough. Say the prayer of your forefathers, those you say you wish to avenge.’
Yusuf looked the holy man in the eye for a few seconds, but then looked down, as did most of the others.
‘Say the prayer you should have taught your children, but which you have forgotten,’ Hamid reproached him. ‘Can anyone here recite the attributes of Allah, as is the custom in our lands?’
The old man surveyed the group of Moriscos. No one answered.
‘You do it, Hernando,’ he told the boy.
Hernando wriggled free from the blacksmith’s grasp. He picked one of the gold-embroidered chasubles from the pile in front of the altar, hesitated for a second, then turned towards the kiblah and knelt on the silk garment.
‘No!’ shouted Andrés, but the guards around him pummelled him into silence. The sacristan raised his hands to his face and sobbed at the way his pupil was about to betray him.
Hernando began to recite: ‘There is no god but God, and Muhammad is the messenger of God. He knows that all people must understand there is only one God in His kingdom. He created everything that exists in the world, the high and the low, the throne and the footstool, the heavens and the earth, and all that is in them and exists among them.’ Hernando had begun uncertainly, but as he went on, his voice grew ever firmer. ‘All living beings have been created by Your power; nothing moves without Your permission . . .’
Even the dappled horse stood quiet while Hernando prayed. Hamid listened contentedly with half-closed eyes. Aisha stood anxiously wringing her hands, as if trying to force the right words out of her son’s mouth.
‘He is the first and the last, He who shows Himself and conceals Himself. He knows everything that exists,’ the boy concluded.
No one spoke until Hamid broke the silence: ‘Who now dares maintain that this boy is Christian
?’
5
ALL THE Christians from Juviles were locked in the church under Hamid’s watchful eye. He was to try to get them to renounce their religion and convert to Islam.
Brahim set off north, towards the mountains, where El Partal had promised he would encourage the Moriscos to revolt. Brahim led a motley band consisting of half a dozen men, some armed with the guns they had seized from the harquebusiers of Cádiar, others with nothing more than sticks or slings. In the rear came Hernando. He was in charge of the mule team, augmented by six sturdy animals chosen by Brahim from those taken from Cádiar.
Hernando had been forced to run behind his stepfather’s horse. When nobody in the church had dared challenge the old scholar, Brahim had spurred his mount out of the church, and ordered his stepson to follow. Hernando could not even say goodbye to Hamid or his mother; all he had managed was to smile at them as he went past. In the square outside, he found men and mules waiting.
‘If you lose an animal or any load, I’ll tear your eyes out.’
These were the only words his stepfather said to him before they all set out.
From then on, the boy’s only concern was to keep the mules in line behind his stepfather’s horse and the marching men. The Juviles mules obeyed his instructions; the new ones had minds of their own. The tallest of them snapped its teeth at him when he tried to force it into line. Hernando jumped nimbly aside, but when he went to punish the animal he found he was empty-handed.
‘I’ll see to you,’ he muttered to himself. The mule trotted on unconcernedly while Hernando searched round for a weapon. A stick will do, he thought. The mules were not stupid, but that one in particular needed to be taught a lesson. With his stepfather so close by, he could not allow any of them to disobey him or he would be the one to be punished. He picked up a good-sized stone and ran back to the mule’s right-hand side, concealing his arm behind his back. As soon as it realized he was there, the animal tried again to bite him, but Hernando struck it hard on the jaw with the stone. The mule shook its head and brayed loudly. Hernando gave it a push, and it submissively rejoined the line. When he looked up, he saw his stepfather had turned in the saddle and was watching him closely, ready to punish him immediately if he did anything wrong.
The Hand of Fatima Page 4