The Hand of Fatima

by Ildefonso Falcones

  Each evening when Hernando returned after dealing with the horses, he became the anguished witness of Brahim’s behaviour. Aisha would not let him intervene, and he could not approach Fátima, who still seemed not to have forgiven him. Yet because he could not bear to be apart from the only two people he loved, Hernando stayed close to the cave, on guard to make sure his stepfather kept his word and did not physically mistreat his mother. Whenever he heard Brahim insulting her, he gripped Hamid’s scimitar in impotent rage. Fátima had not said another word to him, and it was Aisha who silently brought him a bowl of food every evening.

  As soon as he heard the call to prayer, Hernando joined in devoutly. One night he even found himself calling on the Christian Virgin. Andrés, the Juviles sacristan, had stressed how the Virgin could intercede on his behalf with God, and so he commended himself to her, also conscious of what Hamid had taught him:

  ‘As Muslims, we defend Maryam. We believe in her virginity. Yes,’ the old holy man insisted when he saw his pupil’s surprised reaction. ‘Both the Koran and the Sunna confirm it. Don’t listen to anyone who mocks her purity and chastity. Many Muslims do so, but they are forgetting our teachings simply in order to attack the Christians still further, to pour scorn on their beliefs. But they are wrong: Maryam is one of the four models of perfection for women. She did give birth to Isa, the person the Christians call Jesus Christ, without losing her virginity. Even from the cradle, Isa defended her. The Koran teaches us that shortly after his birth Isa spoke in defence of his mother’s virginity when his family were insulting her because they did not believe her story.’

  Despite his own blind faith in Hamid, at this point Hernando had screwed up his eyes doubtfully. How could they as Moriscos defend the mother of the Christian god?

  ‘Remember,’ Hamid went on in order to convince him, ‘that when the Prophet finally succeeded in conquering Mecca and made his triumphant entrance into the Kaaba, he commanded that the idols be destroyed: Hubal, the patron of Mecca; Wad, Suwaa, Yagut, Yahuq, Nasr and many others. He also ordered all the wall paintings be covered over, except for the mural showing Maryam and her son. And don’t forget’, Hamid added sagely, ‘that Maryam never committed original sin. As the Koran and the Sunna state, she was born pure.’

  But had it not been one of the priests of the son of Maryam who had raped his mother when she was a defenceless child? Hernando asked himself that night. Had that not been the start of all his mother’s troubles? And his stepfather constantly spat, ‘Nazarene dog!’ at him. Whenever he heard that, Hernando clenched his fists, driving the nails into the palms of his hands. Everyone else heard it too! If he had not enjoyed Aben Humeya’s favour, they would all have treated him the same way. He knew it: he could see how the Moriscos glanced at him out of the corner of their eyes, and muttered behind his back. In spite of his pleas for Maryam to intercede, neither the Christian nor the Muslim God showed any sign of offering any help to Aisha, Fátima, or him.

  *

  As the days went by Aben Humeya took advantage of his enemy’s indecision and the unconditional support of his own people to regroup and, above all, to rearm. He named new governors for the Alpujarra districts and set up a tax system for his kingdom: the tenth part of all fruit and other harvests, and the fifth part of all booty won from the Christians. The sailing season had just begun, and with it came adventurers, soldiers of fortune, and janissaries keen to help their brothers in al-Andalus. Finally the Moriscos were seeing the so-often promised soldiers from the Sublime Porte!

  The King of Granada and Córdoba won two important victories over the Christians, which raised his followers’ hopes still higher. The first was at Órgiva, against Prince John and his men; the second was at La Ragua pass, against a hundred of the Marquis of los Vélez’s troops.

  Following these skirmishes, a period of calm descended on the Alpujarra. Everything was so quiet that a market grew up in Ugíjar that became as important as the one at Tetuan. So many merchants came and the market was so busy that Aben Humeya decided to set up a customs force to collect taxes on all the transactions.

  The two victories also meant there were many more horses for Hernando to look after in the stables, most of them captured from the Christians.

  ‘You should learn to ride,’ the King told him one day while he was inspecting the horses in a meadow, surrounded by several of the harquebusiers in the special bodyguard he had created. ‘That’s the only way to really get to know them. Besides’ – Aben Humeya smiled at him – ‘my most trusted men ought to be able to ride alongside me.’

  Hernando looked at the horses. He had only been on horseback once, when he had been fleeing from Tablate with El Gironcillo, and yet . . . what was it about the King that inspired such confidence? His smile? Hernando tilted his head to one side. His noble bearing, which came from being one of the most prominent councillors in Granada, and now a king? His grace and bravery?

  Aben Humeya was still smiling at him. ‘Come on,’ he pressed him.

  The King allowed him to choose his mount. Hernando put a bridle on a bay stallion, which looked to him to be the quietest, most docile animal he had under his care. As soon as he tightened the girths, the reddish tints of its black coat came to life and shone in the bright Sierra Nevada sun. He hesitated before raising a foot to the stirrup; by now both horse and rider were breathing heavily. He turned back to look at the King, who waved for him to mount the horse. Hernando slid his left foot into the stirrup and was swinging his right leg over when all of a sudden the horse neighed and took off at a gallop.

  Hernando could not bring his mount under control. Within a few strides he fell off and landed on his back among the rocks and bushes. Aben Humeya came over, but Hernando quickly got to his feet despite the pain and refused the hand the King held out to him. Some of the bodyguards were laughing.

  ‘Your first lesson,’ Aben Humeya told him. ‘Horses are not stupid mules or donkeys. You can never be sure that a horse will behave the same way with you on his back as he does when you are on the ground.’ As he listened to him, Hernando was studying the horse, which stood calmly chewing at some shrubs a few yards away. ‘Try again,’ the King added. ‘There are two ways to ride. The first is using a bridle, as Christians in all countries do, although the Spaniards less than others, perhaps because of what they have learnt from us. Their armour is so big and heavy they are not agile on horseback. When that Devil Iron Head climbs on to a horse, it starts to tremble and urinate out of fear. I’ve seen it happen. He controls and dominates them through brute strength, just as he does with men. But we Muslims ride differently, like the Berbers in the desert do, with short stirrups and controlling the horse with our legs and knees rather than bridle and spurs. Be strict if need be, but above all be intelligent and sensitive. That is the only way to control animals like these.’

  Hernando made as if to catch his first mount again, but Aben Humeya went on: ‘Ibn Hamid, you’ve chosen a mount with a black coat. Horses’ colours relate to the four elements: air, fire, water and earth. Dark bays like that one take their colouring from the earth. That’s why they are melancholy, and although they might appear to be quiet, they are also bad-tempered and short-sighted. That’s why it threw you off.’

  Having said this, the King turned away, leaving Hernando on his own with the horses, uncertain as to what elements the other horses’ coats corresponded to, or what attributes and faults they might have.

  Every day, he returned to the cave at night with all his bones aching. Some days he hobbled along; on others, he was completely lame; more than once he had to take his food with one hand. However, whether from luck or simply because of his youth, he had no broken bones. At least when he put his foot in the stirrup of one of the horses, he managed to forget Aisha and Fátima, Brahim and all the Moriscos whispering behind his back . . . and that was what he needed.

  Occasionally the King himself rode with him and gave him lessons. Being a nobleman, the King was a fine horseman. As they rode thro
ugh the mountains, something like a friendship grew up between them. The King told him about the jousting contests and bullfights he had taken part in. He also told him the meaning of the other shades of horses’ coats: white steeds were from water and were stolid, soft and slow; dark brown horses were from the air, and moved gracefully. They were good-tempered and agile, while chestnuts were fire animals, quick to flare up, impetuous and swift.

  ‘A horse which combines all these colours in its coat, the coronets of its hoofs, or its fetlocks, in the star on its forehead or in any whorls, in its mane or tail – that horse will be the best,’ the King explained one morning.

  Aben Humeya was riding easily on a light chestnut stallion. By his side, Hernando was struggling once more with the bay, which the King had given him.

  At nightfall Hernando would return to his mules outside the cave. Aisha and Fátima would see him go past looking dejected, greeting everyone and no one, and then seek refuge among his animals, as if they were the only reason for him being there. The mules, especially La Vieja, were the only beings he talked to. But the two women noticed that he never forgot his scimitar, which he reached for instinctively as soon as he heard Brahim’s voice. Jealous of the favours the King showed the Nazarene, the Moriscos living in the other caves nearby had all sided with the muleteer. Even those who had their doubts did not want a quarrel with the burly stepfather.

  Aisha suffered in silence to see her son in this state. Even Fátima could see how downcast Hernando was. For the first few days she had been so angry she treated him with disdain. How often had she thought of the way he had abandoned her during the month he was away? She had waited for him all that first night: Aisha had found a few drops of perfume for her, and as soon as she heard the noise in the King’s tent begin to die down, she had sprinkled it between her breasts, fantasizing about the caresses Hernando would give her. But he never appeared! Her desire turned to scorn. She imagined how she would spit at his feet when he eventually reappeared, turn her back on him, shout at him . . . even hit him! Then came Brahim’s ignoble pursuit of her, his leers and constant insinuations. When she heard how Brahim, having learnt of her husband’s death and knowing she had no other family, had asked the King for her hand, she cursed Hernando and heaped insults on him through her tears. On the night that he saved her at Mecina and told her of the King’s change of mind, she felt both relieved and offended. While this meant that she would no longer have to marry the hateful Brahim, she could not believe the way Hernando had behaved. Did he and the King think they could decide Fátima and her son’s future without even consulting her?

  Yet the days went by and he was always there to watch over them. Sometimes he strode back; at others he came limping to the cave because of some fall or other. He seemed resigned to the contempt the two women showed him, and yet was ready to spring to their defence: he had shown that when he had allowed Brahim to beat him without a murmur. The Nazarene, they all called him behind his back. Aisha had been forced to tell her why he was called that, and for the first time since Hernando had returned, she felt a tightening in her throat. Perhaps Hernando thought she felt the same contempt? What exactly was he thinking, all alone with his mules?

  One evening, when Aisha was going to take her son his supper, Fátima went up to her and took the bowl. She wanted to be near him. She was so conscious of how badly her hand was trembling she barely noticed the worried look Aisha gave her.

  Hernando was standing waiting for her. He could scarcely believe it was Fátima walking towards him.

  ‘Peace be with you, Ibn Hamid,’ Fátima began when she reached him. She held out the bowl.

  ‘Filthy sow!’ came Brahim’s shout from the cave mouth.

  The bowl fell from her hands.

  Fátima turned and saw by the firelight how Brahim was slapping Aisha. His hand on the hilt of his scimitar, Hernando took a couple of steps towards them, then came to a halt. When Brahim looked up and stared at her, Fátima realized why Aisha had grimaced: she had been trying to warn her. If Fátima went anywhere near Hernando, she would be the one to face the consequences. As he raised his hand to strike his wife again, an expression of evil glee crossed Brahim’s face. Fátima ran back to the cave. Brahim watched her rush past him, and laughed out loud.

  16

  IN APRIL 1569, the regrouped Morisco army and its followers, including women and children, marched towards Ugíjar. Aben Humeya and his most trusted companions were in the lead; Hernando rode proudly among them. At the head of the long column rode a company of harquebusiers, carrying the new russet-coloured banner Aben Humeya had adopted.

  The King and his bodyguard were followed by the Morisco cavalry and then the infantry. The Moriscos had learnt from the Christians and had been deployed in formation. They marched in platoons commanded by a captain, each carrying their own standard. Some of these had been sewn during their stay in the caves above Mecina, and were made of white, yellow or crimson cotton or silk, with silver or gold crescent moons in the centre, silk or gold fringes, or tassels adorned with seed pearls. Others marched proudly beneath banners and standards from the days when the Muslims ruled in al-Andalus. Among them were the men of Mecina, with their gold-embroidered taffeta banner boasting a castle with three silver towers in its centre. Still others marched with banners stolen from the Christians, like that of the Holy Sacrament from Ugíjar, in scarlet damask fringed with silk and gold, on top of which the Moriscos had embroidered silver moons.

  As usual the baggage train, with the women and children and all those unable to fight, brought up the rear.

  Drums and rebecs sounded as they converged on Ugíjar. Along the way they were greeted enthusiastically by the locals working in the fields as the King had commanded: it was vital for them to continue producing crops. The Christians could bring in supplies from beyond Granada, but the Moriscos had to survive on their own resources. The unexpected truce brought about by the handover to Prince John of Austria, who was still caught up in discussions in the city, had given them the opportunity to sow and harvest a new season’s crops.

  Hernando sat erect in the saddle, by now completely in control of his bay. He constantly reined his mount in, however, because he had no wish to join the group of horsemen in front of him. Brahim, who had become Aben Aboo’s inseparable companion, was one of them. The King’s cousin had to ride with several lambskins under him to prevent his scars hurting, but even so he often grimaced with pain. He rode alongside the King, with Brahim right behind them.

  Even from the saddle Hernando could not make out the rear of the column, because his view was blocked by the giant Morisco warriors. Aisha and Fátima were far off, with the other women and the mules, which were being looked after by Aquil and a quick-witted young boy called Yusuf, whom Hernando had met up at the caves and asked if he could help his stepbrother. There were far too many mules for Aquil to look after on his own.

  Ugíjar welcomed them with flags, music and dancing. It was a different town from the one they had fled. Workmen were busy converting the collegiate church back into a mosque. The bells the Moriscos had taken out their wrath on lay smashed at the foot of the bell tower. The triangle in between the three defensive towers had been turned into a vast market that spilled over into the neighbouring streets. The entire place was a mass of colour, smells and noise. Above all, it was full of new people: Berbers, corsairs and Muslim traders from the far side of the strait. Most of them dressed in a similar fashion to the Moriscos, although some wore djellabas, but what truly amazed Hernando was their appearance: some were tall and blond, with milky-white skins; others were red-haired and green-eyed; and there were many freed Negro slaves. They all moved about among the Berbers as though they belonged.

  ‘They’re renegade Christians,’ El Gironcillo explained when he saw that Hernando was so dumbfounded at the sight of a huge albino that he almost collided with him.

  The albino smiled at him in a curious way, as if . . . as if inviting him to dismount and go with him. Con
fused, Hernando turned towards the outlaw leader.

  ‘You must never trust them,’ El Gironcillo warned him when they were out of earshot. ‘Their customs are very different from ours: they adore young boys like you. The renegade Christians are the real rulers of Algiers; they are pirates and they look down on us. Tetuan belongs to the Moriscos, and so do Salah, La Mámora and Vélez, but Algiers—’

  ‘Aren’t they Turks?’ Hernando interrupted him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘In Algiers there are janissaries who live alongside the renegades. They are Turkish soldiers sent by the Sultan.’ At this, El Gironcillo stood on his stirrups and peered round the market. ‘No, they’re not here yet. You’ll recognize them as soon as you see them. They take their orders directly from the Sultan, not the beylerbey of Algiers. They have their own leaders, the agas. Forty years ago, Khair ad-Din, the one the Christians call Barbarossa, made his kingdom a vassal of the Sublime Porte, of our Sultan, the one who has promised to help us in our fight against the Christians . . . But make no mistake, you cannot trust the renegades from Algiers, especially since you’re such a good-looking lad.’ He laughed. ‘Never turn your back on them!’

  El Gironcillo’s laughter brought their conversation to an end. Aben Humeya was dismounting, and looked round for Hernando to come and take the horses. In the tumult of the army’s arrival, Hernando tried to spot Fátima and Aisha, but the rearguard had not yet reached the village. First he had to take care of the horses; then he could see what had happened to the women.

  Just as he had done in Paterna, Aben Humeya now ordered several of the harquebusiers from his personal guard to accompany Hernando. On the outskirts of the village beyond the teeming streets behind Ugíjar church, he found a suitable two-storey house that had enough land for the King and his lieutenants’ horses. The house must have belonged to one of the Christian families murdered during the revolt. There was no direct access from the street, as the property was surrounded by a low wall.