Brahim heard men in the courtyard burst into a flurry of activity and ran to the balcony. He reached it in time to see them opening the inn gates to admit a group of riders. He gripped the wooden railing tightly with his left hand. Amidst the shadows and the flickering flames of the large torches he made out the forms of two women, whom the men let fall from their horses as soon as the gates closed behind them.
Aisha and Fátima tried to stand. Aisha leant against a horse, only to fall again when it stepped restlessly to one side. Fátima crawled and stumbled several times before she managed to lift her face to the riders, searching for the children, whose sobs reached her clearly in spite of all the noise. From above, Brahim could make out the children, but . . . Leaning over the rail, he narrowed his eyes.
‘And the Nazarene?’ he shouted from the balcony. ‘Where’s that son of a bitch?’
Aisha’s hands flew to her face and she collapsed between a horse’s legs. She gave a single scream, which rang out above the clattering hooves, the animals’ snorting and the riders’ orders. Fátima staggered to her feet trembling. Every muscle in her body tensed as she turned her head slowly, as if wanting to give herself time to identify the voice that had just forced its way into her hearing. Finally she raised her huge black eyes towards the balcony. They stared at each other. Brahim smiled. Instinctively Fátima tried to cover her breasts; she felt naked beneath the simple nightgown. Some of the riders had dismounted and one near Fátima guffawed loudly.
‘Cover yourself, bitch!’ yelled the corsair. ‘And the rest of you’ – he looked towards the men who appeared to have only just noticed the women’s state of undress – ‘get your filthy eyes off my wife!’ Fátima felt tears welling in her eyes: ‘My wife!’ he had shouted. My wife! ‘Where’s the Nazarene, marquis?’
The noble was the only one of the men still mounted and still obscured by his cloak. The glare of the torches picked out the folds of his hood. He did not respond, but one of his lackeys spoke for him.
‘There was nobody else in the house.’
‘That wasn’t the deal,’ roared the corsair.
For a few moments there was no sound apart from the children’s sobs.
‘In that case, there is no deal,’ the noble said defiantly, his voice steady.
Brahim remained silent in the face of the challenge. He watched Fátima hugging herself, downcast and afraid, and a shiver of pleasure ran down his spine. Then he turned to the noble: if he reneged on the deal, he would die.
‘What about the One-handed One?’ he asked, implying he conceded the lack of Hernando.
As if it had been planned, at that exact moment there were a couple of knocks on the old, dry wood of the hostelry door. They echoed round the courtyard. The administrator’s instructions had been were clear: ‘Be ready with the outlaw. Hide yourselves close by the inn, and when you see my lord enter, bring him.’
First to enter was Ubaid, between two of the baron’s henchmen. He came into the courtyard dragging his feet, his arms tied together above his stump. The Valencian noble, old now but solid and tough, looked for the Marquis of Casabermeja. Without a moment’s hesitation he approached the cloaked mounted figure.
‘Here you have him, marquis,’ he said, reaching behind him to grab Ubaid by the hair and force him to kneel at the horse’s feet.
‘I am grateful to you all, sir,’ Casabermeja replied.
As the marquis was speaking, one of his servants stepped up. He handed a bag to the baron, who untied it, opened it and began to count out the gold sovereigns that formed the rest of the agreed payment.
‘I am the one who is grateful, excellency,’ said the Valencian, satisfied with the reward. ‘I trust that when you next visit your estates in Valencia, we can meet and go hunting.’
‘You will all be invited to share my table, baron.’ The marquis accompanied his words with a nod of his head.
‘I am highly honoured,’ the baron said by way of farewell. He indicated to the two men accompanying him to move towards the door.
‘Godspeed,’ the marquis wished him.
The baron responded to these words with an approximation of the bow etiquette demanded of someone taking their leave of a person of higher rank, and headed for the door. Before he had reached it, the marquis turned his attention back towards the balcony where Brahim had been a few moments earlier. The corsair had already come down to the courtyard in order to throw over Fátima, without uttering a word, a lice-ridden blanket he had found in his room. Puffing and short of breath, he then turned towards the muleteer of Narila.
‘Don’t go near him,’ ordered the same servant who had paid the baron, his hand dropping to his sword. Several of the men with him immediately unsheathed their weapons, responding to the unspoken command.
‘What . . .?’ Brahim started to complain.
‘We haven’t heard you agree to the new arrangement yet,’ the lackey said.
‘I agree,’ the corsair growled, pushing the man forcibly out of his way.
Trying to retain his dignity, Ubaid had remained kneeling at the feet of the marquis’s horse. When he heard Brahim’s voice he turned his head just enough to receive a kick in the mouth.
‘Dog! Filthy pig! Bastard son of a whore!’
Aisha and Fátima, who was wrapped up in the coarse, filthy blanket Brahim had thrown over her, tried to make out what was happening amidst the dancing shadows projected by the fire of the torches, the men and the horses: Ubaid!
Brahim had imagined a thousand different ways to gloat over the slow, cruel death he planned for the muleteer of Narila. But the contemptuous sneer on Ubaid’s bloody mouth as he looked up at him enraged him so much he forgot all the tortures he had dreamed of. Shaking with fury, he drew his scimitar and dealt a savage blow to the outlaw’s body. The blade pierced Ubaid but did not kill him. The others in the courtyard leapt out of the madman’s way, with only the marquis staying calmly in his place. Shouting unintelligible insults Brahim showed no mercy to Ubaid, who was curled up in a ball on the ground. He struck out again and again with his scimitar at his legs, chest, arms and head.
‘He’s already dead,’ said the marquis from his horse, at a moment when Brahim paused for breath. ‘He’s dead!’ he shouted when he saw the corsair preparing to deal another blow.
Brahim stopped. Panting, his whole body trembling, he lowered the scimitar and stood quietly beside Ubaid’s mangled body. Without looking at anyone he knelt down, and with the stump of his right hand turned over the mass of flesh, searching for what had been Ubaid’s back. Many of the men in the yard, including the marquis, hardened as they were to the horrors of war, could not bear to look as Brahim dropped his scimitar and drew a dagger with which he cut open the outlaw’s side, searching for his heart. Brahim rummaged around inside the body until, still kneeling, he plucked it out and stood staring at it. It almost seemed to be still beating when he spat on it and threw it to the ground.
‘We will leave at dawn,’ said Brahim, turning to the marquis. He had stood up, covered in blood.
The noble just nodded. Then Brahim headed towards Fátima and grabbed her by the arm. He still had one part of his dreams left to fulfil. However, first he pushed her over to Aisha.
‘Woman!’ Aisha lifted her face. ‘Tell your son the Nazarene I’ll be waiting for him in Tetuan. If he wants his children back he’ll have to come and find them in Barbary.’
As the corsair gave an about-turn, pulling Fátima with him, Aisha and her companion exchanged glances. Fátima’s denial was almost imperceptible. ‘Don’t do it! Don’t tell him!’ she pleaded with her eyes.
Until the sky began to lighten nobody disturbed Brahim, who had locked himself away with Fátima in the upstairs room of the inn.
41
AISHA LEFT the Montón de la Tierra inn at dawn, when she had seen Brahim and the marquis’s men disappear into the distance. Ubaid’s body was left behind, buried near the inn by the marquis’s servants to erase all traces of their presence there.
Aisha had spent the night huddled in a corner with Shamir and her grandchildren, fighting back the tears as she tried to console them. She knew she was about to lose another son. What did God have in store for him?
Before departing, Brahim had come down from his room looking satisfied and pleased with himself. Fátima followed a few steps behind, walking painfully and covered from head to foot by the blanket. Only her eyes were visible, through a gap she held half closed with her hands.
The marquis’s men prepared the horses and the noise and bustle of departure filled the courtyard.
‘You’re Shamir, aren’t you?’ Brahim asked, going up to his son. Aisha sensed a hint of tenderness in her husband. Eyes downcast, the boy allowed the corsair to touch his head. The little one had no idea who the man was; Aisha and Fátima had always told him that his father had died in the Alpujarra. ‘Do you know who I am?’
Shamir shook his head, and Brahim’s eyes bored into Aisha.
‘Woman,’ he muttered in, ‘you’re lucky I need you to deliver the message I gave you yesterday. If it wasn’t for that I’d kill you right now.’
Then he lifted Shamir’s chin until the boy’s eyes were fixed on him.
‘Listen to me carefully, boy: I’m your father and you’re my only son.’ Hearing these words, a curious Francisco came over to Shamir. ‘Get away!’ Brahim spat at him, shoving him with his stump and knocking him to the ground.
‘Don’t hit him!’ Shamir cried, wrenching himself away from the hand holding his chin and launching himself at his father. Brahim burst out laughing and put up with the blows the boy dealt his stomach. He let Shamir carry on until he grew tired of the boy and slapped him away. Shamir fell beside Francisco.
‘I admire your spirit,’ cackled Brahim. ‘But,’ he added as if about to spit at Francisco, ‘if you persist in defending the Nazarene’s son you’ll suffer the same fate. As for that one,’ he said, gesturing towards Inés, ‘she can be a slave for my two daughters. And the day the Nazarene turns up in Tetuan . . .’
Aisha walked wearily along the road to Córdoba. When she recalled the phrase Brahim had left hanging in the air: ‘the day the Nazarene turns up in Tetuan . . .’ she felt the same chill that had run through her body in the courtyard of the inn. Fátima had shuddered too beneath the blanket, and the two women had exchanged what they realized would be their last look. Aisha had again sensed her companion was trying to say to her: ‘Don’t tell him! He’ll kill him!’
He’ll kill him! With that certainty fixed firmly in her mind Aisha entered Córdoba through the Colodro gate. Unlike the last time she had made this journey, with Shamir in her arms, after being forced to follow Brahim to the mountains, this time she managed to escape the attention of the city guards. She slipped through the gate like a soul in torment, her feet bloody and dressed only in her nightshirt. She reached Calle de los Barberos, where the sight of both front door and iron gate flung wide open brought her to her senses. In spite of the fact that it was daytime, a shutter abruptly closed at a balcony window. One of her neighbours two houses down was about to step out into the street, but drew back inside. Aisha entered the house and realized why: her Christian neighbours had spent the night looting it. There was nothing left inside, not even the flowerpots! Aisha looked towards the fountain: at least they had not been able to steal the water gushing there. Then she turned her attention to the place where, underneath a flagstone, they hid their savings. The flagstone was raised. She looked at the next one, still in its place. Hernando had been right. A sad smile formed on her lips as she remembered her son’s words.
‘We’ll hide the money under this one.’ Then he had laid the stone flag in such a way that even the dullest observer would clearly see it had been disturbed. It was under the neighbouring stone that he had hidden the Koran and the hand of Fátima. ‘If anyone comes to rob us,’ Hernando had said, ‘they’ll find the money and I can’t imagine they’ll think to look for any further treasure, our real treasure.’
Hernando, though, had been thinking of the Inquisition or the Córdoba authorities, not of his neighbours.
‘What’s happened, Aisha? Where are Fátima and the children?’
Aisha turned to find Abbas standing by the open wrought-iron gate.
‘I . . .’ she stammered opening her hands. ‘I don’t know.’
‘People say that last night, Ubaid and his men—’
Aisha could not listen to any more. Don’t tell him! He’ll kill him! Fátima’s silent plea stole once more into her mind. Besides, Hernando was all she had left. Yet another son had been stolen from her. She had nothing apart from the smiling boy with blue eyes who used to seek out her affection under the cover of darkness in Juviles, hidden from prying eyes. During the night at the inn she had listened to what the marquis’s men had to say about Brahim. They all knew why they were there. Aisha had learnt how he had become one of the most important corsairs in Tetuan, living in what the men described as an enormous fortress, and he kept a veritable army under his command. He would never allow Hernando near Fátima again!
‘They’ve killed them all,’ she sobbed to Abbas. ‘Ubaid and his men have killed them!’ she screamed. ‘My Shamir, Fátima and Francisco . . . Little Inés!’
Aisha fell to the floor, weeping inconsolably. She did not need to feign either her tears or the pain that gripped her. In fact, perhaps . . . perhaps they would have been better off dead than in Brahim’s clutches. She howled at the sky as she thought of Shamir. What would become of her little one? And Fátima? What further hardships did God have in store for her?
Abbas did not go to comfort her. His strength failed him, and he had to cling on to the gate to remain standing. He gasped for breath. He had promised on behalf of all the Moriscos that Hernando would not be troubled by the bandit. Not only that: he had promised to take care of Hernando’s family while he was away in Seville. Before he left Hernando had begged him to do this. Abbas had answered him almost contemptuously. ‘What could possibly happen?’ he clearly remembered telling him.
Consumed by grief, Aisha and Abbas were accompanied only by the constant murmur of the water that rose and fell in the fountain of a beautiful Córdoba courtyard, now in ruins.
Abbas followed the same road as the mares towards the royal preserve of Lomo del Grullo: a day’s journey to Écija with a stop in the Valcargado inn; another to Carmona, stopping in Fuentes; a third to Seville, resting in the Loysa inn, and then from Seville to Villamanrique. He forced himself to walk. He put one foot in front of the other and each sad and painful step took him ever closer to a destiny he had no desire to meet. What was he going to say to Hernando? How could he possibly tell him his wife and children had been murdered by Ubaid? How to confess he had not kept his promise?
He had tried to make contact with the One-handed One whilst he waited for the royal stables to grant him permission to leave for Lomo del Grullo. He wanted to know why; he even wanted to come face to face with him so he could kill him. However, none of the contacts through which he usually reached the outlaw could help him: Ubaid and his band had simply disappeared. Perhaps they had gone deep into the mountains and would return some day, but nobody seemed to have heard anything about Ubaid. But why had he killed Fátima and the children?
‘Why did he do it?’ Don Diego, handing Abbas the safe conduct that would enable him to travel to Seville, was also surprised. ‘Isn’t he Morisco too?’
‘He and Hernando had problems in the Alpujarra,’ said Abbas by way of explanation.
‘Severe enough to warrant killing a woman and three defenceless children?’ replied the noble, waving the document he carried in his hand. ‘Holy Virgin!’
Abbas could only shrug his shoulders. Don Diego was right, and, given that Aisha refused to talk about it, he had not even been able to find the bodies to give them a decent burial. In response to questions as to where the slaughter had occurred, Aisha’s only answer had been ‘somewhere in the mountains’. Whenever the blacksmith tried to glean more
specific details that might shed some light on the exact location, Aisha broke down in tears and always ended up sobbing the same words: ‘Go and find my son, I beg you.’
Now Abbas was doing just that, step by step under the Andalusian sun. With stomach clenched, the taste of bile permanently in his mouth and tears pricking at his eyes, he thought about how to tell a good friend that his wife and two children had been savagely murdered deep in the mountains of the Sierra Morena.
All the careful phrases he had come up with vanished from his mind at the mere sight of Hernando, who left the horses and jumped down lithely from Azirat to run towards him. Hernando was tanned by the sun and his blue eyes were more brilliant than ever. A wide, sincere smile revealed his white teeth.
Abbas’s eyes misted over, and the horses became just a shapeless blur. However, he sensed that Hernando stopped abruptly a few paces short of where he stood. Hernando’s presence merged into the thousand dark stains of the mares behind him, and his words seemed distant, as if carried on the wind from some faraway place.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Ubaid . . .’ whispered Abbas.
‘What about Ubaid?’ Hernando’s blue eyes, now reflecting a growing unease, seemed to bore straight through him. ‘Has something happened? My family . . . are they all right? Speak!’
‘He’s killed them,’ the blacksmith managed to utter, ‘all of them but your mother.’
Hernando stood dumbstruck. For several moments he stayed motionless, as if his mind refused to accept what he had just heard. Then very slowly he lifted his hands to his face and howled at the sky. ‘Fátima! The children!
‘You son of a whore!’ he suddenly shouted at Abbas. He punched the blacksmith, who fell to the ground. Then he leapt on him. ‘Dog! You promised me they would be safe! I asked you to watch over them, to take care of them!’
The Hand of Fatima Page 52