The lad reacted when he heard Aisha named. ‘What shall we do now?’ he asked, increasing the pressure from his knife on Nasi’s throat, as if he wanted him to share the same fate as Brahim.
‘You two,’ she said, addressing Shamir and Abdul, ‘take Brahim’s treasure and go and hide in the port. Have all your men and ships ready to depart. Wait there for my instructions. You,’ she added, going up to the corsair, ‘are to go straight to the house of the governor Muhammad al-Naqsis. You are to inform him that Shamir, the son of Brahim of Juviles, who is now the head of the family, swears his loyalty to him and places all his ships and men at his disposal.’
‘What if I refuse?’ Nasi retorted.
‘Kill him!’ said Fátima, turning her back on him.
The sound of the dagger slitting the throat of Brahim’s second-in-command took her by surprise. She had expected to hear the corsair pleading for his life, but Shamir did not give him the chance. Fátima turned back to see Nasi slumping to the floor, his throat cut.
‘He was not a good man,’ Shamir said simply.
‘All right,’ Fátima agreed. ‘This does not change anything. Do as I told you.’
At first light, Shamir and Abdul set off for the port with all Brahim’s gold, jewels and documents. Fátima had told two slaves to prepare the corpses and to clean the dining room. That same night she had visited the wing of the palace where Brahim’s second wife lived her lonely existence. She told her that Brahim had died without giving her any more details, but emphasized that it was Shamir who was the new head of the family. The other woman looked at the floor and said nothing. She knew that her fate now depended on the generosity of the young man who loved Fátima like a mother.
The next morning, Fátima dressed and headed for the house of Muhammad al-Naqsis. Earlier in the sixteenth century, Tetuan had been part of the kingdom of Fez, which was subsequently taken over by Morocco; after a period of independence, it was conquered a second time. Power at the centre was weak, however, and insistent rumours had reached Brahim’s palace to the effect that the al-Naqsis family wanted to declare their independence. Brahim himself had talked about the possibility, angry that his commercial rivals might take control of the city. Even though she was a woman, the governor agreed to see Fátima. The al-Naqsis family were at loggerheads with Brahim over the division of the spoils of piracy, and so a visit by his adversary’s wife aroused Muhammad’s curiosity.
‘What about Brahim?’ Muhammad al-Naqsis asked when Fátima swore loyalty to him in the name of Shamir.
‘He’s dead.’
The governor looked Fátima up and down, unable to conceal his admiration. Before him stood the most beautiful, and now the richest, woman in all Tetuan.
‘And his second-in-command?’ he asked, pretending to have accepted her terse response.
‘He also has passed away,’ Fátima replied. Her voice was firm, although as befitted a submissive Muslim woman she did not raise her eyes from the floor.
Passed away? thought the governor. Is that all? What did you have to do with those two deaths, I wonder?
He looked at Fátima with increased respect. She spoke again, briefly and to the point. It took him only a few seconds to decide not to ask her any more questions, and to accept the aid that this generous widow seemed willing to offer him so that he could win independence.
The next day Fátima, accompanied by women hired to mourn dressed in coarse garments, their faces daubed with soot, listened as verses and songs were recited in honour of the dead. After each verse, the mourners cried out, beat their breasts, scratched their cheeks until the blood ran and tore out their hair. These funeral rites were repeated for seven days.
The old Jewish man looked up. His eyes met Fátima’s. They both knew that the confession she had just made would never be repeated anywhere else. He had long since learnt to see, listen and keep quiet. His own people had not only survived but grown rich, thanks to the virtue of discretion.
‘My lady . . .’ he murmured, pointing to the still blank sheet of paper.
Fátima sighed. Yes, the moment had come. In a strong, clear voice, she started to dictate: ‘Beloved husband, peace and the blessings of the Magnanimous, He who judges with truth, be upon you . . .’
54
He blew with His winds, and they were scattered.
Medal inscription ordered by Queen Elizabeth of England
AFTER SPENDING two months in the port of La Coruña, and despite several attempts at peace negotiations and various meetings where the advice was not to go ahead with the enterprise, the great armada finally set off for the conquest of England. It was commanded by the Duke of Medina Sidonia, who had taken over from the Marquis of Santa Cruz after his sudden demise.
Don Alfonso de Córdoba and his eldest son, together with twenty servants including José Caro, as well as dozens of trunks containing their belongings, clothing, books and two complete dinner services, embarked on one of the leading ships.
The news of the fleet that began to reach Spain soon afterwards was not what had been expected after the blessing from God with which they had undertaken the war against England. The aim had been to join up with the Duke of Parma’s regiments in Dunkirk, embark them on the ships, and then to invade England. However, after the fleet had dropped anchor in Calais, only twenty-five leagues from where the Duke of Parma’s troops were stationed, the Spaniards found that the Dutch had blockaded the bay at Dunkirk. This meant that the Duke of Parma had no way to skirt round the Dutch blockade and join the fleet. The English admiral Lord Howard took full advantage of the opportunity offered by having the enemy fleet confined in a small space at Calais, and attacked it with fire ships.
On the night of 7 August, the Spaniards saw eight burning supply ships bearing downwind on them from the English side. Two of the dreaded ‘hellburners’ were diverted by means of long poles from small boats, but the other six drifted into the Spanish fleet, bursting into flames, their guns firing at random as they exploded. The Spanish captains were forced to cut their anchor cables and scatter, thus breaking the crescent formation the fleet had adopted from the start. Seeing that the enemy’s usual tight formation was now in tatters, the English attacked and a bloody battle ensued. The Spaniards found themselves pushed by the wind towards the north of the English Channel. However hard the Duke of Medina Sidonia tried to get back to the coast of Flanders, the atmospheric conditions made this impossible. The English stood off without attacking, simply making sure that their enemy did not return.
Some days later, the Spanish admiral ordered that all the animals the fleet was transporting be thrown overboard. The fleet’s supplies of water and food were soon spoilt because of the poor quality of the barrels in which they were kept (they had been made from cheap staves and hoops after Drake had burnt the more solid ones at Cádiz the year before), and many of the ships were by now in poor condition, with their crews dying of typhus or scurvy. Nevertheless, the Duke of Medina Sidonia decided to continue north around Scotland and the unknown coasts of the west of Ireland in order to return to Spain.
On 21 September the Duke of Medina Sidonia’s flagship, bound together by three huge cables to prevent it coming apart (as though it were some macabre gift), and with the admiral himself dying on a litter, arrived back in Santander with another eight galleons. Only thirty-five of the original 130 that had made up the great armada succeeded in reaching different ports of Spain once more. Some had been sunk during the Channel battle; many more were lost on the Irish coasts, where storms had battered the dilapidated ships, wrecking them on the shores of the west of the island. Still others met an unknown fate. Some days after the admiral’s arrival, a letter was despatched to Córdoba: the ship Don Alfonso and his son were sailing on had not returned.
When she received the news, Doña Lucía gave instructions for everyone in the duke’s palace – hidalgos, servants, slaves, and Hernando as well – to attend the three daily masses that the priest of the palace chapel organized. During
the rest of the day the silence was interrupted only by the murmuring of rosaries being said at all hours by the hidalgos and the duchess, gathered in the gloom of one of the main rooms. They all had to adhere to a strict fast; reading, dancing and music were forbidden; and none of them dared leave the palace except to go to church or to attend the constant rogations and processions that had been organized all over Spain following the disaster and the lack of information about so many ships and their crews.
‘Maria, Mater Gratiae, Mater Misericordiae . . .’
Kneeling behind the duchess, the entire household recited the rosary over and over again. Hernando repeated the interminable prayers mechanically, but all around him he could hear the voices of the proud, haughty courtiers praying with real devotion. He could see from their faces how concerned, even anxious, they were: their future depended on Don Alfonso’s life and generosity, and if he were dead . . .
‘Don’t worry, cousin,’ Don Sancho said one day over their midday meal: the table had an austere look to it, with black bread and fish, and none of the wines or delicacies usually served in the palace, ‘if your husband and his first-born were taken prisoner on the Irish coast, their captors will respect them. They represent a large ransom. No one will harm them. Trust in God. They will be well looked after until the ransom is paid; that is the law of honour, the law of war.’
The glimmer of hope that had shone in the duchess’s eyes when the old hidalgo said this turned to tears as the news from Ireland began to reach Spain. Sir William Fitzwilliam, at that time commander of the English forces in Ireland, had only 750 men to protect the island from the native inhabitants, who were still fighting for their freedom. As a consequence he could not contemplate having to deal with such a high number of enemy soldiers. His orders were categorical: any Spaniard found on Irish territory, be they noble, soldier, servant or galley slave, was to be arrested and immediately executed.
Philip II’s informers and those soldiers who, with the help of Irish lords, managed to escape through Scotland were told endless stories of ghastly massacres of Spaniards. Without compassion or chivalry, the English killed even those who surrendered.
Hernando’s concern for the fate of a man who had treated him as a friend turned into worry about his own future. His relations with the duchess had worsened still further when she had found out about his love affair with Isabel. As was the case with Don Sancho, Doña Lucía refused to speak to him: she never even looked in his direction; and the entire palace treated him as if he were nothing more than a hindrance left by someone whose fate they knew nothing of. Perhaps in other circumstances he would not have been so concerned, since he hated the hypocrisy such an idle kind of existence implied. But the duke’s favour, and access to his library with dozens of books in it, as well as the possibility of devoting himself completely to the Morisco community’s cause following the spectacular success of the discovery of the parchment in the Turpian tower, were things that Hernando would not and could not renounce, however awkward his continued presence in the duke’s palace was proving to be. The cathedral chapter had commissioned Luna and Castillo to translate the parchment. He had finally worked out how to cut the end of the reeds he used for writing into a slight rightward curve, and, as if his hand were guided by God, he could now inscribe the most beautiful Arabic letters he had ever imagined on to the sheets of paper.
In September of that year, while the whole of Spain, including the King, was weeping over the defeat of the great armada, a young Jew from Tetuan carrying fake papers declaring him to be an oil merchant from Málaga arrived in Córdoba as part of a caravan he had joined in Seville.
The young man passed the customs house at the Calahorra tower. As he was crossing the Roman bridge with a string of mules beside him, he stared up at the vast building works going on almost opposite, beyond the bridge and the entrance gate to the city. He remembered what his father had told him before he left Tetuan: ‘On the far side of the bridge you will find the great mosque on which the Christians are building their cathedral.’ His father was in turn repeating the instructions he had received from Fátima. He spoke to his son in Spanish, to remind him of the language they used only for doing business with the Christians who came to Barbary. Now he had reached his goal!
Ephraim’s son (and namesake) came to a halt in front of the monumental structure rising above the mosque’s low roof. Rows of majestic flying buttresses stood waiting for the completion of the dome that would be the cathedral’s crowning glory.
‘By the cathedral front, on the far side of the river, where the bell tower stands,’ his father had continued, ‘you’ll come across a street that leads up to Calle de los Deanes, which in turn takes you to Calle de los Barberos, and then, higher up, becomes Calle Almanzor . . .’ The old Jewish man’s voice trembled.
‘What’s the matter, Father?’ Ephraim asked with concern. He reached out to rest his hand on his father’s arm.
‘The district you are to aim for’, the old man went on, after clearing his throat, ‘is what used to be Córdoba’s Jewry, from which the Christians expelled us less than a century ago.’ His voice quavered again. Fátima had explained to him about the house with a courtyard where the family lived. He listened patiently to her. How often had he heard the description of those same streets from his grandfather’s lips! ‘That’s where your roots are, my son. Breathe the air in deeply, and bring me back some of it!’
The woman who received him in the house knew nothing about Hernando Ruiz, a new Christian from Juviles to whom Ephraim was supposed to give the letter he had carefully concealed under his clothing. In fact, she threw him out when the Jewish boy insisted that a Morisco family had lived there in the past.
‘No heretic has ever set foot in this house!’ she shouted at him, slamming shut the door in the entranceway.
‘If by any chance you don’t find him there,’ his father had told him, ‘you should make for the royal stables. According to my lady, they are bound to have news of him there.’ Ephraim asked where the stables were, went back through the city and past the fortress where the Holy Inquisition had its headquarters, and finally reached them.
‘I’ve no idea whom you’re talking about,’ he was told by a lad he bumped into as soon as he entered the yard. ‘But if he’s a new Christian, ask in the smith’s forge. Jerónimo is bound to know of him; he’s worked here for years.’
Ephraim went on, through the horses’ stalls and the central ring, where several riders were training colts. The Jewish lad stopped for a few moments. How different these horses were from the small Arab steeds of his country! The lad called out to him from the entrance to the yard, telling him to carry on to the forge. Why would this Jerónimo know about a new Christian? he wondered as he made for the building. He found his answer in the blacksmith’s dark complexion and Arab features. The man greeted him with a smile, which vanished as soon as he learnt of the reason for his visit.
‘What do you want from Hernando?’ he growled.
Ephraim hesitated: why such suspicion? The smith straightened up, surrounded by anvils, the roaring forge, his tools and bars of iron. He looked massive, and was breathing heavily through his bulbous nose.
‘Do you know him?’ the young man asked firmly.
This time it was the blacksmith who hesitated.
‘Yes,’ he admitted finally.
‘Do you know how I could find him?’
Jerónimo took a step towards him. ‘Why?’
‘That’s my business. All I’m asking you is if you know where I can find this Hernando. If you do, and want to tell me, that’s fine; if not, I don’t mean to trouble you, and I’ll ask elsewhere.’
‘I know nothing about him.’
‘Thank you,’ Ephraim said by way of goodbye, convinced that the Arab was not telling the truth. Why would that be?
The blacksmith had no wish to tell him anything about Hernando, but then again, perhaps it would be useful to discover what the visitor was doing in Córdoba.
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‘I do know where you can find his mother though,’ he admitted. Ephraim halted. ‘The lady demands that the letter be handed over to him personally, or to his mother. Her name is Aisha. You are not to give it to anyone else,’ his father had warned him.
What was happening with that family? Ephraim wondered when he reached the door of Aisha’s house in a narrow alleyway in the Santiago district, at the opposite end of the city. It was obvious from his eyes that Jerónimo had lied to him, and when he asked some women working with pots and flowers in the courtyard of the building about Aisha, they looked at him with contempt. Ephraim was a strong young man, perhaps not as strong as the blacksmith, but more so than the Morisco who answered the women’s calls. And he was tired. He had walked for days from Seville, where he had arrived in a Portuguese boat that had sailed from Ceuta, and he had spent all day going from place to place looking for Hernando Ruiz or his mother, running the risk that any argument might lead to his arrest and reveal either that he was a Jew or that his papers were false.
‘Why are you looking for Aisha?’ the Morisco asked him disdainfully.
That was enough! Ephraim cast aside all caution, scowled and swung his hand to the dagger hilt at his belt. The Morisco’s eyes could not help but follow the movement of the young Jew’s hand.
‘That’s none of your business,’ Ephraim said. ‘Does she live here?’ The Morisco hesitated. ‘Does she live here or not?’ Ephraim shouted, making as if to draw his dagger.
She did. She slept right there, behind where Ephraim was standing, in the entrance gateway. He turned and saw the crumpled blanket the Morisco pointed to with a tilt of his chin. However, at that time of day she was still at the weaver’s workshop.
Ephraim waited out in the narrow alleyway leading to the house. A short time later, something told him that the stooped woman coming slowly towards him, staring at the ground and with her clothes hanging loosely from her shoulders, must be the person he was looking for.
The Hand of Fatima Page 71