Hernando went to visit the Sacromonte in the company of Don Pedro de Granada; both Castillo and Luna excused themselves. Followed by two servants, the men took the road along the river Darro, turned at the Guadix gate and climbed up towards the sanctuary along a path that led from a gap in the old walls surrounding the Albaicín. Hernando did not know this way up. He had not been to Granada for three years, since the moment when he had taken his eagerly awaited transcription of the gospel of Barnabas for Luna and Castillo to study in detail. The discovery of the lead plates had also meant that the cathedral council was no longer so interested in the Alpujarra martyrs, and had therefore not asked him to draw up reports on the matter.
Since the appearance of the first plaque there had been a constant stream of miracles and visions. A great number of people in Granada, including one entire convent of nuns, testified to the archbishop that they had seen strange lights in the sky over the sacred hill, and even witnessed ethereal processions lit by holy fires making their way to the caves. ‘Can you imagine it? An entire convent of nuns!’ When he saw Hernando shaking his head, Don Pedro went on: ‘You don’t believe me? Listen: a young crippled girl prayed inside the caves and came out cured. The daughter of a chancery official who had been laid up in bed for four years was carried on a litter to the caves, and returned walking by herself. Dozens of people have testified as much in the enquiry verifying the authenticity of the relics. Even the Bishop of the Yucatán came from the Indies to pray to the martyrs to cure his herpes militaris! He said mass, then he mixed earth from the caves with holy water, spread it on his herpes, and was cured on the spot! A bishop! He testified to this miracle as well. And there are many more cures and miracles that the ordinary people say they have witnessed on the Sacromonte.’
‘Don Pedro—’ Hernando began sarcastically.
‘Just look . . .’ the nobleman interrupted him. By now they were drawing near to the part of the hill where the caves stood. Hernando followed his gesture as he waved at the scene confronting them. ‘This is the result of your work.’
A forest of more than a thousand crosses rose all round the entrance to the mine where the caves were to be found. This was where the crowds of pilgrims gathered in front of tiny shrines or the huts where the priests lived. The two men reined in their horses; Hernando’s high-spirited mount tossed its head impatiently. The Morisco’s eyes roamed over the hill, coming to a halt at the sight of all the crosses with the pilgrims kneeling beneath them. Although some were simple wooden constructions, others were made from carved stone and rose high in the sky from solid pedestals. ‘The result of my work,’ Hernando whispered to himself. When he had come to Granada to hand over the first plaques, he had doubted whether he would succeed, but the credulity of the Christians was far greater than any errors he might have made.
‘It’s astonishing,’ he said admiringly, twisting his head upwards to try to see the top of a lofty cross standing right next to him.
‘Most of the churches in the city have put up crosses,’ Don Pedro explained, following the direction of Hernando’s gaze. ‘So have all the convents, the city and parish councils, the guilds and religious brotherhoods – the candle-makers, blacksmiths, weavers, carpenters. The chancery and the legal clerks have theirs too. Everyone. They come up here in procession with their crosses, escorted by guards of honour to the sound of fifes and drums, chanting the Te Deum. And there are constant pilgrimages.’
Hernando shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Yet I know Castillo is having real problems translating the plaques.’
Hernando was confused: what possible problems could the translator have?
‘The archbishop personally supervises his work,’ Don Pedro explained. ‘Whenever there’s an ambiguity which seems to favour the Muslim doctrine, he changes it to something he prefers. That man is determined to make Granada a holier city than Rome. But in the end, on the day the Great Turk reveals the gospel to the world, the truth will come out and all these people’ – he gestured in front of him – ‘will be forced to recognize the error of their ways.’
The Sultan? Hernando asked himself doubtfully. ‘I don’t think we should send the gospel to the Great Turk,’ he objected. Don Pedro looked at him in surprise. ‘No, I really don’t think so,’ he insisted. ‘The Turks have done nothing for us—’
‘The gospel isn’t just about us,’ said Don Pedro. ‘It involves the entire Muslim community.’
Hernando went on speaking, as if he had not heard what the nobleman had said: ‘For years now, the Turks have failed to equip any fleet to attack the Christians in the Mediterranean. They are only concerned with their problems to the East. There is even talk that things are so quiet that the new King of Spain might be able to attack Algiers, and that preparations for the expedition are already under way.’
‘But you were the one who suggested we send the gospel to the Turk!’
‘Yes,’ admitted Hernando. ‘But now I think we need to be more cautious. Didn’t you just tell me that the lead plaques haven’t been translated yet?’ Don Pedro nodded. ‘In the references to the Mute Book it simply said that the revelation would come from an Arab king. At first I did think that could be the Great Turk, but he is increasingly distant from us. And there are other Arab kings who are just as important as the Ottoman Sultan, if not more so: in Persia Abbas I is on the throne; in India there is Akbar, known as the Great One. There are Jesuits at work in those lands, and I have heard that, despite being a convinced Muslim, Akbar is tolerant of the other religions practised there. Perhaps he is better suited to making the doctrine of the gospel of Barnabas known to the world.’
Don Pedro weighed up what he had heard. ‘We could wait until the translation of the plaques is finished,’ he admitted. ‘Once that is done we can decide whom to send the gospel to.’
Hernando was about to agree when one of the servants told his lord that they could advance into the caves. The crowd drew back to let the lord of Campotéjar and chief magistrate of the Generalife through. A priest led them through the intricate tunnels, lighting the way with a taper along long, dark, low passageways that came out in the different caves. They pretended to pray with great religious fervour at the altars that had been erected where the remains of the martyrs had been found, now contained in stone urns. The priest was a young man endowed with a heightened sense of mysticism. As they walked, he explained to the respected nobleman’s companion what was written on the plaques. Don Pedro watched out of the corner of his eye to see how Hernando was reacting: he should know what was written there – he had created them!
‘The books and treatises that were found are far more complex than the plaques that spoke of the martyrdom of the saints, which are still being translated,’ the young priest said almost apologetically as they reached a small, round cave. ‘By the way,’ he said, as another man got to his feet after praying at the altar, ‘let me present you to someone from Córdoba, who, like you, is paying us a visit. The physician Don Martín Fernández de Molina.’
‘Hernando Ruiz,’ said the Morisco, taking the hand the doctor was holding out to him.
After respectfully greeting the nobleman, Don Martín joined their party and accompanied them on their visit to the caves and on the way back to Granada. Hernando rode quietly in front of the other two, absorbed in his own thoughts. He was dumbfounded by all that had arisen out of seven years’ hard work aimed at getting the Christians to change their view of the Morisco community. Would they achieve their goal? For the time being, it was the Christians who seemed to have taken over . . .
As they were riding along Carrera del Darro road, Hernando looked up at Isabel’s garden. Don Pedro had avoided mentioning her. What could have happened to her? Hernando was surprised only to have confused memories about their time together. Silently wishing her luck, he continued on his way, as she had once told him to do. It was only when he saw Don Martín jump to the ground at the Casa de los Tiros that he understood he had missed the c
onversation between the doctor and Don Pedro.
‘He is going to eat with us,’ the nobleman explained, as the grooms took care of the horses. ‘He is very interested in meeting Miguel de Luna and Alonso del Castillo. I told him that as well as being translators they are medical doctors. Don Martín says there is an outbreak of the plague in Granada.’
While they were eating, Don Martín revealed that he had been sent on a mission by the Córdoba city council to investigate reports of the plague having struck Granada. All the big Spanish cities refused to admit officially there was a problem until their streets were piled with bodies. To declare there was an outbreak meant that the city was immediately isolated and all trade with it was halted. That was why as soon as there was any suspicion of the plague striking, other city councils sent a doctor they could trust to see for themselves if there was any truth to the rumours.
‘The president of the chancery has authorized me to investigate,’ Don Martín explained over their meal. ‘He assures me it is nothing serious, and that the population is healthy.’
Both Luna and Castillo expressed their surprise.
‘The Granada council is organizing fiestas and dances to entertain the people,’ said Castillo, ‘but they have been taking precautions against the plague for some time now.’
‘I know, but they are palliative rather than preventive measures,’ insisted Doctor Martín Fernández. ‘I’ve seen the covered chairs they are taking the plague victims out of the city on, and squads of soldiers patrolling the neighbourhoods. I’ve visited the hospital where the sick are kept, and the doctors working there talk of nothing but the plague.’
‘It won’t be long before they’re obliged to recognize officially there is an epidemic,’ agreed Miguel de Luna.
Hernando could scarcely believe his ears. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to take action at once?’ he asked. ‘What do they gain by denying reality? It’s the people who will suffer, and the plague makes no distinction between lords and vassals. What do you mean by “palliative measures”? Is there any way to avoid the disease?’
‘I call them palliative’, explained the physician, ‘because they are only taken with those who already have the plague. Traditionally it has always been believed the disease is spread through the air, although theories that it can also be spread by clothing and personal contact are gaining ground. The most important thing is to purify the air by burning aromatic herbs in all corners of the city, but the streets should be kept clean too, and people should be encouraged to stay at home rather than organizing dances and bringing crowds together. And if a case is confirmed, the house should be boarded up and all those showing symptoms should be kept apart from everyone else, including their families. Unless measures like these are taken, the contagion will spread until there is a real epidemic.’
‘But—’ Hernando started to protest.
‘And most important of all,’ Don Martín interrupted him, as Luna and Castillo nodded their agreement, knowing what he was about to say, ‘the city must be sealed off so that the epidemic does not spread any further.’
The epidemic in Granada was confirmed shortly afterwards. The plague reached Córdoba the next year, in the spring of 1601. Despite the conclusive evidence that Doctor Martín Fernández presented about the negligent attitude of the authorities in Granada, the council in the city of the caliphs behaved in exactly the same manner. At the same time as auctions and the sale of second-hand clothes were suspended, and the beds of the victims taken outside the walls and burnt, the eight city doctors signed a declaration declaring Córdoba to be free of the plague or any other serious contagious disease.
Hernando had two wonderful young children: Juan, aged four, and Rosa, who was two. He adored them, and they had gradually transformed his life. ‘Be happy,’ he told himself each night as he watched them sleeping. The mere idea of losing his family again terrified him, so on his return from Granada he laid in sufficient provisions so that they could survive shut up in their house for however many months were necessary. As soon as he heard that the plague had struck in nearby Écija, he sent for Miguel, who was living at the stud farm with the horses. At first he said he had too much work to do and refused to come to the city, but when Hernando went out to talk to him he had to yield, and in spite of his protests he too was brought back to the house.
‘There’s so much to do here,’ the cripple insisted, pointing to the mares and colts.
Hernando shook his head. Miguel had done a good job: Volador had died several years ago, but the young man had used his habitual astuteness to find other excellent stallions to improve the breed. By royal decree, horse breeding was controlled by the bailiffs of the area where the stud farms were located. No horses from Andalusia could be taken north of the river Tagus for sale in Castile, and the mares were to be covered by properly registered stallions. Miguel had succeeded in making sure that the animals born in Hernando’s stables were highly prized.
Hernando realized what his friend was afraid of, and was less open in his affection towards Rafaela during the time he was living with them. Over the past few years, the two spouses had led a quiet, peaceful existence, getting to know each other little by little. Hernando had found her to be a gentle, discreet companion; Rafaela considered him a caring, considerate man who never put pressure on her. He was much better educated than her father and brothers and sisters. The birth of their two children had made her completely happy. Rafaela, who had filled out after having babies, turned out to be exactly what Miguel had predicted: a good wife and an excellent mother.
They all spent several months shut up in their house in Córdoba, where a fire of aromatic herbs was kept permanently lit in the courtyard. They went out only to attend mass on Sundays. It was then that Hernando, cursing under his breath the fact that the Church insisted on bringing people together for mass or on rogation days, could see to his horror the effects the plague was having on the city: all the shops were shut, and there was no commercial activity of any kind; bonfires of herbs were being burnt beneath the street corner shrines and outside churches and convents; houses were marked and boarded up; entire streets where the most cases had occurred were sealed off; whole families were expelled from the city while a sick relative was carted off to the San Lázaro hospital and all their clothes burnt; previously decent women whose sense of honour forbade them to beg in the streets publicly offered their bodies in order to make some money to feed husbands and children.
‘It’s absurd!’ Hernando whispered to Miguel one Sunday when they came across one of these women. ‘They can become prostitutes, but not beggars. How can their menfolk accept the money?’
‘It’s a question of honour,’ replied Miguel. ‘In times like these the religious brotherhoods that help the “proud poor” no longer function.’
‘In the true religion,’ said Hernando, lowering his voice still further, ‘there’s nothing wrong with receiving alms. The Muslim community believes in solidarity. Say your prayers and give alms, the Koran tells us.’
It was not only the Church that defied the plague by calling together its congregations. Oblivious to all advice, at the height of the epidemic the city council itself organized bull runs in the Plaza de la Corredera in order to raise the people’s spirits. Neither Hernando nor Miguel was able to see how two sons of Volador that they had raised and then sold danced away from the bulls’ horns, defiant and agile, to the applause of a public which, even if they managed to forget their sorrows for a few moments, seemed unable to understand that by crowding together so close to each other they would only make them worse.
During these months of seclusion, Hernando devoted himself to his two children. He avoided even looking at Rafaela, who for her part behaved prudently and with great modesty. In the long, tedious evenings, it was Miguel who entertained them with his stories, making little Juan smile at his antics.
‘Why don’t you teach me about accounts?’ Miguel asked Hernando, who practically lived shut up in his library.
The magistrate Don Martín Ulloa was one of the victims. In each parish the magistrates were obliged to check the houses to see if there were any plague victims inside, and if there were, to send them to the San Lázaro hospital and drive their families out of the city. Don Martín came many times to Hernando and Rafaela’s house, demanding that the doctor who came with him carried out unnecessary tests that were far more stringent than those he performed on the other parishioners. He was no longer afraid of the Morisco; the affair of the foundlings had happened so long ago that nobody was concerned about it any more. Don Martín did not bother to hide his desire to find symptoms of the disease even in his own daughter.
So Hernando was surprised one morning when he found not the magistrate at the door but his wife Doña Catalina and Rafaela’s younger sister.
‘Let us in!’ Doña Catalina demanded.
Hernando looked her up and down. She was trembling and wringing her hands, her face contorted with anxiety.
‘No. I am obliged to let your husband in, but not you.’
‘I order you to!’
‘I will tell your daughter,’ Hernando said, backing away. He realized that only something very serious could have led a woman like her to humiliate herself by coming to knock on his door.
The Hand of Fatima Page 82