He realized his mistake at once. Fátima’s only response was to walk even more slowly.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Hernando. ‘I’m sorry for everything. I regret having been born a Muslim; I regret the uprising and the war; I regret not having been able to see what was going to happen; I regret dreaming in hope like thousands of our brothers; I regret our desire for freedom; I regret . . .’
Hernando suddenly fell silent. His wandering had brought them to La Medina, in the parish of Santa María on the far side of the cathedral. This was an intricate network of narrow streets and blind alleys similar to many Muslim cities. A group of people was running towards them: they were fighting to get down the narrow alleyway, shouting and screaming. Some of them stopped to look nervously and fleetingly behind them before racing on again.
‘A bull!’ he heard a woman shout as she ran by.
‘Coming our way!’ yelled a man.
A bull? How could there be a bull in this narrow Córdoba street? There was no time to think beyond that. Hernando and Fátima had not moved, and saw how five horsemen in full regalia were riding full tilt towards them. They were pulling a huge bull tethered to their saddles by ropes tied to its horns and around its neck. The horses’ rumps smacked against the walls, but the horsemen skilfully turned their mounts around. The bull fought back, bellowing loudly. The horsemen in front pulled it forward when it tried to turn back; those behind pulled on their ropes when it seemed as though the beast was about to charge into the riders in front. The street was filled with the noise of the bull bellowing, the horses neighing, their hoofs clattering on the ground, and the shouts of the riders.
‘Run!’ he shouted, grabbing Fátima by the arm.
But he left her behind. Hernando stopped and turned as soon as he realized that Fátima’s arm was slipping out of his grasp. The first two horsemen were less than fifteen yards away. They were tugging blindly on the bull, oblivious to what was going on in front of them. For a split second Hernando thought he saw Fátima with her back to him, standing with her head held high in a way she had not done for a long time, resolute, her fists pressed to her sides: she was seeking out death! He jumped on top of her just as the first horseman was about to trample her. The rider had not even attempted to stop. The couple crashed against the wall of a house; he tried to protect Fátima, lying over her body. Another of the horses jumped over them; the bull tried to gore them but, luckily, missed them and gouged the wall above their heads. The last horseman, who was galloping alongside, also overtook them but this time Hernando felt the horse trample his calf.
More people ran past following the horses, but they paid no attention to the two of them, who lay completely still as the din turned into an echo at the far end of the street. Hernando could feel Fátima’s body shaking as she struggled to get her breath back. When he stood up, he also felt a sharp pain in his left leg.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked the girl, as he tried painfully to help her.
‘Why do you always have to save my life?’ she spat at him once she was on her feet opposite him. She was trembling, but her eyes . . . it was as if having looked death in the face, her dark eyes had become alive again. Hernando stretched his arms out to grasp her by the shoulders, but she shook herself free. ‘Why—?’ Fátima began to shout.
‘Because I love you,’ he interrupted her, also raising his voice, his arms still outstretched. ‘Yes. Because I love you with all my soul,’ he said in a low, quivering voice.
Fátima stared at him. After a few moments a tear slid down her cheek. All at once she began to weep openly in a way she had stopped herself doing since the night of her wedding to Brahim.
She clung to Hernando and cried herself out, while he gently rocked her in the narrow Córdoba street.
A little further away, where the alley joined two other streets to form a small uneven square, a noblewoman dressed in black looked down from the balcony of a small palace, her lady-in-waiting a step behind her, while five young horsemen wooed her by freeing the bull of its ropes and then killing it. Taking cover in the side streets, the common people cheered and clapped.
27
Christmas, 1571
THE CITY council had declared three days’ public holiday to celebrate the resounding victory of Don John of Austria over the Turks at the head of the Holy League fleet at the battle of Lepanto. Religious fervour intensified with the Christian forces’ triumph over the Muslims and together with the pagan celebrations, the city was teeming with processions and Te Deums of thanksgiving. It was not the best time for the Moriscos to be abroad on the streets of Córdoba joining in the rejoicing and popular fervour. Besides, word had reached them a few months earlier of the final rout of the King of al-Andalus. Aben Aboo was betrayed and killed by El Seniz; his body, filled with salt, was taken to Granada where his head, stuck in an iron cage, still hung above the arch of the Rastro gate, on the road out to the Alpujarra.
Nevertheless, Hernando attended the celebrations in Plaza de la Corredera with Hamid. A wooden castle had been built in the middle of this great Córdoban square in which a battle between Moors and Christians would be re-enacted. Before the performance wine flowed freely from a pelican’s beak, with the result that alcohol was soon having its effect on the crowds, who fought with each other to get to the strange fountain. The city council announced a contest for which they put up a prize of eleven lengths of velvet, damask and silver cloth: two for the winners of horse races; four for the best-dressed men; three more for the best infantry companies formed by the guilds, and two for the women from the bawdy house who stood out most!
‘It’s hard to understand these people,’ said Hernando to Hamid while Ana María strutted flirtatiously in front of a large audience who cheered her on shamelessly. ‘They give prizes to the women they sleep with in front of their wives and daughters.’
‘All the women know their husbands frequent the brothel,’ Hamid argued, although he himself could not take his eyes off the way the beautiful Ana María was swaying her hips in front of them. Hernando did the same, although he was more concerned with the efforts of the bailiffs to prevent some already drunken men from jumping on the girl. ‘Christians don’t seek pleasure from their wives,’ the holy man added softly, turning to the boy as a voluptuous black-haired woman took Ana María’s place. ‘It’s a sin. Touching and caressing is sinful. Any position other than lying in bed is a sin. One cannot seek sensuality—’
‘A sin!’ Hernando broke in, with a smile.
‘Exactly.’ Hamid signalled him to keep his voice down. ‘That’s why their wives tolerate them looking for sensuality and pleasure from prostitutes. The whores don’t plague them with the problems of bastards and inheritance claims which the concubines and courtesans can pose for them. And their Church supports it.’
‘Hypocrites.’
‘Several rooms in the brothel are owned by the cathedral chapter,’ said Hamid before they both left the contest and walked through the crowd out of Plaza de la Corredera.
‘Yes,’ said a thoughtful Hernando a few moments later, ‘but these women who are so chaste with their husbands then seek pleasure with other men . . .’
Puzzled, Hamid stared at him. He responded with a simple grin, which he quickly wiped from his face when he sensed the holy man’s disapproval.
Over a year had passed since Fátima had thrown herself into his arms after seeking death in front of a bull and runaway horses.
‘I am still Brahim’s second wife,’ the girl cried after kissing Hernando in the street and exchanging promises of love.
‘That marriage counts for nothing here!’ argued Hernando without thinking.
Fátima looked troubled, and Hernando hesitated. How could he have said . . .?
‘It’s our law,’ Fátima went on. ‘If we renounce that . . . renounce our beliefs . . . Much as it pains me, I must respect my marriage to Brahim: in the eyes of our people he is my husband. I can’t allow myself to forget that, however much I would like to
. Much as I detest him . . .’
‘No. I didn’t mean . . .’
‘We would be nothing. That’s what the Christians want: to torment us until we disappear. They think we are cursed. Nobody wants us here: ordinary people hate us and the nobles exploit us. Many of our people have died in defence of the true faith: my husband, my child. No Christian lifted a finger to help a sick, defenceless child! Damn them! Damn all of them! You buried him yourself . . .’ Fátima’s voice faltered and became a sob. Hernando pulled her towards him and embraced her. ‘We must fulfil our obligations,’ she wept.
‘We’ll find a way,’ Hernando tried to comfort her.
‘We would be nothing without our laws,’ she insisted.
‘Please don’t cry.’
‘It is our religion! The true faith! Damn them!’
‘We’ll work it out.’
‘Christian dogs!’ Before she could finish saying it, Hernando buried her face in his shoulder so that her words would not carry.
‘I will die for the Prophet if necessary, peace and blessings be upon Him,’ she said.
‘I will die with you,’ he whispered to her.
A little way off in the small square the onlookers cheered when the spear was plunged into the bull’s neck, fatally wounding it.
The young lady watching from her palace balcony applauded politely.
*
I will die for the Prophet! The determination in that promise was the very same that Hernando had heard from the mouth of Gonzalico before he was slaughtered. What could have become of Ubaid? he wondered. At nightfall he left Fátima in the house on Calle de Mucho Trigo. Brahim and Aisha seemed relaxed and he made his escape again after grabbing a piece of stale rye bread, although not until Fátima gave him permission to go with a barely noticeable tilt of her chin. That Sunday, after the scare with the bull, they had gone down to the river, passing in front of the mosque where, among the priests and chaplains, they clasped hands, their fingers intertwined. On the banks of the Guadalquivir, opposite the water wheel of the Albolafia and the mills dotted along it, they let the hours slip by. Hernando did not have any money. He earned two miserly reales a month, less than a servant girl who also got bed and board, money he handed over to his mother straight away to put with Brahim’s wages to pay the rent and for food. The two of them had nothing to eat all day apart from two cold, greasy fritters which a Morisco street-seller gave them for free when he saw how much they savoured the smell he left in his wake.
It was time for vespers and, as convention dictated during the winter months, the doors of the houses of the devout Christians were closed. This rule did not apply, however, in the Potro district where people crowded together: merchants, dealers, travellers, soldiers and adventurers, beggars, vagabonds or ordinary neighbours drank in the guest houses and inns, chatted freely with each other, went in and out of the bawdy house, and quarrelled or closed business deals no matter what time it was. Hernando headed for the brothel but did not manage to spot Hamid in the alleyway: only the brothel doors, open on to Calle del Potro. He wandered aimlessly through the district. We’ll find a way, he had told Fátima, but how? Only Brahim could renounce her, but he would never do that if it meant that that he, the Nazarene, could consecrate his love. Meanwhile, what would become of her? Fátima forced herself not to put on weight and to seem as unattractive as possible to her husband but Brahim still looked at her with lust in his eyes.
‘You, lad!’ Lost in his thoughts, Hernando paid no attention. ‘Hey! You!’
Hernando felt a hand grab his shoulder; he turned round and found himself facing a small, thin man, even smaller perhaps than he was. To begin with he did not recognize him in the dim light from the inns and guest houses, but when the man displayed teeth that were as black as the night around them he remembered: he was one of the muleteers who plied their trade next to the Calahorra tower where he went to get the manure for the tannery. They had occasionally exchanged a greeting when Hernando was busy with the animals.
‘Do you want to earn a couple of pennies?’ the dealer asked.
‘What do I have to do?’ enquired Hernando, indicating that he was interested in doing whatever it was.
‘Come with me.’
They went down Calle Badanas to the river. The man did not say a word, even to introduce himself. Hernando followed him in silence. Two pennies was a pittance, but even so it was worth two days’ work in the tannery. When they reached the riverbank, the man peered nervously first one way then the other. There was no moon and it was almost completely dark.
‘Can you row?’ he asked Hernando, uncovering a small, dilapidated boat hidden on the bank.
‘No,’ admitted the Morisco, ‘ but I can—’
‘No matter. Climb in,’ the muleteer ordered, pushing the tiny craft into the water. ‘I’ll row. You concentrate on bailing out the water.’
Bailing out the water? Hernando hesitated just as he was about to jump into the boat.
‘Get in carefully,’ the dealer warned him, ‘it can’t handle much movement.’
‘I . . .’ He didn’t know how to swim!
‘What were you expecting? One of His Majesty’s galleys?’
The boy peered down at the dark waters of the Guadalquivir. They were flowing calmly by.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked. He hadn’t moved from the bank.
‘Holy Mother of God! To Seville, if that’s all right with you. We’ll make a stop there and then go on to Barbary to visit a brothel I like to frequent on Sundays. Shut up and do what I tell you!’
Stepping into the boat, Hernando tried to convince himself that the river really did seem calm. As soon as he put his foot on the bottom, his shoes filled with water.
‘How many women are there in this brothel you mentioned?’ he asked ironically, once he was seated on what must have once been one of the two benches in the boat. The muleteer was now rowing towards the far bank.
‘Enough for the two of us,’ laughed the man. ‘Start bailing out. You’ll find a ladle on your right.’ Hernando groped for it and began to bail out water as soon as he found it. The man rowed carefully, trying not to make any splash when he dipped the oars into the water, and all the while keeping an eye on the Roman bridge and the soldiers standing guard there. ‘They say there are women from all races and places in the brothels,’ he whispered. ‘Many of them Christian captives. Very beautiful and skilled in the art of love . . .’
Dreaming of the women in that imaginary brothel, they reached the far bank. They were immediately joined by another man whose features Hernando could not even begin to make out in the darkness. It only took a few moments for the muleteer and the other man to exchange a purse of money and load a keg on to the boat. Not a word was spoken before they whispered farewell. As the muleteer climbed back on board, the boat sank dangerously low in the water. He turned it round and faced Hernando.
‘Now you’ll have to bail water for real,’ he announced. ‘If you don’t . . . Can you swim?’
They did not say a word to each other until they were in midstream. Hernando could see the water seeping in with much more force. The ladle was not enough! He felt his stomach clench, especially when he realized the man was rowing more urgently, forgetting all precautions, his oar stroke getting shorter and shorter because of the water and the weight in the boat.
‘Keep bailing!’ the muleteer shouted.
‘Keep rowing!’ Hernando urged him in return.
Somehow or other they made it back to the bank they had started from. Hernando was soaked and the boat flooded, taking on water through all its dried-out, rotten joints.
The man told him to help with the barrel, which they offloaded. Then they set about hiding the boat.
‘There’s many a voyage left in her yet,’ said the muleteer as they hauled it up. ‘The Weary Virgin, she’s called,’ he muttered after giving it a mighty tug.
‘The Weary Virgin?’ Hernando repeated, watching as water cascaded from the hull and the
boat became gradually lighter.
‘“Virgin” so that Our Lady won’t get annoyed if we have to place our trust in her: you never know.’ The man pulled harder, until he managed to shift the boat a couple of paces higher up the bank. ‘“Weary”: well, you’ve seen her, she always limps back,’ he said, laughing as he straightened up. ‘What’s your name?’ he added, covering the boat with branches. Hernando answered, and the man introduced himself as Juan. ‘Now we have to—’
‘And my money?’ Hernando interrupted him.
‘Later. We’ll wait here until the early hours when everyone is in bed and we can move the barrel discreetly.’
They waited until the voices in the Potro inn died away. Numb from cold, Hernando kept jumping up and hitting his sides with his arms to try to warm up.
Juan told him the barrel was full of wine. ‘A good mouthful wouldn’t do you any harm,’ he said, seeing Hernando trembling, ‘but we can’t broach it.’
He explained that wine from other places was not allowed into Córdoba and that the taxes on it were very high. The innkeeper would do well out of this barrel . . . and they would too.
‘Two pennies?’ joked Hernando.
‘That’s not enough? Don’t be pushy, my lad. You strike me as clever and brave. You’ll earn more if you learn and make an effort.’
The innkeeper appeared when even the Potro district was asleep. Juan and he greeted each other; they were both the same height, one thin and the other fat. They threw a cloak over the barrel in an effort to disguise its shape and set off. The innkeeper led the way while the other two carted the wine. When they got to the inn on Calle del Potro, they took the barrel to a secret basement. Once the job was done, Hernando ran to warm himself beside the hot coals that were left in the fireplace on the ground floor and Juan handed over the two copper coins . . . and a tankard of wine.
‘It’ll cheer you up,’ he encouraged Hernando, seeing the reluctance in his face.
Hernando was about to take a sip when he recalled what Fátima had said: We must fulfil our obligations! We would be nothing without our laws!
The Hand of Fatima Page 30
