The Hand of Fatima

by Falcones, Ildefonso

  The two men paused for thought, until Arbasia indicated that his guest should continue.

  ‘Every night since then I have devoted myself to reading some of these copies, hiding them inside large Christian tomes. They are magnificent poems and treatises on geography; and one about calligraphy, although the copyist’s speed did the material little favour.’

  Arbasia spread his palms questioningly, as if what he had heard so far did not explain Hernando’s urgent need to speak with him.

  ‘Wait,’ urged Hernando. ‘One of these books is the copy of a Christian gospel; a gospel attributed to the apostle Barnabas.’

  On hearing that name, the painter sat straight up in his seat.

  ‘On the title page the scribe criticizes the Muslim doctors and scholars appointed by Almanzor for being so inflexible when choosing what books should be destroyed. They hadn’t hesitated when they came across a Christian gospel, but he considered the text of Barnabas, despite having been written by a disciple of Christ and being older than the Koran, actually did nothing but support Muslim doctrine. He ended by saying he thought Barnabas’s teachings were so important that, besides making the copy, he would try to save the original from burning by hiding it somewhere in Córdoba. But obviously in his writing he doesn’t state if he managed to do so or not.’

  ‘What does this gospel say?’

  ‘In general terms, it maintains that Christ was not the son of God, but a human being, another prophet.’ Hernando thought he saw in Arbasia an almost imperceptible gesture of approval. ‘It also states that he was not crucified, that Judas took his place on the cross; it denies he is the Messiah and heralds the arrival of the true Prophet, Muhammad, and the future Revelation. It also asserts the need for ablutions and circumcision. We are dealing with a text written by someone who lived at the time of Jesus, who knew him and saw his deeds, but, contrary to the rest of the gospels, it confirms the beliefs of our people.’

  Silence reigned between the two men. There was only a little lemonade left and a servant appeared at the other end of the courtyard with a new jug, but Arbasia gestured for him to leave.

  ‘It is well known that the popes have manipulated the doctrine of the gospels,’ added Hernando.

  He waited for a reaction from Arbasia to his last words, but the painter remained strangely impassive.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ he asked finally, in an abrupt tone. ‘Why the urgency to speak with me? What makes you think—?’

  ‘Today,’ Hernando interrupted him, ‘in front of your painting, I have seen in the Jesus Christ you painted a normal man, a human being, who is embracing a . . . who lovingly embraces another person; he is kind; smiling even. It is not the Jesus Christ, the Son of God, absolute and all-powerful, suffering and wounded, bloody, that can be seen in each and every corner of the cathedral.’

  Arbasia did not answer; he stroked his chin and remained thoughtful.

  ‘You are Muslim,’ he said at last. ‘I am Christian . . .’

  ‘But—’

  The master begged him to stay silent. ‘It is hard to know who possesses the truth . . . You? Us? The Jews? Or now the Lutherans? They have split away from the official doctrine of the Church; are they right? Many other Christians do not accept the official doctrine either.’ Arbasia fell silent for a moment. ‘The fact is we all believe in a single God, who is always the same: the God of Abraham. The Muslims invaded these lands because other Christians, the Arians, today considered heretics, called for them; but the Spaniards were Arians. There were Arians in the north of Africa as well, and it took the Spaniards a long time to realize the Arabs who had come to their aid were actually Muslims. Do you see? Arianism, which was but a form of Christianity, was very similar to Islam. For them Islam was a religion akin to their own: both denied the divinity of Jesus Christ. That was the reason why all these realms were conquered in only three years. Do you think it would have been possible to conquer all Hispania in only so short a time if it had not been because those who lived in these lands embraced the new beliefs without abandoning their own faith? It is a single God, Hernando, that of Abraham. From that starting point, we all interpret things in our own way. It’s best not to investigate too closely. The Inquisition . . .’

  ‘But if the Christians themselves, those who knew Jesus Christ, maintain he was not the son of God . . .’ Hernando tried to insist.

  ‘It is we men who separate ourselves from one another, who interpret, who choose. God remains the same; I don’t think anyone denies that. Let’s eat,’ Arbasia said, getting suddenly to his feet. ‘The mutton should be ready now.’

  During the meal, Arbasia shied away from any discussion of his paintings in the chapel of the sacrarium or the gospel of Barnabas. He steered the conversation towards trivialities. Hernando did not demur.

  ‘May fortune and knowledge go with you,’ he bade farewell to the Morisco from the doorway of his house.

  What should he do with that gospel? Hernando wondered, when he was back in the palace. Abbas, according to what Aisha said during their frequent meetings, had surrounded himself with violent and reckless men driven by malice and hatred towards the Christians. No means now existed to furnish the Muslim community with the revealed word; the new council had voted overwhelmingly to fight, and rumours about uprisings and attempts at insurrection spread from mouth to mouth through the city of Córdoba, which exacerbated the animosity between Christians and Moriscos. The last attempt at an uprising had taken place a year before, and provoked the immediate reaction of the Council of State, which requested a detailed report from the Inquisition. It had been a conspiracy between the Turks and the Huguenot King of Navarre, Henry III, a bitter enemy of Philip II, to invade Spain with inside help from the Moriscos.

  ‘They are uneducated men,’ declared Aisha, referring to the new members of the council. ‘From what I’ve heard none of them can read or write.’

  Hernando knew he would not be well received by Abbas and his followers. What would they do with the copy of the gospel? They would probably do the same as Almanzor had done in his day: for all it supported the Koranic doctrines, they would condemn the book as heresy because it had been written by a Christian. Besides, in spite of its antiquity, it was still only a copy, and they were sure not to trust him. Could the scribe have saved the original from the fire?

  Hernando sighed: if anything was certain it was that violence would not improve his people’s situation. They would always be crushed by a superior force, as had already happened in the past. Any rebellion would just provide the Christians with an excuse to give free rein to their profound hatred of the Moriscos. Could there be another way for them all to live together in peace?

  A week after the dinner with Arbasia, Hernando was called to the presence of the duke, who had stopped off in Córdoba en route from Madrid to Seville. The request was delivered to him in the palace stables, just as he was about to set off on a ride on Volador, the magnificent grey the duke had given him, branded with the ‘R’ of the new breed created by Philip II. Come what may that horse was his, Don Alfonso assured him, aware of what had happened with Azirat. To prove it, he handed Hernando a document of ownership issued by his secretary and signed in the Duke of Monterreal’s own hand.

  He returned Volador to the stable boy and set off behind the young page who had delivered the duke’s summons.

  They had to cross five courtyards, all full of flowers, all with a fountain at the centre, before they reached the antechamber where a large group of people were waiting to be received by the aristocrat. As soon as they had heard of the nobleman’s arrival, many had hurried to request an audience. On the visitors’ benches along the walls of the room sat several priests, a councillor from Córdoba, two magistrates, others whom Hernando did not know, and three of the hidalgos who lived in the palace. On another bench sat the servants, busy attending to the visitors whilst they were waiting. The page who had accompanied Hernando sat down on a low stool beside the bench as soon as the hea
d steward took charge of the Morisco.

  Hernando could sense the looks full of hatred from the other visitors as he crossed the chamber: he was being received before all of them. Unlike those who waited dressed in their finest attire, he was wearing riding clothes: knee-length boots, simple breeches, shirt and a close fitting doublet. The guard outside the entrance to the duke’s office knocked softly on the door when he saw Hernando and the steward approach, and then showed them in without delay.

  ‘Hernando!’ The duke got up from behind his desk to receive him as if he were a good friend.

  Secretary and scribe both frowned.

  ‘Don Alfonso,’ the Morisco greeted him, accepting with a smile the hand held out towards him.

  Hernando and the duke moved over to a couple of leather chairs at the other end of the office, some distance away from the secretary and the scribe. The duke asked Hernando about his life, and Hernando answered his many questions. Time passed and people continued to wait outside, but that did not seem to bother the nobleman, who was now talking at length about the volumes he had in his library, this topic of conversation having arisen by chance.

  ‘I would like to have as much time as you do to devote to reading,’ he said. ‘Enjoy it, because shortly you will not be able to do so.’ The duke caught Hernando’s look of surprise. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be able to take all the books you wish with you. Silvestre,’ he called to his secretary, ‘bring me the document. Now you’ll see what it’s all about,’ he added once the document was in his hands. ‘As you know, I have the honour of being a member of His Majesty’s Council of State. Actually what I am going to tell you is a problem that concerns the treasury, but its officials are so useless at obtaining the resources the King needs that His Majesty can do nothing but rant at them when they deny him money. The Alpujarra . . .’ Don Alfonso came out with it then, handing him the document. ‘Didn’t you say you wanted work?’ He smiled. ‘Almost all the territory of the Alpujarra belongs to the Crown, and His Majesty is furious because it does not yield as much as it should. This is in spite of him having granted the new settlers exemptions from the payment of taxes as well as other benefits. The revenues are not what they should be, His Majesty told me, and he is very angry about it. It occurred to me that perhaps you, who know the area, would be able to investigate so that His Majesty could compare your reports with those of the tribunal of the people of Granada and the treasury. The King accepted this proposal willingly. He would like to teach the members of the council a lesson.’

  The Alpujarra! The word filled Hernando’s mind. Don Alfonso was proposing he travel to the Alpujarra! He shifted uncomfortably in his armchair, fingered the document Silvestre had handed to him and looked at the sour-faced secretary who was still standing behind the duke. He was tempted to break the document’s wax seal, but Don Alfonso had more to tell him.

  ‘After the expulsion of the new Christians from the Alpujarra, the King sent agents to Galicia, Asturias, Burgos and León to find settlers who could come and repopulate the territory. They assigned houses and lands to the new inhabitants, and as I have told you they granted them concessions regarding the payment of taxes, as well as supplying them with seeds and animals in order to help them cultivate the land. His Majesty is aware the repopulation was not complete, and that many areas are still empty, but even so, the lands do not yield what they should. Your task will be to travel through the area as my personal envoy – never that of the King, is that understood? His Majesty does not wish the chief sheriff of the Alpujarra or the attorney general to think he does not trust them.’

  ‘So . . .?’ asked Hernando.

  ‘Another of the benefits granted to these people is to have a stallion cover their mares without the need for royal consent. The stock of horses should therefore have increased considerably during the past few years. As explained in this document, your task is to find good brood mares for my stables. You know about horses. Most likely you will not find any that are acceptable to you. I don’t think any animals of quality exist in the Alpujarra, but should you consider one is indeed of merit,’ he smiled, ‘do not hesitate to buy it.’

  Hernando thought for a few moments: the Alpujarra, his land! Despite everything he suddenly broke out in a cold sweat.

  ‘There will still be Christians there who lived through the war. How will they receive a new Christian . . .?’

  ‘Nobody would dare lay a hand on an envoy of the Duke of Monterreal!’ Don Alfonso’s voice grew harsh. However, the uncertainty reflected on Hernando’s face obliged him to restate his assertion. ‘You were Christian. You knew how to pray. You did so with me, remember? We prayed to the Virgin together. You also do so now. Presumably you have friends who could testify to your status if someone were to call it into question?’

  Hernando saw Silvestre stiffen and draw closer to Don Alfonso in order to hear his response. What Christian friends did he have in Juviles? Andrés the sacristan? He would hate him for what his mother had done to the priest. Who else? He could not remember anyone, but he daren’t admit this to the duke: he could not reveal how his liberation had only been a matter of chance.

  ‘You do have some, don’t you?’ Silvestre asked from behind the duke’s chair.

  Don Alfonso allowed his secretary to intervene, then insisted: ‘I have promised the King this investigation would be carried out.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes,’ Hernando hesitated, ‘I have.’

  ‘Who are they? What are their names?’ the secretary burst out.

  Hernando’s eyes met Silvestre’s. The secretary’s eyes bored into him: he seemed to know the truth. It was as if he had anxiously been waiting for this moment: the moment when the true faith of the man who received so many favours from his master, who had even been given one of the new breed of horses, would be revealed!

  ‘Who?’ Silvestre repeated when Hernando made no reply.

  ‘The Marquis of los Vélez!’ Hernando said, raising his voice.

  Don Alfonso sat upright in his chair. Silvestre took a step backwards.

  ‘Don Luis Fajardo?’ said the Duke in surprise. ‘What on earth could you have to do with Don Luis?’

  ‘The same as I had with you, sir,’ explained Hernando. ‘I also saved the life of a little Christian girl called Isabel. I handed her over to the marquis and his son Don Diego at the gates of Berja. I saved several people,’ he lied as he glanced defiantly at Silvestre, whose face had turned pale. The duke listened carefully. ‘But in order to do this I had to appear Morisco, otherwise it would have been impossible for me to do so. Some came to know the truth about me, but most of them did not. Isabel certainly knew me, and as she was just a child I took her to where the Los Vélez family were. You could ask them about it.’

  ‘You are speaking of the second Marquis of los Vélez, the Devil Iron Head who fought in the Alpujarra. He died soon afterwards,’ the Duke informed him. ‘The current marquis, the fourth, is also called Luis.’ Hernando sighed. ‘Don’t worry,’ Don Alfonso encouraged him, as though he had understood the reason for his sigh. ‘We can confirm your story. His son Diego, a knight of the order of Santiago who accompanied him at Berja, is still alive and is a distant relative of mine.’ The duke paused for a few moments. ‘I admire you for what you did in that accursed war,’ he said. ‘And I am certain that all those who live in this house share this sentiment, is that not so, Silvestre?’

  Don Alfonso did not even turn towards his secretary, but the imperious tone of his words was enough for Silvestre to understand his master was not going to tolerate any more whisperings or suspicions about his Morisco friend.

  ‘Of course, excellency,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, make contact with Don Diego Fajardo de Córdoba and enquire about that Christian girl. I believe you, Hernando,’ he explained, turning towards him. ‘I do not need to verify your story, but when you ride through the Alpujarra I want you to be received as what you are: a Christian who risked his life for other Christians. The interests of the King wo
uld be endangered if any of the old Christians living there are even slightly suspicious of you.’

  The duke clearly felt their audience was at an end. It had taken up much more time than other important matters, which he dealt with rapidly.

  ‘Let’s continue with the petitioners,’ Don Alfonso ordered. At that moment, a page appeared from nowhere (or so it seemed to Hernando) and set off at a run to notify the steward. ‘That will not be necessary,’ the duke said, halting the boy’s headlong charge.

  The boy stopped in surprise and glanced enquiringly at the secretary. Silvestre signalled that he should return to a small stool situated in a dark, hidden corner, where another young page was also sitting. Breaking protocol, the duke himself accompanied Hernando to the door, opened it and, to the astonishment of the people waiting outside, who always had to respond to the calls of pages with their instructions and messages, he embraced Hernando and bade him farewell with a kiss on either cheek.

  While confirmation from the Marquis of los Vélez’s son still had not arrived, the rumour of the help Hernando had given to Isabel and an indeterminate number of Christians during the uprising – a number that grew steadily as the story passed from mouth to mouth – spread through both the Christian and the Morisco community. The duke’s Morisco slaves made sure to bring it to the attention of Abbas and the other members of the council, who found in it the proof of all those accusations voiced against the traitor.

  ‘How is it possible?’ shouted Aisha on one of the occasions when he went to visit her. They were walking along the bank of the Guadalquivir towards the windmill at Martos, close to the tanneries from where years ago he had boarded the Weary Virgin. The city council had decided to make that area a place of recreation for the people of Córdoba. Aisha didn’t care if anyone overheard them: her voice was full of outrage, but tinged with sadness too. ‘You deceived us all! Your people! Hamid!’

  ‘It was just a girl, Mother. They wanted to sell her as a slave! Don’t believe the gossip . . .’