‘Come here,’ he said. As she approached, Hernando felt in his purse. ‘Take this,’ he said, handing her two silver coins. The girl took them with some suspicion. ‘I want you to keep an eye on the valet and tell me if he leaves the palace at night. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Don Hernando.’
‘Does he go out at night?’
‘Only if his excellency is not in the palace.’
‘Good. You’ll get another coin when you report to me. I’ll be in the library after supper.’
The maid nodded as if she already knew this.
Hernando went out riding every day. He tried to rise as early as possible, partly to avoid the hidalgos, who got up in mid-morning, but especially so as not to run into Doña Lucía. He had reached the conclusion that Don Sancho must have told her about his love affair with Isabel, because her disdain for him had turned into undisguised animosity. On the few occasions when they met in the palace, Doña Lucía turned her head away, and at meal-times she made sure Hernando was seated at the far end of the table, almost out of reach of the food. The hidalgos smiled when they saw Hernando trying to get at least some scraps.
Given this state of affairs, Hernando made sure he had a good breakfast, then left Córdoba to enjoy the morning in the pastures. He often spent hours in with the bulls, walking his horse at a distance and neither challenging nor making them run. He was haunted by the memory of Azirat throwing himself on to the bull’s horns, and could not bring himself to watch the nobles fighting them in the city. Sometimes he would meet the riders from the royal stables and watch nostalgically as they broke in that year’s colts. In the evening, he would shut himself up in the library after the meal. He had plenty to do. First there was the transcription of the gospel of Barnabas, which he had fetched from Arbasia’s house. He would probably have to share his discovery at some point and did not want to have to hand over the original. He read the chapters in Arabic, but it was only when he was transcribing them that he understood the concepts’ true meaning. In the Annunciation story, the angel Gabriel did not say to Mary that she would give birth to a divine being, but to someone who would show the way. The way where? he wondered, pausing in his task. Show whom the way? The true Prophet, he said, answering his own question. As in the Muslim world, neither Jesus nor his mother could drink wine or eat unclean meat, and the angels did not tell the shepherds that it was the Saviour who had been born, but simply another prophet. Unlike the later evangelists, Barnabas affirmed that Jesus Christ, whom he had known personally, never called himself God or the son of God, nor even the Messiah. He only considered himself as someone sent by God to herald the arrival of the true Prophet: Muhammad.
In addition Hernando was still writing his report on what had happened at Juviles for the Archbishop of Granada. He was reminded of his promise when the special safe conduct in his name arrived. Whatever Abbas, his followers, or even his mother thought, he had no intention of betraying his people. He wrote that it had been El Zaguer, a Morisco, who had prevented the murder of all the Christians in the village. Besides, he added, if there had been a massacre in Juviles, it was the murder of a thousand women and children by Christian soldiers. He relived the agony of his desperate search for his mother, and the accidental rescue of Fátima and her little Humam in the midst of the explosions and clouds of smoke from the harquebuses in the dark village square.
He also fulfilled his promise to gather information from the vast network of Morisco muleteers for the book on Don Rodrigo, the King of the Goths, that Luna was writing. Hernando’s contribution consisted in providing facts about the peaceful co-existence of Christians and Muslims in the Córdoba of the caliphates. The aim was to show that during the period when Muslims ruled the city, the Christians (then known as Mozarabs) were not only allowed to live in their realms but more importantly still were permitted a certain freedom of worship. Hernando was able to confirm that the Mozarabs had kept their churches and other places of worship, their ecclesiastical organization and even their own justice system. To the contrary, how many mosques were still standing in the lands of the ‘Prudent King’? The Mozarabs were not forced to convert, as the Moriscos were.
He supplied information about the churches dedicated to Saint Acisclus and Saint Zoilus, Saint Faustus, Saint Cyprian, Saint Ginés and Saint Eulalia, all of which had remained standing within the city of Córdoba during the years of Muslim rule. He did however remain silent about the subjugated state of the Mozarabs (Hernando told himself that at least they were allowed to keep their own beliefs) during the terrible period when the vizier Almanzor was in power.
Whenever he grew tired of all this work, he refreshed himself by practising the art of calligraphy. The treatise he had found in the casket together with the gospel was nothing less than a copy of the famous work A Typology for Scribes, written by Ibn Muqla himself, the greatest of all the officials serving the caliphs of Baghdad. As he wrote, Hernando tried to make each stroke perfect, and found himself stimulated spiritually in a way that was close to prayer.
‘You have offended God with your images of the holy word,’ he accused himself one evening in the silence of the library, only too aware of how imperfect his writing was and the lack of magic in the characters he penned in the copies he made of the Koran. He did not so much draw as scribble them.
He needed a supply of reeds to make his quills, and to learn how to cut their ends sharply and slanted to the right, as Ibn Muqla recommended: Christian quills were not good enough to serve God. Hernando thought it would not be difficult to find the necessary implements.
Yet he also needed to keep his increasingly prolific work hidden, which meant he paid regular visits to the minaret tower. He did so under cover of darkness, for fear of being seen, and aware that the slightest slip could have disastrous consequences. He also took the hand of Fátima out of its hiding place in the tapestry and concealed it again in the hidden chamber in the tower wall. He made sure he burnt all his calligraphy exercises so that there would be no trace of them. The only thing he left out was his report for the Granada council, which was soon read, as the chaplain began to share his solitary breakfasts and to take an interest in Hernando’s opinion, which seemed to him so out of tune with the cause of the martyrs of the Alpujarra.
‘How can you possibly compare an unfortunate misunderstanding which resulted in the deaths of a few Morisco women in the square at Juviles with the premeditated, vile murder of Christians?’ the priest asked him quite openly one morning.
‘I see you are spying on my work,’ said Hernando, still eating. He did not even bother to turn towards the chaplain.
‘Working for God means having to do many strange things. The Marquis of Mondéjar has already meted out punishment for those deaths,’ the priest insisted. ‘Justice was done.’
‘El Zaguer went further than the marquis,’ Hernando argued. ‘He stopped the killing, and prevented the deaths of many Christians in Juviles.’
‘But they happened all the same,’ the priest declared.
‘Are you trying to compare the two?’ Hernando asked boldly.
‘You are not the one to do so.’
‘Nor are you,’ Hernando retorted. ‘The archbishop must be the one to do that.’
One night as he was finishing work on the report the young maidservant poked her head round the door.
‘His excellency’s valet has just left the palace,’ she announced.
Hernando gathered up his papers. He stood up from the desk, searched for the coin he had promised her, and handed it over.
‘Take these papers to my bedroom,’ he said, handing her the report. ‘And thank you,’ he added when she took them from him. She smiled shyly back at him. Hernando noticed she had a pretty face. ‘Do you have any idea what he usually does, where he goes?’ he asked.
‘It’s said he likes to play cards.’
‘Thanks again.’
He hurried out. When he reached the courtyard next to the duchess’s favourite room, h
e heard one of the hidalgos reading out loud to the others. Hernando crossed the yard quickly and without being seen, thanks to the shadows from the gallery on the far side of the building. He went out into a cool autumn night, suddenly feeling the lack of a cape. It was more than ten years since he had set foot in any gambling den, and he did not want to lose sight of the valet in the dark streets of the city. Would the places still exist where he had acted as a tout enticing innocent gamblers inside to be fleeced? The valet would have to be heading for either the Corredera or the Potro district, and to do that he would have to cross the old Arab wall separating the medina from the eastern part of the city. The only two places he could do that were through the El Salvador or the Corbache gates. Hernando chose the first. He was lucky, and soon saw the valet’s silhouette as he was accosted by the destitute vagrants who slept beneath the royal arch. By the light of candles permanently lit in honour of a statue of Christ Crowned with Thorns kept behind a grille underneath the arch, he caught sight of José Caro waylaid by a group blocking his path and asking for alms. Hernando felt for a penny, and as soon as the valet managed to struggle free of the beggars and continue on his way towards the El Salvador gate, he strode towards the royal arch.
He found himself surrounded as the valet had been. Hernando showed them the penny, then tossed it over his shoulder. Four of the men ran to fight for it, and it was easy for him to break free of the other two who were begging for another coin.
José Caro was aiming for the Potro district. Where else could he be going? thought Hernando with a smile, following him at a distance, listening for his footsteps in the darkness and catching occasional glimpses of him when he passed by a lit roadside altar. But he almost lost him when they came out into Plaza del Potro, with all the hustle and bustle of people in it. How long had it been since he spent a night in the Potro? He searched for the valet in the crowd. He took a step to follow him, but was immediately intercepted by a youngster.
‘Is your excellency looking for a gaming house where you can win good money? I can show you the best—’
Hernando smiled. ‘Do you see that man?’ he interrupted the lad and pointed towards the valet, who had just turned a corner into Calle Badanas. The boy nodded. ‘If you tell me where he goes, I’ll give you money.’
‘How much?’
‘He’ll get away from you,’ Hernando warned.
As the lad ran off, Hernando allowed himself to be carried away by his memories: the bawdy house and Hamid; Juan the mule-driver; Fátima broken and defeated, spitting out the broth Aisha was trying to force her to drink; he himself, running after clients for the gaming houses . . .
‘He’s gone into Pablo Coca’s den.’ The boy’s words brought Hernando back to reality. ‘But I can take you to a better place: they cheat on people there.’
‘Are there any where they don’t?’ Hernando asked ironically. He did not know the one the lad had mentioned: it hadn’t existed when he frequented the area.
‘Of course! I can take you—’
‘Don’t bother. We’ll go to the one Coca runs.’
‘We’ll go?’ asked the lad, confused.
‘In a few moments. You show me where it is. Then I’ll pay you.’
They waited long enough for it to appear to be a chance meeting, then the boy showed Hernando a dark, narrow entrance. Hernando showed the doorkeepers a couple of gold sovereigns and then slipped inside the gambling den. It was a sizeable room concealed at the back of a workshop making carding brushes. About fifty people, including cardsharps, swindlers, curious onlookers and other people playing cards or dice, were scuttling between several gaming tables. If it were not for the noise outside in Plaza del Potro, the racket from inside the gambling den would have been enough to keep the city governor awake.
Hernando surveyed the room until he caught sight of the valet sitting at a table. He already had a couple of cheats standing behind him. Was he an experienced gambler, or an ingenuous beginner they would allow to win a few times so that they could fleece him when he had more funds? A girl offered Hernando a glass of wine, and he took it. The house paid: it was in their interest that someone coming in with gold sovereigns should drink and stay to play. He went from table to table to see what each one was offering: dice, card games like Thirty, the First Lady of Germany, or Mix and Match. He came to José Caro’s table and watched from the far side. He looked to see what the game was: Twenty-one. Hernando soon realized José Caro was nothing more than a novice. A cheat was standing behind him, wearing a doublet and a broad belt decorated with shiny metal ornaments. The cardsharp on the other side of the board, who was the bank for the game, kept glancing at the reflecting mirrors on his accomplice’s doublet and belt to see what cards José Caro had. Hernando shook his head slightly: everyone else playing at the table seemed to be in on the swindle, and they would all get their share for helping the cheat fleece the customer. The chamberlain revealed his hand: an ace and a court card. Twenty-one! He won a sizeable amount. So they wanted him to trust them.
‘You’re very hard to find.’ Hernando turned to face the man talking to him, and frowned as he tried to place him. ‘When you disappeared I thought something must have happened to you, but obviously not. You come back dressed like a noble, and with gold coins in your pocket. ‘
‘Palomero!’
Several of the gamblers, including the valet, looked up to see who this newcomer was who was speaking to the place’s owner like that. Pablo Coca signalled to Hernando not to call him that.
‘I’m the owner here,’ he whispered. ‘I have to consider my reputation.’
‘Pablo Coca,’ Hernando murmured to himself. He had never known the name of the youngster who had been able to hoodwink the most suspicious customer. The players returned to their cards. Intrigued to see the Morisco there, the valet kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. ‘You have a fine place here,’ said Hernando, adding: ‘It must cost you a small fortune in bribes to the magistrates and officials.’
‘The same as always.’ Pablo laughed. ‘Come on, leave that vinegar and I’ll pour us some decent wine.’
Hernando accompanied him to a corner away from the tables. Here, behind a rough table, a man protected by two guards with weapons tucked in their belts was counting money and doing the accounts. Pablo served two glasses of wine and they made a toast.
‘What brings you here?’ asked Pablo after they had clinked glasses.
‘I need a favour from that man playing Twenty-one over there,’ Hernando told him frankly.
‘The duke’s valet?’ Pablo cut in. ‘He’s one of the most gullible players who comes here. If you don’t talk to him soon, they’ll take all he has and he won’t be in any mood to hear about favours.’
Hernando looked over at the gaming table. The valet was putting down a bet against the bank. Another man was arguing about the game, and began a fight with a third player. Two men immediately came up to the table, separated them, and told them to calm down. Hernando could not bear to think of how far away he was from Muslim law: drinking in a gaming house . . . Why was it so hard to remain faithful to his religious beliefs?
‘If you want to catch him in a good mood, let him lose a little more. They’ve seen you with me. When you sit down, the dealers will change, and you’ll be able to do as you please. Do you know any tricks? Is that how you’ve been making a living? In Seville?’
‘No. All I know is what a good friend once taught me,’ said Hernando, winking at Pablo. ‘Things can’t have changed that much since then, can they? And beyond that . . . let’s see what luck brings.’
‘You’re being naive,’ Pablo warned him.
They carried on talking for a good while, and Hernando told him about his life. Then they went over to the card table, where the valet had lost almost all his money. Pablo gestured to the player seated to the right of the valet, and he stood up to give his seat to the Morisco. José Caro made as if to stand up as well, but Hernando put a hand on his forearm to keep h
im seated.
‘From now on you will only have luck to contend with,’ he whispered in his ear.
Some of the other players stood up, but were immediately replaced by new ones.
‘What do you mean?’ said the valet as the players changed. ‘I’ve been keeping my eyes open for any cheating.’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you. What I’m trying to say is that this is not like playing with the duchess for a ducat a time. For a start, never sit in front of a man with mirrors on his coat.’ Hernando lifted his chin towards the man with the decorated doublet, who was receiving his share from the winner a few feet away from the table. Other gamblers who had seen what was going on and said nothing were waiting for their rewards.
The valet made to slam his fist on the table, but Hernando stopped him.
‘You won’t get any comeback now. That game has finished.’
‘What do you want? Why are you helping me?’
‘Because I want you to show an interest in the fabrics that the master weaver Juan Marco produces. Do you know his workshop?’ The valet nodded, and was about to say something, but Hernando beat him to it: ‘You don’t have to buy. All I want is for you to go there.’
The board was now full, with nine players. One of them picked up the cards and was about to deal, but Hernando stopped him.
‘A new pack of cards,’ he demanded.
Pablo already had one to hand. Hernando took the old one, which the player had thrown on to the table in disgust. He handed it to the valet.
‘Keep it. Later on, I’ll show you a couple of things.’
The change of cards led the man who wanted to deal and another cardsharp to get up and leave. With Pablo Coca looking on, they began to play Twenty-one. Each player was dealt two cards, with one for the bank. The player who got closest to the number twenty-one (with the ace counting as one or eleven, the court cards ten, and the others their face value) won against the bank if he came closer to a total of twenty-one, or if the bank went beyond it. Luck changed, and the valet managed to recoup his losses. He even offered to buy a drink for Hernando, who was neither winning nor losing.
The Hand of Fatima Page 67
