Hernando then went on to tell Castillo about his discovery of the gospel of Barnabas, as if it had just taken place:
Doubtless a document such as this gospel would immediately be dismissed as apocryphal, heretical, and contrary to the beliefs of the Holy Mother Church if it were released without a prior strategy. We should start by convincing the Christians what our beliefs are and how we are forced to live; if we prepare them for the gospel’s existence, we could one day reveal it so that it can at least sow doubt in their minds and lead them to treat us more benevolently and mercifully.
The royal translator soon replied. One morning a muleteer sent especially from El Escorial met Hernando on the outskirts of Córdoba and handed him a letter. He galloped out to the pastures, looked for a spot where he could hide, dismounted, and then eagerly began to read Castillo’s reply.
In the name of Allah, the most gracious, the most merciful, He who indicates the right path. In order to stand against the Christians, many of our brothers have forgotten the things you point out in your letter. But you are right: with God’s help, this could be a good way for the two communities to be brought together, and for peace to reign between us. I anxiously await the possibility of reading the gospel you speak of. In the sixth century Decretum Gelasianum on ‘approved and non-approved books’ the Church has already made mention of a gospel by Saint Barnabas, which it describes as apocryphal. I also agree with you that to reveal its existence without preparation would get us nowhere. Granada is the place to do this. Start there. Supply them with evidence of the Christian tradition they so desperately long for, and at the same time provide clues of what one day might lead them to the Truth. The Virgin, of course, but do not forget Saint Caecilius. He was the first Bishop of Granada, who was supposedly martyred during the rule of the Roman Emperor Nero. Saint Caecilius and his brother Saint Ctesiphon were Arabs. Make sure therefore that you employ our divine tongue, so that the Christians discover their past through our universal language, but do so ambiguously, in such a way that what you write will give rise to different interpretations. Remember that in those ancient times there were no vowels or diacritic signs in Arabic writing. When you are ready, send me word. Peace be with you, and may God be your guide.
Hernando tore up the letter and climbed back on to Volador. A storm was brewing. Could he do all that? He had been deceiving people all his life. In his youth, he had taken money so that he could exchange Fátima for a mule. Now he was making more money by betting when he saw Pablo waggling his earlobe . . . but to deceive an entire realm, to deceive the Catholic Church! A cool rain started to fall. Hernando continued at a walk, imagining that he was involved in a huge game all by himself. A game that required all his intelligence: this was not a game of cards with simple tricks. Chess! It was like a great game of chess: he was on one side of the board; on the other was the whole of Christianity.
That night he excused himself from the evening meal. He needed to be alone. The garden by the mosque was the same as ever: hundreds of penitential garments, with the names of those punished written on them, still hung from the walls of the cloister. Some of the thieves seeking sanctuary there were wandering about, oblivious to the rain, while others sought shelter. Hernando briefly wondered what had become of his erstwhile companions. There were also dozens of young and old priests among a gaggle of believers; many of them were running inside to avoid the persistent downpour. Hernando went into the cathedral and paused for a moment outside the grille to the San Bernabé chapel. He bent over, as if he had dropped something: the keys to the chapel were still hidden where he had left them, tied to the bottom of the grille. ‘Saint Barnabas!’ murmured Hernando. His gospel! What other sign did he require? He picked up the keys, wondering whether or not they had changed the lock. He would not know until he tried, and for that he would have to wait for the doorkeepers to shut the cathedral. As he walked towards the sacrarium, he looked closely at the lock. Was it the same? All he could do was wait. He did so in rapt contemplation of Arbasia’s paintings in the new chapel, especially the figure alongside Jesus Christ in the Last Supper. Why? he asked himself for the umpteenth time.
The keys did open the grille to the San Bernabé chapel. Hernando slipped inside and opened the cupboard. He climbed inside as best he could, and piled the paraphernalia for celebrating mass at his feet. Then he crouched inside, and waited once more.
In the early hours, with the cathedral empty and the guards gathered in the distant Punto chapel, the storm broke over Córdoba. The flashes of lightning repeatedly lit the figure of a man prostrate in front of the mihrab of the most marvellous mosque in the world. A man whose mind was fixed on a plan that might, just might, bring about the reconciliation of the two religions.
52
Granada, March 1588
HERNANDO FOUND lodging in the Casa de los Tiros, at the invitation of Don Pedro de Granada. He had left Córdoba with the excuse that he was visiting the cathedral chapter with information about the Alpujarra martyrs and so, armed with his safe conduct, he set out along the tragic route that had seen so many deaths during the exodus of the Moriscos. As he was forced to travel alone, he considered changing his route to avoid painful memories, but the detours made his journey twice as long. The month of March was bringing life back to the fields, and when he visited little Humam’s grave, which was for him where all his own family were buried, the fresh scents of a spring night accompanied his prayers.
Already informed that he was coming, Luna and Castillo had travelled from El Escorial to see him.
When they had locked themselves in the Golden Stable, Hernando showed them a tar-covered lead casket. Opening it, he solemnly took out a piece of cloth, a small tablet with the image of the Virgin on it, a bone and a parchment. He placed them all on a low inlaid table.
The four men stood in silence for a few moments, staring down at the objects on the table.
‘I found an old parchment in the minaret of the duke’s palace,’ Hernando started to explain. ‘It must date from the time of the caliphs, when al-Mansur was terrorizing the peninsula,’ he went on, smiling at Luna. ‘I only had to cut the outside part to find a clean fragment.’
Saying this, he unfolded the parchment. He took hold of the top corners and held it up to his companions. ‘It’s like a big chess board,’ he said.
In the centre of the parchment were two rectangles, one on top of the other. The top one, which had 48 columns and 29 rows, contained an Arabic letter in each square. The lower rectangle, which had 15 columns and 10 rows, and where each individual square was much larger, contained an Arabic word in each one. Luna and Castillo leant towards the parchment to study it as closely as possible and noted that none of the letters or words (written in red or brown ink) contained any vowels or diacritic signs.
‘“Prophecy of the apostle John”,’ Castillo read out from an introduction written in Arabic in the margin above the rectangles, ‘“on the destruction and judgement of the peoples of the earth and the punishments that will follow, as revealed in his worthy gospel deciphered from the Greek by the scholar and holy servant of the faith Dionysius the Aeropagite.”’ The translator leant back. ‘Excellent! What do the other inscriptions say?’ he added, pointing to further lines of writing at the foot and sides of the parchment.
‘By combining letters and words, it can be deduced that it is a prophecy translated by Saint Caecilius from the Greek after it was given to him by Dionysius, the Archbishop of Athens. In it are foretold the arrival of Islam, the Lutheran schism and the evils the Christian Church will suffer, dividing into a multitude of sects. It says a king will come from the East to dominate the world. He will impose a single religion, and will punish all those who have wallowed in vice.’
‘Bravo!’ Pedro de Granada applauded him.
‘Whose is the signature at the bottom of the parchment?’ asked Luna.
‘Saint Caecilius, Bishop of Granada.’
‘And the other things?’ Castillo enquired, pointing to t
he objects laid out on the table.
‘According to the parchment, this is the Virgin’s veil,’ said Hernando, pointing at the triangular piece of cloth. ‘She used it to dry Jesus Christ’s tears in his Passion. The tablet shows the Virgin, and this is one of Saint Stephen’s bones.’
‘What a shame!’ Don Pedro said. ‘The Christians will not be getting the relics of Saint Caecilius they so desire.’
‘Saint Caecilius could hardly be writing this and bring his own bone along at the same time,’ Hernando said with a smile.
‘It’s a simple-looking veil,’ Castillo said, feeling the cloth. Hernando nodded. ‘Might I ask how you did all this?’
‘I borrowed the tablet from an ex-voto beneath an altar to the Virgin in Córdoba. Out in the fields I wrapped it in a cloth and put it in a hole with manure to make it seem ancient.’
‘A good idea,’ Luna admitted.
‘I know a little about the effects of manure on things,’ Hernando explained. ‘As for the bone and the piece of cloth, I paid some poor wretches in the Potro district to dig up bodies from the common graves in the Campo de la Merced, until I found the cloth and a clean bone—’
‘Could they recognize you again?’ Castillo cut in.
‘No. It was at night, and I was hooded the whole time. They thought I wanted it for some witchcraft. No one can link it with our plan. I left loaded down with bones!’
‘What now?’ Don Pedro asked.
‘Now,’ Castillo answered, ‘we have to find a way to get our first message to the Christians. As I understand it, this is no more than the first move in a much more ambitious plan, isn’t it?’ Hernando nodded at the translator. ‘Let’s see how the Church reacts when it finds its venerated bishop and patron of Granada expressing himself in Arabic . . .’
‘And to the prophecy,’ added Hernando.
‘They will interpret the prophecy as they see fit. Have no doubt about that.’
‘You told me to make the message ambiguous,’ Hernando complained.
‘Yes, that’s essential. The important thing is to sow doubt. Some will interpret it to suit the Church, but there will be others who do not see it in the same way. They will start to argue. We are good at that in this country of ours. If someone says something, the other will say the opposite, just for the sake of it. Doubtless Miguel and I will be called upon to translate the document; we can adapt it as we see fit. If we did it scrupulously and sent a message that was openly in favour of Islam, it would immediately be denounced as heresy, and there would be no room to argue; a lot of people know Arabic. That message, the one contained in the gospel you have discovered – by the way, did you bring it? I would very much like to read it.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ Hernando apologized. ‘I still haven’t finished transcribing it, and I don’t want to risk the original.’
‘You’re right. Well, as I was saying, that message, the Truth, must arrive at a moment when we have succeeded in spreading as many doubts as possible. We need to prepare carefully for its appearance. The problem now is what to do with all this.’ Castillo pointed to the objects on the table. ‘How can we conceal them for the Christians to find?’
‘They are knocking down the old tower, the Turpian tower,’ Don Pedro informed them.
‘That would be ideal for our purposes,’ Luna agreed. ‘The old minaret of the main mosque.’
‘When?’ asked Castillo.
‘Tomorrow is the feast of the Archangel Gabriel,’ smiled Hernando.
The four men looked at each other. Gabriel was Jibril, the Muslims’ most important angel, the one who took it upon himself to show the revealed word to the Prophet.
‘God is with us, there’s no doubt about that,’ Don Pedro said happily.
Castillo looked for something to write with, asked permission from Hernando, who waved him on, and then added a few phrases in Latin and Castilian to the parchment, among which was the order to hide it high up in the Turpian tower.
The others looked on in silence.
‘More uncertainties for the Christians,’ Castillo said as he finished, blowing on the ink to dry it. ‘Tomorrow night we can visit the tower.’
*
As with the Turpian tower, the main body of the bell tower of San José church in the Albaicín had once been the minaret of the Almorabitin, the oldest mosque in Granada. Here, though, it was the mosque that had been destroyed, while its minaret survived. The day dawned with a promise of sunshine and heat. Hernando was up early, and went for a walk around the environs of the church. The previous night, before going to bed, he had taken Don Pedro to one side and asked him about Don Ponce de Hervás: he wanted to know if his love affair with Isabel had had any repercussions.
‘None at all,’ replied the nobleman. ‘As I told you, the magistrate does not want any scandal. You can be reassured on that score.’
Hernando stopped to admire the uneven stones and patterned brickwork of the minaret. He was particularly struck by an obviously Muslim horseshoe arch in one wall. Trying to imagine days gone by when the Muslims were called to prayer from this minaret, he almost failed to recognize two women who were leaving the church with the congregation at the end of mass. But Isabel’s shining blonde hair could not be hidden, even by the delicate lace of the black mantilla covering her head and face. Hernando shuddered as he watched her pass by, proud, erect, inaccessible. Sour-faced, Doña Ángela kept a vigilant eye on her. Neither of them noticed him as they walked on, staring straight ahead of them. Hernando hid in the low doorway of one of the nearby Morisco houses, and saw them head back towards the villa. The previous evening, the sight of the Alhambra lit up had reawakened his passion. He kept Isabel in sight as they moved through the passersby. What could he do? Doña Ángela would not allow him to talk to Isabel, and when they arrived home there was no way he could even get close to her. He met four youngsters playing in the street. Taking a real out of his purse, he showed it to them; they immediately crowded round him.
‘Do you see those two women?’ Hernando asked, trying to make sure none of the passersby heard him. ‘I want you to run after them and to bump into the smaller one. Then keep her busy for as long as you can. But don’t even touch the other one, understood?’
The four of them eagerly agreed. The eldest grabbed the coin, and they ran off without even discussing what they were going to do. Hernando hastened after them, dodging other men and women. He was worried he might have gone too far: the judge’s cousin was an elderly woman . . .
A cry of shock echoed round the narrow street as Doña Ángela was bowled over and fell full length to the ground. Hernando shook his head. There was no changing his mind now! The street urchins didn’t have to try to distract Doña Ángela’s attention: a crowd of passersby rushed to gather round the two women while the youngsters escaped to a chorus of curses and threats. Hernando went up to the group. Two people were helping Doña Ángela back to her feet; others were looking on, and a couple of men were still shaking their fists at the boys in the distance. Isabel was leaning over her companion. While Doña Ángela was being helped up, Isabel seemed to realize she was being watched. She straightened up and peered round until she saw Hernando standing opposite her between a man and a woman who had stopped to see what was going on.
They stared intently at one another. Isabel glowed in the sunlight. Hernando did not know whether to smile, blow her a kiss, rush round the group of bystanders to catch her arm and drag her away, or simply shout how much he wanted her. In the end, he did nothing. Nor did she. They simply devoured each other with their eyes until Doña Ángela was able to stand without any help. Hernando was distracted by the sight of a woman trying to brush the sand from Doña Ángela’s dress, although the chaperone pushed her off as if she were in a hurry to get away. When he looked back again at Isabel, he saw there were tears in her eyes; her chin and lower lip were trembling. Hernando made a move towards her, as though to push his way through the crowd, but Isabel’s lips tightened, and she shook her head sl
ightly in a way that froze him solid. Then, together with the woman who had tried to clean Doña Ángela’s dress, the two of them continued on their way: the cousin limping and complaining, Isabel trying to hold back more tears.
Hernando pushed his way through the people who were already dispersing and followed them, until Isabel turned her head and saw him.
‘You go on, cousin,’ she said, indicating to the other woman she should help Doña Ángela back to their house. ‘I think that in all the commotion I lost a pin from my mantilla. I’ll catch up with you.’
Watching her draw near, Hernando tried to spot the slightest sign of joy in Isabel’s face, but when she was by his side he could see only the tears in her eyes.
‘What are you doing here, Hernando?’ she whispered.
‘I wanted to see you. To talk to you, to feel—’
‘That’s impossible,’ she said, choking with emotion. ‘Please don’t come back into my life. It’s been so hard for me to forget you . . . No, don’t say anything, for God’s sake!’ she cried when Hernando leant over to whisper something in her ear. ‘Don’t make me suffer again. Leave me, I beg you.’
Isabel did not give him the opportunity to respond. She turned her back on him and hurried off to catch up with Doña Ángela.
Isabel’s refusal stayed with Hernando throughout the rest of the day. As night was falling, together with Don Pedro, Castillo and Luna, he walked round past the silk market to the Jelices gate, from where he could see the building work being done on the cathedral. The silk-weaving quarter was behind them: almost two hundred shops crammed into its narrow streets. At night it was almost deserted. The ten entrance gates were closed, and a bailiff guarded the businesses and the customs house where the traders paid duty on their goods.
Beyond the Jelices gate stood the Turpian tower. This had once been the minaret of the great mosque in Granada, and whilst the mosque had been turned into a place of Christian worship, its square tower, a little over thirteen spans in height, had become the cathedral bell tower. However, in January of that year a majestic new tower on three levels had been built to house the bells, so that the Turpian tower, now redundant, remained simply as an impediment to the works in the midst of the bishop’s cathedral seat.
The Hand of Fatima Page 69
