The Hand of Fatima

by Falcones, Ildefonso

  ‘He is to be called Muqla, in honour of the renowned calligrapher,’ he announced to Rafaela and Miguel on the day of the baptism, using warm water to wipe away the oils poured over the baby in church. ‘That will be his name in this house.’

  Lowering her gaze, Rafaela agreed with an almost inaudible murmur.

  ‘Won’t that be dangerous?’ said Miguel, alarmed.

  ‘The only dangerous thing is to live with your back turned to God.’

  From that day on, Hernando decided it was time to tell his children something other than Muslim legends. He dismissed the tutor and took personal charge of educating Juan and Rosa, whom he renamed Amin and Laila. He began to teach them the Koran, the Sunna, Arabic poetry and language, the history of their people and mathematics. Little Muqla lay in his cot beside them, and was lulled to sleep listening to the suras whispered by his father. At eight, Amin already had some knowledge of these things, but the girl, who was only six, suffered.

  ‘Don’t you think you should wait until Rosa is a little older, to give her time?’ Rafaela tried to tell him.

  ‘Her name is Laila,’ Hernando corrected her. ‘In these lands, Rafaela, women are called on to teach and spread the true faith. She has to learn. They both have to know many things. When will they do that if not now? They are of an age to learn our laws. I think . . . I think I’ve made too many mistakes in the past.’

  This answer did not satisfy Rafaela. ‘It’s not that simple,’ she said. ‘You’re endangering our family. If anyone were to hear about this . . . I can’t even bear to think about it.’

  Hernando said nothing for a few moments, staring at his wife’s face.

  ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ he said eventually. ‘Miguel told you before we were married. He told you I professed the true faith.’ Rafaela nodded. ‘So when you married me, you accepted that our children would be brought up in the two cultures, the two religions. I’m not asking you to share my faith, but my children—’

  ‘They’re my children too,’ she retorted.

  Yet she did not insist, or interfere in their education. At night, however, she prayed to the Christian God on their behalf as she had always done, and Hernando said nothing. Every day, when he had finished teaching the children, he would wash and purify himself, then go to the mosque to pray facing the mihrab. Sometimes he stood quietly in front of the spot where the holy marks should be carved into the marble; at others, if he thought his presence there might arouse suspicion, he hid some distance away. ‘Here I am, Fátima,’ he would whisper to himself, ‘I’ll be with you whatever happens.’

  The mosque was a reminder to him that anything could happen. By now the Christians had taken it over completely. The chancel, the transept and the choir had recently been completed, and the dome rose high above the buttresses to show the whole world the magnificence of this longed-for church. Even the former kitchen garden where criminals had sought asylum had been renewed. The penitential costumes of those condemned by the Inquisition still hung from the walls of the surrounding gallery, adding a macabre note, but the space had now become a proper garden, with paved paths and fountains among orange trees: for this reason, it was now known as the Patio de los Naranjos.

  Clergy, nobles and poor alike were proud of their new cathedral. Every expression of astonishment or pride that Hernando heard from one of the Christian faithful about this masterpiece of architecture only served to irritate him more. This heretical building, which had profaned the greatest Muslim temple in the West, was a symbol of what was happening throughout Spain: the Christians were trampling on his people, and Hernando had to fight back, even at the risk of his own and his children’s lives.

  Occasionally he would stand at the doors to the tabernacle of the cathedral and contemplate the Last Supper by Arbasia. He remembered all the days he had spent there with Don Julián when it was the library, fooling the priests while he worked for his brothers in faith. What could have become of the Italian painter? He looked at the figure beside Jesus, the one he thought must be a woman. He, too, had chosen a woman, the Virgin Mary, and put her at the centre of the story of the lead plates in the Sacromonte. A story that seemed to have failed to reach its desired conclusion, if what he had heard from Granada was true.

  Whenever he was not praying or teaching his children, Hernando loved to ride. Miguel did an excellent job, and the colts born at their stud were increasingly sought after by the wealthy and nobles throughout Andalusia. They even sold some to courtiers in Madrid. Every so often, Miguel would send a pair of trained young horses to Córdoba. He chose the best, the ones he considered would benefit most from the lessons his master could give them. Hernando rode them out in the countryside for hours, putting them through their paces. He also taught Amin to ride, on the back of his horse Estudiante, who by now was old and docile and seemed to understand he was not to make any sudden movements with the boy astride him. And Hernando ran the bulls in the pastures once more, enthusiastically watched and cheered on by Amin; his sad experience with Azirat was a thing of the past. When he judged the colts had been properly trained, he gave them back to Miguel for him to sell. Hernando looked on with pride as some of them later faced the bulls in the La Corredera bullring when there was a feast day. The horses’ fortunes depended on the skill of the Córdoban nobles riding them, but they never failed to show their nobility and good temperament.

  At night Hernando shut himself in the library to experience again the union with God born of his skill in calligraphy, tracing suras of the Koran in magnificent coloured characters. Then he would make further copies in simpler lettering, interspersing the lines with his translation into aljamiado, just as he had done alongside Don Julián in the cathedral library. He gave the completed books to Munir for free. Despite his cold farewell in Jarafuel and his refusal to send Fátima the letter, Munir was prepared to accept them on behalf of the community, as Miguel told his master through the muleteer who took the holy man the first copies. Hernando was fighting back! Yes, he was still in the struggle, Hernando whispered to Fátima a few hundred leagues away. He was at peace with God, himself and with all those around him. In his mind’s eye he saw her as beautiful and as proud as ever, fanning his religious ardour, urging him to keep going.

  66

  A letter could be sent to the viceroy of Catalonia saying that with regard to the Moriscos crossing into France, they are to make themselves known, and if there are any rich and distinguished persons among them, they are to be detained and kept securely in order to determine their intentions, while the ordinary people are to be left alone and allowed to pass, because the fewer who remain the better.

  Decree of the Council of State, 24 June 1608

  BY THIS TIME, Miguel was more than thirty years old, although his lined features and crippled legs made him appear much older. He had no teeth, and his legs seemed to have refused to continue growing the way the rest of his body had. The bones in his legs that had been crushed at birth had developed from the point where they had been broken, but had no muscles to help them move. This meant that as time went by he looked increasingly like a grotesque puppet. Yet he continued to tell stories and tales, making the children laugh and delighting Rafaela in the few moments of rest she allowed herself. It was as though God, whichever one he might be, had exchanged Miguel’s ability to walk or run for an endless supply of imagination and fantasy.

  It was Miguel who, because he was always in the know about well-to-do families – those who could afford to buy the magnificent horses they bred at their farm – commented to Hernando that many rich Moriscos were leaving for France. He said it in a way that suggested Hernando was one of them and should think about doing the same.

  In January of 1608 the Council of State, headed by the Duke of Lerma, had unanimously agreed to suggest to the King that he expel all the new Christians from Spain. The news spread quickly, and the wealthy Moriscos began to sell their properties before the drastic measure could come into force. Since they were forbidden to cros
s to Barbary, they all cast their eyes towards the neighbouring realm to the north. France was Christian, so they were allowed to cross the frontier.

  When Miguel told him all this, Hernando looked at him and then shook his head.

  ‘My place is here, Miguel,’ he answered, and thought he heard a sigh of relief from his companion. ‘This is not the first time we’ve heard talk of expulsion. Let’s wait and see if the order is carried out. At least they are not proposing to castrate us, or slit our throats, turn us into slaves or throw us into the sea. If they expelled us, the nobles would lose a lot of money. Who would work their lands? The Christians don’t know how to, and would not stoop to it.’

  Yet during that year King Philip failed to act on the proposal his Council had recommended. Apart from the patriarch Ribera and a few other extremists, who continued to call for the killing or enslavement of the Moriscos, most of the clergy rent their garments at the thought of thousands of Christian souls reaching Moorish countries where they would renounce the true faith. There was no denying that their attempts to convert the Moriscos had failed time and again. And yet – as the Knight Commander of León pointed out – priests and saints were being sent all the way to China to take the word of Christ to those mysterious peoples. Given that was the case, why were they prepared to give up trying to convert the non-believers in their own realms?

  If it was forbidden to flee to Muslim countries, it was also against the law to take gold or silver out of Spain, even to another Christian country, so the Council ordered that all rich Moriscos should be detained at the border. The flow of wealthy people to France dried up. The Morisco communities throughout Spain were wary now, and on their guard: the poor, who were in the majority, remained chained to the land; those with more resources began to look for ways round the royal decree, should it be proclaimed.

  Hernando, like his brothers in faith, was worried. After the birth of Muqla, Rafaela had had another fine son, Musa, and then a girl, Salma (whose Christian names were Luis and Ana). Neither of them had blue eyes. Hernando now had a large family and the fact that the rich Moriscos who knew all the inner workings at court were fleeing Spain made him realize there were grounds for concern. As a result, he decided to go to Granada to find out what was happening with the lead plates.

  He got out the carefully hidden safe conduct the Archbishop of Granada had given him. No one was concerned about the martyrs of the Alpujarra any more: enough saints and martyrs of antiquity, disciples of Saint James, had been discovered in the Sacromonte for them not to worry about a few peasants tortured by the Moriscos only some forty years earlier. Yet no bailiff or other official of the Holy Brotherhood would dare question the document Hernando showed them firmly whenever anyone asked him what he was doing. Concealed with the safe conduct was the completed copy of the Koran, the copy of the gospel of Barnabas from the time of the great Almanzor, and the hand of Fátima. As Hernando did each time he opened the hiding place, he picked up the jewel and kissed it, thinking of Fátima. The gold had lost its lustre.

  It was not good news in Granada. Just as the Christians had taken over the mosque in Córdoba, so in Granada they had made the Sacromonte their own. As usual, Hernando met with Don Pedro, Miguel de Luna and Alonso del Castillo in the Golden Stable of the Casa de los Tiros.

  ‘There is no point in trying to get the gospel of Barnabas to the Sultan,’ Don Pedro argued. ‘We need the Church to recognize the books’ authority, especially the lead plate that refers to the Mute Book, the one that announces that some day a great king will appear with another text, this one decipherable, which will outline the Virgin Mary’s revelation as described in the book that cannot be read.’

  ‘But the relics . . .’ Hernando cut in.

  ‘That’s a battle we have won,’ said Alonso del Castillo, who looked much older now. ‘The relics have been approved as authentic and are venerated as such. Archbishop de Castro has decided to build a large collegiate church on the Sacromonte. He has appointed Ambrosio de Vico to be in charge.’

  A collegiate church! Hernando sighed. ‘That cannot be right. The doctrine in those books is Muslim!’ His voice rang out. ‘How can the Christians build a church on the spot where lead plates have been found that praise the one God?’

  ‘The archbishop isn’t allowing anyone to see the plates.’ This time it was Luna who spoke. ‘Despite knowing no Arabic, he is personally supervising their translation. If there’s something he doesn’t agree with, he changes it, and ignores the translator. I’ve experienced it myself. Both the Holy See and the King are demanding he send them the books, but he refuses. He is keeping them under his control as though they belonged to him.’

  ‘In that case’, Hernando observed, ‘the truth will never be known.’

  Defeat filled his voice. The golden reflections from the paintings on the ceiling danced in the silence that fell between the four men.

  ‘We’ll not be able to do it,’ he insisted dejectedly. ‘We’ll be expelled or killed before we can.’

  None of the others responded. Hernando could see the three of them were ill at ease: they shifted in their seats and avoided his gaze. Then he realized: yes, they had failed, but they were not risking expulsion. One was a nobleman; the other two worked for the King.

  He was alone in his fight.

  ‘We can see to it that you and your family are saved from expulsion or whatever other measures are taken against our people, if in fact they are implemented one day,’ Don Pedro said to Hernando, who, seeing no point in continuing the conversation, had made to get up from his chair and leave the Golden Stable.

  He looked closely at the nobleman, grasping the arms of his chair to rise to his feet. ‘What about our brothers in faith?’ he asked, unable to stop a note of resentment entering his voice. ‘And the poor?’ he added, remembering Shamir’s prediction.

  ‘We’ve done all we could,’ Miguel de Luna replied calmly. ‘Or don’t you agree? We’ve all risked our lives, you more than anyone.’

  Hernando fell back into his seat. It was true. He had risked his life in their undertaking.

  ‘For the moment,’ the translator went on, ‘God has not rewarded us with success. He in His infinite wisdom will know why. Perhaps one day . . .’

  ‘If the expulsions or any other drastic measures occur,’ said Don Pedro, ‘we must continue to live in Spain. Our seed must always be here, in these lands of ours. A seed always ready to grow, multiply and recover al-Andalus for Islam.’

  For a few moments, Hernando sat trying to take in all he had heard. His life of sacrifice and suffering passed through his mind. Had it been worth all the misfortunes? He was fifty-four years old. He felt old, immensely old. And yet, his children . . .

  ‘How would you save me from being expelled?’ he asked faintly.

  ‘By petitioning for you to become a nobleman,’ Don Pedro replied.

  Hernando could not avoid a cynical laugh.

  ‘Me, a nobleman? A Morisco from Juviles? The son of a woman condemned by the Inquisition?’

  ‘We have many friends, Hernando,’ the nobleman insisted. ‘Nowadays everything can be bought, including a title of nobility. The records of entire villages are forged. You have an excellent position with the Church in Granada. You have collaborated with them. You saved Christians during the Alpujarra uprising! All that is well known to everyone.’

  ‘Besides, aren’t you a priest’s son?’ Castillo added, knowing this was a delicate topic. ‘Titles are granted through the male line, not the female.’

  Hernando snorted and shook his head. That was all he needed: for that dog of a priest who had raped his mother to be his and his family’s salvation now!

  ‘Many bloodlines have been washed clean,’ Luna said, trying to convince him. ‘Everyone knows that the grandfather of Teresa de Jesús, the founder of the barefoot Carmelites, was Jewish. And now they want to make her a saint! There are hundreds if not thousands like her. All kinds of Christians are seeking to become nobles so that th
ey are exempt from paying taxes, and now many Moriscos are doing the same to avoid being expelled. While their cases are being studied, nothing will happen to them – and the process could take years.’

  ‘What if they are refused in the end?’ Hernando asked.

  ‘By then times will have changed,’ replied Castillo.

  ‘Trust us,’ Don Pedro insisted. ‘We’ll see to everything.’

  Before leaving Granada, Hernando hired a lawyer to present his case to the Royal Chancery.

  These plans were overtaken by events. Desperate at the rumours of expulsion, the Moriscos called on the King of Morocco to come to their aid. A group of fifty of them travelled to Barbary to persuade him to invade Spain with the help of the Dutch, who had already agreed to supply enough ships to form a bridge across the strait. The proposal was similar to all those they had made in the past: all Muley Zaidan had to do was to take a coastal city with a port, bring in twenty thousand soldiers, and they would guarantee that another two hundred thousand men would rise up to take over kingdoms that were already weak.

  Although he was a bitter enemy of Spain, the Moroccan King laughed at the Morisco proposal, and sent the ambassadors packing. The person who did not laugh was Philip III. He was sick and tired of conspiracies and increasingly concerned that one or other of them might actually come to fruition, and his territories be invaded by a foreign power supported by the Moriscos. In April 1609 the King sent the Council a request in which he called on its members to take definitive measures against the Morisco community; ‘without shrinking from slitting their throats, if necessary’.

  Five months later a decree was issued in the kingdom of Valencia for the expulsion of all the Moriscos. The intransigent views of the patriarch Ribera and other Christian extremists had won the day. The only possible opposition, from nobles afraid their lands would suffer because they would lose cheap, skilled labour, was silenced with the promise that they would be given titles to all the lands and properties the Moriscos were forced to abandon. The only goods the Moriscos were allowed to take from Spain were whatever they could carry to the designated embarkation ports, which they had to reach within three days. Everything else was to be left for the benefit of their Christian lords, under penalty of death for anyone who destroyed or concealed any possessions.