That same night, Brahim took his stepson by surprise while he was settling the mules.
‘Woman!’ the muleteer shouted.
Hernando was bewildered. His stepfather was only a couple of steps away from him. What could he have done wrong this time? Why was he calling his mother? Aisha appeared in the stable doorway. She hurried over to them, wiping her hands on the cloth she wore as an apron. Before she could say a word, Brahim whirled round and gave her a tremendous slap across the face. Aisha stumbled; a trickle of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth.
‘Did you see that?’ Brahim growled. ‘Your mother will get a hundred of the same if you ever take it into your head to say anything to the priests about what we are doing in the caves or with the livestock.’
Hernando spent the whole afternoon in the cave, until the last Morisco arrived shortly before dusk. At last he could return to the village to look after the mules: he had to treat any scrapes and see they were all in good condition. In the corner of the stables where he slept, he found a bowl of gruel and some lemonade. He made short work of both. As soon as he had finished with the animals, he rushed out of the shed.
As he passed in front of the small wooden door of the house, he spat on the ground. Inside, the rest of the family were laughing. His stepfather’s penetrating voice could be heard above all the cheerful noise. Seeing Hernando from the window, Raissa smiled fleetingly; she was the only one who occasionally showed him any affection, although her guarded gestures, like Aisha’s, had to be kept hidden from Brahim. Hernando speeded up until he was running as fast as he could to Hamid’s house.
The wizened old holy man had a lined and weather-beaten face. He was lame in his left leg, and since his wife had died had lived on his own in a hovel that had been patched up a thousand times without much success. Hernando was not sure how old Hamid was, but thought he must be one of the oldest men in the village. Even though the door to the shack was open, Hernando knocked three times.
‘Peace,’ Hamid replied at the third knock. ‘I saw Brahim return to the village,’ he said when the lad had crossed the threshold.
The room was lit by a smoky oil lamp, the only one in Hamid’s dwelling. In spite of the peeling walls and the leaks from the roof, the room was as neat and tidy as all the other Morisco homes. The fire in the hearth was out. The single tiny window was blocked up to prevent the frame collapsing.
The boy nodded and sat on a threadbare pillow next to Hamid.
‘Have you prayed?’
Hernando knew he would be asked that. He also knew what the next words would be: ‘The night prayer . . .’
‘. . . is the only one we can perform with any degree of safety,’ Hamid always said, ‘because the Christians are asleep.’
Whereas Andrés the sacristan was determined to teach Hernando Christian prayers and to count, read and write, the poverty-stricken Hamid, who was respected as a holy man in the village, did the same with Muslim beliefs and teachings. He had taken this task upon himself ever since the other Moriscos had rejected the priest’s bastard, as though he felt the need to compete with the sacristan and all the rest of the community. He also got Hernando to pray while he was working the land, safe from prying eyes, and the two of them would chant the suras together as they roamed the hills in search of medicinal herbs.
Before Hernando could answer Hamid’s question, the old man stood up. He shut and barred the door, then they both stripped off in silence. The water was ready for them in clean earthenware bowls. They turned to face Mecca, the kiblah.
‘O God, my Lord!’ Hamid intoned, dipping his hands into the bowl and washing them three times. Hernando accompanied him in his prayers and also washed his hands. ‘With your aid I preserve myself from the filth and evil of accursed Satan . . .’
They then proceeded to wash their bodies as prescribed by law: their private parts, hands, nose and mouth, their right and left arms from fingers to elbow, their heads, ears and feet down to their ankles. They accompanied each ablution with the corresponding prayers, although occasionally Hamid’s voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper. This was the sign that the boy should take the lead in saying the prayers; Hernando smiled as he did so, the pair of them still with their eyes fixed on the kiblah.
‘. . . that on the Day of Reckoning you give me . . .’ the boy prayed out loud.
Hamid half closed his eyes, nodded contentedly, then took up the prayer again:
‘. . . my scroll in my right hand, and that you judge me leniently and kindly.’
After their ablutions, the two of them recited the night prayer, bending forward twice and then crouching down to touch their ankles.
‘All praise be to Allah . . .’ they began in unison.
Just as they were prostrating themselves, kneeling on the only rug Hamid possessed, their foreheads and noses pressed against the cloth, their arms outstretched in front of them, they heard knocking at the door.
They fell silent, motionless on the mat.
The knocking came again, louder this time.
Startled, Hamid turned towards the boy, seeing his blue eyes glint in the candlelight. ‘I’m sorry,’ the old man seemed to be saying. He was old, but Hernando . . .
‘Hamid, open up!’ they heard from outside.
Hamid? In spite of his lame leg, the Morisco jumped up and went to the door. Hamid! No Christian would have called him that.
‘Peace.’
The visitor came in to find Hernando still kneeling on the mat, feet pressed downwards.
‘Peace,’ said the stranger. He was a small, bronze-skinned man, considerably younger than Hamid.
‘This is Hernando,’ Hamid said. ‘Hernando, this is Ali, from Órgiva. He’s my sister’s husband. What brings you here at this time of night? You’re far from home.’ Ali’s only reply was to lift his chin in the direction of the young boy. ‘You can trust him,’ Hamid said. ‘See for yourself.’
Ali studied Hernando as he got to his feet, and then nodded. Hamid gestured for his brother-in-law to sit down, and then did likewise. Ali sat on the rug, Hamid on the threadbare pillow.
‘Bring some fresh water and raisins,’ he asked Hernando.
‘The end of the year will bring a new world,’ Ali announced solemnly, without waiting for the boy to carry out the request.
The twenty or so raisins in the bowl that Hernando left between the two men must have been charity from the villagers. Hernando had even brought gifts for the old scholar from his stepfather, who did not exactly have a reputation for being generous.
Hamid nodded at what his brother-in-law said. ‘So I have heard.’
Hernando, who had sat down again on one corner of the mat, looked quizzically at him. It was a surprise to him that Hamid had relatives, but it was not the first time he had heard what Ali had said: his stepfather kept repeating something similar, especially when he returned from Granada. The sacristan Andrés had explained it was because the turn of the year was when the new royal decree came into force, obliging the Moriscos to dress like Christians and to abandon the use of Arabic.
‘There was a failed attempt at Easter this year,’ Hamid went on. ‘Why would it be any different this time?’
Hernando cocked his head to one side. What was Hamid saying? What failed attempt was he talking about?
‘This time it will succeed,’ Ali assured him. ‘Last time, the plans for revolt were on everyone’s lips throughout the Alpujarra. That’s how the Marquis of Mondéjar got to hear about them, and the people of the Albaicín pulled out.’
Hamid encouraged him to say more. When he heard the word ‘revolt’, Hernando was all ears.
‘This time, it’s been decided that those in the Alpujarra will not be told until the moment has come to take Granada. Precise instructions have been given to the Moriscos in the Albaicín, the plains and the valley of Lecrín and Órgiva. Married men have been recruiting other married men, and the unmarried and widowers have been doing the same. There are more than eight thous
and ready and waiting to launch the assault on the Albaicín. Only once that has happened will the people of the Alpujarra be informed. A hundred thousand men could rise up in arms.’
‘Who is behind it this time?’
‘The meetings are held at the house of a candle-maker in the Albaicín called Adelet. Those who attend are the men the Christians call Hernando el Zaguer, a town councillor from Cádiar, Diego López from Mecina de Bombarón, Miguel de Rojas from Ugíjar, as well as Farax ibn Farax, El Tagari, Mofarrix, Alatar . . . and there are many Morisco outlaws who support them,’ Ali explained.
‘I don’t trust those bandits,’ Hamid interrupted him.
Ali shrugged. ‘As you know,’ he said, ‘many of them were forced to go and live in the mountains. They don’t give us any trouble! You yourself would have gone with him, had it not been for . . .’ Ali averted his eyes from Hamid’s withered leg. ‘Most of them became outlaws because of the same injustices you have suffered.’
Ali said no more, waiting for his brother-in-law to react. For a few moments Hamid seemed lost in memories, but eventually he pursed his lips in agreement.
‘What injust—?’ Hernando started to ask, but a brusque gesture from Hamid silenced him.
‘Which bands of outlaws have promised their support?’ the old scholar wanted to know.
‘Those of El Partal of Narila, El Nacoz of Nigüelas, and El Seniz of Bérchul.’ Hamid was listening closely as Ali insisted: ‘It’s all been planned. The men in the Albaicín are ready to rise up on New Year’s Day. As soon as they do, the eight thousand outside Granada will scale . . . we will scale the Alhambra walls on the Generalife side. We’ll use seventeen ladders that are already being put together in Ugíjar and Quéntar. I’ve seen them: they are made of strong, tough hemp ropes, with rungs of hard wood that can support three men at a time. We’ll have to attack disguised as Turks, so the Christians think we are being supported by the Berbers or the Sultan. Our women are working on the disguises. Granada can’t defend itself. We will retake it on the same day it surrendered to the Christian monarchs.’
‘And once Granada has been taken?’
‘Algiers will come to our aid. The Great Turk will support us. They have promised to do so. Spain can’t cope with more wars. It can’t fight on more fronts – its armies are already engaged in Flanders, the Indies and against the Berbers and the Turks.’ Ali raised his eyes to the roof. ‘Allah be praised,’ he murmured. ‘The prophecies will be fulfilled, Hamid!’ he shouted. ‘They will be fulfilled!’
At this, silence filled the room, broken only by Hernando’s agitated breathing. The boy was trembling from head to foot, looking compulsively from one man to the other.
‘What do you want me to do? What can I do?’ Hamid asked all of a sudden. ‘I’m lame . . .’
‘As a direct descendant of the Nasrids, you should be present at the taking of Granada as a representative of the people it has always belonged to and should still belong to. Your sister is willing to go with you.’
Hernando was almost on his feet by now, desperate to ask more questions, but Hamid stretched out a restraining arm, as though begging him to be patient. The boy sat back down on the mat, but could not take his eyes off the humble old scholar. He was a descendant of the Nasrids, the Kings of Granada!
1 A Moorish measurement, equivalent to 441.75 square metres.
3
HAMID BEGGED Ali to stay the night, but he declined. He knew his host had only one bed, but to avoid offending him claimed he had to see someone else in Juviles who was waiting for him. This excuse satisfied Hamid, who went to the door to see him on his way. From the mat, Hernando watched the two men take leave of each other. The old man waited until his brother-in-law had disappeared into the darkness, then barred the door again. When he turned back to the boy, the lines seemed more deeply etched on his face, and his normally calm eyes had a new glint to them.
Hamid remained at the door for a few moments, lost in thought. Then he slowly limped over to the boy, holding up his hand for him to be quiet. To Hernando, the seconds before he dropped it seemed endless. Finally, Hamid sat down and smiled openly at him. The thousand questions crowding into the boy’s mind – Nasrids? What uprising? What was the Great Turk going to do? And the people from Algiers? Why should you have become an outlaw? Are there Berbers in the Alpujarra? – resolved into a single one: ‘How can you be so poor if you are a descendant of—’
Before he had even finished his question, the old man’s face darkened. ‘They took everything from me,’ he replied shortly.
Hernando looked away. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’ he managed to blurt out. To his surprise, the old holy man seemed to want to explain.
‘Not long ago, since you were born, in fact, there has been an important change in the administration of Granada. Until then, we Moriscos were governed by the captain-general, the Marquis of Mondéjar, the representative of the King and lord of almost all these lands. But the host of officials and legal clerks in the chancery of Granada insisted they should have control over the Moriscos and, despite the marquis’s opposition, the King agreed. From that moment on, the Christian clerks and lawyers began to dust off old lawsuits aimed at the Moriscos.’
It had long been the custom that any Morisco who accepted the King’s rule was pardoned any offence he might have committed. This benefited everyone: the Moriscos could settle peacefully in the Alpujarra, while the King received workers who paid much higher taxes than if the lands had been in the hands of Christians. The only ones who did not benefit were the chancery.
Hamid took a raisin from the bowl. ‘Don’t you want one?’ he asked.
Hernando was impatient. No, he did not want one . . . He wanted Hamid to give him answers, to go on talking! So as not to offend him, he stretched out his hand and chewed silently on a raisin.
‘Well,’ Hamid continued, ‘the chancery clerks used the excuse of pursuing the Morisco outlaws to create squads of soldiers who were in fact almost always their servants or relatives . . . and who received the best pay ever known in the King’s armies. They were paid more than the Germans in the Flanders regiments! While these men did their fighting for them, the jumped-up officials, instead of using their swords against the brigands, used their legal chicanery against peaceful Moriscos. Those who had lawsuits brought against them were forced to pay to defend themselves, with the result that many had to abandon their homes and join the outlaws. Yet the officials’ greed did not end there: they began to question the Moriscos’ property deeds, and anyone who did not have written proof of ownership was forced to pay the King or to leave his lands. Many of us had no such proof . . .’
‘You didn’t have titles to your property?’ Hernando asked when the scholar paused in his explanation.
‘No,’ Hamid said sadly. ‘I am a descendant of the Nasrid dynasty, the last to reign in Granada. My family, my clan’ – the sudden note of pride in Hamid’s voice gave Hernando a jolt – ‘was one of the noblest and most prominent in Granada, and a miserable Christian clerk took all my lands and possessions from me.’
Hernando shuddered. Overwhelmed by these sad memories, Hamid’s voice trailed off. He recovered quickly though and went on, as if wanting at least this once to be able to tell someone the story of his ruin.
‘When Abu Abdallah, whom the Christians called Boabdil, surrendered to the Castilians in Granada, they offered him the Alpujarra as his fiefdom in compensation. He withdrew there with his court, one of whom was his cousin, my father, a renowned scholar. But those deceitful monarchs were not content with this: behind Boabdil’s back, they used an intermediary to buy back the lands they had awarded him shortly before, and then expelled him from them. Almost all the Muslim nobles and grandees left Spain with the “Little King”. My father was one of the few who decided to stay on with his people, those who needed his protection and advice. And then Cardinal Cisneros, betraying the terms of the Granada surrender which guaranteed the Moors the right to live in peace and enjoy their own
religious beliefs, convinced the Spanish kings to expel all those who did not convert. How could they want to leave their lands, where they were born and had raised their children? The Christians sprinkled holy water on hundreds of us at a time. Many left the churches claiming that not a single drop had fallen on them, and that therefore they were still Muslims. When I was born, fifty years ago—’ Hernando looked startled. ‘Did you think I was older?’ The boy lowered his eyes. ‘In those days, we lived quietly on the lands that Boabdil had verbally ceded to the Christians. No one disputed our rights until that army of officials and legal clerks set out on the march. Then . . .’ Hamid fell silent.
‘Then they took all you had,’ Hernando finished the sentence for him, almost choking with emotion.
‘Nearly everything.’ The old man took another raisin. Hernando leant closer to him. ‘Nearly everything,’ Hamid said again, still chewing the raisin. ‘But they could not take our faith from us, although that was what they wished for most of all. And they could not take from me . . .’ Hamid struggled to his feet and went over to one of the walls. He dug in the dirt of the floor with his right foot until he uncovered a long plank of wood. He pulled at one end, then bent down to pull out something wrapped in cloth. Hernando did not need to be told what it was: its long, curved shape spoke for itself.
Hamid unwrapped the scimitar carefully and showed it to the boy. ‘This. They couldn’t take this from me either. While bailiffs, clerks and officials were carrying off silk clothes, precious stones, animals and grain, I managed to hide my family’s most precious possession. This sword was in the hands of the Prophet, the peace and blessings of God be upon Him!’ he said solemnly. ‘According to my father, his father told him that it was one of many Muhammad received as ransom from the infidel Quraysh whom he took captive when he conquered Mecca.’
The golden scabbard was hung with strips of metal inscribed in Arabic. Hernando shivered again, and his eyes shone like those of a young boy. A sword that had belonged to the Prophet! Hamid unsheathed the scimitar, which glittered in the smoky air.
The Hand of Fatima Page 3
