Hernando was no longer listening. He was staring at his captive. It was Isabel, Gonzalico’s sister! What could have become of Ubaid? he wondered, remembering how the muleteer had triumphantly held up the boy’s heart before flinging it at the girl’s feet.
In no time at all he was outside in the street again. Soldiers and janissaries stared at him as he stood there with the rope attached to the little straw-haired girl. Dazzled by the thousand reflections the sun cast all around him, he was afraid to move. How had he not noticed this before? Why did the market place seem like such a new world to him?
‘Hey, my lad, where are you going with that beauty?’ he heard someone ask slyly.
Hernando did not reply. Why had he accepted Mustafa’s offer? What on earth was he going to do with Isabel? Sell her? Memories of the massacre at Cuxurio and Isabel’s cries for help mingled with the thousands of colours and smells floating in the air. How could he sell her? Hadn’t the young girl already suffered enough? Why was she to blame? But why then had he chosen her? He had not even thought about it. The rope pulled tight, and Hernando turned back to look at the little girl: a janissary was trying to seize hold of her, and she had drawn back fearfully.
He took a step towards the Turk, but the memory of the fruit-seller’s severed hand brought him up short. Isabel had started to sob again. Her eyes were open wide, and she was staring straight at him, begging him to help just as she had done in Cuxurio when Ubaid had murdered her brother. Isabel backed into the guardsmen, but could not get through. The janissary began to stroke her golden hair.
‘Leave her!’ Hernando cried. He dropped the rope and unsheathed his sword.
He did not even have time to raise it. With astonishing rapidity, the janissary drew his own scimitar and in the same movement struck Hernando’s weapon, which went flying through the air. The lad shook his hand to relieve the pain, while all the onlookers guffawed.
‘Leave the child!’ Hernando insisted, despite his reverse.
The janissary turned to look at Hernando, while with one hand he continued caressing Isabel’s budding breasts. His white teeth gleamed in a lecherous smile, adding another glinting reflection to the market place. ‘I want to see the goods,’ he said slowly.
Hernando hesitated for a few moments. ‘And I want to see your money,’ he stammered. ‘Before you inspect the goods.’
As if this was all a game, several of the other janissaries cheered Hernando on.
‘Well said!’ they laughed.
‘Yes, show him your money . . .’
At this instant, the guard who had prevented the girl escaping, and was also the man who had shown Hernando into the King’s house, whispered something in the janissary’s ear. The Turk listened in silence, and then twisted his mouth in disappointment.
‘She’s not worth a ducat!’ he growled after thinking it over for a few seconds. He pushed Isabel away.
‘You’ll get more than three hundred for her, my lad,’ another janissary put in.
Hernando picked up the rope, and then went over to where Hamid’s scimitar was lying, beyond the group who were still chortling at him. He pulled on the rope and set off, making sure he carefully avoided the janissaries.
‘That old scimitar will be no use to you unless you learn to hold it tight,’ one of the men shouted as he picked it up.
The noise, crowds, colours and smells of the market place came flooding back to Hernando. Sheathing his sword, he stood upright. What was he going to do with the girl? he wondered. Even as he did so, he saw several merchants come rushing towards him.
17
‘GO ON. You’re free.’
Hernando had managed to ignore the merchants’ shouted offers as he crossed the market. ‘She’s already sold!’ he said, tugging on Isabel’s rope to keep her away from them. ‘Don’t touch her!’ He also had to run the gauntlet of others who, when they saw the young Christian girl, followed the two of them and made all kinds of propositions, without even knowing what her price was.
When they finally reached the outskirts of the village, he crouched down with her behind a low wall that ran between the road and an olive grove. He untied her.
‘Run!’ he whispered when he had undone the knot.
Isabel was trembling, and so was he. He was setting free the slave the King had given him to buy fodder for his animals!
‘Run away!’ he hissed at the girl, but she did not move. Unable to say a word, her eyes showed nothing but terror. ‘Go on!’
He pushed her away, but she merely crouched closer to the wall. Hernando stood up and made as if to leave her.
‘Where should I go?’ she asked in the faintest of voices.
‘Well . . .’ Hernando waved his hands in the air. Then he took a good look at the mountains in the distance. Here and there he could see the camp fires of the soldiers and Moriscos there was no room for in Ugíjar; most of them were part of Aben Humeya’s great army. ‘I don’t know! I’ve enough problems of my own.’ He sighed. ‘I ought to sell you and buy fodder for the King’s horses. How am I supposed to feed them if I let you go? Do you want me to sell you?’
Again Isabel said nothing, but looked up at him imploringly. Hernando saw a group of men coming, and ducked down beside her, motioning to her to be quiet. They waited for the men to pass by. What was he going to do? he wondered. How could he feed the horses? What would the King do if he found out?
‘Go on! Run away!’ he repeated as soon as the men’s voices died away in the distance. How could he possibly sell Gonzalico’s sister? He had not been able to persuade that stubborn young boy to renounce his faith. He had not even convinced him he only had to lie! He had a vivid memory of the youngster who had slept peacefully by his side, holding his hand, the night before Ubaid had slit his throat and ripped his heart out. ‘Get out of here!’
Hernando stood up and walked back towards the village. He did not dare look back, but after a dozen or more steps, he was gripped by curiosity, and turned. She was following him! Barefoot, wretched, tears streaming down her cheeks, Isabel was scurrying along behind him. Her mop of unkempt straw-coloured hair glinted in the noon-day sun. He gestured in the opposite direction, but she did not move. He told her to run, but she stood stock-still.
Hernando went back to her. ‘I’ll sell you!’ he said, dragging her off the road to the wall once more. ‘If you follow me, I’ll sell you. You’ve seen how everyone wants to buy you, haven’t you?’
Isabel was still crying. Hernando waited for her to calm down, but the tears kept flowing.
‘You could escape,’ he insisted. ‘You could wait until nightfall and slip through them.’
‘And then what?’ Isabel interrupted him, still sobbing. ‘Then where would I go?’
Hernando had to admit that the Alpujarra was all in the hands of the Moriscos. From Ugíjar to Órgiva, for more than seven leagues to where the Marquis of Mondéjar had his camp, there were no Christians. Nor were there any between Ugíjar and the Marquis of los Vélez’s army in Berja. Everywhere was teeming with Moriscos, who were on the lookout for anyone who moved. Where could a little girl like her go without being captured? And if she was captured . . . If she was captured, they would find out he had set her free. Hernando realized what a blunder he had made, and wearily blew his cheeks out.
To avoid crossing the market place again, he walked round the outskirts of the village until they reached Salah’s house. In case they met anyone, Hernando tied the girl up again with the rope. What was he going to do with her? Pretend she was a Muslim? Everybody in Ugíjar had seen her head of dry straw hair! They would be bound to recognize her! How could he explain it? How could a Christian girl live with them? As they walked, they ran into many groups of Moriscos and soldiers who examined her with interest. Eventually, they reached the boundary wall at the back of the house.
‘Hide here,’ Hernando told Isabel, untying the rope once more. The girl looked round: all she could see were the wall and empty fields. ‘Get down in the weeds, th
ey’ll cover you. Do as you like, but hide. If they find you . . . you know what will happen to you.’ And to me too, Hernando thought to himself. ‘I’ll come and fetch you, but I don’t know when. I don’t know why either,’ he said, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. ‘But you will hear from me.’
He walked along the wall until he came to the main entrance to the house, trying desperately to put Isabel out of his mind. All he saw was that she dropped to the ground as soon as he started to leave her. What was he going to do with her? And even if he found a solution, what about the barley? And the fodder? Where was he going to get hold of food for the animals? They would soon have eaten all the grass around the house. Isabel! What had possessed him to choose her? He could have picked out any of them: the one who had pushed her forward, for example. But would he have been capable of selling her either?
Traditionally, the Moriscos had always helped the Berber corsairs in their raids on the Mediterranean coasts. Many of them had even joined the pirates, especially the Moriscos from Tetuan, but also the ones from Algiers. They were born in al-Andalus, and with the help of family and friends they captured Christians and sold them as slaves in Barbary. Sometimes, if they were paid the ransom, they even agreed to free them on the beaches, before setting off back to their home ports. That was in the coastal lands of the former Nasrid kingdom, not in the high Alpujarra, where the rich Moriscos usually had black Guinea slaves. Then, as Hamid had told him, the Christians banned them from keeping black slaves at all. Hernando had never sold anyone, or helped capture any Christians. How could he sell a young girl, even if she was Christian, knowing what would become of her in the hands of those corsairs or janissaries? As always when he remembered the wise old scholar, he stroked the hilt of his scimitar.
Absorbed in these thoughts, Hernando walked through the iron gates leading to the house. What . . . what was going on? More than a dozen Berber soldiers were standing talking in the yard outside. They were surrounded by harnessed horses and loaded mules. All at once Hernando felt weak and slightly dizzy. His stomach wrenched, and he broke out into a cold sweat.
One of Aben Humeya’s Morisco guards came out to meet him. Hernando took an involuntary step backwards. The man looked surprised.
‘Ibn Hamid . . .’ he began.
Did they already know about Isabel? Was he going to be arrested? Ubaid! He saw the Narila muleteer behind one of the mules.
‘What’s he doing here?’ he asked, raising his voice and pointing to Ubaid.
The harquebusier turned in the direction he was pointing and shrugged. Ubaid scowled.
‘Him?’ the harquebusier said. ‘I’ve no idea. He came with the corsair captain. That’s what I was trying to tell you: he and his men have come to join us.’ Hernando was only half listening: his attention was still on Ubaid, who continued glaring at him defiantly. ‘The King has allowed him to stable his animals with ours, because there is enough fodder for everyone.’
‘Here?’ Hernando blurted out.
‘So the King says,’ replied the guard.
Hernando’s knees were knocking. For a brief moment, he was tempted to run away. To run away . . . or to go back to Isabel, tie her up again and sell her once and for all. It couldn’t be that difficult.
‘But there’s another problem,’ the harquebusier went on. Hernando closed his eyes: what more could go wrong? ‘The Turk says that he and his men are staying here too. There is nowhere else in Ugíjar. He says if he’s come here to help us fight, he’s not going to sleep out in the open.’
‘No,’ Hernando tried to object. More people! And Ubaid too! He had a Christian captive hiding in the garden, and not a grain of barley for . . . one, two, three, four more horses, and the same number of mules. ‘That’s impossible . . .’
‘He’s already done a deal with the merchant. The corsair and his men are to have the ground floor; Salah and his family will sleep out on the porch.’
‘What deal?’
The harquebusier smiled. ‘I think it was something along the lines of: if Salah didn’t give up the ground floor, he would bite off his nose and ears, then nail them to the mainmast of his ship.’
‘The main . . . mast?’
‘That’s what he said,’ the guard replied, shrugging his shoulders again.
Why was Hernando asking? What did he care about Salah’s ears or where the corsair might nail them?
‘Arrest that man,’ he ordered, pointing to Ubaid again. The guard looked puzzled. ‘Arrest him!’ Hernando insisted. ‘He . . . he’s not permitted to be with the King’s horses,’ he said, after trying desperately for a few moments to think of an excuse.
The harquebusier seemed confused at the order, but something in Hernando’s voice led him to call over several other guards, and together they went to arrest Ubaid. As they did so, some of the Berber soldiers intercepted them. They were not janissaries. Although similar in dress to the Moriscos of Granada, their skin was much lighter: they must be renegade Christians. The two groups faced each other defiantly. Hidden behind the mules, Ubaid was still staring furiously at Hernando.
‘Where is their captain?’ asked Hernando when the harquebusier turned towards him to receive further instructions.
The guard pointed towards the house. Hernando found the corsair captain in the dining room, seated on a pile of gaily coloured silk cushions. When he saw him, Hernando had no doubt he would be capable of biting off any ear he chose. He was a stocky man with fierce, angular features. He greeted Hernando with the same accent as the blond man who had threatened him with the dagger and then made fun of him. Another renegade Christian!
Hernando found it impossible to return his greeting. His gaze wandered from the corsair captain’s face to one of his burly arms. He was twisting the curls of a young boy’s hair with his right hand. The boy was richly dressed and sat on the ground at his feet.
‘Does my little boy please you?’ he asked when he saw Hernando’s astonishment.
‘What . . .?’ Hernando realized what was happening. ‘No!’ The word came out far more strongly than it should have done.
He saw the corsair smile, and also saw how he was looking at him lasciviously. What was the matter with these men? he asked himself in embarrassment. There he was, standing in front of a corsair captain who threatened to tear people’s ears off, and yet sat there gently caressing a young boy’s hair. At that moment another, slightly older boy came into the room, followed by Salah. The boy was as richly clothed as the first one, in a yellow linen djellaba over a pair of pantaloons and soft slippers of the same colour. His movements were effeminate. He handed a glass of lemonade to the captain, and then sat down close beside him.
‘What about this one? Don’t you like him either?’ the corsair asked, before raising the lemonade to his lips.
Hernando turned to Salah for support, only to find that the merchant’s puffy eyes were fixed on the trio in front of them.
‘No, I don’t,’ Hernando eventually replied. ‘I don’t like either of them.’ All three seemed to strip him naked with their gaze. ‘You can’t stay here,’ he said, to put an end to the awkward situation.
‘My name is Barrax,’ said the corsair.
‘Peace be with you, Barrax, but you cannot stay in this house.’
‘My ship is called the Flying Horse. She is one of the fastest ships in Algiers. You’d love to sail in her.’
‘That’s as may be, but—’
‘What is your name?’
‘Hamid ibn Hamid.’
The captain rose slowly to his feet. He was wearing a simple white linen tunic, and was a good head taller than anyone else in the room. Hernando had to stop himself taking a step backwards; Salah did retreat. The corsair smiled again.
‘You are a brave lad,’ he acknowledged, ‘but listen to me, Ibn Hamid. I am staying in this house until your King leaves with his army, and no Morisco dog, however much he enjoys the protection of Ibn Umayya, is going to stop me.’
‘But we are expecting
my stepfather . . . and Ibn Abbu! Yes!’ Hernando said, stumbling in his agitation. ‘They are in Poqueira. He is the King’s cousin, and is mayor of Poqueira. If they come back, there’ll be no room . . .’
‘The day that happens the women and children on the top floor will have to leave to make room for the noble and valiant Ibn Abbu, as well as your stepfather.’
‘But . . .’
‘Don’t worry, you can sleep with us, Ibn Hamid.’
With these words, the corsair captain made to leave the room, accompanied by the two small boys. One of them shimmered with gold; the other gleamed blood-red.
‘Then the muleteer must not stay here,’ Hernando insisted. The captain halted and raised his hands enquiringly. ‘I don’t want him here,’ was all the explanation Hernando gave.
‘Who will look after my horses and mules?’
‘Don’t worry about your animals. We’ll take good care of them.’
‘Agreed,’ said the corsair as if this were a minor detail. All at once he gave a broad smile and added: ‘But I consider this a favour towards such a brave young lad, Ibn Hamid. You will be in my debt . . .’
Hernando had no barley, but the animals needed feeding. Before he was forced to leave the house, Ubaid had been demanding the same thing. Through Salah, Hernando learnt that the muleteer had joined up with Barrax in Adra, where he had fled after the Marquis of Mondéjar’s troops had taken Paterna. Corsairs, Berbers and Turks were constantly arriving on the coast of al-Andalus. They knew that the Spanish galleys from Naples would arrive at any moment, and that this would make any landing much more difficult. Piracy up and down the coast would also be much harder with the arrival of the Spanish fleet under the Knight Commander of Castile, and as a result many of the corsair captains wanted to make money out of the uprising or from trade with the Moriscos as quickly as possible. Barrax needed horses and mules to transport his possessions, especially the clothing and other personal effects of his young boys, who were the only ones among the corsairs allowed to travel with baggage. He had therefore hired Ubaid, who although he had only one arm had recovered his skill with animals and knew all the trails of the high Alpujarra.
The Hand of Fatima Page 18
