Furthermore: all those over fifteen years of age and under fifty who surrender within the allotted time and who hand over to His Majesty’s officials an harquebus or crossbow with their ammunition, will have their lives spared and will not be enslaved; in addition to which they will be able to nominate two people among those they have brought with them to be set free, be it a father or mother, children, wife or siblings; none of these shall be slaves either but will enjoy complete freedom and rights. Of those who do not wish to avail themselves of this forgiveness and mercy, no man of fourteen years or more will be allowed into any part of our kingdoms, but will face the punishment of death without mercy or compassion.
This edict issued by Don John of Austria in April 1570 passed from hand to hand throughout the Alpujarra. The Christians translated it into Arabic and made copies, which they distributed amongst informers and merchants. In some instances those who could read discreetly repeated the contents, well away from the outlaws, janissaries or Berbers; on other occasions the edict was proclaimed in the streets. The Prince also decreed severe penalties for anyone who dared detain, rob or maltreat any Morisco who came forward to surrender, as had happened on previous occasions.
Both sides were facing a crisis: in the Alpujarra, the price of bushels of wheat and barley had increased tenfold, with the result that soldiers and their families were going hungry. Aben Aboo could do nothing to remedy the situation, so that following an exchange of letters with Alonso de Granada Venegas, a man held in esteem by the Moriscos, he formally delegated to El Habaquí the negotiation of the terms of surrender. But the mere fact of entering into negotiations only served to worsen the Moriscos’ plight. Three galleys had just arrived from Algiers carrying foodstuffs, weapons and munitions. They began to offload their provisions on the beaches of Dalías, but as soon as they heard that Aben Aboo was negotiating a surrender, they loaded up again and sailed back to Algiers. The same thing happened with seven more galleys that arrived along the coast under the command of Hussein, brother of Caracax, who had come with four hundred janissaries and an assortment of weaponry, but on hearing about the peace negotiations immediately headed back to the corsairs’ stronghold.
The situation was even more complicated on the Christian side. On the one hand, the guerrilla warfare adopted by Aben Aboo rendered an outright victory practically impossible. On the other hand, the uprising had already made its impact felt in nearby Seville, where ten thousand Morisco vassals of the Duke of Medina Sidonia and the Duke of Arcos rose up as a result of the outrages they were subjected to. King Philip II succeeded in resolving the matter by ordering the noblemen to go in person and pacify their lands, but fears grew that the uprising might at any moment spread to the kingdoms of Murcia, Valencia or Aragón, where a large number of Moriscos lived.
However, what really drove King Philip to allow Don John of Austria to offer terms of surrender was the actions of the Ottoman Sultan.
In February 1570 the Turks, imitating the corsairs from Algiers who were concentrating their forces on the conquest of Tunis, attacked Zara in Venetian Dalmatia. In July they took back the island of Cyprus. In March of the same year, Philip II received an envoy from Pope Pius V in Córdoba; he had convened Parliament there in order to be close to the battles in Granada. In the name of Christendom, His Holiness demanded the launch of a new crusade, to which end he proposed to set up a Holy League to fight the threat from the infidels who, according to the Pontiff, were emboldened because Spain was distracted by its internal conflicts. The devout Spanish monarch accepted, but in order to dedicate forces to this enterprise he first had to resolve the problems with the Moriscos in the Alpujarra.
His edict paved the way for the mass surrender of Moriscos, who made their way to Don John of Austria’s encampment in El Padul to hand themselves over. But it also led to the desertion of a large part of the Christian army when they realized there was nothing more they could get out of the war. Of the ten thousand men who were with the Duke of Sesa when he entered the Alpujarra, only four thousand remained.
‘We’re leaving! We’re going back to Algiers!’ Barrax’s order thundered through the ranks of his men. ‘Have everything ready for first thing tomorrow morning.’ He strode inside his tent. ‘Did you hear me?’ he shouted at Hernando. ‘Get him ready for the journey,’ he added, pointing to the knight.
Hernando turned to the nobleman: he was a little better, but . . . ‘He will die,’ he said without thinking.
Barrax did not answer. He frowned until his eyebrows formed a single black line above his half-closed eyes. Hernando held his breath while the commander stared at him. Then Barrax turned his back and left the tent. As he did so, he stroked his dagger with his right hand, as if to show Hernando the fate that lay ahead of him.
He was condemned, thought Hernando: death awaited him or, at best, life as a galley slave. Sitting on the ground, he peered at the chains round his ankles. He could not run. He could not even walk! He was a slave. He was nothing more than a slave in irons. And Fátima . . . He put his head in his hands, tears falling unchecked.
‘Men only weep when they lose a mother or their guts are spilled.’
Hernando looked at the knight and took a deep breath to hold back his tears. ‘We’re both going to die,’ he said, wiping his tears on his sleeve.
‘We will only die if that is God’s will,’ the Christian said with a sigh.
Where had he heard the very same sentiment? Gonzalico! The same outlook, the same acceptance. He clicked his tongue. And Islam? Didn’t the word itself imply submission?
‘But God has made us free to fight,’ the knight went on, interrupting his thoughts.
Hernando answered him with a wry grimace. ‘One of us wounded and the other in chains?’ As Hernando spoke, he gestured to the camp outside, full of noise and men bustling about as they made preparations to leave.
‘If you have already resigned yourself to death, at least let me fight for my life,’ the Christian replied.
Hernando glanced down at his chains: they were not thick but they were strong; his ankles were raw where they rubbed against the iron.
‘What would you do if I let you go?’ he asked, still staring down at the shackles.
‘Flee and save my life.’
‘I doubt you’d be able to walk. You can’t even raise yourself off that bed.’
‘Yes, I can,’ the knight replied, but as he sat up a stab of pain made him wince.
‘There are thousands of Muslims out there.’ Hernando turned towards him. He caught an unfamiliar glint in the nobleman’s gaze. ‘They—’
‘They will kill me?’ The knight beat him to it.
The muezzin’s call to prayer interrupted their conversation. Dusk was falling. Preparations for the journey halted, and the faithful prostrated themselves. ‘Now,’ whispered the knight in the hush before the prayers began, pointing to the rear of the tent behind which the mules were tethered.
Hernando did not pray. He had not done so for some time. The night prayer was the one the Moriscos could perform with a certain freedom, for, ensconced in their houses. they could escape surveillance by the Christians. What would Hamid have advised? What would the old holy man say about setting an enemy Christian free? He turned to the door post at the entrance to the tent. Hamid’s scimitar, the sword of the Prophet! Through the gaps in the tent folds he saw how the people in the camp were turning to face Mecca in preparation for prayer. As always, the Berber was on guard at the entrance, close to the swords. Hernando recalled Barrax’s threat: If you wish to die, all you need do is brandish one of these. To die. In death, hope is everlasting. It was as if those almond eyes of Fátima, whose image suddenly filled his mind, were guiding him. What did any of this matter now? Christians, Muslims, wars, victims . .
‘Pretend you’re dead,’ he ordered the knight, turning towards him. ‘Close your eyes and hold your breath.’
‘What. . .?’
‘Do as I say!’
The silence was b
roken as thousands of Muslims started to pray. Hernando listened to the chants for a few moments, then he poked his head through the tent folds.
‘Help me!’ he pleaded with the guard. ‘The Christian is dying.’
The Berber stepped inside the tent, went down on one knee beside the wounded man and touched his face. The instant the guard had his back to him Hernando unsheathed the scimitar; the whisper of the steel made the Berber turn his head. Without a second’s hesitation, Hernando whirled the blade and sliced the guard’s neck. He fell dead on top of the knight.
The nobleman struggled to push away the body.
‘Hand me my sword,’ he asked, trying to get to his feet. Hernando stared fascinated at the scimitar’s sharp blade; a thin trickle of blood shone all the way down it. ‘For God’s sake! Give me the sword,’ the nobleman implored him. Hernando stared at the Christian: how could a man in his condition wield such a heavy weapon? ‘Please,’ the knight insisted.
Hernando handed him the sword and crawled to the far end of the tent: the teams of mules were just on the other side. The nobleman followed, bent double, sword in hand. Hernando could tell from the wounded man’s slow, stiff movements that he was weak and in pain. Doubts assailed him again. This was suicide! As if sensing his fears, the knight raised his face to him and smiled gratefully. Hernando crouched down, taking up position by the side of the tent and trying to make out something in the shadows. The knight threw caution to the winds; he slashed the side of the tent, slipped through the gap and began to crawl outside. As he came level with him, Hernando saw that the wound was bleeding again and the bandage over the strip of copper looked as though it was dyed red. He followed the knight, also on all fours, his eyes firmly on the ground and on the scimitar he was dragging along, expecting at any moment to run into another guard. But it did not happen, and in a few moments they found themselves bumping into the mules. The murmurs of the prayers from thousands of the faithful mingled with their own rapid breathing. The Christian smiled at him again, openly, as if they were already free men. Now what? Hernando wondered. The knight would not be able to get very far. He was losing blood; they would never even cover the tenth part of a league. The sky was turning red above the mountaintops as the sun dipped beyond the horizon. Dusk in the Sierra Nevada. How often he had gazed at it in . . . Juviles! La Vieja! He fell silent and looked closely at the mules’ hooves. How could he not recognize La Vieja? He had treated her feet a thousand times. He quickly located her and signalled to the Christian to follow him.
Reaching the mule, he stroked her knotted, blistered tendons. La Vieja was saddled up for the journey. Hernando got to his feet without stopping to check if anyone was watching, if anyone was on the lookout. They were all still busy with the night prayers. To his left, a few paces away, he could see a rough track leading down to one of the many ravines of the Alpujarra.
‘Stand up,’ he urged the nobleman. Hernando helped him lie across La Vieja like a bundle. ‘Hold on tightly,’ he instructed him, guiding his hands to clasp the animal’s girth. When he tried to take the sword from him, the Christian refused and used his other hand to cling on.
Pulling the mule towards the ravine, Hernando hobbled along, hindered by the chains on his ankles. He tried desperately to prevent them clinking, and moved forward without looking anywhere in particular, his eyes fixed on the space opening up over the precipice they were approaching. He felt an urge to pray, to join in the familiar mumbling sounds he could hear from the camp, but knew that was impossible. Only when he reached the edge of the ravine did he turn his head: he could still see a thin reddish glow on the tops of the mountains. Nobody had noticed them. For a few seconds he took comfort from the scene: thousands of people prostrated towards the east, in the opposite direction to where they were heading. The Christian hurried him on, so he jumped up on the mule’s back, lying crossways next to the knight and like him he grabbed the girth underneath La Vieja’s belly.
‘Hold on tight,’ he warned him again. ‘The descent will be dangerous. Go home to Juviles, Vieja! Take us to Juviles!’ He patted one of her haunches, gently at first, then harder, until La Vieja overcame her initial reluctance to set off down the steep path. She extended one of her hooves cautiously, then she sat on her haunches to slide down the slope.
What took only a few moments seemed to them an eternity. The mule managed to avoid stones and trees: to the boy’s surprise she even managed to jump down some sheer rocks. La Vieja! His Vieja! They almost fell off several times when the animal sat down to slide downhill. They were scratched by brambles and branches, but in the end reached the bed of a stream running down from the Sierra Nevada. The icy water splashed them with freedom. La Vieja came to a halt with the water up to her shanks. She shook her head violently; her big ears tossed proudly, scattering thousands of droplets in all directions, as if she too was aware of the feat she had just achieved. Hernando let himself collapse into the creek and sank his head under the water. He let out a shout under the surface, and a multitude of bubbles caressed his face. They had done it! Meanwhile, the knight too slithered down until he was standing, leaning against the mule; he was still bleeding and yet, even wearing only a simple undergarment, he seemed distinguished, proud, the large heavy sword grasped firmly in his right hand.
Hernando stayed seated in the stream.
‘You see?’ said the knight. ‘God did not want us to die.’ Hernando laughed nervously. ‘We have to fight, not weep! Your guts aren’t hanging out and your mother has not died on you. Jesus Christ and the Blessed Virgin and . . .’
The knight went on talking but Hernando did not listen. His mother? Fátima?
‘Come, let’s make good our escape,’ the nobleman urged at the end of his speech.
Escape? Hernando asked himself. Yes, that was what he wanted. That was why he had taken such a risk, but he had already escaped once before, to Adra. He had left Fátima and his mother on their own then, and did not want to do so again.
‘Wait.’
‘They’ll come after us, just as soon as they realize we’ve escaped!’
‘Wait,’ insisted Hernando. ‘The darkness will slow them up.’
‘What’s wrong?’ the nobleman interrupted him.
‘A few months ago,’ Hernando explained, standing up in the stream and gazing down at Hamid’s scimitar with a sudden sadness, ‘I managed to rescue my mother from Juviles.’ Why go into the details? He thought about it before going on, yet he could not avoid it. ‘You Christians massacred more than a thousand women and children,’ he said accusingly.
‘I did not —’
‘Be quiet! You all did it. And you made slaves of as many again.’
‘And your side—!’
‘What does that matter now?’ the young Morisco protested. ‘I went back to Juviles to rescue my mother. I succeeded. I also rescued Fátima, my . . . the girl who was to be my wife. Afterwards, I saved their lives again. We have lived through some tough times.’ Hernando remembered the snowstorm, fleeing from Paterna, the wedding at Mecina, escaping from the Christians . . . What was all that for? ‘I am not going to abandon them to their fate now,’ he concluded.
He met the Christian’s stare. The knight was bleeding heavily but nevertheless seemed strong and resolute. While he had been forced to live as Barrax’s slave, Hernando had banished all thoughts of Fátima and Aisha from his mind; he had dismissed all consideration of them, as if they didn’t exist, but now . . . freedom! What strange vigour freedom gave a person! Brahim would not surrender to the Christians, he thought suddenly, but if he could manage to flee with Fátima and his mother and give themselves up, perhaps they could forget that nightmare.
‘I need your help . . .’ the knight began.
‘I’ll be of little use to you in the dark. All you need is La Vieja. I have to go to try to find my mother . . . and the woman I love. Do you understand? I cannot allow the Christians to kill them or make slaves of them.’
Stirred by his decision, he made again
to climb out of the stream, but fell back into the water because of his chains. He had forgotten about them.
‘Your determination does you honour,’ the knight agreed, helping him up. ‘Come over here,’ he added, pointing to the riverbank.
‘Why?’
‘My lad, there is no Moorish iron that can stand up to good Toledan steel,’ the Christian replied, directing him to sit down with his legs stretched out and his chained feet on a small boulder.
Hernando watched him grasp the sword in both hands. He would not be able to do it; he was badly wounded. Even in the twilight he could make out the pain on the knight’s face as he raised the sword above his head.
‘By the nails of Jesus Christ!’ the nobleman shouted.
Sparks flew from the chain and the stone when the steel hit the iron, but Hernando thought he saw his feet released. The grating sound of the splintered shackle coincided with a sudden commotion high above them. The soldiers in the camp had discovered their escape. The Christian leant on his sword, now stuck in the ground, as if the blow had drained the last of his strength.
‘Get out of here!’ Hernando urged him. The knight did not so much as answer. Hernando reached under his armpits and hauled him over to La Vieja. He helped him up as before, until he lay across the mule’s back. He undid one of the girths and tied the Christian to the mule. He kept some other straps for himself. ‘Trust her,’ he said, bending down to whisper in the knight’s ear. ‘If you find her stopping, order her to head for Juviles.’ La Vieja pricked up her ears. ‘Remember: to Juviles. To Juviles, Vieja! To Juviles!’ He drove the mule forward with a whack on her rump. He watched her set off down the riverbed, but only for a moment: the ravine seemed to be full of flaming torches cautiously edging their way down.
The Hand of Fatima Page 24
