‘It seems they have also killed a bloodthirsty enemy of the King. Is she with you?’ he asked Hernando.
‘Yes. She’s my mother.’
‘Of course!’ Andrés erupted again, spitting his words at Aisha. ‘You couldn’t come with your husband, could you? I saw him in one of the lines with another woman. He swore that you were dead! That’s why you’ve had to come with your son and with the corsair trophy to win your freedom.’
‘Freedom is granted by the Prince,’ said the corporal. ‘I forbid you to take any action against this woman,’ he warned the priests. ‘If you have anything to say or any complaints, address them to Don John of Austria.’
‘We will do!’ shrieked the first priest. ‘Against her and her lying husband.’ The corporal shrugged his shoulders. ‘Come with us to look for her husband,’ the priest urged him.
‘I have better things to do,’ the corporal excused himself, at the same time lifting Barrax’s head off the ground. ‘Go with them,’ he ordered a couple of his men, ‘and make sure they follow the Prince’s orders.’
They were going to look for Brahim! Hernando ignored the Moriscos rushing off to follow the sacristan. Nor did he heed the remarks shouted at him as he passed by; news of the corsair captain’s head had passed by word of mouth. They were going in search of Brahim . . . and Fátima!
‘There he is!’ Andrés’s roar, as the sacristan pointed to one of the clerk’s tables, brought Hernando back to reality just when his stomach was beginning to churn at the thought of Fátima in his stepfather’s hands. ‘José Ruiz!’ barked the sacristan, hurrying towards the desk. The clerk stopped writing in his book and looked up at the group of people coming towards him. ‘Didn’t you swear that your wife had died?’
Brahim turned pale when he saw his stepson, Aisha and Musa, the two soldiers, some priests and the sacristan from Juviles rushing towards him. Hernando did not see the look of panic on his stepfather’s face; his gaze was fixed firmly on Fátima, thin, emaciated, her beautiful, dark, almond-shaped eyes sunk in violet-coloured sockets. The girl, silent, her face blank, watched them approach.
‘What is all this noise about?’ asked the clerk, halting them with a wave of his hand before they could swoop on his table. He was a gaunt man with a sickly-looking face and sparse beard, and was clearly annoyed by the intrusion. The sacristan threw himself at Brahim, but one of the soldiers blocked his path. ‘What’s going on?’ the clerk asked again.
‘This man has lied to me!’ fumed Andrés. The clerk nodded resignedly, convinced that all of them lied. ‘He swore to me that his wife had died but the fact is that he was trying to hide a priest-killer,’ he said accusingly, grabbing Aisha by the arm and pushing her in front of him.
‘His wife? According to him,’ said the clerk, as if speaking required a great effort, ‘this woman is his wife.’ He pointed at Fátima.
‘Bigamist!’ shouted one of the priests.
‘Heretic!’ yelled the other. ‘He must be reported to the Holy Office! The Prince cannot absolve sins, that is something the Church alone can do.’
The clerk dropped his pen on the register and dried his forehead with a handkerchief. After days of work and listening to hundreds of men and women who did not even speak aljamiado, problems like this were the last thing he needed.
‘Where are the delegates of the Inquisition?’ Andrés insisted. He looked around him and urged the soldiers to go and find them.
Hernando saw how Brahim was trembling and growing ever paler. He knew what he was thinking. If they arrested him and discovered that he had two wives, the Inquisition would put him in jail and . . .
‘No, she is not my wife,’ mumbled Brahim.
‘It says here María de Terque, wife of José Ruiz of Juviles,’ grumbled the clerk. ‘That is what you told me.’
‘No! You misunderstood me! Wife of Hernando Ruiz of Juviles.’ Brahim nervously added some words in Arabic, gesturing all the while. ‘That is what I said. My son Hernando Ruiz, not José Ruiz. María de Terque is my son’s wife,’ he shouted to everyone present.
Hernando was stunned. Fátima looked up from Humam, whom she was cradling in her arms, oblivious to all that was going on around her.
‘You said—’ the clerk insisted.
Brahim fired off another volley of words in Arabic. He tried to address himself to the clerk but the latter interrupted him with a dismissive wave of his hand.
‘Hand me your book!’ ordered Andrés, shaking with anger.
The clerk seized the book with both hands and shook his head. Then he glanced at the growing line of Moriscos waiting to be registered, all of them fascinated by the discussion. ‘How do they expect us to do our work if they only know how to speak Castilian badly?’ he complained. The last thing he wanted at that point was to find himself embroiled in the work of the Inquisition, even as a witness; he had already had some dreadful encounters with the Holy Office and anyone who appeared before them could find themselves . . . He picked up his pen once more, dipped it in ink and corrected his entry in a loud voice: ‘María de Terque, wife of Hernando Ruiz of Juviles. There we are. No further problem. Hand over your weapons,’ he added, addressing the new arrival, ‘and let me have your details and those of the people with you.’
‘But—’ the sacristan protested.
‘If you have any complaints, direct them to the chancery of Granada,’ the clerk cut him short without looking up from the register.
‘You cannot—’ one of the priests started to object.
‘Yes I can!’ continued the official, making a note in his register.
Hernando whispered his details and those of his mother and Musa, looking askance towards Fátima. She remained cut off from all the commotion, her eyes fixed on the little one whom she went on gently rocking.
‘They are deceiving you!’ insisted Andrés.
‘No.’ This time the clerk confronted the sacristan, tired of his demands. ‘Nobody is deceiving me. I recall now that he definitely said Hernando Ruiz, not José Ruiz,’ he lied. ‘Where do you wish to live until the Prince determines your expulsion?’ he asked Hernando.
‘In Juviles,’ answered Brahim.
‘It has to be on the plains, away from the mountains and the coast,’ the irritable clerk announced for the umpteenth time that day.
‘On the plain of Granada,’ Brahim decided.
‘But—’ the sacristan attempted to intervene again.
‘Next,’ the clerk went on angrily, waving them away.
‘If, as they say, they were married during the uprising, then you should marry them in accordance with the precepts of the Holy Mother Church,’ said Juan de Soto.
As soon as they left the clerk’s table, Andrés and the two priests had brought their complaint to Don John of Austria’s secretary.
‘As regards the woman,’ the secretary continued, recalling the Prince’s smile of satisfaction on seeing Barrax’s head, which was still lying at his feet when he went to consult him about the priests’ grievance, ‘the promised pardon applies to her too.’ The three priests tried to argue but Juan de Soto stopped them: ‘You will obey. That is the Prince’s decision.’
‘Don’t go anywhere near Fátima or . . .’
Hernando was taken aback by the threat Brahim made when they were only a few paces away from the clerk’s table.
He came to a halt. He was no longer a corsair’s slave! It was not two days ago that he had given up his freedom and risked his life to save Fátima and his mother. He had killed three men to make it happen! Apart from the turban, which he dropped on the ground, he was still wearing the clothes of a Turk.
‘Or what?’ he shouted at his stepfather.
Brahim, who was in front of him, stopped and turned to face his stepson. Hernando confronted the muleteer. Brahim twisted his mouth in a cynical smile. Then he grabbed Aisha’s arm and squeezed it tightly. Aisha resisted for a moment but Brahim went on pressing until she could not hide a grimace of pain. Aisha made no attempt t
o struggle or get away from her husband.
‘Mother!’ exclaimed Hernando, feeling for the hilt of a scimitar he would never wield again. Aisha avoided looking at her son. ‘This dog, this son of a whore abandoned you in Ugíjar!’ he shouted.
Brahim clenched Aisha’s arm even more tightly. Still she did not look at her son. Fátima reacted for the first time and clasped Humam to her breast as if her life depended on it.
Hernando faced his stepfather. A barely controlled fury blazed from his blue eyes. He was shaking. His pent-up hatred exploded in a howl of rage. Brahim smiled and twisted his first wife’s arm so violently she could not avoid groaning with pain.
‘You choose, Nazarene. Do you want to watch me break your mother’s arm?’
Aisha was sobbing.
‘Enough!’ shouted Fátima. ‘Ibn Hamid, don’t . . .’
Hernando took a step back, incredulous at the mute appeal he could see in the girl’s face. He took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart.
Eyes narrowed, the young man remembered Hamid’s advice. Use your intelligence, the holy man had told him. This was no time to let himself be swayed by his emotions. Without another word, Hernando turned and walked away, struggling to contain his yearning for revenge.
23
May 1570
‘Mercy, lord. May your lordship grant us mercy in the name of His Majesty, and pardon our faults which we know have been grave ones.’ With these words El Habaquí prostrated himself before Don John of Austria in surrender. ‘I lay down these weapons and this banner in the name of Aben Aboo and all those rebels over whom I have authority,’ he concluded, as Don Juan de Soto hurled the flag to the ground.
Just before El Habaquí entered the tent, Aben Aboo’s coloured standard with its embroidered motif, ‘I could not wish for more or be content with less’, was handed over to the Christian cavalry and infantry drawn up in ranks in the camp. A loud volley of gunfire accompanied the shouts of the horsemen and soldiers before the priests said prayers.
El Habaquí secured a pardon from the King for the Turks and Berbers, who were free to return to their homelands. Philip II granted this because he was anxious to end the conflict so he could head the Holy League the Pope had proposed, quite aside from the fear that the arrival of spring would allow the Moriscos to provision themselves and renew the rebellion.
Don John of Austria appointed emissaries and despatched them the length and breadth of the Alpujarra to secure the complete surrender of the Moriscos in the kingdom of Granada. El Habaquí took charge of all the arrangements necessary to board the Turks and Berbers on ships in the ports the Prince had designated. Philip II provided numerous sailing vessels and galleys for the transport. The final cessation of hostilities was set for the feast day of Saint John, 1570, by which date all Turks and Berbers were to have left the kingdom of Granada.
By 15 June some thirty thousand Moriscos were registered as having surrendered. El Habaquí managed to get almost all the Turks and corsairs embarked for Algiers, but most of the Berbers opted to continue fighting. Seeing this, Aben Aboo changed his mind and retracted his pledge to surrender: he put El Habaquí to death and retreated to the mountains with nearly three thousand men under his command.
Today witnessed the final exodus and with it the greatest sorrow in the world, because at the time of departure, there was so much rain, wind and snow that many complained all the way, daughters to mothers, husbands to wives, children to widows, and so on. I myself dragged them along suffering badly for two miles: one cannot deny that to witness the depopulation of a kingdom is the most pitiful thing imaginable. In the end, my Lord, the deed is done.
Letter from Don John of Austria to Rui Gómez,
5 November 1570
In November 1570 Philip II ordered the expulsion towards the north of all the Moriscos of the kingdom of Granada. Those who had settled in the plain outside the city, including Hernando, Brahim and their families, were handed over to Don Francisco de Zapata de Cisneros, lord of Barajas and chief magistrate of Córdoba, who was to take them to that city from where they would be dispersed throughout the lands of Castile and Galicia.
The plains to the west of Granada had once been made up of many small farmsteads. It was a flat and fertile region thanks to an intricately devised irrigation system that distributed water via channels built in Roman times and perfected by the Muslims. Following the surrender of Granada to the Catholic monarchs, the distribution of the land in orchards and smallholdings was replaced by large farms: big estates owned by noblemen, prominent Christians and religious orders, such as the one belonging to the Carthusians, which used the large tracts of land to cultivate vines.
For six months thousands of displaced Moriscos lived on these plains. They yearned for the rough terrain of the mountains, valleys and ravines of the Alpujarra, so different from these lands which stretched unbroken as far as the eye could see, cultivated and controlled by Christians, and constantly crisscrossed by monks and priests who reproached them for everything they did.
In accordance with the Prince’s orders, Hernando and Fátima were married as Christians in the church at El Padul. The day before the ceremony they were both examined on Christian doctrine inside the church, in the presence of Andrés the sacristan and the same priests who had hounded them as soon as they set foot in the town.
Hernando passed the test easily.
‘Now you.’ One of the priests pointed at Fátima. ‘Recite the Lord’s Prayer.’
The girl made no response. After a few moments, the two priests and the sacristan became impatient.
Fátima was still consumed with shame. The night before, in full view of Hernando, Aisha and hundreds of Moriscos huddled on the ground trying to sleep, Brahim had forced himself upon her without the least compunction, as if to show everyone he still owned her. Hernando, in a rage, had had to get away from his stepfather’s groans of pleasure. He’d gone in search of fresh air, unable to prevent his eyes filling with hot tears of impotence.
‘Do you not know the Our Father?’ asked Andrés, half closing his eyes.
Hernando prodded her gently with his forearm and Fátima responded. She recited the Our Father and the Hail Mary, her voice quivering, but was unable to get the Creed, the Hail Holy Queen or the Commandments right.
One of the priests ordered her to come to his parish every Friday for three years until she had learnt the catechism properly. He wrote this down on her document. Then, as was required, she and Hernando were obliged to make their confession.
‘Is that everything?’ blustered the priest when Fátima had finished reciting her sins. Hernando, who was waiting his turn standing next to the confessional, flinched. ‘Don John may have ordered your marriage, but the wedding will not take place if you do not make a proper confession and repent of your sins. What about your adultery? You are living in sin! Your Moorish betrothal is worthless. What about the uprising? The insults and blasphemy, the murders and sacrileges you have committed?’
Fátima stammered a few incomprehensible words.
‘I cannot absolve you! I see no sign of contrition or repentance, no offer to mend your ways.’
The kneeling girl could not see the look of satisfaction on the priest’s face inside the confessional, but Hernando certainly observed the smiles of Andrés and the other priest as they listened to the confession. What are they smiling at? If they didn’t marry them . . . the Inquisition! They were living in sin. Not even the Prince could interfere with the Holy Office.
‘I confess!’ he shouted, sinking to his knees on the ground. ‘I confess that I live in sin and I repent. I confess I have witnessed sacrilege in churches . . .’
Fátima began to repeat Hernando’s words without thinking.
They both confessed the thousand sins that the priests wanted to hear, they repented and promised to live in Christian virtue ever after. They spent the night in the church as a penance. Hernando prayed aloud with Fátima kneeling beside him, trying to mask her persistent
silence.
The following morning, the couple were married in the sole presence of a watchful, threatening Brahim, and a few old Christians from the village who had been summoned to act as witnesses. They were given communion again. Hernando noticed how Brahim shifted uneasily at the formality of the ceremony and let the ‘cake’ of the host crumble slowly in his mouth. He was marrying Fátima! What did it matter what happened afterwards? Brahim would claim Fátima again and in the Morisco community she would still be his second wife, but there was nothing the muleteer could do at this moment, faced with the solemnity of this sham marriage, but choke back his protests. The priest pronounced them husband and wife and Hernando silently prayed for Allah’s help.
The wedding cost them the mule. Hernando was tempted to refuse and argue that the most a wedding should cost was two reales for the priest, a half-real for the sacristan and a modest sum for alms, but he had no money; all he possessed was that mule, and it was not even his. The final restriction placed on the newlyweds before they left the church was that they should not live together or have relations during the following forty days.
The Moriscos lived in the open on the plains outside Granada. They had hardly any fires because they couldn’t use any of the wood from the fruit trees that grew all around them. They sold off anything they had managed to conceal in exchange for wheat. Even water, once shared so plentifully among the fields in accordance with strict ancestral rules, had become a scarce commodity. Destitute, hundreds of them lived wherever they could find a piece of waste land; the houses belonging to the Moriscos expelled before their arrival were now occupied by Christians. The Moriscos shared what little they possessed, waiting all the while for notice of their imminent exodus. After the wedding, Brahim claimed Fátima back. Hernando found himself obliged to go with him as they roamed the forbidden orchards in search of food. Brahim tried to make sure that at no time was his stepson alone with Fátima, and when for any reason they were, she always refused to have anything to do with him.
The Hand of Fatima Page 26
