‘What about your children?’ Brahim threatened her.
‘They will be left in God’s hands,’ she murmured.
The corsair thought her proposal over. Eventually: ‘Very well,’ he said.
‘Swear it by Allah,’ Fátima demanded.
‘I swear by God Almighty,’ he said, already thinking of what he was going to gain.
‘Brahim,’ said Fátima, frowning and speaking sternly to him, ‘you must not try to deceive me. If you break our pact, I’ll be able to tell from your smile, your state of mind.’
From that moment on, Fátima had kept her side of the bargain, Night after night, she led Brahim to ecstasy. She bore him two more daughters, and the corsair no longer visited his second wife, who was relegated to a separate wing of the palace. Shamir and Francisco – who had been renamed Abdul – were both circumcised as soon as they reached Tetuan. They were preparing to go to sea some day soon under the orders of Nasi, who was daily assuming more responsibilities in the acts of piracy as if he were Brahim’s true successor. Brahim himself grew fat, and was only concerned with counting and recounting the profits from the raids on Spain, as well as his many other business ventures. It was easy for Nasi, the flea-bitten waif that the corsair had taken on when he first arrived in Tetuan, to take the place that should by right have gone to the eldest son: Shamir refused to recognize Brahim as the father he had never had. At first, he was so terrified, and missed the mother he had left behind so much, that he refused to show him any affection, and sought refuge in Fátima and Francisco. Aisha had told him his father had been killed in the Alpujarra! Brahim felt slighted, and responded with his habitual brutality. He would snatch the boy out of Fátima’s arms, and beat and insult him when he tried to escape his grasp. Francisco, also mistreated by Brahim, became his inseparable companion in misfortune. Nasi took advantage of the situation, and made sure the corsair saw how faithful and loyal he was, constantly and slyly reminding him of all they had been through together. Little Inés, meanwhile, who had been given the name of Maryam, met the fate Brahim had foretold in the Montón de la Tierra inn: she became his second wife’s maid. She stayed a servant until Fátima had her and Brahim’s first daughter: following a night of passion, she managed to convince him that there could be no one better than Maryam, her half-sister, to look after the newborn baby Nushaima.
Brahim’s snores, mixed with the cries from the dungeons, interrupted Fátima’s thoughts. She fought against her urge to move, to get up from the bed, to shift Brahim’s stump off her body. She was a prisoner . . . a prisoner in a golden jail.
She saw herself as nothing more than another slave, one of the many who served in the luxurious palace Brahim had built. It was in the style of an Andalusian house round a central courtyard, and stood in the market, near the public baths, the fortress and the Sidi al-Mandari mosque, constructed by the exile from Granada who had refounded the city. Fátima had never before lived with slaves: men and women who were willing to satisfy every demand their masters made of them. She saw their total lack of expression, as if they had been robbed of their souls and all feeling. When she looked at them, she saw herself reflected in their faces: obedient and submissive.
The new palace the corsair leader had built for himself and his family was situated in al-Metamar Street, on top of the vast network of subterranean caves on Mount Dersa, where Tetuan stood. The caves were used as dungeons for thousands of Christian prisoners. During the day, when Fátima went out with her slaves to one of the city’s three gates to buy fresh food from the farmers who brought their produce there from the fields outside, she often saw the captives straining under the whip, shackled together and dressed in coarse woollen tunics. There were four thousand Christians forced to do whatever was required of them in the city.
Surrounded by all these subjugated slaves and captives, Fátima soon understood that walking round the streets would bring her no respite. Tetuan was like an Andalusian city, but there was no Christian influence in its buildings whatsoever. The houses were the clearest examples of the sacredness of the family home: to the streets they were situated on, they presented blind walls with no windows, balconies or openings. The laws of inheritance meant the buildings were divided and sub-divided until they became chaotic jumbles, while the streets were no more than the external projection of these private properties. This meant that the city’s public spaces were filled with shops and stalls that sprang up utterly randomly. Some of these overhung the streets; others protruded into them or blocked them completely as a result of an agreement between neighbours – usually family members. The city authorities had no control over it at all.
Fátima was not only a slave in her palace; outside it there was nowhere in this corsair stronghold that gave her any respite from her predicament, even for a few brief moments. God seemed to have forsaken her. It was only in the squares, where three or more streets met, that she found if not spiritual relief, then at least some entertainment, thanks to the performers who sang or told legends to the sound of a lute, or sold people pieces of paper inscribed with elaborate lettering they claimed would ward off all ills. She was also amused by the snake charmers, who had snakes wrapped round their necks or arms at the same time as they made monkeys dance ridiculous jigs for coins thrown by the public. Fátima herself occasionally rewarded them with one. At night though there was no escape, as she lay there with Brahim’s stump between her breasts, her ears filled with the cries and groans of the thousands of Christians incarcerated beneath the palace, sounds that rose clearly up through the holes in the rocks that were the only ventilation for the underground dungeons that stretched beneath almost the entire city. One day I will be free, Fátima told herself. One day we will be together again, Ibn Hamid.
49
FACED WITH Don Sancho’s insistence, Hernando finally gave in and agreed to go to the Casa de los Tiros, where the Granada Venegas family held their gatherings. At dusk one June day the two men mounted their horses and rode down from the Albaicín to the Realejo, the former Jewish quarter the Catholic monarchs had taken possession of after they had conquered Granada and expelled the Jews. The district was on the left bank of the river Darro, beneath the Alhambra. The Casa de los Tiros was situated in front of the Franciscan monastery and church, together with other palaces and noble houses built on the land of the demolished Jewry.
During their ride, Hernando was hardly listening to the contented hidalgo’s conversation. In the days preceding this visit he had tried to fulfil the promise he had made to the cathedral chapter clerk to write his version of what had happened in Juviles during the Alpujarra uprising. He had found, though, that not only did he lack the words to excuse the monstrous outrages his brothers in faith had perpetrated, but that whenever he tried to concentrate, his mind wandered to Isabel and to the memories he had of the day when his mother had butchered Don Martín.
I don’t want to see them die, he recalled saying to Hamid when they saw the long line of naked, bound Christians being led out into the field. Why do we have to kill them?
I don’t like it either, the holy man had replied, but we have to . . . They forced us to become Christians under threat of expulsion, and that is another form of dying, to be sent far from your homeland and your family. They have refused to recognize the one true God; they have not taken advantage of the opportunity they were given. They have chosen to die.
How was he supposed to make sense of Hamid’s words in a report for the archbishop? As for Isabel, she seemed to have recovered from the sense of shame that made her flee the bedroom after their only meeting, and went around the house and garden with no apparent qualms. And yet whenever their eyes met, Hernando could not be sure: sometimes she kept looking at him for an instant longer than necessary, at others she quickly looked down. The person who did not look away was Isabel’s chambermaid, who even allowed herself to grin cheekily at him: she must have been the one who picked up her mistress’s clothes.
The morning of the day he was to go
to the Granada Venegas’ gathering he again met Isabel on the balcony. Their mutual desire was plain from the uncomfortable silence between them. Despite the passion he felt, Hernando had no wish to repeat an experience that had only satisfied his instincts, without giving them the pleasure he had hoped for.
‘You need to learn to enjoy your body,’ he whispered to her, watching her shudder as he spoke the words.
Isabel blushed, but said nothing, and allowed herself to be taken a second time into Hernando’s room.
Hernando had wanted to tell her it was possible to find God through pleasure, but in the end he simply tried to give her as much satisfaction as possible, endeavouring not to frighten her when she went stiff and tried to stifle her groans. Isabel allowed him to caress her breasts, but would not bare them, and stood with her back to him, biting her lower lip when she felt him squeezing her erect nipples. Afterwards, she was gone like a soul snatched by the devil, leaving her clothes on the floor as she had done before.
‘We’ve arrived,’ said the hidalgo, startling Hernando out of his daydreams.
Hernando found himself outside a square tower with battlements. There were two balconies on the front, and five full-length sculptures of figures from antiquity. Behind the square tower was a substantial building, with many large rooms on several floors arranged around a courtyard of six columns with Nasrid capitals, and a garden at the far end. After they had left their horses with servants, the two men entered the palace, and were led up a narrow stairway to a large hall on the second floor.
‘This hall is known as the Golden Stable,’ Don Sancho whispered as the servant pushed open a pair of doors with laurel-crowned busts carved on them.
As soon as he entered the room, Hernando understood its name. The hall was illuminated by golden reflections from the magnificent coffered ceiling, painted in green and gold and full of sculpted male figures.
‘Welcome.’ Don Pedro de Granada came across to them from a group of men he was talking to. He held out his hand to Hernando. ‘We were presented at the celebration the chief magistrate Don Ponce held in your honour, but could only exchange a brief greeting on that occasion. You are most welcome in my house.’
Hernando took the noble’s hand, which seemed to be gripping his longer than necessary. He was able to survey him close to – a thin man, with a broad, clear forehead, a carefully trimmed dark beard and an intelligent gleam in his eyes – and tried hard not to let the prejudices he had brought to their meeting show: Don Pedro and his ancestors had renounced the true religion and collaborated with the Christians.
After greeting the hidalgo, the lord of Campotéjar presented them to the others: Luis Barahona de Soto, a physician and poet; Joan de Faría, a lawyer and chancery official; Gonzalo Mateo de Berrío, also a poet; and several other people. Hernando felt ill at ease. Why had he allowed Don Sancho to persuade him to come? What did he have to talk about with all these strangers? In one of the corners of the room stood two men, each with a glass of wine in their hand. Don Pedro led him over to meet them.
‘Don Miguel de Luna, physician and translator,’ he said, introducing the first of them.
Hernando greeted him.
‘Don Alonso del Castillo,’ said their host, referring to the other elegantly dressed man. ‘He is also a physician, and the official translator from Arabic for the Granada Inquisition, and now for King Philip II.’
Don Alonso held out his hand, not taking his eyes off Hernando’s face. Hernando held his gaze and shook his hand.
‘I wanted to meet you.’ Hernando was startled. The translator was not only speaking to him in Arabic, but was increasing the pressure on his hand. ‘I have heard of your exploits in the Alpujarra.’
‘One should not attach too much importance to them,’ replied Hernando in Spanish. More praise for setting Christians free! ‘This is Don Sancho, from Córdoba,’ he said, freeing his hand and gesturing towards the hidalgo.
‘Cousin of Don Alfonso de Córdoba, the Duke of Monterreal,’ Don Sancho boasted, as he had done with everyone else to whom he had been presented.
‘Don Sancho,’ Pedro de Granada butted in. ‘I don’t think I’ve introduced you to the marquis yet.’ The hidalgo puffed himself up at the mere mention of the title. ‘Come with me.’
When Hernando made to follow the two men, Castillo laid his hand on his forearm and held him back. Miguel de Luna stepped in front of him as well, so that the three men formed a small group in the corner of the Golden Stable.
‘I have also heard,’ the translator went on, this time in Spanish, ‘that you are collaborating with the bishop over the Christians martyred in the Alpujarra.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And that you used to work in the royal stables at Córdoba,’ added Miguel de Luna.
Hernando frowned. ‘That is also correct,’ he said brusquely.
‘In Córdoba,’ the former said, ignoring Hernando’s tone and still holding him by the arm, ‘you helped in the cathedral as a translator—’
‘Gentlemen,’ Hernando said, cutting him short and freeing his arm, ‘did you invite me here to subject me to an interrogation?’
Neither of them reacted.
‘There’s someone who worked in the library of Córdoba cathedral . . .’ Don Alonso went on, taking Hernando gently by the arm once more, as though to prevent him escaping, ‘. . . Don Julián.’
Hernando looked askance at them, and again broke free of the pressure on his arm. For a few moments the three men stared at each other in silence, trying to judge what each was thinking. Miguel de Luna was the first to speak.
‘We have heard of Don Julián, the librarian in the Córdoba cathedral chapter.’
Hernando hesitated, and fidgeted restlessly. Elsewhere in the hall, groups of people were standing talking animatedly, or sitting in luxurious armchairs near low tables crammed with wines and sweetmeats.
‘Listen,’ Castillo said. ‘Like Don Pedro de Granada, Miguel and I are descendants of Muslims. After the war in the Alpujarra, where I worked as a translator first for the Marquis of Mondéjar and then for Prince John of Austria, I was asked by King Philip to look after the Arabic books and manuscripts in El Escorial monastery. He wanted me to translate them, to catalogue them . . . Another task the King set me was to search for and acquire new books in Arabic. I found some in the Córdoba region: a couple of copies of the Koran the royal library was not interested in, and some copies of prophecies and lunar calendars.’
The translator fell silent. No longer struggling to free his arm, Hernando had a moment to think. What did these two renegades want from him? They had collaborated with the Christians! Their forebears were the ones who surrendered Granada to the Catholic monarchs, and they had no problem admitting that they themselves had been on the side of the Christians in the Alpujarra war. They were nobles, scholars, physicians or poets who wanted to convert others, just like Don Pedro de Granada. Castillo even worked for the Inquisition! What if this invitation had simply been to unmask him?
‘In the end I did not buy them.’ This sudden affirmation by the translator put Hernando on his guard. ‘They were written on coarse modern paper and interspersed with aljamiado, as if—’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ Hernando interrupted him.
‘What is it you are telling my guest?’
Hernando turned round and found himself face to face with Don Pedro de Granada.
‘We were telling him about the work Alonso does in the royal library,’ explained Luna, ‘and we said we knew Don Julián, the librarian at Córdoba cathedral.’
‘He was a good man,’ the nobleman said. ‘A person dedicated to the defence of religion . . .’
The lord of Campotéjar left his final words floating in mid-air. Hernando could feel the attention of all three men on him. What could he have meant? Concealed beneath his priest’s habit, Don Julián was a Muslim.
‘Yes,’ he lied. ‘Don Julián was a good Christian.’
Don Pedro,
Luna and Castillo exchanged glances. The nobleman nodded to Castillo, as if giving him permission. Checking to see that no one could overhear, the translator went on: ‘Don Julián told me it was you who made copies of the Koran,’ he announced solemnly, ‘so that they could be distributed around Córdoba . . .’
‘I didn’t—’ Hernando began.
‘He also told me’, Castillo said, increasing the pressure on Hernando’s arm as he spoke, ‘that you were fully trusted by the council of elders along with Karim, Jalil and . . . what was his name? Yes: Hamid, the holy man from Juviles.’
Surrounded by the three men, Hernando had no idea what to say or where to turn.
‘Hamid was a descendant of the Nasrid dynasty,’ Don Pedro said. ‘We were distantly related. His family chose another destiny: they followed Boabdil into exile in the Alpujarra, but chose not to follow the “Little King” when he fled to Barbary.’
Hernando tugged and finally freed his arm from Castillo. ‘Gentlemen,’ he began, making as though to leave the group, ‘I don’t understand what it is you want from me, but—’
‘Listen,’ Castillo interrupted him, at the same time stepping aside as though to indicate that Hernando was free to leave the group if he so wished, ‘do you really believe that Don Julián would have betrayed you and told us everything we have just said to you if we were nothing more than a group of mere renegades as you think?’
Hernando paused. Don Julián? A thousand memories flashed through his mind. He would never have done that! He would have preferred to die under torture first, as Karim had done. Not even the Inquisition had been able to get the name they wanted out of him: his own name, Hernando Ruiz of Juviles! True Muslims did not denounce one of their own.
‘Think about it,’ he heard Luna say.
‘I know a lot about you,’ Castillo insisted. ‘Don Julián held you in high esteem, and had great respect for you.’
Why had the librarian found it necessary to tell them anything? Hernando wondered. If he had, that could only mean these three men were fighting for the same cause as him. But was he himself still fighting for anything? Even his mother had repudiated him.
The Hand of Fatima Page 64
