‘Aisha?’ he asked as she walked past him. She nodded, showing her sad, sunken eyes in lined, discoloured sockets. ‘Peace be with you,’ Ephraim greeted her. She seemed surprised at his courteous tone. To the young Jew she seemed like a hurt, defenceless animal. What was going on? ‘My name is Ephraim, and I’ve come from Tetuan . . .’ he whispered in her ear.
Aisha reacted with unexpected energy. ‘Be quiet!’ she warned, gesturing towards the interior of the house beyond the entrance. Ephraim turned and saw several faces peering out at them.
Without another word, Aisha set off towards the river. Ephraim followed her, trying to walk as slowly as she did.
‘I’ve come—’ he repeated when they were some distance from the house, but Aisha again gestured for him to be quiet.
They went through the Martos gate down to the banks of the Guadalquivir, by the mill that belonged to the Order of Calatrava. When they had reached the riverbank, Aisha turned to him.
‘Have you brought news of Fátima?’ she asked in a faint voice.
‘Yes. I have—’
‘What do you know of my son Shamir?’ she interrupted him, forcing him to come to a halt.
Ephraim thought he could detect a glimmer of life in her dead-looking eyes. ‘He is well.’ Before he had left, his father had explained the situation. ‘But I know little more about him,’ he added. ‘I’ve brought you a letter from Fátima. It’s for your son Hernando, but it’s also addressed to you.’ He searched in his clothes for it.
‘I don’t know how to read,’ said Aisha.
Ephraim stood holding out the letter. ‘Give it to your son so that he can read it for you,’ he said, moving towards her for her to take it.
Aisha gave a sad smile. How could she possibly tell her son she had lied to him and that Fátima, Francisco and Inés were still alive? ‘You read it.’
Ephraim hesitated. ‘To Hernando or his mother,’ his father had told him. In the background he heard the incessant noises of the millstones crushing the grain as the waters of the Guadalquivir flowed by.
‘All right,’ he agreed, and tore open the seal. ‘“Beloved husband,”’ he started to read, ‘“peace and the blessings of the Magnanimous, He who judges with truth, be upon you . . .”’
The sun was beginning to set, picking out their silhouettes on the riverbank. Concentrating on reading the letter, Ephraim did not notice Aisha’s smile of satisfaction when he told of the moment when Brahim died, bleeding like a stuck pig. He had to clear his throat several times as he read the details of the murder written in his father’s familiar hand.
The letter addressed to Hernando went on:
Your son is well. He has turned into an intelligent young man and has become hardened through piracy against the Christians. How is your mother? I trust that the strength and courage she showed when looking after me have helped her overcome all the trials God has put us through. Tell her that Shamir is also a grown man, who in addition is very rich now after his accursed father’s death. Both of them, brave and free, plough the seas in the name of the one true God, our strength and hope, the one who brings life and death, fighting and causing harm to the Christians who have brought so much evil upon us. Inés is growing in good health. Beloved husband, I do not know what your mother told you about the kidnap of your son, Inés and me, your slave, but I have come to think she told you we were all dead. Otherwise I am convinced you would have come to find us. The boys never realized this, and for many years were expecting you to come. I wondered whether I should tell them, but decided that the possibility, the hope, would help them on what seemed to be a cruel and difficult path. Now it is too late to tell them. You yourself will have to do so. They will forgive you, I am sure; as I am also certain that you forgive your mother. I was the one who asked her to do this, to prevent you from following us to this den of corsairs where Brahim was waiting with a whole army to kill you.
At this point, Ephraim had to pause in his account because Aisha was sobbing so much. He avoided looking at her, taken aback by the grief she made no effort to hide.
‘Go on,’ Aisha urged him in a trembling voice, and the Jew read:
Hernando, we have many nights to catch up on. Tetuan is our paradise. We can live here with no problems and in the true faith, without having to hide ourselves from anything or anyone. And yet I do not know whether you have married again. I would not reproach you for it, as it is understandable. If that is the case, come here with your new wife and children, if you have any. Like the good Muslim woman I am sure she is, she will understand and accept the situation. Bring Aisha as well: Shamir needs her. We all need both of you! May God guide the bearer of this letter, find you in good health, and bring you back to my arms and those of your children.
Aisha stood without speaking for a long while, staring at the already darkening waters of the Guadalquivir.
‘That’s all,’ said Ephraim eventually.
‘Does she expect a reply?’ Aisha said, turning to confront him.
‘Yes,’ Ephraim said uncertainly, surprised at her forcefulness. ‘So I’ve been told.’
‘I don’t know how to write either.’
‘Your son . . .’
‘My son doesn’t write in Arabic any more!’ Aisha retorted, her voice sharp with rancour. ‘Remember well what I am going to tell you, and make sure Fátima hears it: the man she once loved no longer exists. Hernando has abandoned the true faith and betrayed his people; no one in our community either talks to him or respects him. His Nazarene blood has won out. In the Alpujarra he helped the Christians and in secret even saved some of their wretched lives. He is now living in the palace of a Córdoba nobleman, one of those who killed so many of our people. Hernando has become just like them, living a life of ease. Instead of making copies of the Koran or prophecies, he works for the Bishop of Granada praising the Christian martyrs of the Alpujarra, those who stole from us, spat at us . . . abused us.’
With this, Aisha fell silent again. Ephraim saw her tremble, and watched as tears fought to flow from furious, sad eyes.
‘Hernando is no longer my son. He is not worthy of you or of my grandchildren,’ she murmured. ‘I, Aisha, tell you this, the woman who conceived him after being cruelly abused, who carried him in her womb, and who gave birth to him in pain . . . all the pain in the world. Fátima, my beloved Fátima, may peace be with you and yours.’ Aisha grabbed the letter from Ephraim’s hands and tore it into pieces. She went to the river’s edge and dropped the pieces into the water. ‘Did you understand all that?’ she asked, her back towards him.
‘Yes.’ It cost him a great effort just to get out this single word. He swallowed what little saliva was still in his throat. ‘And you, what will you do? The letter said—’
‘I no longer have the strength. God cannot ask me to set off on a long journey like that. Go back to your country and give my message to Fátima. May God be with you.’
Then, without so much as turning to look at him, Aisha walked away slowly along the very same path she and Hernando had taken one day, alongside the river that had swallowed up Hamid.
A few days before the feast of Saint Luke on 18 October, the Córdoba authorities put up posters all over the city announcing the great rogation for the return of the armada ships that had still not arrived. More than seventy still had not reappeared! At the same time, criers from the city council read out proclamations in the busiest spots calling on all inhabitants to join in the procession, everyone, having confessed and been to communion, to carry their cross, flail or candle. The procession was to start from the doors of the cathedral an hour after noon, so that the Christians of Córdoba spent the morning confessing and taking communion as though it was Easter Thursday.
In the Duke of Monterreal’s palace, Doña Lucía, her daughters and her son were all ready, dressed in the strictest black and each of them carrying a big candle. The hidalgos and Hernando, also dressed in black, supplied themselves with torches to carry in the procession and began to gat
her in Doña Lucía’s room to wait for the tolling of all the city’s bells. The bishop had ordered that even those in the convents and hermitages around the city should join in. A haggard-looking Doña Lucía was sitting with her children murmuring prayers as she clicked her rosary beads. The others were in a state of tense expectation. Then Don Esteban made his appearance. He was barefoot, stripped to the waist, and wearing only a pair of breeches. Carrying a big wooden cross over his good shoulder, he went up to the duchess and greeted her with a slight bow of the head. The old invalid sergeant still had a strong body, crisscrossed by many scars. Some were no more than big or small lines in his skin; others, like the one that began at his left shoulder, were deep furrows. Doña Lucía returned the sergeant’s greetings, her thin lips tightening into a line and her eyes suddenly moist. At that moment one of the hidalgos slipped out of the room to find another cross he could carry in the procession. The others exchanged glances and one by one followed the first man’s footsteps.
‘If you commend yourself to God, you can save Don Alfonso’s life a second time.’ These were the first words Don Sancho had addressed to Hernando in many days. ‘Or is it all the same to you if he dies?’
Did Hernando want the duke to die? No. He recalled the days they had spent in Barrax’s tent, and their escape. The duke was a Christian, but he was his friend; perhaps the only one he could count on in all Córdoba. Besides, was it not he, Hernando, who defended the existence of a single God, the God of Abraham? He followed the hidalgo, determined to do penance for Don Alfonso. What did anything matter now? His brothers in faith were convinced of his betrayal. Nothing he did could make the contempt they felt towards him any worse.
‘How will we find a wooden cross now?’ he heard one of the hidalgos complain. ‘We don’t have time to . . .’
‘Swords, iron bars or planks of wood will do if we tie them to our backs and keep our arms outstretched to make a cross,’ the man beside him said.
‘Or a penance,’ another hidalgo said. ‘A whip or a hairshirt.’
There was no lack of swords in the duke’s palace, but Hernando remembered the large old wooden cross hanging in a corner of the stables. The stable lad had explained that the duke had decided to replace the magnificent bronze Christ that hung in the palace chapel for one made from mahogany brought from the island of Cuba. The old cross, stripped of its figure, had ended up in the stables.
It was a sunny, cold day. To the sound of all the bells in the city and the surrounding villages, the huge rogation procession left Córdoba cathedral by the Santa Catalina gate. It proceeded down towards the river, then crossed under the bridge between the bishopric and the cathedral until it reached the bishop’s palace, where the bishop blessed it from his balcony. The procession was headed by the city governor and the cathedral master, followed by the councillors and the city magistrates with their banners. Behind them, in the midst of the members of the cathedral chapter, priests and sacristans, the figure of the Christ from the Punto chapel was carried on a bier. The friars from the many convents in the city carried floats with images of their churches, some of them under canopies. Then came more than two thousand people carrying candles or lit torches, with Doña Lucía and her children in the lead, consoled by the nobles who had taken up their places alongside the family.
In the rear of the procession were almost a thousand penitents. Carrying his cross, Hernando studied them while he waited to join in. Like him, most of them were barefoot and naked to the waist. Many were carrying crosses. Others had their arms outstretched, with swords or iron bars strapped on their backs. Still more penitents had spiked belts round their legs or waists, or had covered themselves in brambles or nettles, while a few had ropes round their necks with which their companions pulled them along. All of them murmured prayers as they walked, but the noise left Hernando feeling completely empty. What would the Moriscos think if they saw him? Perhaps they would not recognize him among all these people, and anyway, he told himself again, what did it matter now?
The inhabitants of the city fell to their knees as the procession went by, following a route through the streets that took it past all the churches and convents. Whenever it reached a church of any size, the procession entered, to be greeted by singing from the choir. The line of people was so long that the start of the procession was several hours ahead of the penitents. In smaller churches, the religious community came outside with their images and sang misereres from the doorways; the nuns in closed orders looked on from inside their sanctuaries.
They had walked a long way in the procession, which according to the proclamation should continue until nightfall, when Hernando began to feel that the weight of the cross was becoming unbearable. Why had he not simply tied on a sword like the hidalgos? What on earth was he doing there anyway, getting his feet torn to shreds, stepping in pools of mud and blood, praying and chanting misereres? In front of him the old infantry sergeant, who was carrying the cross with his only good arm, suddenly became stuck when the end of his cross fell into a pothole. Don Esteban pulled as hard as he could, but could not get it out of the hole. The penitents flowed past him, but those also carrying crosses found their path blocked and had to come to a halt. A young bystander jumped out of the crowd and lifted the end of the cross. The sergeant turned towards him and thanked him with a smile. The procession continued on its way, with both men hauling the cross. He would need help too, thought Hernando as they set off again, struggling to drag the heavy wooden beam. And there was still the whole afternoon to get through!
‘Hail, Mary, full of grace, Our Lord is with thee . . .’ Hernando added his voice to that of hundreds of others.
Hail Marys, Lord’s Prayers, creeds, Hail Holy Queens . . . the noise was incessant. What was he doing there? Sung misereres. Thousands of candles and torches. Incense. Blessings. Saints and holy images everywhere. Men and women kneeling as he went by, some of them crying out and calling on God with their arms stretched to the skies in mystical ecstasy. The bloody backs of flagellants all round him. Hernando felt utterly out of place . . . he was a Muslim!
The pious Christians of Córdoba had been called to the procession by proclamations and street criers, but the same was not true of the Morisco community. Prior to Saint Luke’s day, parish priests, sacristans, magistrates and bailiffs consulted the census lists of new Christians and went from house to house demanding they take part. As if it were a Sunday, on the day itself they stationed themselves from first thing in the morning in the church doorways, censuses in hand, to make sure that none of the Moriscos was absent. None of them was to stay at home; they all had to witness the procession and to pray for the return of those ships of the great armada that had not yet reappeared. The whole of Spain was praying as one for their return!
‘What are you waiting for, old woman?’ said the Morisco baker, shaking Aisha roughly in the doorway.
Several men who had already left the house had also urged her to get up and go to confess and take communion. She ignored them. What did she care about the Christian King’s dreadful ships? The baker was the last to emerge: he was not going to permit the woman to stay where she was.
‘It’s a procession of Nazarenes,’ he shouted at her when she wrapped the blanket more closely round her. ‘People like you and your son! The authorities are making sure we all go to the procession. Do you want to bring misfortune on this house and all of us in it? Get up!’
Two other Moriscos who also lived in the house but were now some way down the street came walking back towards them.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked one of them.
‘She won’t get up.’
‘If she doesn’t go to confession, the bailiffs will come and check and will become suspicious about the house. They’ll be on our backs the whole time.’
‘That’s what I told her,’ said the baker.
‘Listen, Nazarene,’ the third man said, kneeling down beside Aisha, ‘either you come of your own accord, or we’ll drag you.’
&nb
sp; So Aisha was taken to Santiago church by two young Moriscos who pulled her along roughly. When he saw her, the sacristan backed away from Aisha nervously, but crossed her name off his list.
‘She’s ill,’ the young Moriscos said by way of an excuse.
What they could not do was to force her to confess. Nor did they dare take her up to the altar to eat the ‘cake’, but there was such a crush inside the church, and so many people standing in line for the confessional, that nobody noticed. The bailiffs simply noted that she had been to church. From there, under the watchful eye of a guard, the Moriscos of the Santiago parish were told to go to Calle del Sol, between their church and the nearby Santa Cruz convent, to wait for the procession to pass by. Aisha was dragged along with the rest, oblivious to everything going on around her. They all had to wait in the street for several hours, from the ringing of the bells to the moment when the procession passed through the Santiago neighbourhood by the city’s eastern wall on its way back to the cathedral.
Aisha did not speak to anyone. She had not done so for days, even in the weaver’s workshop, where she sat staring ahead of her without uttering a word even when Juan Marco took her to task for lining up her threads wrongly. As she worked, her mind was constantly on Fátima and Shamir. Fátima had done it! She had suffered years of humiliation, but she had kept quiet and endured it. Her will-power and single-mindedness had enabled her to take a revenge Aisha herself would never even have imagined possible. A paradise! she remembered it said in the letter. Fátima was living in a paradise. As for her, what had she done with her life? She was old, sick and all alone. She looked at her neighbours crowded around, as if they were trying to hide her. They were eating. They ate millet bread, cakes, almond sweetmeats and fritters they had bought. Not one of them offered her any, although she would not have been able to eat it if they had. Many of her teeth were missing, and her hair was falling out in clumps. She had to crumble the stale bread they gave her every night into crumbs so that she could eat it. What terrible sin could she have committed for God to treat her this way? Hernando was betraying his Muslim brothers, and Shamir was living far away, in Barbary. Her other children had been murdered or sold as slaves. Why, God? Why did He not take her once and for all? She wanted to die! She called out for death every night when she had to stretch out on the cold, hard ground in the doorway, but it never came. God could not decide whether or not to free her from her wretchedness.
The Hand of Fatima Page 72
