Her legs were aching as the statue of Christ passed by her. The Moriscos all knelt on the ground. Somebody pulled at her skirt for her to do the same, but she refused and stood there silently, not praying, a shrunken old woman among the kneeling men. It took a long time for the penitents to appear. They had been round the entire city, and many of them were collapsing under the weight of their crosses, so that onlookers had to help them. Hernando was still carrying his, but the sergeant, who was alongside him, had abandoned his cross when they got past La Corredera and was simply walking in the group of penitents. His eyes were downcast, and he felt defeated now that the burden had been taken up by two young men. The bodies of the penitents with flails were by now covered in blood. The fervent Christians watching the procession were deeply moved by these shows of passion, adding their shouts and howls to those of the marchers. The nuns from the Santa Cruz convent began to intone the miserere, raising their voices so that they could be heard over the hubbub, encouraging the thousand penitents not to give up.
‘Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam,’ the mournful chant filled Calle del Sol.
Aisha was looking on dully as these unfortunates went by, when suddenly in among them, dragging an enormous cross and with his back bleeding from where the wood had rubbed his shoulder raw, his face contorted and purple, she saw her son. He was struggling along with the others; the sight of him reminded her of the hundreds of Christs in the churches and wayside shrines of the city.
‘No!’ she shouted. Her fingers clenched. When the baker turned to look at her, he saw the soft blue veins in her throat were tense and bulging beneath her chin. Her eyes glittered with hatred. ‘No!’ she shouted again. Another Morisco turned towards her. A third man tried to silence her, but this only caught the attention of one of the guards. Evading the man’s grasp, thanks to strength born of anger, Aisha cried out: ‘Allah is great, my son!’ The guard began to make his way towards her.
‘Et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam,’ the nuns of Santa Cruz lamented.
The Moriscos in the crowd shrank away from Aisha.
‘Listen to me, Hernando! Fátima is alive! Your children as well! Come back to your people! There is no god but God, and Muhammad is the Mess—’
She was unable to finish her profession of faith. The guard threw himself on her and silenced her with a slap that knocked out two more of her teeth.
Hernando, his mind a blank, delirious from pain, was muttering to himself the sorrowful chants he had been hearing all day: ‘Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea.’ His whole attention was concentrated on pulling his heavy cross. He did not notice the disturbance among the crowd of Moriscos. He did not even turn his face to see the commotion around the figure of his mother.
55
AT THE END of October that year, King Philip addressed himself to all the bishops in Spain thanking them for their rogations, but calling on them to be suspended. He considered it impossible that two and a half months after the armada had entered the waters of the Atlantic, any other ship would now return. A few days later the King himself wrote a deeply felt personal letter to the wife of his cousin the Duke of Monterreal, grandee of Spain, to inform her of the death of Don Alfonso de Córdoba and his eldest son at the hands of the English on the Irish coast, where they had been shipwrecked.
Two sailors who had escaped the killings, thanks to help from Irish rebels, and who succeeded in fleeing first to Scotland and then to Flanders, had confirmed the deaths of the duke and his son beyond all shadow of doubt. According to them, a brigade of the English army had arrested the duke and his men as they were wandering through the Irish countryside after swimming ashore. With no regard whatsoever for Don Alfonso’s rank – he had tried to argue that he was a nobleman – the English soldiers forced all the Spaniards to strip naked and then hanged them on the top of a hill like common criminals.
Hernando was not present on the morning when the palace secretary Don Silvestre read out the letter to all the hidalgos, after having first done so to Doña Lucía. For two days, Hernando had been going to the Christian monarchs’ fortress, pleading to be received by the clerk, the notary or the inquisitor himself. He wanted to hear at first hand about his mother’s detention, something he had learnt of when Juan Marco, the master weaver, sent him a message returning the money he received each month, telling him his mother had not been to work. It was the apprentice who brought him the money – little more than a boy – who spat the news at him scornfully.
‘Your mother invoked the god of the heretics when the penitents in the procession passed by her.’ The coins slipped from Hernando’s fingers and fell to the floor with a strange tinkle. He felt his legs give way beneath him. She must have seen him in the procession! It must have been that!
‘She has committed sacrilege!’ the lad cried when the noise of the coins died away.
One of the servants agreed with him. ‘She deserves the maximum penalty the Holy Office can impose: to be burnt at the stake is hardly punishment enough for someone who’s blasphemed against a sacred procession.’
The only concession Hernando won from the Inquisition was to be allowed to pay for Aisha’s food, although he had no idea that she had decided not to eat, and was rejecting the tiny, disgusting rations the jailers threw into her cell.
Don Esteban was the first to fall to his knees when the secretary ended his reading of the King’s letter. Don Sancho crossed himself time and again, whilst other hidalgos imitated the infantry sergeant. The murmur of prayers, many and different, filled the room, until the chaplain’s voice rose above them:
‘How could Christ answer our prayers if at the same time as we were begging for him to intercede, the mother of the person on whom Don Alfonso had bestowed his favour and friendship was calling on the false god of the Muslim sect?’
Doña Lucía, who until then had been slumped in a chair, raised her head. Her chin was trembling.
‘What use is a rogation when a sacrilege has been committed?’
The duchess turned her tear-filled eyes on the hidalgo who had just spoken. As she nodded in agreement, another of them took up the attack on Hernando.
‘Mother and son plotted this together! I saw the Morisco give a signal.’
At this a storm of complaints was unleashed by the hidalgos, all denouncing Hernando:
‘Blasphemy!’
‘God was offended!’
‘That’s why He refused us His grace!’
Doña Lucía’s eyes closed tightly. She was not going to allow the son of a woman who had committed such a sacrilege to go on living in her palace, enjoying the favour of someone who could no longer offer it him!
That same night when Hernando, unaware of the news of Don Alfonso’s death, returned defeated yet again from the Inquisition after waiting in vain all day for someone to receive him, the secretary intercepted him in the palace doorway.
‘Tomorrow morning you are to leave this house,’ Don Silvestre told him. ‘Those are the duchess’s orders. You are not worthy to live under this roof. His excellency the Duke of Monterreal and his son died defending the Catholic cause.’
In his mind, Hernando heard once more the clang of the chains on his ankles as Don Alfonso brought his Toledo steel down on them while the two of them crouched beside a stream in the Alpujarra. Hernando rolled his eyes. With his death the duke had again set him free from a servitude he himself had been unable to put an end to.
‘Please convey my condolences to the duchess,’ he said.
‘I don’t think that would be appropriate,’ the secretary said acidly.
‘You are wrong there,’ Hernando retorted. ‘They could be the only sincere ones she receives in this house.’
‘What are you implying?’
Hernando waved his arm in the air. ‘What can I take with me?’ he asked.
‘Your clothes. The duchess does not want to see them. The horse—’
‘The horse and its tackle are mine.
I don’t need to ask anyone’s permission to take them with me,’ Hernando said firmly. ‘As for my writings . . .’
‘What writings?’ the secretary asked suspiciously.
Hernando gave a weary sigh. Were they going to humiliate him to the end? ‘You know very well,’ he said. ‘The reports I am drawing up for the Archbishop of Granada.’
‘Very well. They are yours.’
Hernando felt Don Alfonso’s death keenly. He realized he had been counting on his return. He was genuinely fond of the duke, who had done so much for him, and could have wished for his help in interceding on his mother’s behalf with the Inquisition. He had mentioned the duke’s name a hundred times in order to see someone, but the Holy Office did not seem to set any store by the mention of Spanish nobles or grandees. No one, whatever their social rank, was greater than the Inquisition, or could put pressure on its members.
He hastened to the minaret tower where he kept hidden the gospel of Barnabas and his other secrets. Silvestre might well search him when he left the palace, so he decided to take only a few things with him. He took out the hand of Fátima and held it in his palm for a few moments, trying to remember how it used to shine just above his wife’s breasts, and how it swayed with them. The jewel had lost its glow with Fátima’s death, he thought, just like his life. He made a rapid decision about his books and writings: all he would take with him was the gospel of Barnabas; he would destroy everything else, including the transcription of the gospel he had made. Ibn Muqla’s treatise on calligraphy would meet the same fate. He could not run the risk of it being found on him, and besides, he knew it by heart. The images of the letters and the drawings of their dimensions leapt into his mind as soon as he brought his quill to paper.
When he had done all this, he went back to his rooms. He opened the chest to take out the purse where he kept his savings, but could not find it. He searched among his scarce belongings. Someone had stolen it. ‘Christian dogs!’ he muttered. They had been quick to start their pillaging, just as they had done in the Alpujarra. All he had left was what little money he had on him.
Cursing himself for not having kept his savings in a safe place, he prepared a bundle of his clothes and hid the parchments of the gospel among his writings on the martyrs. No one would notice them. He dropped the tarnished hand of Fátima on top of his clothing: he planned to hide it on his body when he left. Finally, he washed before praying. When he had finished his prayers, he stood in the centre of his bedroom: what was he going to do now?
‘I need money.’
Pablo Coca did not flinch at Hernando’s words. The gambling house was empty; a Guinean slave was cleaning and tidying up after last night’s play. ‘We all need money, my friend,’ he answered. ‘What has happened?’
Hernando recalled the boy practising so hard to move his earlobe as the Marshal did, and decided to trust him and explain his situation. He also decided not to tell him how he had managed to get through the search Silvestre had submitted him to.
‘What are they?’ the secretary had asked, pointing to the papers Hernando was showing openly in his right hand. Silvestre had just been rummaging among his clothes as though he were a petty thief, in full view of the servants coming and going in the stable courtyard.
‘My report for the Granada cathedral chapter.’
The secretary motioned for him to give him the papers. Hernando lifted them up, but did not hand them over.
‘They are confidential, Silvestre,’ he said, nevertheless allowing him to read the first page, which dealt with the killings in Cuxurio. ‘I’m telling you they are confidential to the Church in Granada,’ he insisted, challenging him to look further. ‘If the archbishop found out . . .’
‘All right!’ the secretary conceded.
‘And now, are you going to strip me naked?’ Hernando scoffed, thinking of the hand of Fátima he had concealed in his breeches. ‘Would you like to?’ he challenged him again, holding out his arms. Silvestre blushed. ‘Don’t worry, I came poor to this palace and I’ll leave as poor as I arrived.’ Hernando smiled cynically at the secretary: was he the thief? ‘“A miserable Morisco,” as you all call me.’
The stable lad refused to saddle up Volador, putting into his refusal all the rancour accumulated over years of having to serve a Morisco. Hernando did it himself, although he soon had to unbridle the horse again at the Potro inn, where he found lodging. He chose it out of the many inns in and around the square because the innkeeper did not know him. Volador, bearing the royal brand and twice the size of any of the mules and donkeys resting in the inn-yard, as well as the distinguished-looking clothes he was wearing, quickly secured him the best room: a bedroom all to himself. A bed, two chairs and a table were the only furniture. Hernando paid in advance as if he were a rich man, despite the fact that when he took the money from his purse he realized all he had left were a few reales. The first thing he did was to get out some clean sheets of paper that he had brought from the palace and write a letter to Don Pedro de Granada Venegas, explaining what had happened to him and his mother, and begging for his help. There was little he could do for them and the Morisco cause, he argued, if he were forced to live in penury. In the same Potro inn he found a muleteer setting out for Granada that same day, and so his purse became completely empty.
‘I gave most of the money I had to the Inquisition jailer to feed and look after my mother,’ he explained to Pablo Coca. ‘The rest . . .’
‘You could make some tonight,’ his friend tried to encourage him. Hernando waved his hand dismissively. ‘It will help you get by,’ Pablo insisted. ‘At least you’ll be able to pay at the inn.’
‘Palomero,’ Hernando replied, using his youthful nickname, ‘I need much more money than that, don’t you see? I have to buy off a lot of people in the Christian monarchs’ fortress.’
‘Money will get you nowhere with the Inquisition. When there was that witchcraft case with the two Camacha women, they arrested Don Alonso de Aguilar, of the House of Priego. An Aguilar! Bribes had no effect until the matter was finally resolved and he was released. They have even moved against archbishops.’
‘But my mother is only an old Morisco woman of no importance, Pablo.’
Coca thought it over for a few moments, rubbing a finger round the top of his glass. They were sitting with a jug of wine the Guinean slave had served them.
‘I am often asked to organize important gaming sessions,’ he said doubtfully, as if unsure whether this would be of any real help. Hernando put down the glass he had been raising to his lips and leant towards him across the table. ‘I don’t like doing it. I agree sometimes, but . . . these are games for nobles, lawyers, bailiffs, sheriffs, proud, arrogant young men who are the sons of great families – even priests! The games are all cut and thrust, with huge sums wagered; they are very different from the slow bloodletting of nights in my gaming house. The gamblers are about as knowledgeable as the poor fools who come to my place, but they are quick to draw their swords if they are challenged on any of the tricks or sleight of hand they try to perform. It’s as though the honour they make so much of is enough to excuse a marked pack of cards.’
‘But why do they use you?’
‘They always bring in a professional like me, for two reasons. First because they don’t want to lower themselves by going to a gaming house; more importantly because, as you know, all gambling, apart from wagers to try to get food or of less than two reales, is forbidden. Until a few years ago, anyone who lost money in a clandestine game had a week to claim back any money lost. That’s no longer the case: if you lose money, that’s that, but if anyone denounces one of these illegal sessions, everyone goes to jail, and those who won money have to pay a fine equivalent to their winnings, plus a similar amount which is divided between the King, the judge and the person making the accusation. That’s where we professionals come in: everyone who takes part in or knows about one of these illegal games is well aware that if they talk about it, their life is not worth
a penny. Any of us in Córdoba, Seville, Toledo or anywhere else that person might escape to would carry out the punishment, even if we were not involved. That is our law, and we have the means to enforce it. A gambler always goes back to the tables some day or other . . .’
‘Even so,’ Hernando reflected, after thinking about Pablo’s words for a few moments, ‘wouldn’t you like to fleece them?’
Coca smiled. ‘Of course. But if we’re found out, my business is at stake. We professionals also run a further risk: even if no one denounces the illegal game, any angry bailiff who has lost at one could make my life impossible; a resentful councillor could ruin me. If you’re convicted of running a gaming house you face two years’ banishment, and if you’re caught with dice, you have all your possessions confiscated, receive a hundred lashes and five years in the galleys. And I do have dice at my place: they bring in good money . . .’
‘There’s no need for them to know you and I are in it together. I win, you lose, and afterwards we share it out. You took far too much trouble to learn the Marshal’s trick to waste it on a few sad wretches. Remember the hopes we had back in those days.’
‘Sometimes blood is spilt,’ Pablo said reluctantly.
‘Let’s get their money!’ insisted Hernando.
‘Are you hoping to live off gambling then?’ asked Coca. ‘They’re bound to link us at some point. You can’t always be winning at games I organize.’
The Hand of Fatima Page 73
