Another person unable to escape their own purgatory was Aisha. Hernando had still not heard from Don Pedro de Granada Venegas, and did not dare undertake such a long journey in winter when she was so ill. Everyone thought she was bound to die. He gave some money to the wife and daughter of the innkeeper so that they would wash her and change her clothes.
‘She is nothing but skin and bone,’ the innkeeper’s wife commented when she came out of the room. ‘You can almost see through her. She won’t last long.’
At night Hernando played cards, winning sometimes and losing at others, as Coca had insisted. He spent his days trying to get Aisha to react, but she still lay motionless with her eyes rolled up, refusing to take any nourishment. Nor did she speak, and the only sound was of her wheezing breath. Hernando made her as comfortable as possible in the bed, and tried time and again to at least wet her lips with a little chicken broth so that something would find its way down her throat. He told her in a whisper all that he was doing for the Morisco community; how he had hidden the Turpian tower parchment. It was written in Arabic, Mother – and the Christians are already venerating the Virgin’s veil and Saint Stephen’s bone! Why had he not told her this before? Why did he not break his oath? Would God have punished him for saving his own mother’s life? But he could never have imagined . . . He was to blame! He was the one who had abandoned her so that he could live the easy life of a parasite in the palace of a Christian duke.
As the days went by and Aisha showed no sign of reacting, it was Hernando who grew thinner and weaker, shedding tears and cursing himself.
‘Let me try, your honour,’ Miguel suggested one morning when he found Hernando at the foot of the stairs up to his mother’s room, bowl of broth in his hand, uncertain whether to go up.
The boy clambered up the stairs hanging on to the railing and carrying his crutches in the other hand. Hernando carried up the broth.
‘Put it there by the bed,’ said Miguel.
Hernando obeyed, and withdrew to the doorway. Sitting down beside Aisha, Miguel brought the broth to her lips. He began talking to her in the same way as he did to Volador or to the cage-birds he said he had once lived with, as though she were a defenceless animal. Hernando stood for a long while in the doorway, watching this young boy with the crushed legs who knew when animals would leave or stay, and his mother lying supine beside him. He listened as Miguel told her stories, accompanying them with laughs and gestures. Where did a poor crippled boy whom life had denied everything get such optimism? What was he telling her now? An elephant! Miguel was hunting an elephant . . . in a boat on the Guadalquivir! He saw him imitating the animal’s trunk by bending his arm in front of his mouth and folding back his hand, then twirling it before Aisha’s expressionless eyes. Where could the boy have heard about an elephant? Hernando sighed painfully and left the room with the sound of Miguel’s laughter ringing in his ears. The elephant had sunk when it reached the Albolafia mill! For the first time in many days, he saddled Volador and headed out to the pastures, where he launched into a breakneck gallop.
*
‘You are to pay immediately against this letter, at six per thousand, to Hernando Ruiz, new Christian from Juviles, currently residing in Córdoba, the sum of one hundred ducats, at a rate of three hundred and seventy-five maravedís to the ducat . . .’ Hernando studied the bill of exchange he had been handed by a muleteer in the Potro inn in the name of Don Pedro de Granada Venegas. A hundred ducats was a considerable amount. ‘You cannot fail us now,’ the nobleman wrote with the letter. The Turpian tower parchment had been an excellent first step. Luna and Castillo were translating the chequer-board of letters for the good of the cause, but the main objective had to be to reveal the gospel of Barnabas and to try to bring the two religions closer together, thanks to the figure of the Virgin Mary. This was all the more urgent, Don Pedro maintained, because petition after petition against the Moriscos was being sent to the King, each more drastic than the last. From Seville, Alonso Gutiérrez was proposing they be put in special neighbourhoods containing no more than two hundred families. They would be governed by a Christian official, who would control everything, including their marriages, and would be branded on the face in order to be recognizable everywhere. They would also be required to pay onerous taxes to the Crown. In addition to this, the letter continued:
a cruel, intransigent Dominican friar by the name of Bleda goes much further still. He maintains, using the doctrines of the Fathers of the Church to support him, that it would be morally acceptable for the King to dispose of the lives of all the Moriscos as he sees fit, for example to kill them or sell them as slaves to other countries; he therefore suggests they be used as galley slaves. In this way, the friar says, they could take the place of all those priests who are forced to row in them because their superiors punish their failings by sending them to galleys with the sole aim of not having to pay the costs of keeping them in prison. The Church, which considers itself the seat of mercy, is thus proposing to kill or enslave thousands of human beings. We have to get to work. All these proposals come to the attention of the Morisco communities, and only serve to inflame their anger: the more petitions that are sent to the King, the more uprisings are planned. Then when these are uncovered, the Christians have further reasons to seek a bloodthirsty resolution of the problem. Moreover, the defeat of the great armada also has to be taken into account. England has emerged greatly strengthened, and its support for the armies fighting in Flanders is bound to increase; in France, the Christian league promoted and financed by the Spanish King is in serious difficulties following the disaster to the fleet. As the Spaniards lose power in Europe, they will consider that the Moriscos might ally themselves with one or other of these countries, and adopt counter-measures. Circumstances are against us. Keep me informed of your situation and count on me; we need you.
Hernando burnt Don Pedro’s letter and left the inn. He asked a guard where he could find Don Antonio Morales’s bank – this was where Don Pedro’s banker in Granada had addressed his bill of exchange – and set off towards it with this document and his own safe conduct. Morales’s establishment was near the silk and corn exchanges, and Hernando, elegantly dressed, was received by the banker himself. He charged him the commission stipulated in the letter, opened a deposit of ninety ducats in Hernando’s name, and gave him the rest in gold crowns, sovereigns and other smaller coins.
Hernando returned to the inn and paid the innkeeper generously, hoping that would silence his suspicions of him as a Morisco and cardsharp. Matters had become even more complicated now that his mother, who had been sentenced to do penance by the Inquisition, was also staying there.
‘I don’t know if you have a permit to live in this neighbourhood,’ the innkeeper had said a few days earlier. ‘You have to understand my position. If the bailiff came . . . new Christians need permission from the parish priest to change their domicile.’
Hernando shut him up by showing him the safe conduct from the Archbishop of Granada. ‘If I can move freely throughout the kingdoms of Spain, surely I can do so in a single city?’ he argued.
‘But the woman . . .’ the innkeeper protested.
‘The woman is with me. She’s my mother.’ Hernando answered him sharply, but gave him a few more coins to keep him quiet.
Hernando was aware that his present situation could not last for ever. Don Pedro had sent him money, but he had also asked him to continue to work on their plan, and he could not do that at the inn. He was sleeping on the floor, as he had given up his bed to Aisha, who remained in the same state as when she had left the Inquisition dungeons. Miguel was looking after her daily with great care and affection. He talked to her, told her stories, stroked her, and laughed – he laughed the whole time, except when he called the innkeeper’s wife and daughter to help him wash her and change her position so that she did not get sores.
‘Have you managed to get her to eat something?’ Hernando asked him one day.
‘She doesn
’t need it,’ the lad replied. ‘For now I’m still giving her chicken broth. That’s nourishment enough for someone in her condition. She will eat when she wants to.’
Hernando was not so sure; he cupped his chin in his hand. He did not dare ask if the boy thought this little animal was going to leave them or stay, but he did realize that Miguel, standing there on his crutches in front of him, was well aware of what he was thinking.
Miguel smiled, but said nothing.
Hernando also knew he could not leave Córdoba with his mother in the state she was in. In the meantime, he could rent a house and look for work. With horses. He was a good rider. Possibly a noble would take him on as a horse-trainer or a groom, or even as a stable lad. Why not? If that did not work out, he also knew how to read and do accounts; somebody might be interested in that. And at night he could devote himself to working on the gospel, which he still kept hidden among his papers. At least in the inn, unlike in the duke’s palace, nobody had shown the slightest interest in them: no one there could read.
Turning all this over in his mind, he made his way to Coca’s gaming house. The Guinean slave let him in. Perhaps Coca would know of a house he could rent . . .
‘Bless my soul!’ his friend greeted him. He was busy counting the winnings from the previous night. ‘I was just going to look for you.’
Hernando went up to the table where he was sitting.
‘Do you know of any house to rent that is not too expensive?’ he asked him straight out as he walked towards him. Coca raised his eyebrows. ‘Why were you going to look for me anyway?’
‘Wait.’ Coca finished calculating the winnings, then told the Guinean slave to leave. When they were on their own, he gazed at Hernando, a serious expression on his face. ‘There’s an important game on tonight,’ he told him.
Hernando hesitated.
‘Aren’t you interested?’ Coca said in surprise.
‘Yes . . . I think so. I . . .’ He wondered whether to tell him about the hundred ducats he had received from Don Pedro. He had been the one who had insisted Pablo organize a game of this sort, but now . . . the hundred ducats gave him a security he had not felt then. The money guaranteed he could look after his mother, and rent a house . . . how could he possibly gamble the ducats his protector had sent him so that he could advance the Morisco cause? ‘I’ve got a hundred ducats,’ he finally confessed. ‘An acquaintance of mine has lent them to me . . .’
‘I’m not interested in your ducats,’ Coca surprised him by saying.
‘But . . .’
‘I know you. In my line of business I’ve learnt how to distinguish between people. I can smell it, I know how they will react. When you first came to me, you said you had no money. If you have some now, and have to risk losing it, you won’t do it. You’re not a born gambler.’ Coca bent down and picked up something at his feet: two bags full of coins. He dropped them on to the table. ‘This can be our stake,’ he said. ‘Honestly, in normal circumstances I would never play with you as my accomplice, but you’re the only person who knows my secret, and the only one who will ever know it. You’re the only person I can use it with, and one of the few people – perhaps the only one again – to whom I feel any debt of gratitude. And tonight I want to win. A lot of money. The more the better. This has to be our night.’
‘But this money of yours,’exclaimed Hernando, ‘there’s a fortune here.’
‘Yes, there is. Forget what you have been wagering here at night. This is another world. If you count your money carefully they will find you out – and me with you. These are gold sovereigns: that is what they wager on each hand. You have to convince yourself that a gold sovereign is just the same as a silver penny. Can you do that?’
This time Hernando did not hesitate. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s dangerous. I want you to understand that from the start. No one is to know we are friends.’
The game was to take place in the house of a rich cloth merchant who was as arrogant and snobbish as he was reckless when it came to placing bets.
After nightfall, Hernando nervously walked the short distance between the Potro inn and Calle de la Feria where the merchant lived. He was clutching the bag of money and trying to remember the instructions Pablo Coca had given him. They had to sit opposite each other so that Hernando could get a clear view of his friend’s earlobe. He was to bet heavily even if Coca made no signal; it would be suspicious if he only bet a large amount when he won.
‘Try to not speak more to me than to the others,’ Coca also told him. ‘But look straight at me as you do the other players, as if you are trying to judge from my face what kind of a hand I have. Remember, I won’t be playing for myself, but for you. If we’re lucky and they use our cards, I’ll know what they are; if not, I’ll only be able to help you with my hand. Play boldly, but don’t imagine they’re stupid; they know what they’re doing and try to cheat as much as anyone else in ordinary gaming houses. Above all, remember one thing: these people’s sense of honour leads them quickly to lay hands on their swords, and since these are illegal games, there is a pact of silence if someone wounds or kills anyone else.’
A servant led Hernando into a big, well-lit room that was luxuriously appointed with tapestries, embossed leather decorations and shiny wooden furniture. The Morisco’s attention was caught by a large oil painting of a religious scene. Eight people were already there, standing in pairs and talking in low voices. Pablo was one of them.
‘Gentlemen,’ Coca called out to two pairs who were standing near the door where Hernando had just entered, ‘allow me to present Hernando Ruiz.’
A tall, strong man whose rich attire marked him out even from all the other elegantly dressed men was the first to hold out his hand.
‘Juan Serna,’ Pablo introduced him, ‘our host.’
‘Have you brought money with you, Señor Ruiz?’ the merchant asked slyly as they shook hands.
‘Yes . . .’ Hernando stammered, as several of the others guffawed at the comment.
‘Hernando Ruiz?’ queried an old man with sunken shoulders dressed entirely in black.
‘Melchor Parra,’ said Pablo, presenting him. ‘Public notary . . .’
The old man signalled abruptly to Pablo Coca to be quiet. ‘Hernando Ruiz,’ he repeated, ‘a new Christian from Juviles?’
Hernando avoided Pablo’s gaze. How did this old man know he was a Morisco? Would they want to play with a new Christian?
‘A new Christian?’ he heard another of the players who had come up to him ask.
‘Yes,’ the Morisco replied. ‘I am Hernando Ruiz, a new Christian from Juviles.’
Pablo tried to intervene, but the merchant stopped him.
‘Do you have money?’ he asked once more, as if the fact of him being Morisco was of little importance.
‘By my life he does, Juan,’ the old man suddenly announced as Hernando was going to show them his purse. ‘He’s a beneficiary of the late Duke of Monterreal, may God rest his soul. I myself opened and read his last will and testament a few days before the funeral. Don Alfonso de Córdoba made a provision outside his family. “To my friend Hernando Ruiz, a new Christian from Juviles, to whom I owe my life,” it said. I remember it as if I were reading it now. Have you come to gamble away your inheritance?’ he ended up asking sarcastically.
*
That night at the cloth merchant’s house Hernando found it impossible to concentrate on his cards. An inheritance! What could that mean? The notary did not explain, and he had no time to take him aside to ask him, because now that he had arrived, Juan Serna decided the gambling should begin at once. Pablo Coca looked worried as he sat down. Hernando did not even try to sit opposite him, and in the end it was the gambler himself who had to change places so that they could see each other clearly. Yet as the hands followed each other, Coca began to relax: Hernando was playing almost absent-mindedly, betting heavily and losing quite a lot, but sweeping the table whenever he saw his companion wiggling his earlobe. The s
ession went on all night without anyone suspecting they were in league. Hernando cleaned the others out. Serna, who like the notary had lost almost five hundred ducats, which he paid in gold to Hernando, demanded with no more than a veneer of civility that they have a rematch. The rest, including Pablo, had to pay him smaller but still considerable sums. One conceited young man, the scion of a noble house who during play had insulted Hernando (who had not reacted, still lost as he was in speculation as to what he might have inherited), had to swallow his pride and put his sword on the table, its hilt inlaid with gold and precious stones, as well as his ring, embossed with his family coat of arms.
‘Sign a paper saying they are mine by right,’ Hernando demanded when he saw the affronted young man getting up to leave swiftly.
The old notary also had to sign a document, although in his case it was to confirm that he owed Hernando money, since he did not have enough in his purse and had been allowed to play on trust. His hand shook as he signed the paper. He complained the whole time about the small fortune he had lost at the table, and pleaded for time to settle his debt. Hernando hesitated. He knew that promissory notes for gambling debts were not legal, and that no judge would demand they be met. However, Pablo signalled almost invisibly for him to accept: the notary would pay.
They left the house on Calle de la Feria. The sun was shining and the people of Córdoba were already going about their business. Escorted at a discreet distance by two armed guards Pablo had stationed outside the door, since he knew there would be substantial winnings that night, Hernando followed the old notary. He caught up with him in Plaza del Salvador.
‘You did not have a lucky night, Don Melchor,’ he said, falling into step alongside the old man, who was still clearly upset. ‘You mentioned a legacy in my favour.’
The Hand of Fatima Page 75
