The Hand of Fatima

by Ildefonso Falcones

  ‘She’s a good woman then.’

  They went on talking for a long while in the starlight, taking advantage of the brief pauses in their conversation to drink in the splendid night air surrounding them.

  Three days before Christmas 1604, sixty-eight representatives from the Morisco communities of the kingdoms of Valencia and Aragón met as planned in a clearing in the middle of a wood above the river Mijares, close to the small, isolated village of Toga. They were joined by ten or more Berbers and a French nobleman by the name of Panissault, sent by the Duke de la Force, one of Henry IV of France’s marshals. Night was falling by the time Hernando and Munir, who was representing the Moriscos of the valley of Cofrentes, were allowed through by the guards and arrived at the meeting place. In order not to raise suspicion, Hernando left his horse in Jarafuel and rode a mule, as did Munir. It took them seven days to reach the spot, days spent deep in conversations that served to strengthen their friendship.

  The clearing was dimly lit by several bonfires. The nervousness of the men gathered there was almost palpable. Yet there was also a sense of determination in the air: as soon as he greeted some of the other Morisco leaders, Hernando could tell they were all set on going ahead with the rebellion.

  What would become of all his efforts with the lead plates? he wondered when he heard the Moriscos’ rousing calls for a fight to the death. As Munir had explained to him along the way, they were no longer counting on the Turks. The most they were hoping for was some help from the Berbers on the far side of the strait.

  The lead plates would prove their worth! Hernando told himself. The time would soon arrive to send the copy of the gospel of Barnabas to the Arab king who would make it known to the world. That was what Don Pedro, Luna and Castillo had promised – but these people were not willing to wait any longer. Hernando sat on the ground next to Munir, among the Morisco delegates. Standing opposite them were the French noble Panissault, disguised as a merchant, and Miguel Alamín, the Morisco who had been negotiating for two years with the French. Which was the better path for them to choose? Was Hernando right, or were they? He was still mulling this over when Alamín presented the Frenchman to the group. In agreement with Hernando were a nobleman from Granada who had close links with the Christians, two physicians who translated from the Arabic and himself, a simple Morisco from Córdoba. On the other side were the representatives from the majority of the regions of the kingdoms of Valencia and Aragón. They were all in favour of war. War! Hernando recalled his childhood and the uprising in the Alpujarra; the help from across the strait that had never come, and then the humiliating and painful defeat. What would Hamid say about this new call to violence? And Fátima? What would her view have been? With the shouts of the Morisco leaders ringing in his ears, Hernando could not help but feel dejected. All that effort, all that sacrifice, simply to have another war! He could understand why the others defended the need to take up arms. But something told him that, yet again, it would not be the solution. Perhaps I’m too old, thought Hernando. Perhaps the peaceful life I’m leading now has weakened my resolve . . . And yet deep inside him, something told him that violence would lead nowhere.

  ‘The Inquisition is bleeding us dry!’ he heard one Morisco leader shout behind him.

  It was true. During the ride to Toga, Munir had explained what was happening. Hernando had not seen it in Córdoba, but in these lands where the Moriscos were a majority, the number of sins committed in theory by these new Christians were so many and various that the Inquisition fined them in advance, so that each community was forced to pay them a large sum every year.

  ‘The Christian lords as well!’ another man cried.

  ‘They want to kill us all!’

  ‘To castrate us!’

  ‘To enslave us!’

  The shouts of protest and defiance multiplied all around him with increasing fervour.

  Hernando stared down at the ground. Wasn’t all this true? Surely they were right? The Moriscos were unable to live, and the future . . . what future could their children look forward to? Yet faced with this threat he, Hernando Ruiz from Juviles, shut himself up in his library and led an affluent, easy life . . . and naively sought to undermine the foundations of the Christian religion by finding an answer in books!

  He shuddered when he heard the details of the agreement reached after lengthy discussions: on the night of the Thursday before Easter 1605, the Moriscos would rise up in Valencia and burn the churches to attract the attention of the Christians. Coinciding with this, Henry IV would send a fleet to the port of El Grao. In the rest of the region, the Morisco chiefs would lead their people in an armed uprising. But what if the King of France failed to keep his promise, as those in the Albaicín had failed to do when the revolt broke out in the Alpujarra? If that happened, the Moriscos would find themselves alone again to face the Christians’ wrath at their profanation of the churches. Just like all those years before. The Moriscos were putting their future in the hands of a Christian king. He might be an enemy of Spain, but he was still a Christian! How many of those who were so keen to fight now had lived through the war in the Alpujarra? Hernando wanted to say something, but the clamour was deafening. Even Munir was on his feet, his arm raised high, shouting excitedly in favour of a holy war.

  ‘Allahu Akbar!’

  After this the Moriscos proceeded to appoint a new king: Luis Asquer, from the village of Alaquás, was the man chosen. The new monarch was robed in a scarlet cape. He buckled on a sword and took the oath according to Morisco customs. Everyone acclaimed him and crowded round him. Hernando stood up and walked away from them. So the decision had been taken: war was inevitable. Either they would be victorious, or they would be wiped out! He moved further away from the acclamations and noise, remembering how often he had heard similar shouts in the Alpujarra. He himself—

  All at once Hernando felt a sharp blow to the back of his neck. He felt as though his head was about to explode. He began to topple. As he did so, he dimly sensed that several men had seized him by the arms and were dragging him away from the clearing and the bonfires. He was pulled into the trees and then dropped to the ground. Although his head was ringing and he could hardly see, he thought he could make out three . . . four men standing round him. They did not harm him any further, but began talking in Arabic. Hernando tried to get to his feet, but was too dizzy. He could not hear what they were saying above the applause and ovations for the new king.

  ‘What . . . what do you want?’ he managed to stammer out in Arabic. ‘Who are—?’

  One of them threw the freezing contents of a waterskin over his face. The cold water revived him. He tried again to get to his feet, but this time a boot on his chest pinned him to the ground. He could make out the silhouettes of the four men against the background of flames from the fires, but their faces were still in shadow.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ he asked, more coherently.

  ‘To kill a renegade dog and traitor,’ one of the men said.

  The threat echoed through the night. Hernando could feel the edge of a scimitar blade at his throat. He tried to think quickly. Why did they want to kill him? Did one of them know him from Córdoba? He had not recognized anyone from the city in the meeting, but . . . The tip of the scimitar pressed against his Adam’s apple.

  ‘I’m neither a renegade nor a traitor,’ he said loudly. ‘Anyone who told you I was that—’

  ‘The person who told us knows you well.’

  The scimitar was jabbing into his skin, making it hard for him to speak.

  ‘Ask Munir!’ he stuttered. ‘The holy man from Jarafuel! He will tell you . . .’

  ‘If we found him and told him all we know about you, I’m sure he himself would kill you, and that’s something we must do. Vengeance . . .’

  ‘Vengeance?’ gasped Hernando. ‘What harm have I done you for you to seek vengeance from me? If it’s true I am a renegade and a traitor, let our King judge me.’

  One of the men squatt
ed beside him. Hernando could see his face only a few inches from his own, and feel his hot breath. His words dripped hatred.

  ‘Ibn Hamid,’ he whispered. Hernando shivered when he heard the name. Were they from the Alpujarra, then? What did it mean? ‘That was how you liked to be called, wasn’t it?’ the voice whispered.

  ‘Yes, that’s my name,’ he said.

  ‘The name of a traitor to his people!’

  ‘I have never betrayed them. Who are you to voice such lies?’

  The man signalled to one of his companions. He ran into the clearing and came back with a lighted torch.

  ‘Take a good look at me, Ibn Hamid. I want you to know who is going to put an end to your life. Look at me . . . Father.’

  The other man lowered the torch. The darkness receded, and Hernando could make out a pair of huge, enraged blue eyes staring at him. His features, his face . . .

  ‘My God,’ he murmured with bewilderment. ‘It can’t be true!’ His head began to spin again. At the mere sight of that face, thousands of memories flooded through his mind, one on top of the other. It had been more than twenty years . . . ’Francisco?’ he mumbled.

  ‘I’ve been called Abdul for many years now,’ his son replied harshly. ‘Shamir is here too – do you remember him?’

  Shamir! Hernando tried to pick him out among the other three men, but none of them emerged from the shadows. He was totally confused: so Francisco was alive . . . and Shamir too. Had they escaped from Ubaid? But his mother . . . Aisha had assured him they were dead, that she had seen with her own eyes how the muleteer had killed them in the mountains.

  ‘I was told you were dead!’ Hernando cried. ‘I looked . . . I looked for you for weeks. I roamed the mountains to try to find your bodies. And those of Inés . . . and Fátima.’

  ‘Coward!’ Shamir insulted him.

  ‘My mother waited . . . we all waited years for you to come and help us,’ Abdul went on. ‘You dog! You didn’t lift a finger for your wife, your daughter, for your half-brother. Nor for me!’

  Hernando felt as though he could not breathe. What had his son just said? That his mother had waited . . . His mother! Fátima!

  ‘Is Fátima alive?’ he asked faintly.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ hissed Abdul. ‘She is alive . . . with no thanks to you. We have all survived. We had to endure Brahim’s hate, and to feel it in our own flesh. Our mother most of all! And meanwhile, you forgot your family and betrayed your people. I can assure you that Brahim has already paid with his life, the dog. Now you must pay too!’

  Brahim! Hernando closed his eyes, allowing the truth of what he had heard to seep into his mind. So Brahim had fulfilled his threat: he had come back for Fátima and taken his revenge on his stepson by stealing his children, his wife, everyone he loved . . . How had he not suspected as much? He had come for them and taken them away . . . but if that was the case, what about Fátima’s white shawl? He had seen it wrapped round the neck of Ubaid’s dead body! How was that possible? Ubaid and Brahim together? A thought flashed through his mind. His mother must have known all this! Aisha had told him Ubaid killed them all. Aisha had sworn time and again that she had seen Fátima and the children die . . . Aisha must have deceived him. Why? The idea that his mother had lied to him was appalling, unbearable. In spite of the scimitar at his throat, Francisco, and the man thrusting the torch into his face, Hernando curled up on the ground. He could feel his heart throbbing in his chest as if it were about to explode. God! Fátima was alive! He wanted to cry, but the tears refused to come. He began to shudder uncontrollably, curling up even tighter on the earth, as if he were trying to shake himself to pieces. A whole lifetime believing his family had been murdered by Ubaid!

  ‘Fátima!’ he almost shouted.

  ‘You are going to die,’ Shamir declared.

  ‘In death, hope is everlasting,’ Hernando replied instinctively.

  Abdul took a dagger from his waist. Back in the clearing, the Moriscos were watching the crowning of their King in respectful silence. ‘I swear to die for the one true God,’ Hernando heard in the distance as the man with the torch seized him by the hair to expose his throat. The dagger blade glinted in the darkness.

  Fátima! The memory of her flashed into Hernando’s mind.

  ‘Who are you to decide to kill me?’ he protested. ‘I will not die before I’ve had the chance to speak to your mother! I won’t let you kill me before I’ve begged her forgiveness! I thought you were all dead. Only God knows how much I’ve suffered from losing you. Fátima must be the one who decides whether to forgive or punish me, not you. If I must die, let her be the one to say so.’

  In a fit of sudden rage, he pushed his son away. Caught unawares, Abdul fell to the ground on his backside. Hernando tried to get up, but Shamir’s scimitar pressed against his chest. Hernando grasped the weapon, the blade cutting into his palm.

  ‘Are you afraid I’ll escape?’ he spat. ‘That I’ll try to fight you?’ He spread his arms to show he had no weapon. ‘I want to be handed over to Fátima. She has to be the one who sinks the knife into me, if she truly believes I was capable of abandoning her, or all of you, had I known you were still alive.’

  For the first time, Hernando could make out his half-brother’s features, and could see his likeness to Brahim. Shamir looked enquiringly at Abdul. After a few moments’ hesitation, Abdul nodded: it was right that Fátima should have her revenge, in person, as she had done with Brahim.

  At that very moment in the clearing the coronation came to an end, and all the Moriscos burst into cheers and applause.

  Most of the delegates and leaders took advantage of what remained of the darkness to begin the journey back to their villages. The Frenchman Panissault left with the promise that the 120,000 ducats would be handed over to him in the city of Pau, in French Béarn, where the Duke de la Force was governor. At first, with all the commotion of people saying farewell and leaving, Munir had not even noticed that Hernando was no longer with him. Gradually, however, he began to worry about him. He looked all round the clearing, but saw no sign of him. He went back to where they had left the mules: they were both tied up as before.

  Where could Hernando be? He would not have left without saying goodbye to him, or taking the mule: his horse was in Jarafuel. Munir asked several Moriscos, but none of them could help. One of the Berbers collaborating in the planned revolt rushed by him, weighed down and in a hurry. What would a Berber know . . .?

  ‘Hey there,’ Munir called to him nonetheless. ‘Do you know Hernando Ruiz, from Córdoba? Have you seen him?’

  When he heard the name of the person the holy man was looking for, the man, who at first had seemed to pause when Munir tried to attract his attention, stammered an excuse and continued on his way.

  Why had he reacted like that? Munir wondered as he watched him head into the wood. After taking a few steps, the Berber turned to look back at him. When he saw Munir was still staring after him, he speeded up. Munir did not think twice about it, but headed after him. What was the Berber trying to hide? What was happening to Hernando?

  He did not have time to ask himself any more questions. As soon as he entered the wood, several men leapt on him and held him prisoner; someone else threatened him with a dagger.

  ‘If you call out, you’re a dead man,’ Abdul warned him. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m looking for Hernando Ruiz,’ said Munir, trying to stay calm.

  ‘We don’t know anyone called Hernando Ruiz . . .’Abdul began.

  ‘Well then, who is that you’re trying to hide over there?’

  Even in the darkness of the wood, he could see Hernando’s boots sticking out between the legs of a group of four Berbers who were trying to keep him out of sight. They were all wearing soft slippers best suited to life on a ship. Abdul turned to where Munir was pointing.

  ‘Him?’ said Abdul, when he saw it was impossible to deny there was someone else there besides the Berbers. ‘He’s a renegade, a traitor to our f
aith.’

  Munir could not help laughing. ‘A renegade? You don’t know what you’re saying.’ Abdul frowned, a shadow of doubt appearing in his intense blue eyes. ‘There are few people alive in Spain who have done more for our faith than him.’

  Abdul wavered. Shamir left the group hiding Hernando and came over to them.

  ‘Who are you to make such a claim?’ he asked when he reached them.

  For the first time, the holy man caught a glimpse of Hernando. His friend looked defeated; his head was down and his expression vacant. He did not show the slightest interest in the conversation going on only a short distance from him.

  ‘My name is Munir,’ he said. What had happened to Hernando? ‘I’m the holy man of Jarafuel and the valley of Cofrentes.’

  ‘We know this man collaborates with the Christians and has betrayed the Moriscos. He deserves to die.’

  Hernando still did not react.

  ‘What would you know?’ Munir objected. ‘Where do you come from – Algiers, Tetuan?’

  ‘We are from Tetuan,’ replied Abdul, grudging respect for the holy man in his voice. ‘The others—’

  Munir took advantage of this hesitation to free himself from the Berbers holding him. He interrupted Abdul: ‘You live on the far side of the strait, where you can practise the true faith freely.’ He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. ‘I myself go to mass every Sunday. I confess my Christian sins in order to keep the permit that allows me to move around. I often find myself obliged to eat pork and drink wine. Do you think I’m a renegade too? All the Moriscos you’ve met tonight have to obey the orders of the Christian Church! How would we survive otherwise and keep our faith? Hernando has worked for the one true God as much, if not more, than any of us. Believe me, you do not know this man.’

  ‘We know him very well. He’s my father,’ said Abdul.

  ‘And my half-brother,’ Shamir added.