Ibrahim woke to a muffled scream only to find that the hand covering his mouth was his own. He gasped for breath.
Another nightmare.
Every night brought a fresh horror provoked by the hatred his people endured daily.
Rolling over on the hard ground, he looked at his grandfather sleeping just a few yards away. Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked down at the pitiful rack of skin and bones clutching a tattered wool blanket beside the cold remains of last night’s campfire. His white beard was stained again with fresh blood. For the last two days of their forced march to the coast, the withered old man had been so beset with coughing fits they had barely managed to keep up.
Ibrahim looked at the company of Spanish soldiers just beginning to stir in their camp a mere fifty yards away and his jaw hardened in anger.
Why? Why do they hate us?
He had been asking the question for months now. A Spanish cook was already making his rounds with a cup and a flask of wine. If it weren’t for the unforgiving Toledo blades they all wore at their sides, he would’ve gladly rushed them with stones and a sling shot. Sentries on the outskirts of the camp gave three blasts on their horns, a signal to the ragtag group of exiles that camp would soon be struck.
The ordeal had begun two years ago in Valencia with the edict of expulsion, but now in every village and town they passed through, the decree of Phillip III was read publicly, ordering the Moriscos to depart from their beloved Spain. He knew every word by heart:
Firstly, all the Morsicos of this Kingdom, men and women with their children, must within three days of the proclamation of this edict in their place of residence, leave their houses and embark from wherever the Commissar orders them to. They may take with them whatever goods and possessions they are able to carry and embark on the ships prepared to take them to North Africa, where they will be landed without suffering, either in their own persons or in what they are carrying with them. Any ill treatment or harm by word or by deed
. . .
Another coughing fit seized his grandfather, and when it was over, he rolled towards the fire, almost too weak to expel the blood which had filled his mouth. The old man spit as forcefully as he could. Some of it still dribbled down into his beard. Ibrahim pulled a dirty rag from his sack to wipe it off, but his grandfather protested.
“That rag hasn’t been washed in days. I can’t stand the smell. Come and sit down. We must talk.”
Ibrahim sat cross-legged in the dirt, careful to keep the soles of his feet away from his grandfather.
“My son, today you will continue your journey to the sea. The port is only a two-day march. There, you will board a ship for the lands of Islam. You will start a new life under the protection of the Caliph. If Allah wills, you will find peace. I am happy for you.”
He paused to take a breath, which only triggered another round of violent coughing and more blood. Ibrahim waited patiently for his grandfather to catch his breath and he prayed. His grandfather spit more bright red blood on the ground and then continued.
“I remember how my own grandfather spent the last fifteen years of his life
bemoaning the fact that his father had not thrown in his lot with the Jews in 1492 when they were expelled from the Kingdom by Ferdinand and Isabella. He always said no Muslim should have been naïve enough to trust a Catholic promise of religious freedom. He was right.” Ibrahim nodded his head. He had heard the story many times and was in no mood to hear it again. His stomach growled with hunger, and he was eager to get their things packed before Spanish soldiers came prodding them with lances. His grandfather noticed.
“My son, I have lived in the House of War all of my life. We had hoped that Allah would restore Andalusia to the House of Islam, the house of Peace. For seventy years, we have hoped and prayed that God would strengthen the hand of the Turkish Sultan to restore our fortunes. Our prayers have gone unanswered, but Andalusia is still my home. I cannot survive the voyage and am too old to start a new life. I would rather be buried here in good earth, where my fathers before me fought, married, farmed and were themselves buried, than to be dumped overboard at sea. You must go on alone. ”
“No,” cried Ibrahim with a look of terror in his eyes “No, Grandfather. You’re all I have. Please!” The desperation in the young boy’s face grieved the old man, who stretched out his hand and put it on his head.
“If I am all you have, then you are poor indeed. Allah is your guide. I have spoken with your aunt Fatma. She has agreed to care for you.”
“But, the soldiers will kill you if you refuse to march,” protested Ibrahim. “The edict is very clear. Disobedience will be punished by death.”
“I’m already dead. Better to die a martyr in glory than a sick old man in exile.”
Ibrahim fought back the tears. His grandfather was about the only family he had. Both parents had died in the fighting that broke out in Valencia two years earlier when the edict of expulsion was first proclaimed. At the time, he had been with his grandfather in Castile, and he never saw them again. His younger brothers and sister had been taken by the church and placed with Catholic families because they had been baptized at birth and were therefore considered Christians.
“Listen, my son, you must be strong. I have several things I must give you. One is especially precious. You must guard it with your life.”
Another horn blast shook the frosty morning air. Any minute now, the soldiers would be rounding them up. He pulled a leather string out from beneath his undergarment. Attached to it was a leather bag.
“Take it. It is all the gold I managed to hide from the soldiers. And this,” he said, removing a bundle from the folds of his robe and extending it towards Ibrahim, “was entrusted to me by a holy man, a
mujahedeen
from Granada ten years ago. When he came to our village, he was leading a small band of warriors. They were organizing a revolt against the Crown with help from the
Huguenots, the Dutch and the Caliph. Their common bond was a hatred of Catholics, who either burn them at the stake for being heretics or launch crusades to displace our people.”
Ibrahim took the bundle and held it reverently. It was quite thick and wrapped in fine, oiled sheepskin. His grandfather continued,
“We heard two weeks later that this
mujahedeen
had been arrested and taken before the Holy Office of the Inquisition. He was tortured for information and then burned alive. May Allah remember his sacrifice with favor. Like the other secret books circulated by our local imam, this too is written in Spanish with Arabic letters. The old man closed his eyes and rolled over onto his back.
“I can’t read. What it is I do not know, but it must be very important, or the holy man would not have been so anxious for its safety. He told me that if anything happened to him, I must give it to a Muslim merchant with orders to deliver it to the sultan. This is a most sacred trust. He gave me the gold to ensure delivery. He said there was only one other copy and that it had been taken to the Netherlands.”
Ibrahim had heard the stories for years now. The Netherlands were in open revolt against Spain for its idolatry. The Protestants were holding their own against the Church and moving closer to a pure religion that worshipped Allah and did not commit blasphemy by claiming that God had a mother. The Sultan had lent assistance to those in Hungary and Holland. The Dutch had even minted crescent-shaped coins bearing an inscription that read
Rather the Turk than the Pope.
This had given everyone hope. Hope that proved illusory. Hope that soured into bitterness. The descendants of the Muslim rulers of Spain were now being deported en masse. They faced starvation and servitude wherever they landed as they were forced to leave their lands and fortunes behind.
The old man looked at Ibrahim and his thin clothes.
“In my bag, you will find a robe I made just for you. Keep the manuscript concealed in the pocket I have sewn in the folds. The gold must be kept around your neck. The soldiers may search your bags before allowing you to embark.”
Ibrahim opened the pack and quickly put on the robe his grandfather had prepared. It was made of fine wool and hung perfectly about his shoulders with large folds of fabric flowing down to the top of his ankle. Next, he put the leather string around his neck, tucked the bag under his shirt, and pulled out a packet of dried apricots for his grandfather, who gently pushed his hand aside.
“I shall not eat today. Prayer is the only sustenance I need right now.”
Ibrahim pulled the prayer rug out of his bag and spread it on the ground facing east southeast. As near as he could tell, this was the direction of Mecca. His grandfather was now sitting up, and Ibrahim poured water into his hands so that he could wash before his prayers. The ice-cold water seemed to revive the old man, and he began muttering the Arabic prayers he had never understood, but had been taught from birth. When he was finished, he stood in front of the rug, crossed his hands in front of him, and continued with the ritual.
Several groups of people had already passed along the road looking nervously at the ritual ablution. Groups of soldiers were yelling at everyone to get moving. One noticed the old man doing his prayers and came striding towards him like a bull elephant.
“You heard the horn! There is no time for prayer. Get moving!”
The old man turned towards Mecca and knelt on his prayer rug. This infuriated the soldier even more.
“Get off your knees, old man. You will be able to practice your heresy freely soon enough.”
Still, the old man refused to acknowledge the fact that he was being addressed, but he turned his head ever so slightly towards Ibrahim and pointed with his eyebrows to the road. Grabbing his bag, Ibrahim ran to the road and mingled with a large group of the Morisco exiles. They had seen what was happening and opened up to embrace him. The soldier was shouting now.
“Get up! Get up, you dog! Get up and go home.” He kicked the old man violently in the ribs, knocking him off the prayer rug. Ibrahim did not want to watch; he couldn’t bear it and yet he was transfixed by respect. He could not turn his back on his grandfather in this his greatest hour. He would bear solemn witness to the testimony of the man’s faith.
Soldiers and travelers alike watched the scene unfold. Coughing and out of breath, his lips stained with blood, the old man slowly pulled himself erect before the soldier.
“I am an Andalusian,” he said proudly. “This is my home.”
“Not anymore,” jeered the Spaniard. “This land belongs to the Crown and to the Church, not to Catholic pretenders who practice their witchcraft in secret.”
“The Crown cannot take away my birthright. I am a son of Andalusia as much as you are,” he replied. “I am not leaving.”
“Not leaving?” The soldier retorted with a sneer. “Your schemes to convince the Ottoman Sultan to launch an invasion will come to nothing. And, whatever the case, you won’t be here to join him if he does. Our spies have intercepted more than one of the desperate pleas your people have sent to the Porte for assistance. Now move it!”
“I’m not going,” the old man repeated softly, “I have decided to stay.”
“Decided to stay, eh?” He turned to the people standing around watching. “Did you hear that? The old man has decided to stay.” He turned back and looked with disgust on the blood-stained beard, the sickly frame.
“Well, then I guess you have decided to die,” said the soldier with the glint of bloodlust in his eye. The newly risen sun flashed on a blade of Toledo steel, as it was suddenly whipped from its scabbard. The soldier placed the tip over the old man’s heart.”
“Move!” he fairly screamed.
The old man only smiled and said, “May Allah bless you, my son.”
The soldier put his hand on the man’s shoulder and with a quick shove thrust the tip home. His body jerked. The soldier twisted the blade. The man stood unmoving. Blood began to trickle from his nose and he whispered,
“La ilaha illa Allah . . .”
Ibrahim could not hear the words, but he could read his lips and knew his grandfather was reciting the confession of faith. A violent shove sent the old man reeling backwards, and the soldier removed his blood-stained sword with a jerk. Ibrahim clutched his bundle even tighter as he watched his grandfather collapse in a heap on the sacred land of his fathers.