The Hand of Fatima by Ildefonso Falcones

Author:Ildefonso Falcones [Falcones, Ildefonso]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Random House UK
Published: 2011-03-17T00:00:00+00:00

Córdoba, the twenty-third of January in the year of Our Lord Fifteen hundred and eighty, before Juan de la Portilla, Inquisitor of the Tribunal of Córdoba, in the Hall of the Holy Office, for the purpose of reporting an act of heresy, there appeared the individual who gave his name as

The line ended there. Hernando looked up at the inquisitors. They were still chatting, waiting for the accused to be brought in. The twenty-third of January! More than a month ago. Who had appeared before the inquisitor over a month ago and made the denunciation that had led to the trial? It could only be . . . Suddenly the room fell silent as Karim was brought in by two guards. As soon as the inquisitors turned their attention to the accused, Hernando turned over the page. One glance was enough: Cristóbal Escandalet. His fists clenched, Hernando resisted the urge to check if anyone had noticed, and waited for the clerk to sit down beside him.

‘Cristóbal Escandalet,’ muttered Hernando as if he wanted to burn the name into his memory. He was the traitor!

Karim again denied that anyone had helped him. His confident tone of voice drew Hernando’s gaze. It contrasted sharply with Karim’s exhausted, dejected appearance, especially when they pulled off his shirt to reveal a scrawny, hairless torso.

‘Begin the interrogation,’ ordered Don Juan de la Portilla, standing with the other inquisitors. The clerk flourished his quill over the paper.

They laid the accused face down on the rack, his arms behind his back, and tied his thumbs together with a cord that connected to a stronger rope. It ran up to a winch suspended from the ceiling and back down again. Karim again refused to answer the inquisitor’s questions and the torturer began to pull on the end of the rope.

If anyone was hoping he would scream, they were disappointed. The old man pressed his face against the rack and only emitted some muffled grunts. Hernando felt sick. Karim’s groans were punctuated by the inquisitor’s persistent questions.

‘Who else is with you?’ he shouted time and again, becoming increasingly irate as Karim’s silence persisted.

When the torturer shook his head, and the inquisitors ceased their efforts and freed the old man from the rack, his thumbs were bent back, wrenched from their joints. Karim’s face was flushed, his breathing came in agonized gulps, his tired eyes watered, and trickles of blood ran from his lower lip. He could not have stood if it were not for the torturer holding him upright. The doctor approached Karim and examined his thumbs, manipulating them roughly. Hernando saw his friend’s face contort with the agony that until then he had kept concealed.

‘He is all right,’ the physician announced. However, he turned to Portilla and spoke into his ear. As he did so Hernando saw the clerk write: ‘The accused is in good health.’

‘The session is suspended until tomorrow,’ the inquisitor declared as soon as the doctor moved away from him.

‘You must eat,’ whispered Fátima, entering the room where Hernando had stayed praying since arriving home.

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