A Divided Inheritance (27 page)

It slashed a diagonal white trail in the black. So bright she could almost fancy to hear its noise, its brief fizz like gunpowder, but then, just as suddenly, it was gone; the sky kept no trace
of it. She sat up, trying to penetrate the distance.

It meant something, of that she was sure. A sign. A sensation of longing filled her chest, so strong that it made her want to stretch out to claw back that brief light. It was a longing for
home, but not a country to travel to, no, not that. Rather, some country deep inside herself.

October 2nd 1609, two weeks earlier
Denia, Valencia

‘Are your men ready?’ called the commander José Velez Garbali, reining in his horse.

‘Yes, sir.’ Rodriguez stepped forward from the group of about twenty mercenaries gathered on the crest of the hill outside Denia. ‘I don’t think many will try to run,
though. Word has spread that we are up here,’ he said, sweating in the heat haze that in a few hours would deliver another flawless blue sky.

Below them the ships gentled at anchor, three long rows of dark masts and a flotilla of small dots that signified the ferry boats. On the quay a
tercio
battalion of men from the
Netherlands stood ranked in strict formation, their pikes resting upright against their leather-armoured shoulders as they awaited the first batch of Moriscos from the point of embarkation at the
market square.

Scanning the scene below, Rodriguez saw that the narrow track to the quay was lined with more mercenaries like themselves, arquebusiers and swordsmen. From up here their dark ranks against the
yellow dirt looked like the inked lines on a map. Around them milled dots of people who had come as spectators to see the Moriscos go, and cheer or jeer them on their way.

Garbali held his horse still by sawing at the reins. He shouted down, ‘There will be many thousands. I’ve passed herds of them on the way here in the last few days. Some of them are
trying to smuggle goods out in their clothes, but they won’t get far. Idiots. Don’t they realize our men on the ships will divest them of anything illegal? And a few stupid Moors will
try to make for the mountains. You can deal with them, yes?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Rodriguez.

‘You have enough arms?’

Rodriguez nodded, pointed to a pile of muskets under a scrubby olive bush.

‘No prisoners, you understand. If they run, they’re not worth the trouble. Like deserters.’ Garbali laughed at his own joke, and Rodriguez forced a smile. Garbali dragged at
the horse’s mouth to turn it. The horse tossed its head, the bit jangling between its teeth. ‘Get on, you lazy brute.’ He clapped its ribs with his spurs so the horse rolled its
eyes and shied, before he wheeled around and galloped off towards the next rise. ‘Keep good watch,’ he shouted back over his shoulder.

Rodriguez fixed his eyes below; he was taking no chances. The previous night there had been a skirmish with a group of four families who had somehow managed to gather weapons and dismember the
parish priest. There was no part of the priest in the same place when they’d finished with him. Rodriguez was under no illusions about the capability of desperate men. His best swordsmen were
with him, though; big men, skilled and ruthless, trained to obey orders with no question. He had picked out four Sevillians for their aim with a musket to accompany him. He’d use them first,
but if anyone penetrated the lines of shot, then his swordsmen would finish them.

There was a palpable air of tension as there always is before any battle. Even the sparrows were silent. It was as if the whole town held its breath.

‘Did he say how many?’ Fabian, his right-hand man approached. The question disturbed Rodriguez. It was unlike Fabian to be rattled.

‘We don’t know. Maybe they’ll go like sheep. Maybe they’ll try to break away. Nobody knows how it will go. But I don’t think we’ll have much trouble.
They’re not organized, and they have their women with them. You know a man can’t fight properly with women in the way. They bring in the tender heart, and then their intent is
lost.’

Fabian stamped his feet, though it was not cold, and glanced again at the mountain path winding down to the town. ‘I thought we were only coming to Valencia to watch,’ he said
accusingly.

‘We are. Or we’d be down there in the thick of it with that tercio under our command. Don Garbali’s put us here because this is the best vantage point, and Denia’s layout
is similar to Seville.’

‘I didn’t know we were going to fight. I thought it was just a recce.’

‘We might not have to. But we can see how the thing unfolds from up here, then when it’s Seville’s turn, we’ll be down there with four tercios under our
command.’

‘All Sevillians?’

‘Some, yes. But one of the units will be convicted men from the Catalan prison, trained up. There are other ports enforcing the expulsion order at the same time and the Crown
couldn’t raise enough men. My men will be on the quayside – like those.’ Rodriguez pointed. ‘We’ll put the prison mercenaries behind, bringing up the rear, and in the
warehouses where they must leave their children. You’ll have charge of those. I need someone reliable.’

‘In the warehouses? With the children?’ Fabian swallowed. Rodriguez watched his face. He knew this was not what Fabian wanted to hear, so he tried to explain.

‘That is where the most delays will happen. We’ll need to keep everyone moving. I need someone who has the necessary detachment, or it will turn into a fiasco. You will have the
tercio of Catalans, who have a vested interest in obeying orders. They know if they do not, they will go for galley slaves or back into the vault in Catalonia.’

It had started. A slow tide of people was moving down towards the shore. They were kept tightly together by armoured guards, their steel breastplates catching the sun and reflecting shafts of
white light towards the waiting galleons. Odd sounds drifted up to them, the shout of
‘Moros, Moros!’
from the spectators, the sound of crying, the sound of people singing, a
song with unfamiliar words in a strange, haunting tongue. From here they could watch the people herded on to the ships.

‘They seem quiet,’ observed Rodriguez, more to himself than to Fabian.

When a consignment was on board, that ship inched away and set sail, and another was rowed into its place.

‘Where are this lot bound?’ Fabian asked.

‘Oran. Back to Araby, where they belong. They don’t want them there either, who would? They’re the dregs of society. Ours from Seville are going mostly to Rabat, but
there’s resistance there too. They know most of them are just vagrants, with no skill or trade. Old slaves, some of them, or women past child-bearing age. No use to anyone.’

The whole road below was now a moving river of flesh. At the quay, it fanned out and broke up into smaller pockets of people. A sudden retort of gunfire and a plume of smoke rose into the air. A
small contingent had broken free and was running, scattering in different directions.

‘Trouble,’ Rodriguez said, and his men jumped to attention, ran for their weapons, tamped them with powder and shot. Fabian put on his helmet and buckled the strap. When they looked
back there were more dark twists of bodies lying on the quay.

This prompted a commotion at the quayside, with some Moriscos trying to turn back to run the way they had come. Rodriguez caught a glint of steel from within the crowd, but those behind were
oblivious to the disturbance and kept marching forth, pushing the crowds down into the narrow funnel of guards before the quay. Those at the front must have managed to smuggle in arms. A sharp
retort and clouds of smoke caused the pikeman to fall away, as others hit the ground wounded.

More gunfire. A swathe of Moriscos writhed and fell, and those behind tripped over them, and still they were being pushed forward.

‘Why don’t they stop!’ Rodriguez said. ‘Are they deaf? Surely they heard the musket fire? They should halt them until order’s restored –’

‘Too late!’ shouted Fabian. ‘Look at that!’

The line of pikes disintegrated, and people poured out through the ranks. Some scrambled to board the boats that would take them out to the waiting convoy, some ran towards the town, some
scattered into the fields. Those who ran out to the sides produced muskets from somewhere and blasted at the soldiers from behind. The wall of soldiers wavered and then collapsed under the weight
of the pressure from behind. Still the battalion behind pressed them forward.

‘My God. It’s chaos. Get ready.’

They positioned themselves behind the brush and the bushes, the musketeers flat on their bellies before them, squinting down the barrels towards the path.

They heard them before they saw them – the panting breath, the noise of their feet. Three men sprinted towards them, clothes flapping, eyes wild. One of them dragged a heavily pregnant
woman by the hand. Rodriguez waited until they crested the brow of the hill before giving the command. ‘Now!’

The man at the front crumpled over his exploded chest, blood spattering over the bushes and path. Behind him, the second man jerked with the impact of the shot to his head and was thrown
backwards at the feet of the man coming up behind. Rodriguez caught a glimpse of the other’s shocked face and his sudden move to place himself in front of his wife, but the musketeer sought
him out with the muzzle of his gun. The musketeer took aim precisely, and the shot took off the top of the Morisco’s head.

The woman screamed and collapsed to her knees over her husband, her eyes wide with terror.

‘Cease your fire!’ Rodriguez gave the order. The musketeers reloaded, ignoring the woman keening now over her dead husband, and aimed the muskets down the track ahead. Rodriguez
looked to Fabian. ‘She’s not worth a bullet. Fabian, despatch her.’

Fabian unsheathed his sword and approached the woman. She clasped her hands, brought them up before him, wringing them in the gesture of asking for mercy that transcends all languages, her eyes
blank with dread, entreating. Rodriguez saw Fabian hesitate, and mentally willed him on. The woman whimpered something and looked down to her belly. Fabian sucked in his breath in a rasp before he
made a practised lunge to skewer her through the heart. Her mouth bubbled blood before she toppled over and he could put his boot on her to extricate the sword from between her ribs.

Fabian turned away, white-faced, and cleaned his sword on a rag from his pocket. Rodriguez noticed his hand was shaking.

‘That’s two more who won’t be going home!’ laughed one of the other foot-soldiers.

‘One less Moorish brat for Spain to feed,’ agreed Fabian, panting. He had recovered himself well. Rodriguez exhaled with relief. He would be up to the task in Seville after all.

The musketeers took down four more runaways, all young men, before no more ventured their way. The smoke from their muskets must have alerted any other rebels to their presence.

They picked through the clothes of the Morisco men, where they were not too mutilated to do so. They found coinage sewn into the clothes, small valuables and tokens. All of the Moriscos were
wearing many layers of clothing so that Rodriguez’s men had to peel them apart layer by layer with their knives, like skinning rabbits.

With a look to Rodriguez for his approval, Fabian slit the woman’s blood-soaked djellaba and folded it open until she was down to her skin. In the last layer he bared her breasts to find a
small bag sewn inside her clothing with clumsy hurried stitching. He ripped it open and a few items spilled out. A child’s plaything – a bone rattle, a hank of dark hair tied together
with a leather thong. Two or three pearls rolled away, and he snapped his hand out to retrieve them. It was only when he opened his palm that he saw they were a child’s baby teeth. He grunted
and flung them away from him into the scrub, then spat into the dust.

‘What was that?’ Don Rodriguez asked him.

‘Nothing. Just stones.’

‘Look, they’ve got the formation back together now. But we’ve seen what can happen. There’ll be no mistakes like that when we’re in charge.’

Below them calm had been restored and the procession of people was still moving. They watched for several minutes before Fabian said, ‘There must be thousands of them.’

‘There’ll be thousands more in Seville,’ Don Rodriguez said.