“Why do I not fight?” she asked herself, twisting her face away as he nuzzled her neck. If I were not a coward, I would do something. I would scream or bite him. It would be no use, but maybe I would not feel such shame. Adonai, I beg you, be with me even in this terrible shame.
He lowered his body onto hers and began to rock, his thick thighs pushing her legs apart. A finger poked abruptly into her, then smeared a sticky wetness across her belly. The man laughed softly.
“Ready, are you? Be a good girl, now. Ahh, that’s the way.”
Pain pierced a part of her body so utterly unfamiliar to her that she could not imagine how he had reached it. His weight pinning her down, he slammed himself against her several times, then gave a grunt of satisfaction and rolled off her. She lay stunned, staring up at the canvas that blotted out the sky.
I cannot look the stars themselves in the eye, she thought. I would kill him if I could, and that woman too, but I cannot. I have no pride left. I am consumed with shame. I am broken.
“The wench didn’t lie about you being a maid,” he said. “No tears? That’s a good girl. See? It wasn’t so bad.” He reached between her legs to stroke briefly another unfamiliar place. This time, she did not feel pain, but a momentary sweetness that somehow outraged her more than all that had gone before.
He cupped Joanna’s head in his hand, and she thought perhaps now he would draw her forward and kiss her. Instead, he pushed her head down onto his lap. She flinched away from the sticky feel of his flesh against her cheek.
“Now, here’s a thing you may not know about a man,” he said in a conversational tone. “Even the best of us is not always ready to go again at once. But there’s a way a sweet lass like you can make him ready. Once that’s done, I promise you will like it better the second time.”
Chapter 10: Diego
“Here is a letter of introduction,” Doña Marina said, “to the governors of the Banco di San Giorgio in Genoa. King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella have accounts there.”
“So does Admiral Columbus,” I said, stowing my aunt’s letter carefully in the oiled pouch that already held our letters of exchange. “He recommended his bank to me when we parted in Hispaniola, assuring me it had the highest reputation.”
“It does,” she said. “Its influence is political as well as economic. The Republic of Genoa handed over the governing of Corsica to the bank some forty years ago, and they made a better fist of it, by all accounts, than that quarrelsome pack of fools themselves.”
My aunt had decided views on republican government. I kept an open mind, having no great opinion of absolute monarchs either. Besides the letters that would make funds available to us in Italy, I bore a quantity of gold concealed about my person, as did Hutia and Rachel. We also carried purses of silver coins of varying purity that might be taken out in marketplace or tavern without arousing deadly greed. We had exchanged our gold from Hispaniola for Florentine florins and Venetian ducats through Aunt Marina’s most trusted banker in Barcelona, a sincere converso of unassailable reputation like my aunt herself. It was he who had told me privately that the Genoese bank employed Jewish agents in the lands around the Black Sea, where Ottoman influence was strong. He deemed that this information would increase my faith in San Giorgio’s trustworthiness, and it did.
On the other hand, Genoa’s stability, like Firenze’s, depended on the precarious balance of power in Italy as a whole. For that reason, we had deposited some of our funds in Barcelona, counting on letters of credit to release equivalent sums for use in various cities on our travels.
“It seems odd to be leaving money in Spain,” Rachel said, “when so much of the country’s wealth was confiscated from Jewish families.”
“We must be practical,” I said. “Who knows what may befall us once we leave Barcelona? If all else fails, we can count on Aunt Marina to watch over our interests here.”
“It will be hard to say goodbye to Aunt Marina,” Rachel said. “I remember well how frightened of her I was when we first met, she seemed so stern and stiff. But she has proven a true friend.”
“She has indeed,” I said.
“I am still frightened of her.” Hutia grinned.
Doña Marina had greeted with reserve our introduction of an Indian savage into her home, even one well clothed and speaking excellent Castilian. But her courtesy to him had never faltered. And lately, I had come upon them together in the garden, Hutia grooming her favorite lapdog as he told her about Taino methods of farming and the beauty of Quisqueya’s forest and mountains.
“We will never return,” Rachel said, “will we, Diego? This is truly our farewell to Aunt Marina and to Spain.”
“We must not complain, Rachel,” I said. “We are not departing destitute and in fear with the Inquisition breathing down our necks.”
“I know,” Rachel said. “We are lucky indeed. And I do love an adventure!”
Although my view of adventures was more sober than Rachel’s, I could not forbear to feel a lightening of the heart when we stood on the docks at first light, ready to board the Santa Cecilia. A sprightly caravel out of Valencia, bound first for Marseille and then for Genoa, she tugged at her moorings as if eager to be off. Along with passengers, she carried a cargo of oranges and olives.
“You will see more galleys than sailing ships in Mediterranean waters,” Captain Velez told me when he learned that I had sailed with Admiral Columbus. “But give me a caravel any day. My Cecilia is a ship for true sailors like you and me.”
I too had a fondness for caravels, having returned to Spain in the plucky little Niña in 1493 and shipped on Mariagalante later the same year. Captain Velez welcomed us aboard, offering Rachel his own cabin. She would share it with two young sisters and their chaperone, who were traveling to join family in Avignon.
“So you will begin the journey as a young lady,” I told Rachel.
“With my breeches underneath,” Rachel retorted, “the better to fight or swim should we meet any mishap. And I will not promise to like the two young ladies or obey their chaperone!”
Captain Velez was particularly proud of the caravel’s ordnance: a bronze bombard, set amidships, from which stone balls could be fired.
“Cecilia has not much cargo space,” Captain Velez told me, “but she would carry more goods were it not for this beauty. She is heavy, but I would not sail the Mediterranean without her. We have a store of crossbows and arquebuses as well and seamen who know how to use them. I will show you and your man where they are kept.”
I thanked him, though in my private opinion, the weighty bombard was as likely to send Cecilia to the bottom, should she be disabled in a storm, as to save us from a seaborne enemy.
Of the passengers, only Doña Julieta proved prone to seasickness. Her charges were a lively pair, half French and half Spanish. The elder, Celeste, was twelve. The younger sister, Isbel, was a mischievous eight-year-old, as full of pranks as a monkey. Rachel found herself playing chaperone to the extent of running after them to make sure they did not get swept overboard or fall from the rigging in their attempts to investigate the fighting top.
“It is a fitting punishment,” I told her, “for all the worry you caused me when you sneaked onto Mariagalante.”
“Nonsense,” Rachel said. “I will teach them to climb the rigging properly. Then they will not fall and can go wherever they like. Had I the means, I would teach them to swim as well. Then they would be prepared and safe, no matter what happens.”
Before Rachel could carry out this program of tutelage, Doña Julieta gained her sea legs and emerged from the cabin to resume a sterner chaperonage of the girls. Captain Velez remained friendly, as interested in my tales of navigating the Ocean Sea and the isle-studded waters of the Indies as was I in learning all I could about sailing the Mediterranean. Adrift with respect to my unknown future, I deemed that such knowledge might prove useful later on. According to Captain Velez, the great sea teemed with traffic: carracks, caravels, and galleys of varying
size, along with innumerable smaller boats. The Ottomans, the Venetians, and the French all had substantial fleets. Ordnance like Cecilia’s bombard as well as handguns were becoming ever more popular, not only in warfare, but in dealing with the raids of corsairs, who sought constantly to board and capture any vessel caught out alone. Captain Velez seemed confident that no ill would befall us, since we sailed reasonably close inshore in a season of fair weather.
Of even greater interest to us, Captain Velez could give us more recent news of conditions on the continent than had reached Aunt Marina in Barcelona.
“The French king did not stay long in Firenze,” the captain said, “though they say the Florentines fell over themselves to offer him treasures to decorate his new palace at Amboise. A spineless lot, the Florentines, though they managed to kick out the Medici tyrant. Charles took Naples without a siege. The old king abdicated when he heard the French army was approaching, and his son is but a young pup who fled without putting up a fight. But the French may be hard put to keep what they have taken, now that this new league has formed against them.”
“What league is this?” I asked.
“They call it the League of Venice,” he said, “or the Holy League, though to my mind there’s not much holy about any of ’em. The Pope’s a part of it, and so are the king and queen of Spain and all their kin. Why even the Duke of Milan’s joined up, though he invited the French king to Italy in the first place. Naples, too, as young Ferrandino hopes to regain his throne. They won’t keep from quarreling long, but perhaps they’ll stick together long enough to kick Charles out of Italy. That’s the point of it, though they say their purpose is to prevent the Turk from advancing any further into Europe. Right scared of that, they all are, especially Venice, since the Ottoman’s trade is a threat to theirs, though they’re happy enough to be bedfellows with the heathen on and off, when it suits their purpose.”
“What of Genoa?” I asked.
“They’ve managed to stay out of it,” he said. “Charles’s armies passed it by. You’ll be safe enough, and I’ll do good trade there before I head back to Valencia. Of course, there’s no saying what the French will do once they decide to turn around and go home.”
This reassurance made me worry less, at least about the next leg of our journey. But we had reckoned without the winds. An unseasonable storm blew up overnight, sweeping us far off course. None of us got any sleep that night.
“The god of storms on this sea must be a cousin to Juracán!” Hutia shouted as we battled the raging winds to help the seamen lower the sails.
By morning, the storm had blown itself out but left us with a cracked mainmast and with no sight of land in any direction. As the captain considered our bearings and the sailors began to work on the damaged mast, a shout from aloft made all of us rush to the rail, where through the hazy air we saw three galleys bearing down on us. They were a terrifying and beautiful sight. The ships were long and slender, built low to the water with a shallow draft and a slim, questing spar projecting from the bow. The banks of oars sliced the water in perfect unison as the vessels sped toward us. The hulls were painted a rich blue-green that reminded me of the waters around Hispaniola. Each galley had a single mast and flew a fluttering pennon that displayed the crescent and star of the Ottoman Empire.
Caught with our sails down, we could not outrun them. The sailors leaped for their arquebuses and crossbows, and a team evidently trained for the purpose clustered around the bombard, which unfortunately pointed away from the rapidly approaching vessels. The captain stopped them with a word.
“Nay, lads,” he said. “They have janissaries aboard. We’re so outnumbered that putting up a fight would but lead to all our deaths.”
“What are janissaries?” Rachel asked. Her voice quivered slightly, though her fists were clenched and her chin well up.
“They’re the sultan’s own soldiers. They capture them young from their own Christian territories, turn them Muslim, and train them up to fanatic loyalty to the sultan. We cannot beat them, and if we try, they will show no mercy. I am sorry.”
“What will they do with us?” Doña Julieta quavered. She clutched Celeste’s and Isbel’s hands in hers, though whether for their comfort or her own, it would have been difficult to say.
“Slaves to row their galleys, most like,” a sailor said, “or workmen to build their fine mosques in Istanbul.”
“And the women?” Doña Julieta looked near to fainting.
No one answered her. Hutia took her by the arm to help her stand. Rachel patted the little girls on the back and stood by them, one hand resting lightly on Isbel’s shoulder. I had not felt so helpless since the day I saw Spaniards cut down my friends. We watched in silence as the lead galley drew alongside and threw out grappling hooks.
The party that leaped from their vessel onto ours consisted, by the look of them, of sailors rather than the terrible janissaries, though some of these covered the boarding party with wicked-looking recurved bows of a kind I had not seen before. They were barefoot and bare-chested, their brown skin gleaming with muscle. They wore white turbans and full trousers that did not impede their movement. Most carried long knives, but a couple, boarding more slowly than the rest, kept their arquebuses trained on us.
The man who seemed to be their leader was young, slim, and dark. His white teeth flashed in a grin of exultation as he caught sight of the girls, now huddled against Doña Julieta’s skirts with their soft blonde hair rippling enticingly about their heads. Reaching out, he pried the girls loose and bore them, shrieking, to the rail. Ottoman sailors lifted them over it and handed them off to others on the galley. The young leader turned back to us and grasped Rachel by the arm. Rachel stiffened and met his eyes with a snarl of pure defiance. The corsair’s eyes widened. His grip on Rachel’s arm loosened as he fell back a step, looking astonished.
“Raquel?”
“Amir!” she cried.
I would not have recognized him, but Rachel was right. It was the Moorish lad she had insisted we rescue from slavery when we left the Espinosas’ house in Seville.
The Fifth Letter
February 1494
Dearest children,
I write to you as an act of faith, although I know that Rachel may already be on her way to us and Diego in the Indies, far beyond the reach of letters. The news is uncertain at best. King Ferdinand of Naples, he they called Ferrante, has died, and his son Alfonso is now the King of Naples. As always, we must ask ourselves whether this is good for the Jews. The father regarded us as assets to his kingdom. The son is an unknown quantity. There is also a rumor that Charles of France is assembling an army in Toulon to invade Italy and claim the Neapolitan throne. They say that Duke Sforza of Milan encourages him to do so, since young King Alfonso has designs on Milan. These Italians are worse than a Beit Din, a roomful of rabbis squabbling over a passage of Talmud! Worse, they are playing with human lives, not merely theological interpretations.
We are thinking seriously about leaving Firenze. But we have yet to settle on a destination that will guarantee us safety, either on the road or when we arrive. Since Toulon is a port city, Charles will have a navy as well as an army at his command. That means he will be able to beseige such Italian ports as Genoa, Naples, and Venice by sea as well as by land if he so wishes, although for now, it seems that Genoa stays neutral and Venice allies itself with France, apparently because Charles claims any such mission would be merely a necessary prelude to crusade against the Turks. The Ottoman Empire is the greatest rival Venice has in trade, naval power, and desire to conquer fresh territory, so one can understand why. Firenze at least lies inland, so it cannot be attacked by sea. But the thought of armies at the gates of the city is a terrifying one. I do not mean to frighten you, my darlings. But you must cross these troubled lands if we are ever to be reunited. It is essential for you to be as well informed as possible in planning your journey.
Elvira and Akiva are a quite a pair of lovebirds, so happy to be to
gether planning their married life down to the number of sons and daughters they will have that it is a pleasure to behold them. As if children can be made to order! Of course, they cannot marry now, with everything so unsettled. We must husband our resources and prepare to meet an unknown future as a community. Elvira takes the disappointment well. She says they will be all the happier when we have found some peaceful land where she can make her nest. I am glad she has the optimism to believe that such a place exists.
Susanna has been sneaking out at night. She does not know that Papa and I know. We suspect she is seeing an Italian boy. Papa says she has been taught good principles and will not go too far unless we arouse her defiance by trying to stop her. Besides, considering the likelihood of an Italian war in the near future, the situation will resolve itself without our interference. I should not admit this to you, my children, but I take a secret joy in her adventure. Young girls should have some romance in their lives! Looking back at how we lived in Seville, never dreaming that we should have to leave, I remember only sunshine and a sense of security that Jewish children of today will never fathom. I was never happier than in that precious time when Papa came courting. He was not my only suitor, you know! But he was the one for me, and I wish for all of you the joy of such a match. I was equally happy when my children were born. I delighted in each of you every day we spent together as you grew up. May Adonai bless and keep you, my darlings.
All my love, Mama
Chapter 11: Joanna
“Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem,” Frei Jerónimo said, his steely eyes under tufted brows boring into those of each cross-legged child in turn as he paced back and forth along the deck in front of them. “Repeat after me.”
Journey of Strangers Page 6
