Estefan was the son of Santángel’s uncle and a sturdy, strong-willed, blond-haired peasant whom Santángel’s parents had regarded as an extranjera, a “foreigner” to the family, its social class, its traditions. The girl had died while Estefan was still an infant. Estefan’s father had remarried. His well-bred, haughty second wife had resented the child, so Luis de Santángel’s parents had taken Estefan into their home and raised him as Luis’s brother. Estefan’s thinning, sand-colored hair and heavy-set build belied his diferencia.
By allowing commoners into the chancellor’s residence, Santángel feared, Estefan had also invited inquisitiveness and envy. By celebrating the miracle of Mary’s apparition in such an ostentatious manner, Estefan was calling attention to questions of faith. Perhaps, too, he was exposing Santángel’s son to similar scrutiny.
The chancellor threw the door open. “What in God’s name is going on?”
The clapping, stomping, and swaying ceased. Señora Gómez stopped dancing. The musicians quit their plucking and banging. Estefan slowly turned to face the man who had always called him brother. “It’s the Fiesta del Pilar, Luis. A day of revelry, debauchery, and God-fearing zeal, honored by all good Zaragozans since time immemorial. Why don’t you join us?” He reached out a hand.
Luis stared. He had to distance himself from Estefan’s behavior, if only in the minds of his staff.
“What harm is there in celebrating?” Estefan challenged him.
“Need I justify myself?” returned the chancellor frostily. “This is over.”
After the last of the revelers shuffled out, Estefan approached his brother. “Luis, you wear your importance, your position, your affluence, like …”
“You’re drunk, Estefan.”
“… like a mask. A mask so snug it prevents you from smiling.” He tied his coat. “A mask that has become your jail.”
“And you, your conviviality, your … vulgarity,” Luis shot back. “Is that not a disguise, as well? A prison of some sort?”
Estefan responded with a wistful smile.
The chancellor shook his head. “I know there’s more to you than that, Estefan, far more. But you don’t know it, yourself.”
The two men glared at each other like wrestlers, each searching for an advantageous grip. Estefan started to leave.
Luis gently took his forearm. “Stay. Another moment, please.”
Taking note of his brother’s changed tone, Estefan turned back. As quickly as the tensions had arisen between them, they both let their choler slip away. The love and trust they shared, with their parents and wives long gone, flowed deeper than their differences. “Your voyage. Rome. You didn’t …?”
“I bought a warship. Magnificent. The Giustizia. King Fernando will be pleased.” Luis sat down astride a sturdy oak chair, backward, his hands clutching the top of the chair’s back as if holding on to a rail in a storm.
Searching Luis’s face, Estefan took a chair. “You didn’t achieve all you hoped for.”
Luis shook his head. “The pope made no commitment.”
“He refused your gift?”
“He took the gift, but questioned the arguments. And in my absence, they made inroads. They appointed an inquisitor for Zaragoza. Pedro de Arbués, the canon of La Seo.”
Estefan knew of his brother’s obsession with the New Inquisition. He leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on Luis’s shoulder. “Of course, they made inroads. And they’ll continue making inroads. Our only hope is to proclaim loud and clear that those old traditions hold no water for us. That is why I dance and sing with the common folk, Luis. If I drink with them, if I carouse with them, I’m a good Christian. It’s as simple as that. And if they love me, if they feel I’m of their kind, then Torquemada loses his power over me. Don’t you see?”
Luis shook his head. “No, I don’t. Drinking doesn’t make you a good Christian. Drinking, drinking to excess, only makes you a pitiful converso.”
“A converso? I don’t even know what that means.” Estefan snickered scornfully. “A few words of a language that’s all but forgotten. A few rituals whose meaning was lost generations ago. Why should such things weigh us down? Our parents, wherever they are, would rather see us survive.”
Although Estefan presented a face of gaiety to the world, the chancellor perceived sadness in his soft, slightly crossed acorn-brown eyes, in his small, down-turned mouth. “Why hold these worn-out, hand-me-down traditions in our hearts?” Luis replied. “Because …” But he found himself unable to complete the sentence.
“No one cares a straw what you believe, Luis.” Estefan sat back into his chair. “No one cares what I believe, in the black dungeon of my heart. That’s the outrageous joke behind this madness. They care about your estate, your powerful friends, your elegant mistresses, your fine horses. They care about your power, or the power they think you wield over their king. They care about your … your remoteness. They care about the conspiracy they see, or believe they see, between you and all the other New Christians, and all the Jews you may or may not consort with. But if you’re one of them, ostentatiously, deliriously, and, yes, hedonistically, one of them …”
Luis shook his head. “You think you’re one of them, Estefan. But neither you nor I shall ever be one of them, no matter how much we drink or dance or take confession.” He drummed his fingers on the back of the chair. “What they call arrogance is nothing but caution. And a well-earned caution, I might add. Where they see a conspiracy of New Christians, I see …” He paused to find the word. “History. Shared history. And history, memories, how can you escape them?”
“It’s late, Luis. You’ve been away four months. Nothing is going to happen tonight. Get yourself a goblet of wine. I’ll fetch you one.”
Upstairs, Santángel crept into his son’s bedroom. Gabriel’s unblemished face lay on the pillow, wild strands of long black hair sweeping over delicate features like rivulets of water streaming across an unperturbed beach. Startled by the flickering light of his father’s candle, Gabriel bolted upright, brandishing the foil he kept at his bedside. “Who goes there? Are you an evil sorcerer?”
“I am but a humble pilgrim,” replied Luis under his breath.
“Go no further, or I’ll hack you to pieces with my faithful sword, Elsamere.”
“I seek not the thrill of battle,” said Luis. “Only a safe place to lay my head.”
Gabriel peered at his father past the candle flame. “I’ve seen you before, humble pilgrim.”
Luis bowed. “At your service.”
“I said I’ve seen you. I didn’t say I trust you. You’re known as a deserter in this kingdom. Flee at once,” he added in a voice as deep and menacing as an eight-year-old could muster. “My half-wolf, half-dragon friend, Accalia, is getting hungry.”
The chancellor heard the note of resentment in his son’s warning. He sat down on the bed. “You couldn’t be more wrong, bold caballero. If you reside in these realms, you should know that my dwelling place is here, as well. I have traveled far and wide, but not by any choice of my own.” He modulated his voice. “Now, scoot down under your blanket.”
In the air of Gabriel’s room lingered the sharp odor of a recently extinguished candle. A book, one of the romances in which his son delighted, lay open beside Gabriel’s head. Gabriel put down his sword and snuggled. Luis reached to stroke his hair. “You weren’t sleeping, ruffian, were you.”
“I was reading, Father. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Did your uncle’s stomping keep you awake?”
The child shook his head.
“Did Uncle Estefan take good care of you?”
“He always does.”
“And your Latin? Your fencing? Your chess? Did you keep them up while your father was away?”
“At chess, I can beat Uncle Estefan. And he’s good.”
“I’ll bet you could even beat me, now.”
“I’ll bet I could.”
This was the first pleasant news Sant
ángel had heard in some time. “In the morning, we’ll share a bowl of hot broth and battle it out on the chessboard. Now, go to sleep.”
“I’m not tired.” Gabriel yawned.
“Oh yes, you are. We’ll have plenty of time to talk.”
Gabriel reached up and hugged his father. Luis held him fast.
“Can I go with you, next time?”
“We’ll try.” He started to rise, but his son held him.
“Tell me one of your stories.”
“It’s late.”
“Please.”
Santángel cherished the moments, too few and far between, when no worldly events intruded upon the fictional universes he created for his son. And so he began, “There once was a man who possessed a very great treasure. So great, in fact, that he was afraid to speak of it with anyone.”
“Why?”
“Because if anyone else knew, they would envy him. And if they envied him, they might kill him.”
“Was he a knight, like the Cid?”
“No. His parents weren’t landowners, but they were quite wealthy. In fact, they were wealthier than the king himself.”
“How could that be?”
“Many said it shouldn’t be. But it was so. And being a decent man, he used this wealth to help the king. The king rewarded him with the greatest prize of all, his friendship. But there was one thing the king could not do for this man.”
“What?”
“The king couldn’t protect him from those who envied him. He tried to.”
“If he kept his treasure secret, how could they envy him?”
“They didn’t know, but they suspected. And that was enough.”
“And what did this man do with his treasure, Papa?”
“He couldn’t do much with it, except keep it safe.” He combed his son’s hair with his fingers. “He didn’t even allow himself to look at his treasure, because he might be found out. But the more he forbade himself to look at it, the more he longed to … to run his fingers through it, to use it for some purpose, even though he had forgotten what purpose his treasure was meant for.”
Gabriel waited for more. “Is that the whole story, Papa?”
“That’s all I know of it.” He kissed his son on the forehead. “Good night.”
“If I were that man,” declared the boy, “I’d get rid of that treasure. What good does it do him? It only brings him trouble.”
In his bedchamber down the hall, Santángel threw open the trunk he had forwarded from the port of Barcelona. On top of his nightclothes sat a leather pouch. Hardly able to believe the gall of the Genoese sea captain, he locked his door and removed the few items from the pouch. A rolled-up sheet of parchment, obviously quite old, caught his attention. He sat on his bed to examine its Hebrew letters. In some places, they danced, in others, they wept—the effect of candlelight flickering on the faded, smudged figures.
What was the meaning of this? Why would Colón, who coveted Santángel’s friendship, have risked offending him with a gift he neither desired nor could use? He would not keep these documents in his home, especially now that Zaragoza had an inquisitor, legitimate or not. Someone might discover them and mention their existence during confession.
As he lay down to sleep, he could not help thinking about the parchment. The letters flowed off the page and filled the air above him, fluttering and floating, enticing him to a place he dared not enter. He closed his eyes. He covered his face with his arm. There they were, still, burning brightly, mocking him.
“Are you a blessing, or a curse?” He thought he should know the answer. Like a boy trying to catch a firefly, he reached for its glow, but it eluded him.
CHAPTER TWO
IN THE SOUTHERNMOST REGION of Iberia, set off from Christendom by the Sierra Nevada mountain range, lay the remnant of a once-great Islamic emirate. Nestled within the capital of this small state, in the shadow of the Alhambra castle, the narrow streets of Granada’s Jewish quarter twisted and climbed over a few small hills. Whitewashed walls isolated the houses’ courtyards from the clatter of carts, donkeys’ hooves, and foot traffic outside. Jasmine tumbled over the tops of the walls. Where the alley grew steep it formed a stairway, which opened onto a triangular plaza. Water splashed softly in a fountain.
Most of the residents’ families had dwelled in Granada, and other territories of Moorish Andalusia, for centuries; some for a millennium or more. A smaller group, which occupied the homes near the synagogue, had fled more recently from Castile and Aragon, seeking temporary refuge among the Muslims. They gathered for holidays. Their sons married one another’s daughters. They conversed in Arabic and prayed in Hebrew, but still practiced their beloved, slowly decaying Spanish dialects when they met together.
Judith Migdal occasionally counted herself in this group. Never more so than for the celebration of Purim, when costumed children chased each other, blew horns, shouted, and devoured “Haman’s ears,” fried twists of dough flavored with lemon rind and sugar. The adults took turns reciting in Hebrew and Spanish the story of Queen Esther, which Judith loved. It was the story of a beautiful woman in a land not her own, who had acquired status among a people not her own, but refused to turn her back on her kinsmen.
This year, however, Judith sat alone, preoccupied with the fate of her brother and his wife. It had been seven weeks since Yossi and Naomi had departed for the port of Malaga with their gray-spotted mule and a satchel of silver ornaments. Seven weeks without a word. Judith had been praying, with increasing urgency, that no harm had come to them.
Yossi, a silversmith, had been the sole wage earner in the household. He and Naomi had been given only one son, Levi, now eleven years old. Naomi’s aging father, Baba Shlomo, lived with them. Judith asked God for direction. Should she admit to herself that her brother and sister-in-law had probably perished, and recite Kaddish? The mere thought brought tears to her eyes.
As she walked through the narrow, twisting streets following the Purim celebration, she saw the physician Isaac Azoulay slowly approaching. Even with his slight stoop, he was much taller than Judith. “What is it, Isaac?”
“I know of no manner in which to convey to you my sorrow.” He regarded her amber eyes, the splash of freckles across her nose, her glistening night-black hair, as if poring over a treatise on the medicinal qualities of an exotic flower. “I correspond with an apothecary in Malaga, so naturally I inquired about your brother.”
“Please,” Judith urged him. Isaac almost always spoke in a cautious, measured way. Widely respected for his erudition and humility, he counted among his clients the famous general, recently named vizier of the realm, Ibrahim al-Hakim. But his very brilliance, and his habit of thinking everything through more than once, could be exasperating.
“My herbalist asked at the synagogue.” He rubbed his close-cropped, gray-flecked beard. “Yossi never attended services there.”
“He never … But Isaac, that doesn’t mean a thing.” She smiled.
Azoulay’s eyebrows met above his nose.
“What if Yossi and Naomi traveled past Malaga? Maybe there was no reason to stop.”
They resumed walking. “If only that were all,” said Isaac.
Judith clutched her white dress with a perspiring hand. “What else?”
“Two bodies, by the road. Near the sea. A man’s and a woman’s. Their bags emptied. Everything stolen.”
“It can’t be.” She stopped. “How would they … How would they know?”
“They don’t know, Judith. They don’t know. On my suggestion, the synagogue in Malaga has acquired the remains. They’re sending them here. Until then, we can only pray.”
Judith closed her eyes.
“I have some ginger root. I’ll make you an infusion. You’ll feel better.”
She stood outside his door while he went in to fetch the savory root that cost more by weight than gold, then accepted his offer to accompany her home. Passing the moss-covered fountain in her courtyard, they entered the mai
n room of her dwelling.
Judith had installed the floor herself, colored tiles in complex geometrical patterns—polygons interlaced with circles, surrounded by rectangles, with abstract, leaf- and tear-like shapes scattered throughout. A rug, woven in the Atlas Mountains, lay near the brass table. She had painted the low beams of her ceiling in ocher, asparagus green, and pear yellow. She fell onto a round leather cushion at the low brass table where Isaac prepared the infusion.
“Judith, with an old man and a young boy to care for, and no one to help you … Anything you need. Anything.”
She smiled and placed her hand on top of Azoulay’s. They heard Levi leading his grandfather into the courtyard, and removed their hands from the table.
“Is someone visiting?” asked Baba Shlomo as Levi guided him into the house. His eyes no longer perceived distinct forms, but he sensed a presence.
“Azoulay, the doctor,” said Levi.
Levi had not yet removed his Purim costume, the rough cotton windings, turban, and charcoal smudges of a Barbary pirate. He was beautiful, thought Judith. She waved Levi over for a hug. He ignored her.
“Is someone ill?” Baba Shlomo, a frail, small man, looked every bit his age, with his shaggy white beard and creased visage. He spoke with an accent, a relic from his distant childhood. He held on to Levi’s forearm with a weak grip.
“Judith isn’t feeling well,” explained Isaac.
“What is it?”
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