By Fire, By Water

by Mitchell James Kaplan

  “Another military procession? What is it this time?”

  Judith frowned. “Yonatan spoke of it over dinner. You were sitting right there.”

  “Perhaps I was dozing.”

  “It’s the emir’s nephew. He claims he can defend Granada against the Christians better than his uncle. He marched with his army from Malaga, but General al-Hakim met them halfway and sent them running.”

  Baba Shlomo shook his head. “What good is a parade to a blind man? Let the emir arrest me for missing it. But I doubt he’ll care much. He may not even notice.” He closed his eyes.

  Early the next morning, Judith and Levi hurried to Dina’s home. Excited about the morning’s festivities, Sara took Levi by the arm. The two ran off together.

  “Levi, Sara, stay with us,” Judith called after them.

  “We’ll meet you there,” Sara called back.

  The residents of Granada thronged the streets, plazas, and balconies of the capital. As morning shadows grew shorter, the citizens heard a steady, insistent beating of drums, the winding melodies of rasping reed instruments, and the rattling of shields and swords—at first far away, but slowly growing louder.

  The massive wooden doors of the city, on wheels thick as logs, rumbled open. Into the capital strutted three huge birds, each nearly as tall as a man, perched unsteadily atop long, spindly legs. Great feathery wings flanked their wide bodies, yet they did not fly. Their big eyes, set in heads almost as narrow as their long, S-shaped necks, blinked at the onlookers.

  No one had ever seen creatures like these. That their emir could possess them proved his wealth and power. Some children pointed. Others hid behind their parents’ legs as the otherworldly creatures strolled slowly past, urged forward by soldiers with sticks.

  Behind them strutted birds whose bright blue and vivid green tail feathers opened into enormous fans, filled with eyes; strange antelopes with horns like oxen and long, tufted tails; dromedaries saddled in silver, their humps and long necks shifting as they walked; bejeweled monkeys who screeched as they ran and jumped between the other animals; and two rare elephants wearing colorful headdresses, shipped for the occasion from the Southern Continent. Suspended between the two elephants, on a litter hung with silk and rugs from Persia, sat the vizier himself, Ibrahim al-Hakim, looking dignified but pleased with his victory and the crowd’s adulation. From the ornate sheath on his hip, the sapphire-encrusted handle of a large saber peeked out like a shy kitten from a bag.

  Behind the vizier, on elegant Arabian horses, rode hundreds of dirty and weary archers in ornamented, conical helmets and mail shirts, clutching disk-shaped shields. On long poles, some held aloft the heads of their fallen enemies, whose features, drained of blood, sagged dreadfully like masks of white putty.

  The parade slowly wound into the Jewish quarter. Judith and Dina watched, fascinated, as the vizier’s elephants plodded toward them.

  An infant started bawling. One of the smaller monkeys, hardly bigger than a human baby, jumped onto someone in the crowd, screeching. Perched on his elephantine throne, the vizier waved his arms. “Stop the procession!”

  The drumming ceased, and the reed instruments’ whining, and the rattling of swords and shields. Silence fell upon the Jewish quarter as the vizier turned his head, frowned, and broke into a peal of laughter so loud it echoed off the face of the synagogue.

  He climbed down from his litter, aided by two lieutenants, and proceeded forward, cutting a path between the peacocks, the oxen, and the ostriches. He stood on the street at eye-level, a citizen among other citizens, as he waved someone forward.

  Sheepishly lowering her chin, much of her chest covered by the terrified simian, a girl shuffled into the street and looked up, wearing a brave smile. The crowd saw the girl, and the monkey grasping her like a baby clutching its mother. The monkey turned its head this way and that as if trying to make sense of the sudden calm. Many of the onlookers laughed together with the vizier. Their laughter conveyed as much about the humor of the situation as about their nervousness to have the vizier standing in their midst, no taller than the rest of them.

  Gently, General Al-Hakim urged the girl forward, peeled the monkey off her chest, and handed it to his assistant. Placing his index finger under the girl’s chin, he raised her scratched face to look into her dark green eyes. The crowd fell silent.

  “What is your name?” he asked her in his gentlest tone.

  Mustering her courage, the girl replied in a small voice: “Sara. Sara Benatar.”

  From where they were standing, Judith and Dina did not see Sara’s exchange with the vizier. The silver merchant caught herself glancing through the crowd, searching for Isaac Azoulay. At almost every event, he sought her out and exchanged a few words: comments on the weather, reassurances about Levi’s studies, inquiries about Baba Shlomo’s health. After the soldiers, court attendants, and musicians had left, after most of the residents had deserted the little plaza and all that remained were ostrich droppings and a few stragglers, Judith decided to pay him a visit.

  Fragrant honeysuckle and passion vines crept over the white wall around Isaac’s garden. She had never before knocked at his door. Her motives might be misread, but she told herself: Why worry about the gossipers? They had chattered before. She had survived. She opened the gate, walked through the garden, and knocked.

  Isaac wore his customary indigo robes, but his feet were bare. He smiled warmly.

  “I was expecting to see you at the procession,” said Judith.

  “I had a special dispensation. The vizier asked me to do some research.”

  “Is he ill? He seemed well enough.”

  “It isn’t too serious. Please, come in.”

  The room appeared to be a blend of living room, apothecary’s office, and alchemist’s retreat. Rugs and cushions lay haphazardly across the tile floors. A tall lantern, with stars and crescent moons cut out of its copper sides, hung from the ceiling. Incense perfumed the air. Shelves of vials, flacons, mortars with pestles, rolled parchments, and books in several languages lined the walls. On a low wooden table lay a large, open tome.

  “What a nice, spacious home.”

  “Perhaps too spacious.” He poured her a cup of partially fermented quince juice spiced with cloves.

  “You’re wondering why I’m here.”

  “I’m enjoying the surprise. But please, tell me.” He handed her the cup.

  “I’m concerned about Baba Shlomo.”

  “What about Baba Shlomo?” Isaac poured himself a cup and sat on a cushion across from her.

  “He sleeps all the time. He no longer seems interested in anything. He has dreams. Perturbing dreams. He forgets things.”

  “What sorts of things?” He sipped his concoction.

  “Simple things, like the parade this morning.”

  Isaac nodded. “Sometimes, when a person survives long enough, his memory starts to weaken. It’s quite rare, presumably because few manage to live as long as Baba Shlomo.” He sipped again. “How old is he, exactly?”

  “He himself has no idea. Can anything be done?”

  “Let me tell you how memory works,” said the physician. “Our memories are images of the things we see and hear and touch, stamped into the tissue of our hearts.”

  “Stamped?”

  “Like a seal into wax. And just as wax receives a stamp best when it’s warm, so our hearts receive our memories best when our blood is warm.”

  Judith noticed the open book he had been reading, but was unable to make sense of its Latin characters. “What is this?”

  For the briefest moment, Isaac seemed at a loss. “That pertains to the vizier. To his … his illness.”

  “What is it?” Judith insisted.

  “De Amore. A commentary on Plato’s Symposium, by a brilliant Florentine, Ficino.”

  “De Amore,” repeated Judith.

  “General Al-Hakim is … well, he’s hot-blooded, of course. And lonely.”

  Judith wondered ho
w the vizier, with all his concubines and servants, could be wanting. She sipped more of her beverage. “Speaking of hot blood, this potion of yours is making me feel warm. Lightheaded.”

  “That’s because alcohol is thinner than blood. Thinner than water, too. Thin liquids, like warm liquids, rise above the level of our physical bodies, toward the level of our souls. And thus, they affect cognition.”

  Judith rested her head on a couple of fingers, considering this.

  “There’s no other animal that walks upright, as we do,” pursued the physician. “Why do you think that is?”

  “Isaac, we were talking about memory, and now you’re asking why we walk upright. What does this have to do with that?”

  “Everything. We walk upright because our blood is so warm, the warmest of all animals. And again, warm things rise. Our warm blood, by rising in our bodies, causes us to walk upright.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  This beverage, she thought, was making her sound slightly ridiculous. She removed the two fingers from her chin.

  “But as we age,” continued Isaac, “our blood cools, and we begin to stoop. Like Baba Shlomo. And our hearts become less soft, like wax as it cools. As a result, our ability to remember begins to fade.”

  Judith put down her cup. “Isaac, that’s all very interesting, but is there anything I can do?”

  “Try to keep Baba Shlomo warm. And upright, on his feet, as much as possible. But don’t think you can reverse Time, or even slow it down.”

  “Ah, that I know.” She nodded wistfully.

  “You’re still young and beautiful, Judith.” Isaac blushed.

  Judith smiled. “Thank you.”

  Ten years earlier, she had fallen in love with an apothecary’s apprentice named David Corcos. Despite the long hours he spent mixing herbal potions and searching through ancient texts, David had found the time to meet with her, late at night or before dawn, at their clandestine corner near the gate of the Jewish Quarter. There, they talked, sometimes for hours on end. His reasoning was subtle and his knowledge, deep, but what mattered most was the quiet sound of his voice and the glints of light playing on his onyx eyes.

  He gave her precious gifts, an ivory bangle, a delicate porcelain pot of kohl, a silk dress from Venice. Marriage, and freedom from her parents’ domicile, was in the offing. Judith was sure her father would approve, but David wanted to complete his apprenticeship first. This perturbed the seventeen-year-old Judith. Many girls her age were already mothers. She told herself to be patient. Life reserved its most precious gifts for those who knew how to wait.

  One night, Judith and David forgot how to wait. In a fever of exploration, discovery, and abandonment, they allowed each other the gratification their hearts and bodies craved. Though she knew carnal relations were proscribed for those who were not wed, she convinced herself that in this particular case, where betrothal was certain, the most intimate expressions of love were excusable. Their moment of shared passion would cement their union and ensure their future together. It was the ultimate expression of trust.

  A mere two weeks later, when she went to their meeting place, David was not there. Thinking he was delayed, she waited until dawn, half-sleeping with her back to a wall. Nor did he show up the next night. The following day, she inquired of his mentor and found him as bewildered as she. His gifted young scholar had vanished.

  Several months later, Judith learned what had happened. David had been courting another young woman even before he and Judith began their sensual explorations. She was the daughter of a high-ranking official in the employ of the Alhambra, and was reputed to be flirtatious and rebellious. If the apothecary’s apprentice had been found out before the two of them took flight, he would most certainly have been killed. Word-of-mouth placed them in Alexandria, where David claimed not only to adhere to the Islamic faith, but to be descended from an illustrious family originating in Mecca.

  Isaac Azoulay and the other inhabitants of Granada’s Jewish quarter knew this story, or at least parts of it, in various forms. For the physician, it compromised neither Judith’s attractiveness nor her integrity. In her own heart, however, she had never transcended the shame.

  Three weeks after Yonatan left for Cairo, Judith felt lost and directionless, as if she had been following a road not to her destination but to a field overgrown with weeds, into which her path dissolved. It seemed that creating the nine pieces for the Great Synagogue, and the letter that accompanied them, had simply been a way to convince herself that her new profession was viable, her prospects real.

  She searched through her brother’s account books. She met with his clients. Few needed more silver. Others had found new suppliers. Isaac Azoulay suggested she pay a visit to the under-undersecretary of the minister of finances, who had recently acquired eight horses and would be needing silver harnesses. Judith hastened to his stables, located near the majestic Alhambra castle.

  “I would love to transact such business with you,” said Khalil, keeper of horses for the under-undersecretary. “But the work is gone. We have already ordered the new harnesses. I am sorry. Perhaps next time.”

  Judith trudged home, discouraged. Eight silver harnesses! She could have paid off part of her debt. If her clients were pleased with her work, they might have spoken to others among the ruling families.

  She had no choice, after all, but to peddle trinkets in the little marketplace of the Jewish quarter. Levi would have to assist her when he was not studying or praying. They might eke out enough to feed themselves, but not enough to begin paying their debts.

  “God must be testing me,” she confided to Dina. The two still shared a cup of sage tea or pear juice once or twice every week. Although Judith now knew how to read and write, they continued reading together, and not just for practice. The written word had become the medium of their friendship. They took pleasure in the works of Jewish-Arab poets, Ibn Gabirol, Yehuda Halevy, Todros Abulafia, and others.

  “Of course God is testing you,” Dina agreed. “God tests all of us.” She poured more tea.

  They turned back to the book at hand, a folio of verse by Abraham Ibn Ezra, who had lived near Zaragoza when that region was under Muslim rule, centuries earlier. Judith read the Judeo-Arabic cursive aloud.

  I have a cloak that’s a lot like a sieve

  for sifting wheat and barley:

  at night I stretch it taut like a tent,

  and light from the stars shines on me.

  Through it I see the crescent moon,

  Orion and the Pleiades.

  I weary, though, of counting its holes,

  which look like a saw’s sharp teeth.

  Judith laughed. “Yes, that’s how life is, isn’t it. We stretch out our tattered cloaks and peer through the holes, looking toward the stars.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  AS THE CHANCELLOR SAT WORKING, his aide knocked to announce a caller. A hefty fellow with short hair and a close-cropped beard, the visitor did not bow. “Your Excellency,” he said in a deep baritone, “forgive me for intruding. Abram Serero, a scribe by trade, and a teacher. I’ve come to deliver our community’s contribution.”

  “Your community?”

  “The Jewish community. A small offering, I admit. But as you know, Chancellor, we’re not as prosperous as in the time of our grandfathers.” He waved the paper in his hand. “It’s all accounted for.”

  Santángel looked up from his books. “Señor Serero, have a seat.” He turned to his aide. “Señor de Almazón, stay with us. Close the door.” If the chancellor was going to receive a Jew in his office, he wanted a witness.

  Serero reached into his satchel and produced a purse of gold coins, which he handed to Santángel along with the accounting sheet. Santángel counted the coins and noted their value. “Normally, these deliveries are not made to my office.”

  “I wanted to meet you.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m new at this.”

  Santángel nodded, gla
ncing at the accounting sheet. “Do you read Hebrew?”

  “When I said I was a scribe,” Serero explained, “what I meant was, I am a Hebrew scribe. I copy our holy books in the holy tongue. If I did not read and understand Hebrew, I would be going through the motions without experiencing every word. And if I copied the Torah that way …” He shook his head.

  The chancellor looked up from the accounting sheet. “What would happen?”

  “There’s a traditional way of doing these things. I learned the craft from my father. He learned it from his.”

  “Your family,” asked Santángel. “You’ve lived in Zaragoza for some time?”

  “My family has lived in Zaragoza and also Valencia for as long as anyone remembers. But others make such claims.” Serero scratched his beard. “Perhaps, Señor Santángel, you’ve heard of the Zinillo family.”

  Santángel’s face registered nothing. Being a Christian, and a close collaborator of the king, he did not appreciate Serero’s reminding him of his ancestry.

  “They say my forbears have enjoyed the generosity of this land ever since the time of King Solomon,” boasted the scribe.

  “Señor Serero, please express to your community His Highness’s gratitude.”

  “Thank you.” After a moment, Serero added, “May all your endeavors, and the king’s, be crowned with righteousness.”

  On Santángel’s nod, his aide showed Serero the door. The Jew again turned to the chancellor. “If you should need anything further, please, come visit me. I live in the house next to the synagogue, one door to the left.”

  “What could I possibly need from a Jew, other than taxes, my good man?” Santángel smiled with deliberate condescension and waved the scribe away.

  Serero glanced at him once more, then shuffled out of the office.

  “The fellow has no tact,” Santángel muttered, loudly enough so that his aide could hear. Felipe de Almazón stared at the door.