Kneeling, partially hidden behind a silk curtain, Sariya at first moved only her hands in graceful, flowing undulations, parabolic flourishes, and sudden sweeps. As the music grew faster and louder, she slowly rose from her knees, her head loosely swaying, her shoulders and chest twitching with the drumbeats, her hands floating through the air on either side, in front of her face, behind her head, like birds lost in flight. The veils seemed to fall of their own accord from her long hair and shoulders. Her belly and hips burst into life, swiveling and thrusting, and then her legs and feet, pivoting, skipping, whirling. Her body bobbed and shuddered, translating the instruments’ twisting melody into one long, delirious gesture. Finally, as the music climaxed and ebbed, Sariya collapsed and disappeared behind the low curtain.
“She is like no other woman, your Sariya,” the emir complimented Ibrahim al-Hakim.
“Indeed, I’ve not seen another like her,” agreed the chancellor, who had found her performance not only refreshingly exotic, but also sensual beyond anything he had seen, or could imagine seeing, in the court of Queen Ysabel.
The emir turned to Santángel. “The women of Andalusia please you.”
“From what I have seen, Your Royal Highness,” confirmed the chancellor, “they constitute a most exquisite breed.”
“And what have you seen, other than Sariya?”
The flutist and tambour player resumed a quiet taqsim.
“This afternoon, the lady who delivered these goblets.” Santángel held aloft his cup.
“Yes,” said the vizier, pouring more liquor for his guest. “Stunning, but headstrong, as only Jewish women can be. Migdal. Judith. She has a workshop in their quarter.”
The chancellor nodded, imbibing another mouthful of the fruity, intoxicating beverage. Al-Zagal examined his cup, as if noticing its exquisite craftsmanship for the first time. He was not tall, but at the venerable age of forty-three, he was still muscular and fit, with short, graying hair and coal-black eyes.
“Now, if you will,” he turned back to the chancellor, “explain why you have traveled into the heart of an enemy kingdom, with all the danger that entails, to warn us of a threat from my nephew.”
“Your Royal Highness,” said Santángel. “We hardly need more instability on our borders. Abu Abdullah is, to us, an unknown entity and a greater threat.”
Bringing his hands together under his chin, al-Zagal peered at the chancellor, nodding slightly. The flute music swelled to its conclusion. Al-Hakim leaned close to the emir and whispered a few words.
“Tell me something,” al-Zagal challenged Santángel. “You Christians possess virtually all the land from the Sierra Nevadas to the Balkans. Why are you so preoccupied with the tiny Moslem emirate of Granada, a narrow swath of land in an isolated corner of the continent? Why is it more acceptable for your armies to be stopped by seas than by mountains?”
“Your Highness,” replied the chancellor, “I am hardly qualified to comment on such matters.”
“For the last several years,” resumed the emir, “you have availed yourselves of every opportunity to spoliate our farmlands just south of your border. Your purpose is not merely to harass and demoralize the local populations, but to destroy our economy.”
“These border raids have been going on for centuries,” Santángel objected calmly, “in both directions.”
“It is not the same. Those were small-scale incursions. These are invasions. Tens of thousands of Christian peasants have participated. Granada’s most fertile fields have been laid waste. Your famous knight, Rodrigo Ponce de León, attacked our town of Alhama and took it, separating the two great cities of our emirate, Granada and Malaga, and accentuating the strife between me and my nephew. And now you come warning me of his intentions—as if I were not well aware of them.”
“Neither the king of Aragon nor the queen of Castile authorized Don Rodrigo’s attack.”
“Not openly.”
“Your Highness, if you do not wish to avail yourself of our assistance, that is, of course, entirely your decision. My only purpose is to convey the offer.”
Al-Zagal peered over the hills of his kingdom, toward the sea that divided Europe from the Southern Continent. Santángel knew better than to say anything further, unless asked.
The door of Santángel’s intricately tiled room, deep within the Alhambra castle complex, creaked open. A girl with long, champagne-colored hair, small breasts, and fawn-colored eyes slipped in.
“Carlina,” she introduced herself while disrobing. “A gift from the emir, for one night.”
“And how is it you speak Spanish so well?”
“Before I came here, I was Christian. From Murcia.” She slipped into bed beside the chancellor.
Carlina offered her pleasures graciously, even ardently. Her smile, thought Santángel, revealed a surprising softness; her voice, a certain sweetness.
Later, as he allowed his head to sink into the feather pillow, watching candlelight play upon the ornate, carved ceiling, the chancellor of Aragon reflected upon his inability to find contentment in the fresh-gardenia embrace of a young lover.
He allowed his mind to wander, again, to his departed wife: her laughter, her voice, her hopeful smile. Unlike most women of her station, she had accompanied her husband on many of his journeys, including to Granada, years ago. Her passing had torn a hole in Luis de Santángel’s life. Into this hole, much of the satisfaction he took in ordinary things had flowed, like water down a drain.
For the first time in many years, another woman entered these thoughts. The silversmith he had met at the Alhambra. Migdal, the vizier had later told him, Judith. Something about her had captured his fancy. He had known many beautiful ladies. This Carlina, lying next to him, was hardly less striking, and certainly younger.
In Judith’s regard, he had seen a hint of resilience. In her voice, a resonance of compassion and experience. She had seemed determined not to appear impressed with his finery and station. Her words about Zaragoza and riots had implied a subtle reproach. She remained with him—her amber eyes, the splash of freckles across her nose, her proud bearing.
Late the next morning, as a donkey brayed down the street and a small wagon clattered past, Luis de Santángel dismissed his guide at the gate of Judith Migdal’s home. He noticed the mezuzah on the threshold and contemplated its simple olivewood case, covered with silver branches and leaves so brightly burnished they glistened in the morning sunlight. He had never seen such a lustrous, assertive ornament outside a Jewish home. Then again, he reminded himself, he had rarely visited a Jewish home in the broad light of day.
The door of Judith’s workshop stood ajar. Inside, she was linking a clasp to a bracelet. Her black hair loosely tied, strands of it falling into her face, she wore a work dress and leather mules.
He paused at the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back. “My lady.”
Judith smiled. “Chancellor. Please.” She gestured for him to enter, hiding whatever surprise she may have felt at his sudden appearance.
The chancellor stepped into the room.
Judith rose. “I’m sorry it isn’t more comfortable, here.”
“This is your workplace,” said the chancellor. “I wasn’t expecting a royal palace.”
She smiled vaguely. “Are you enjoying your stay in our city? It may seem foreign to you. Even strange.”
“Not terribly. I’ve had the pleasure of traveling here before. The people I’ve met, your vizier, your emir, have all been most gracious.”
“Your talks with the vizier, were they satisfactory? Did you accomplish what you wanted?”
“Time will tell.”
She seemed to notice he was being evasive, and changed the subject. “May I ask what brings you to my workshop?”
“I was most impressed with what I saw, yesterday. With what I heard. Your silverwork. Your mastery of my language.” Hoping to put her at ease, he added, “The vizier himself seemed quite satisfied.”
“Then perhaps my fo
rtunes are improving.”
“You don’t seem so very unfortunate.”
The chancellor glanced around the dim chamber—the rough beams, the tiled floor and whitewashed walls. A disagreeable, smoky scent hung in the air.
“Were you looking for something?” asked Judith.
“I suppose I was. I am.” The chancellor glanced at the trays and religious ornaments on the table. “Something to take back to Castile. Perhaps a gift. For my queen.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Something she would cherish. A pendant, perhaps. A clasp. A cross. Elaborate, in your arabesque manner, and large. She would like that.”
“How long will you be staying in Granada?”
“Perhaps another night.”
“One night?” She shook her head. “It won’t be possible, Chancellor. The Sabbath starts tonight and lasts through the day tomorrow. We Jews don’t work on the Sabbath. As a matter of fact, I should stop, now.” She began organizing the silver, stones, and tools.
“I’ll send for it, then.”
She smiled. “From Zaragoza? That would cost you a fortune.” Santángel tapped his fingers on the table. He watched her as she prepared to leave. “Perhaps something more substantial, then, to justify the cost of the messenger. A sword-hilt for my king. As well as a cross for my queen. Two items. Perhaps more in the future.”
“Why?” she breathed.
“You are—your work is—exquisite.” There, he had said it, if inadvertently. Judith glanced away. She had heard it.
She wrapped the bracelet in its polishing cloth and dropped it in the pocket of her smock. “Chancellor, I have to go to the market.”
“Perhaps I could accompany you.”
“Accompany me?” She frowned.
“I may need to purchase a few gifts.”
“Here? In the Jewish quarter?” She let out a little laugh. “I’m afraid, Chancellor, there isn’t much to see just now. It’s getting late.” He followed her out. She locked the door of her workshop. “And my scimitar? My cross?”
She shook her head. “If you wanted a cup or a bangle, I might be able to oblige. But a sword, a cross, the very emblems of your war?” She shook her head. “Thank you for visiting me.”
She walked out of her courtyard. Santángel watched her another moment, then turned to leave.
The synagogue, a small two-story building, stood at the side of a misshapen plaza, neither a triangle nor quite a rectangle. Inside, the Jews of Granada prayed individually and together. Some mumbled, others loudly declaimed Hebrew blessings, supplications, and psalms. Still others exchanged news, in Arabic, about events in far-off lands. A foreign sea captain had recently discovered a great river, perhaps the longest in the world. The king of Portugal had executed some eighty noblemen at once. The great Jewish philosopher, Isaac Abravanel, had narrowly escaped their fate.
Young boys played tag or hide-and-seek. Wives and daughters, in the balconies, looked on, reciting the liturgy. Judith stood among them, as always, glancing at the people around her, mumbling the prayers.
Near the wall, in his foreign, close-fitting vest and pants, stood the last person she would have expected to find here, the chancellor of Aragon. He watched the men blessing and beseeching God in their jumble of Levantine cadences as if studying an unintelligible map.
Luis de Santángel had surprised her earlier, when he came to her shop, but his presence in the synagogue was incomprehensible. Had he followed her? As she glanced again at the elegant courtier, he must have sensed her thoughts, for he turned and looked directly at her.
Again, as she guided Baba Shlomo out of the synagogue, Judith met the chancellor by the door.
“Madam.” He bowed.
“Good evening, Chancellor.”
Santángel turned to the small, white-bearded man beside her. “You must be Baba Shlomo,” he said in the Aragonese dialect.
“I am, indeed.” The old man beamed, clearly delighted to meet a stranger who spoke the language of his youth. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
Judith turned to Baba Shlomo and carefully adjusted his robe. “This is the gentleman I told you about. The diplomat from Zaragoza.”
“Ah. And what brings you to our house of worship?”
“The romance of the exotic, I suppose,” replied Santángel.
“Would you find a Sabbath supper sufficiently exotic?” Baba Shlomo looked blindly at the chancellor. “We’d love to have you for the night.”
Santángel knew that custom, here, dictated that hosts house their guests from evening until morning. “That is very kind, but entirely unmerited.”
Baba Shlomo reached for the chancellor’s shoulder. “Nonsense,” he insisted. “Come, join us. I have many questions.”
Santángel turned back to Judith. She was looking askance, her amber eyes impenetrable.
After washing their hands, lighting the candles, and pronouncing the blessings over bread and wine, Judith and Baba Shlomo invited Santángel to join them at the low brass table, where they sat with Levi on leather cushions. She had prepared a spicy fish stew. They drank from silver cups and ate from glazed clay pots.
Judith had rarely seen Baba Shlomo so animated. Questions spilled from his lips like tea from a deep pitcher. Were there still Jews in Zaragoza? The old man seemed relieved to learn that there were, and that Santángel personally knew one or two members of the community. How were the Israelites of Aragon faring? What about the holidays Baba Shlomo remembered from his youth, the day of Rejoicing in the Torah, the Festival of the Harvest, when the followers of Moses would exit their quarter, parading around the city with their scrolls or their palm fronds, and the followers of Jesus would join them, and for a brief time it would seem there had never been strife between them? Were there still enough Jews in Zaragoza to bring life to such festivities? Did the Christians allow it?
Santángel hated to disappoint the old man by not responding. At the same time, he represented the courts of Castile and Aragon, even in a private home. He answered with a challenge. “Do you have it so much better in Granada? Because of your faith, you have to pay a special ‘Jew Tax,’ no?”
“Yes, of course, just as in Christian lands.”
“And you’re not permitted to build houses taller than those of your neighbors, or to pray in public.”
“Such regulations,” said Baba Shlomo, “hardly affect our daily lives.”
“From what I understand,” pursued Santángel, ignoring his objection, “your graves have to lie flat upon the ground, so the Mohammedans can walk upon them. And if a Muslim wants to marry your daughter, you can’t refuse him. In what way do you fare better than the Jews of Aragon, or Castile?”
“We may disagree with our neighbors,” remarked Judith, unsettled by all the chancellor was suggesting, “but they don’t kill us for it.”
Santángel smiled, pleased she had decided to join the conversation.
“Usually, they don’t,” Baba Shlomo corrected her.
As she turned to Baba Shlomo, her expression softened.
“The same can be said of the Jews in Zaragoza and Toledo,” asserted Santángel, “and the other Christian lands.” Even as he uttered the words, he knew that while literally true, they were meant to disguise his unease about the state of Jewish life in Zaragoza.
“But you, yourself, sir,” asked Judith. “Why did you come to our services? Are you Jewish or Christian?”
Santángel sipped his wine. “My lady, what is the advantage of knowing, with absolute certainty, what one believes? There’s much to be said for doubt.”
“All people suffer,” said Judith. “But if you don’t know what you believe, you suffer alone.”
“I’m Christian, madam. Third generation.” He said it as though he meant it, meeting her gaze.
Judith had invited gentiles into her home before, but the Sabbath dinner was a religious observance. Christians, she knew, sometimes studied Jewish rituals with the sole aim of findin
g fault in them.
On the other hand, this chancellor appeared to be a man of great distinction. Was it not an honor to entertain such a gentleman at one’s dinner table? Again, her eyes caught his. This time, she did not look away.
What she saw surprised her. For a moment, he was not a foreign dignitary, but a man. Christians, she had heard, rarely revealed their vulnerability. “Third generation,” she repeated.
“They say the errors of past generations are erased,” the chancellor explained, “when one accepts Christ.” He smiled tenuously and sipped his wine again.
Judith returned his smile, resting her chin lightly upon the back of her hand, a loose strand of hair sweeping her cheek. Luis de Santángel made no effort to hide his fascination.
“I have a question.” Levi, now fourteen, asserted his right to participate as an adult. “If you are Christian, that means you believe in Yehoshua ben Yosef—Jesus Christ, as you say. No?”
Santángel peered at him. He was two years older than Gabriel. Had Gabriel been raised in the traditions of his ancestors, would he resemble this young man, at least in his bearing and manner? The differences were immediately apparent. Levi’s posture, slightly hunched, conveyed humility and a familiarity with life’s disappointments, but his warm expression communicated trust and confidence. He seemed to feel no shame about wearing a skull cap at dinnertime. While Gabriel fancied himself a knight or a crusader, courageous and proud, conquering infidels, Levi thought of himself as a Jew, content to remain in his small, confined neighborhood.
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