The chancellor wondered why Torquemada had placed in his cell not only the Gospels but also the Old Testament. Perhaps the Inquisition was offering him a choice. In which book would he locate his faith?
Santángel would not be coerced into accepting what Torquemada or anyone else wanted him to believe, not after all that had happened to Estefan, Gabriel, Felipe, and so many others. He longed, however, to discover whatever truths he could in the Bible, to arm himself with knowledge.
He began with the story of a man, a woman, a serpent, and the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. He read and reread this narrative, wondering why it held such power over him and all of mankind.
The serpent of Genesis unexpectedly brought to mind another—a serpent curled into the Latin words of an obscure apothecary’s formula. Years before, Santángel had heard mention of aquae serpentis not from the king’s steward, as Fernando feared, but from the herbalist who had prepared the costly brew. Santángel had not known precisely what the term, or the potion, signified, but it took little prodding to find out. Although he had tried to put it out of his mind years earlier, he was now grateful that he had been unable to do so.
Days and weeks passed in contemplation, longing, and regret. Santángel’s cell, isolated and policed, became the only stable point in a world whirling into disorder. His society’s moral bearings had eroded under a driving rain of ambition, greed, and misguided piety. The chancellor clutched at the Bible’s promise of a different world, a rehabilitated, renewed world, a world alluded to in the prophecies. At last, he appreciated the yearnings of a Cristóbal Colón.
Three monks, by turns, visited every morning, bringing bread and water and removing the chamber pot. They treated him with cautious deference. One, Brother Donato, seemed gentler, perhaps more respectful than the others. From time to time, he grinned shyly, or placed a morsel of pig’s foot in Santángel’s broth.
“Brother Donato,” the chancellor tried one day as the monk turned to leave.
A short, broad-shouldered man with a misshapen nose and a high forehead, Brother Donato turned back. “Yes?”
“Can you help me with this?” Santángel showed him a passage in Isaiah:
Go, swift messengers,
to a nation scattered and torn apart
to a people tall and smooth-skinned—
a trampled tribe, waiting and hoping—
whose land is divided by waters.
All you who dwell in the world, inhabitants of earth,
watch when the standard is hoisted on the mountains
and hear when the trumpet blasts.
“He’s telling us, is he not,” asked the chancellor, “to go somewhere. Somewhere in this physical world.”
“So it would appear.”
“If we want to be present when the standard is hoisted on the mountains, to witness God’s victory over evil, we’re supposed to travel somewhere.” He translated another line from the same chapter. “In vessels on the surface of waters.”
Looking at the Latin, Brother Donato blinked a few times. “That would seem to be what Isaiah is saying.”
“Thank you.”
Through the following days and weeks, the chancellor broached the subject again with the monk. He told him that he knew a man who was determined to help fulfill Isaiah’s prophecy. He mentioned a generous, secret gift that would be offered to the Dominican monastery at La Rábida, where Colón’s son, Diego, resided, if Brother Donato would whisper a word to the Superior there.
Judith still expected to receive word from Santángel. Every night, she hoped he would once again appear in her bedroom. While waiting, she endeavored to reestablish her trade in a changed society, to enhance her contacts with local and foreign buyers, to find additional markets in the newly accessible lands to the north. In Castile and Aragon, her linguistic abilities would give her an advantage over most of Granada’s other merchants.
Today, however, was not a day for work. Today the community was celebrating a bar mitzvah. Judith carried a basket of bread, pastries, and grapes. “Levi, come. Let’s celebrate.” Although Levi was a man now, Judith still insisted he accompany her whenever she walked to the synagogue. “Enjoy the leavened bread while you can. Passover is coming.”
Christian soldiers patrolled the streets in elaborate, tight-fitting clothes, carrying swords. Walking through a city no longer her own, Judith felt displaced. Although she had always taken pride in her Spanish ancestry, she felt that her new monarchs, King Fernando and Queen Ysabel, were the figureheads of a foreign culture.
Rumors swept through the quarter like fire: the Jews would be more strictly confined to their district, they would not be allowed to trade with Christians, they would be required to wear identifying badges. Such measures had already been enforced in Madrid and Toledo.
A burly town crier holding a lance, his hair gathered at the nape of his neck, shouted the words from a long proclamation. The festively dressed, curious Jewish community of Granada gathered in the synagogue square to listen.
“From King Fernando and Queen Ysabel, salutations and grace.” The crier looked up and nodded to his audience.
“You well know that we have established a New Inquisition in our realms, and that by this means, many guilty persons have been discovered. But we are informed by our inquisitors that great injury still results from contact between Jews and Christians. Jews have found ways to steal faithful Christians from our Holy Faith, and to subvert them to their own wicked beliefs and convictions. This has been proved by statements and confessions, both from these same Jews and from those who have been perverted and enticed by them, which has resulted in the great injury, detriment, and opprobrium of our Holy Faith.”
The proclaimer paused, breathed deeply, and resumed. “Therefore, we resolve to order the Jews of our kingdoms and lordships to depart and never return to any of these territories, under pain that if they do not comply with this command, they incur the penalty of death and the confiscation of all their possessions. We secure to them that they may travel and be safe, but they must not export gold, silver, or coined money.
“We command that this our charter be posted in the plazas and places of our cities, towns, and villages as an announcement and as a public document. And no one shall damage it in any manner, under penalty of being at our mercy and the deprivation of their offices and the confiscation of their possessions.
“Given in our city of Granada, the thirty-first day of the month of March, the year of the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ one thousand four hundred and ninety-two years.”
The town crier turned and nailed the proclamation to the door of the synagogue. Judith, Levi, and the others stood there long after he left, absorbing and discussing the news. Judith felt as if the land on which she stood had turned to water. No citizenship, not even the deepest-rooted investment in a so-called civilization, was permanent or secure.
Offense, pain, questions of justice and injustice swam through their minds and conversations. They also had to plan their departure. How were they to transport wealth to foreign lands, if they were not permitted to carry gold or silver?
It seemed Ysabel and Fernando cared not a whit if they all had to begin their lives over in unknown dominions, where as foreigners they would possess no rights. The Christians assumed that Jews should suffer, as foretold in the Hebrews’ own writings. The Christians’ dark purpose was to assure the fulfillment of such prophecies. This purpose justified the Crowns’ wholesale theft of Jewish property—especially after such a costly “holy” war. Judith recalled Ysabel’s cold smile, her haughty regard, her necklace. She cursed herself for having fashioned that crucifix.
Isaac Azoulay approached. “This is all foretold, Judith.”
“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But how does that help?”
“That which we can’t control,” he philosophized, “we mustn’t allow to affect us.”
“Why mustn’t we? If a bee stings you, you’re going to cry out. It hardly matters why he
harmed you, or whether you can control it.”
“Then we must do our best to ensure no more bees sting us.”
Demanding that the bar mitzvah be given a chance to chant his Torah portion, the rabbi asked his congregants not to mention the expulsion. Nevertheless, near the end of the service, a lively debate broke out. Some blamed the moral waywardness of the Jews for their bitter fate. Others lamented the ignorance or barbarity of Ysabel and Fernando. Still others accused the religion of Jesus itself, claiming its founder had been misguided, even though most knew little or nothing about Christianity or its Church. “I should hope you’re wrong,” observed Isaac Azoulay in a quiet but commanding voice. “How can Christianity, or, for that matter, Islam, be evil, if they grew out of Judaism? Can evil grow out of good?” Isaac’s comment engendered even feistier debate. Poisonous mushrooms sprouted from the most generous, fertile soils.
“The coming of our beloved Messiah is, at long last, at hand,” sighed a young student.
“We all want a savior,” Judith observed from the women’s balcony. “Everyone’s waiting for that perfect person to rescue us. But so far, our Messiah hasn’t come, and all we have is each other.”
Below her, in the men’s section, Isaac Azoulay looked up at her.
The rabbi asked that this discussion be put aside so that the religious service could resume.
They would all comply with the monarchs’ orders, Judith reflected while mumbling the Hebrew words of the liturgy. Their faith taught them to honor the local powers, wherever they resided. Despite their reputation for cunning, industry, wealth, swaggering self-promotion, and exercising a disproportionate influence over important events, the Jews possessed very little power, virtually none.
As she pondered not only her own fate, but also that of all the doctors, scholars, merchants, and traders who would be lost to this land, she could not help feeling pity and, indeed, hatred for its misguided sovereigns. She wondered how Luis de Santángel could serve such monarchs. Once again, she realized, she had chosen the wrong man.
The rabbi recited the sixteenth blessing of the Amidah, a poem of pious supplication:
Blessed are you, O Lord, who gathers together the dispersed of his people Israel. May your compassion be stirred, O Lord our God, toward the righteous, the pious, the elders of your people, the house of Israel, the remnant of their scholars.
After the rabbi concluded this prayer, and despite his own warning, he allowed his outrage to overtake him. “Let there be a curse upon this land. For five hundred years, let no Jew dwell here, even if the Christians beg us to return. Amen.”
The congregation echoed a heartfelt “amen” and resumed chanting the liturgical texts.
Brother Donato showed a visitor into Santángel’s room, a man in a Dominican habit who gazed at the ground from under an oversized hood. The chancellor had been expecting Torquemada to pay him a visit, but the face that looked into his was not the inquisitor’s.
“Señor Colón.” Santángel sat up on his blanket.
Colón sat on the floor near Santángel. “The monks at La Rábida are quite excited. They’re expecting a generous gift.”
“And they will receive it. How is your son faring?”
“Better than any of us.” Colón glanced around, taking in the room’s barrenness and decency. When his eyes returned to Santángel’s, the chancellor saw something in them he had never seen before: pity.
“Have you met again with the queen?”
“I’m still waiting.”
Santángel looked out the window. The branches of the pine and olive trees were bending in a strong wind, signifying an approaching storm. “What other news?”
“The king and queen have issued an edict. All the Jews, in all their domains, must leave.”
Outside a powerful gust flexed the poplars, then released them like an archer his bow. Santángel rose and walked to the window. “You’ve seen this edict yourself?”
“It is generally known.” The captain joined him at the window.
“If you can find a way to speak with her—the silversmith. Explain what has happened. Tell her how very sorry I am.”
“I shall, Chancellor.”
“And when you speak with Judith, ask where she intends to go, how she intends to get there. Offer, perhaps, to take her with you. She may have no other options.”
“Chancellor, I can’t have a woman on board, a beautiful woman like that. She’d be raped by the sailors.”
“Her nephew, then, Levi. Perhaps you can find a use for him.”
Brother Donato entered and stood near the door, his hands joined behind his back.
“Before you go,” the chancellor added to Colón, “I want to show you something.”
He opened his cumbersome Bible to Isaiah 33, and translated from the Latin:
Your eyes shall behold the land that is far.
Your heart shall meditate terror …
You shall not see a fierce people,
A people of a deeper speech than you can perceive—
Of a stammering tongue, that you cannot understand.
The people that dwell therein shall be forgiven their iniquity.
“It is clear as day,” Colón whispered, awed. “Is it not?” He studied the Latin awhile longer, then turned back to Santángel, his eyes glistening. “Can he read the holy tongue? Can he translate it?”
“Who?”
“The boy. The nephew of our silversmith.”
“I’ve heard him pray in Hebrew. He also speaks Arabic. And Spanish.”
“Perhaps, then, he can help me.”
Santángel turned to the monk. “Brother Donato, may we have another moment?”
With a courteous nod, the monk stepped out.
Santángel lowered his voice. “Please get word to King Fernando.”
“And what word would that be?” inquired Colón.
“Two words, actually. Aquae serpentis.”
In the Jewish quarter of Granada the wealthy rapidly discovered that all their possessions amounted to nothing. That was precisely how much silver or gold they would be permitted to take abroad. Creditors, having no other choice, forgave their debtors. The wronged, in many cases, forgave those who had harmed them. Neighbors who previously had little to say to one another now could not stop talking.
Dina Benatar invited Judith for tea. “I saw Sara. The Sultan, in Fez, offered the vizier a great house there. She seemed happy enough.”
Judith smiled wistfully. “And you? Where are you going?”
“We want to be near her.”
After a few sips, Judith put down her cup.
“Are you feeling well, Judith? You look pale.”
“Just a bit queasy.”
“Why don’t you talk to Isaac Azoulay?”
“I don’t need to.”
Dina looked at her, puzzled.
“Dina, I may be … I believe I am …”
Dina’s eyes went to Judith’s hand on her belly. Judith nodded.
“How did this happen?”
Judith told her friend how the chancellor of Aragon had come into her life, saved her business, called on her a second time in Granada, and never returned.
“And now?” asked Dina.
“I curse the day I met him.”
Dina poured herself a second cup. She took some time to absorb the hot beverage along with everything Judith had said. “But if he came back, this chancellor of yours, the two of you would find a way. No?”
“No,” said Judith. “That is over.” The aching, the anger she still felt, two months after his visit, surprised her.
“You can’t bring this child into the world without a father. And you can’t leave Granada, and go wherever you go, without a husband.”
Judith sipped her tea, her mind and heart far away.
Another week passed. Another month. Judith packed everything. She and Levi attempted to sell their rugs, tables, and chairs, competing in the public squares for Christians’ and Muslims’ gru
dging coins. Of the small profit she made, some she spent on food. Most, she saved to pay for their voyage, even though she had not yet determined where she would go.
On a drizzly late-spring night, she sent Levi on his monthly errand, without any goods to trade, but with a note for Cristóbal Colón. Levi was to entrust this message to Dumitru, but when he arrived at the customary meeting place, he found a man he did not know. The man’s thinning hair was drenched. He wore a dark cloak.
“We haven’t met, but we have been dealing with each other. I am Cristóbal Colón. There was no need for me to send my courier, since I’m here in Granada.”
“We have no silver this time, Señor Colón,” said Levi. “We’ve been busy packing. I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“Yes. Where do you intend to go?”
“We don’t yet know. But wherever we land, if you have ships that trade there, perhaps we can resume our dealings.”
“I shall no longer be trading in this part of the world.”
“Where will you be trading?”
“We intend to set sail, very soon, for regions far more distant. Far more promising. The Indias. Ultimately, Jerusalem.”
As water ran down their faces, Levi scrutinized him. “The Indias? Jerusalem?”
“That is what I said. You speak Spanish well.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course, Arabic is your mother tongue.”
“Yes.”
“And you read the holy tongue as well. Is that not so?”
“It is. Why?”
“Señor Luis de Santángel asked me to help you.”
To this, Levi did not reply. Everyone was gossiping about Judith’s belly. Women who passed her on the street whispered to their daughters. In synagogue, men who had once proposed to her wondered aloud who the lucky one was whom she had welcomed into her bed. Prior to services one afternoon, a young man insinuated that Judith was a loose woman. Levi struck him. The rabbi ordered Levi not to attend services for three weeks.
By Fire, By Water Page 26
