The bed has been carefully arranged with clean linen and half a dozen pillows. Again, Mama’s work. And I wonder if someone will ritually examine the sheets tomorrow for the show of virginal blood. My heart flutters like a breeze-blown leaf. Will my husband find me pleasing? Husband. The word makes me tremble. Quietly, I slip out of my gown.
Sebastian has sunk down onto the bed, and tries removing his shoes. He belches once, then twice, then slides, like a child’s rag doll, off the bed and onto the floor. He mumbles something before pulling himself up, and when he does he actually looks at me and seems startled to find me standing nearby. He nods as though remembering I am now his wife, but his face remains expressionless.
Out of modesty I do not remove my undergarments until I have gotten into bed and covered myself with sheets, just as Mama instructed. And then I wait. And while I wait I find myself hoping that Sebastian is too drunk to consummate. It is a wicked thought, a selfish thought. Even so, my heart sinks when I see Sebastian, without a stitch of clothing, snuffing out the lamps. When he slips beneath the sheets and lunges for me, I smell anew the odor of wine. I close my eyes as clumsy, wine-stained hands grope and tug. And in the dark I hear only two sounds: the pounding of my own heart and Sebastian’s voice whispering over and over and over again, “Beatriz. Beatriz. Beatriz.”
Seville to Cadiz, Spain
The bells chime Lauds as I try to rouse my husband.
“Sebastian,” I whisper into the ear of the sleeping man next to me. “You must awake.” I shake him gently, then more vigorously, but he remains as motionless as one dead.
Finally, I arise, light a lamp, and wash. Next, I braid my hair; secure it in a hairnet, then dress in my traveling clothes.
Mama thought wool or linen or cotton was best for travel, for they are the cloth of everyday, and would make us less conspicuous. But Sebastian has ordered I wear clothing befitting the wife of a nobleman. So I dress in a skirt and bodice of brown brocade, which Mama has lined with taffeta to protect me against fleas and lice. Over that goes a brown hooded traveling cloak, also lined with taffeta. When I finish dressing, I return to the bed.
“Sebastian, you must get up. Sebastian!” Neither my words nor my vigorous shaking stir him. Without another word, I leave the room.
It is difficult to see in the semi-dark corridor. Only a single lantern, affixed to the wall, guides my steps. But presently I hear voices and see a light streaming from one of the rooms, and head that way. There, two servants struggle to fasten Sebastian’s trunks. I am about to ask for assistance, when out of nowhere a man appears, a gentleman knight, by the look of him, for his chest is covered in Brigandine plate armor and a sword is belted to his waist. Though there is a swagger to his walk and a smugness that is displeasing, I decide to enlist his aid.
“Pardon,” I say, blocking his way. “Perhaps you can assist me.”
The man bows, somewhat irreverently, I think, then introduces himself. “Arias Diaz, Señora Villarreal, at your service.”
It is indelicate to ask a stranger for this type of aid, but I know not what else to do so I point down the corridor. “My husband . . . is in need of a kindness.”
Arias nods as he studies my traveling clothes, then smiles. Everyone in the castle knows Sebastian drank heavily yesterday. It takes little effort to understand that the bridegroom now lies on his bed in a stupor. “Of course, Señora. Do not distress yourself. I will see to it. Señor Villarreal has anticipated your need.” And with that, Arias saunters down the hall.
Four men are needed to lift Sebastian’s trunks into the donkey cart. My trunks are managed by two. When the cart is loaded, Arias helps Sebastian into the space left for him, for it is plain to all that Sebastian is unable to make the journey on foot. Señor Villarreal has come to supervise the loading and to see us off. When he gives the order to exchange the donkey for an ox, I am relieved, for no mere donkey could pull such a load. And then Señor Villarreal’s hand-picked soldiers, fifty in all, gather in the courtyard, ready to accompany us as far as the old Roman amphitheatre outside Seville.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Señor Villarreal deposit, what I know to be a sack of coins—for they jingle—into Arias’ hands.
“Watch over Sebastian,” I hear him say.
And when Señor Villarreal gives the order to strike the ox, my emotions get the better of me and I fly, weeping, into my father-in-law’s arms.
Please tell me I do not have to go.
His cheeks are wet, too. He is, after all, losing a son, for when will he see Sebastian again, in this earthly realm, at least? Though the servants all carry lanterns, his expression is obscured, but by his generous hug I sense he feels my compassion, and in turn gives me his. I am the unloved bride of his son. And he has no remedy except to keep me in his prayers, which he whispers quickly in my ear that he will do. Then he pries me from him with the words, “Go with God.”
Our destination is Cadiz. It would have been easier to sail south, down the Guadalquivir River past San Lucar and the Guadalquivir estuary to Cadiz, but with Fray Alonso’s spies everywhere, it is too risky. So we are forced to go on foot, stopping first at the ruins of the Roman amphitheater in Italica where we will be joined by the Vivar family.
Though Mama dislikes anything pagan, Beartiz and I did manage just once, after much pleading, to get Papa to take us to the amphitheater. It was the year my sister and I learned that the Roman Emperor, Hadrian, was born in Italica; the same Hadrian who tried to build the pagan city of Aelia Capitolina over the ruins of Holy Jerusalem.
I think of that visit now as I trudge silently behind the ox-cart, barely able to see where my foot falls. And after some time, the sound of the cart wheels becomes louder as dirt gives way to the remnants of smooth paving-stones, telling me we are on the tree-lined road that Hadrian built.
Somewhere alongside this road is a milestone with the inscription Hadrianus Augustus fecit. I threw pebbles at it when I was here last—a childish gesture, but I did it because this awful place made Beatriz cry. She cried when she saw the arena where gladiators fought and died, and where animals were hoisted by an underground elevator to be slaughtered in sport. But I did not cry. I had seen too many auto de fes. And who ever wept over an animal? Did not all Seville love the bullfights where the sons of nobles went to prove their courage and prowess? The fine animals destroyed there are hardly given a thought.
But later that day I felt anger when Papa took us to the ruined houses of the people who frequented the amphitheater—ruins that were covered in beautiful mosaics of fish, palm trees and birds. And there it was, the contrast: beauty and ugliness, cruelty and gentleness, side by side, just as it has existed for centuries, and just as it exists even now. And as I listen to the rattling of the cart, I marvel that this is the world God so loved. This is the world to which He sent His only Son.
I am still marveling when Arias Diaz gives the order to stop. As the cart slows, I see moving shadows, and realize Gonzalo Vivar and his family have stepped out from behind the ruins. Though it is difficult to see, I know that it is Maria Vivar who takes her place beside me.
What a comfort to have a woman so near! My hand reaches for hers, and finding it, I give it a squeeze. Proper etiquette has been violated. It is unseemly to show such affection to a servant, especially a servant one hardly knows. She responds by a squeeze of her own, making me understand that though she is more than twice my age, she is as frightened as I.
The clanking of pots breaks the silence as the Vivar men quickly redistribute their possessions, possessions which they carry in large sacks, and sling over their shoulders. Then Arias gives the order to move out, and I release Maria’s hand but not before feeling that a bond has been forged between us.
We have walked for hours, and my traveling clothes have begun to feel as heavy as mail. The sun beats relentlessly. Perspiration wets my face, my neck, my under arms, and we have yet to encounter the full heat of the day.
Sebastian snores loudly in th
e rattling ox-cart and I feel ashamed. The fifty soldiers who accompanied us to the amphitheater have long departed. And it is daylight. We are now easy targets for the many bandits known to pillage along this road, and it is unseemly for an able-bodied man to avoid his responsibility of providing protection. I only pray we encounter pilgrims for there is safety in numbers.
“You must be hungry, Doña Isabel.” Maria touches my shoulder. “And tired. Perhaps we should stop.” She points to the small sack on her back. “I have made empanadas.”
I look at the sack and know that Maria, being an Old Christian, has not purged her meat like Mama. And surely her pastry contains pork fat. But I am a sincere convert now and such things as laws of ritual purity should not concern me.
Still . . . it pricks.
I smile and nod, even though when we arrived at Dos Hermanas I had planned to distribute the empanadas Señor Villarreal has provided. But how can I disappoint Maria? Her face is so full of sweetness and a desire to please. And I am hungry. So I signal Arias Diaz and instantly he is by my side.
“How may I serve you, Doña Isabel?” His words hang in midair like droplets of oil; his small black eyes, like those of a hawk, search my face to determine my pleasure.
“This is a good place to stop.” I gesture with my hand. Several trees stand nearby, trees large enough to provide shade from the fierce sun. And trees in this area are scarce. For miles we have passed nothing but marshes and flat planes full of grazing sheep and horses, though in the distance date and pomegranate orchards could be seen. “It is a good place to eat and rest.”
“Indeed! An excellent place, Señora.” Arias Diaz bows slightly. “I will see to it at once.”
And within minutes, we are all sitting on blankets shaded by a large spreading pine and eating Maria’s tasty empanadas—folded pastries filled with all manner of good things. Mine is stuffed with lamb and raisins, and seasoned with cardamom and fenugreek. I have already taken an empanada of eggs and almonds with saffron, cinnamon and sugar to my husband, for I remembered Beatriz telling me of his fondness for sugar and eggs. But I was unable to rouse him, and so I left it, wrapped in coarse homespun, by his side.
Happily, Enrique sits off by himself. It is curious, but since joining us at the amphitheater he has kept his distance and seems uninterested in my activities. It is a relief. I can only attribute this to my married state, or more accurately, my marriage to a Villarreal. Surely, now, Enrique will cease to be an irritation.
“The empanada is delicious,” I say.
Maria smiles. “You are most gracious, Doña Isabel.”
When I lean closer and whisper, “Please call me Isabel,” I see a horrified look on her face.
Old Christians never use the respectful term “Don” or “Doña” when addressing a Jew. These terms were reserved for Old Christians of nobility or those of great distinction such as Admiral Columbus who was granted the honor of being called “Don” by Queen Isabel herself. The term might be used to venerate an already exalted converso such as Señor Villarreal, but hardly for an ordinary one, even one who is a wealthy merchant. I cannot say why Maria and her entire family feel the need to violate this tradition. Perhaps it is years of working for my father. Or perhaps it is because they are simple peasants unused to the etiquette of noble society, but we are embarking on a different life now where I foresee few allies, and even fewer friends.
“Please call me Isabel,” I repeat. “It would please me greatly.” And when the look of horror disappears, and Maria covers her mouth and giggles, I know it pleases her, too.
“But only when we are alone,” she hastily adds.
The first person to greet us as we enter Dos Hermanas is an elderly man, neatly dressed in patched clothing, carrying a leather flagon and cup. The ox-cart rattles to a halt, and we all watch and wait as the man pulls the hemp stopper from the flagon, pours a bit of its contents into the cup, and offers it to Arias, who has, without being asked, made himself appear as the head of our expedition.
Arias gladly sips from the cup for we all know the man is a wine crier, hired by the local tavern to cry the wine to passersby, offering them samples as inducement to further partake at his master’s table.
Arias drains the cup, then wipes his lips with the back of one hand. “By Saint Peter’s beard, this is good! A Pierrefitte I wager.” The wine crier smiles. “Come take us to your tavern that we may wash the dust from our throats.” And with that, Arias slaps the wine crier on the shoulder then allows him to lead us all, like sheep, to the end of a narrow side street. The ox-cart pulls to a stop in front of a structure whose partially fallen bricks reveal that the walls beneath are made of rammed earth, so common in this area. Over the door, tacked to several bricks whose days also seemed numbered, is a sign, Posada, indicating that behind the tavern is an inn for sleeping.
Arias roughly prods Sebastian before half-lifting, half-dragging him from the ox-cart. Then he deposits my husband on the ground, draping his upper body over the side of the cart to keep him from falling.
“Come, Don Sebastian, you must fortify yourself,” Arias says.
When I lean over the cart and pick up the uneaten sugar and egg empanada and try to hand it to Sebastian, Arias shakes his head. “The condition of his stomach is much too delicate, Señora. Better a cup or two of Pierrefitte.”
My fingers curl around Sebastian’s arm in stubborn resistance, holding him in place. In the other hand I show him the wrapped empanada. “Is it wise, my husband, to drink on an empty stomach? Perhaps just a little of this will do you good.”
When Sebastian looks at me through swollen eyes, it is as though he is seeing a stranger. I could be anyone, Maria Vivar even. But he is polite. “You are kind, but Arias is right. A little wine would be better, I think.” And with that Sebastian, aided by Arias, stumbles into the tavern.
The two cart drivers scramble behind them, followed by Gonzolo and his sons, all eager to take their place at one of the rough-hewed tables and wash their throats. But I remain outside. Papa’s business associates always complained about the filthy conditions of our taverns and inns, calling them worse than pigsties. And they talked of the ever present prostitutes, many of whom were just laundresses or servant girls looking for extra money. And on more than one occasion, they have filled my head with stories of robbers and cutthroats who, they claim, roam these establishments as freely as the lice. And now my husband has entered such a place.
“Will you not go in, Isabel?” Maria asks.
I shake my head.
“A wise wife aids her husband. Even if that aid is unwelcome.”
“I . . . know not how to help him.”
“Then you must pray for wisdom.” Maria pulls me gently by the arm into the tavern.
The large room is poorly lit. The corners and one wall are completely obscured by shadows where men sit whispering and drinking from clay goblets. Sebastian, with Arias at his side, is already lounging at a long table in the center of the room. Sounds, like dry bones rattling across a tabletop, fill the stale air. When my eyes grow accustomed to the poor lighting I see dice being flung about, first by Arias, then Sebastian, then by three roguish-looking men who sit with them. Papa’s business associates have often spoken of sharpers, those who frequent taverns using crooked dice, and how even the dice makers’ guild, with all its laws, has been unable to stop them.
Maria grabs my arm when I head for Sebastian, and pulls me to a small table nestled against the shadowed wall. Reluctantly, I sit, then watch in horror as Sebastian takes his bag of coins and plops it on the tabletop. Arias waves to the tavern keeper to refill the goblets that already sit by their elbows. A slender servant girl appears from nowhere and pours wine, though I doubt it is the expensive Pierrefitte Arias praised so highly on the road. The girl lingers beside Sebastian, or rather his large leather pouch. Her bodice is loosely secured, making me wonder if she is not looking to ply another trade. But all eyes are riveted on the dice as they bounce across the table, and
finally realizing she has little chance of gaining anyone’s attention, she saunters over to us.
“Wine, Señoras?”
Maria looks hesitant, and since I suspect she is worried about spending money unnecessarily, I decide to pay for us both. “Two Marlys, please.”
“We do not carry Marly.”
“You carry Pierrefitte, but not Marly?”
“Who said we carry Pierrefitte?” She puts one hand on her hip as she rests her pitcher on the table. “We carry no French wines here.” There is derision on her face. “We serve only local ones, and some sherry from Jerez.”
“Then we will each take a cup of your local wine.”
The tavern maid leaves laughing, as though enjoying a secret joke, and returns moments later with two goblets filled with, I am soon to discover, one of the most delicious wines I have ever tasted.
It feels good to sit, and I stretch my legs beneath the table. But this attitude of rest is short lived, for Arias continues to encourage Sebastian to increase his wager at every throw of the dice. And in response, Sebastian tosses out gold florins as if they were copper blancas.
I realize then and there that I will never make Sebastian a proper wife, for I possess neither Beatriz’s sweet indulgent nature nor her detachment from worldly things. I am far too practical, and my business head screams silently at the careless squandering I see before me. Only great effort keeps me from rushing to the table and pleading with Sebastian to leave. Though such behavior would be unseemly and would surely embarrass my husband, these considerations are not what stop me. Rather, it is my love for Beatriz. I have married her beloved. And she would not wish me to be a cold and disrespectful wife, or heap abuse upon Sebastian’s head, no matter what his failings.
The Salt Covenants Page 9
