The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring

by Agustín Bernaldo Palatchi

  Mauricio thought it wiser to change tactic in order to pacify the admiral and win him over. The possibility of occupying a place in history as the discoverer of the New World did not appeal to his vanity, but seemed to make him angry. It was obvious that Christopher Columbus wanted to remove all these facts that he, as discoverer of new territories, was bound to know better than anyone else. Mauricio had certainly not crossed the Pyrenees to argue about state secrets, but to try and solve his precarious economic situation.

  “I understand you perfectly, Don Christopher. When I first arrived in Florence I was nothing more than a poor foreigner, without friends or social position. Fortune smiled upon me and thanks to the generosity of Lorenzo Medici, I had the opportunity to prosper, marry a distinguished lady, and meet with the most illustrious minds of the city. However, this earned me hate and resentment. Although this contempt was veiled by a well-educated courtesy, I could perceive the great distance that separated me from the families of noble lineage. My rapid ascent fed all manner of rumors behind my back, slanders and plots contrived to discredit me. This is why I find myself obliged to come to you. Envy knows neither laziness nor forgetfulness and the fall of Lorenzo offered my enemies the opportunity to settle the accounts of their hate. I was imprisoned, tortured, and got away with my life by sheer miracle, but I was unable to avoid becoming economically ruined. Since that moment, my family depends on the charity of others. The restitution of the money I lent you would allow me to renegotiate certain businesses again and regain in that way the dignity of being valued for what I am.”

  “You must believe me if I say that I would be delighted to help you, but I myself am so deeply in debt that I am unable to attend your demands.”

  Debts? How had he managed to owe so much money with no more guarantee than an idea that was impossible to demonstrate? Who was Christopher Columbus really? According to him, he was a Genoese sailor who had reached the shores near Lisbon, swimming away from a shipwreck. But since when were simple sailors polyglots and experts in arithmetic, algebra, and astronomy? And did young women from prominent families in neighboring Portugal marry foreign castaways without a penny to their names? Because Filipa Moniz de Perestrello, daughter of the governor of Porto Santo, had opened the doors of the Portuguese court to the discoverer after having married him. There was no doubt that Columbus was hiding something deliberately concerning his past, but delving into the contradictions in his official biography was not going to help Mauricio recover the money he had lent him.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you,” continued the admiral, “but do not despair, as in my next voyage I shall discover the spice route and I will pay off all my debts when I return.”

  The fact of being able to trade freely with the East without having to pay tolls to either Turks or Arabs would convert Christopher Columbus into one of the richest men in Christendom and he would most probably be true to his word. Yet Mauricio was afraid that Amerigo Vespucci was right, and that the lands that had been discovered were not the furthest eastern borders of the Indies, but another continent altogether. In which case, Christopher Columbus would never import silks from Cathay, incense from Arabia, damask from India, or pearls from Ceylon. He would never find the cinnamon sticks of Tidore, the cloves of Amboina, the nutmeg from Banda, or the pepper vines of Malabar. The only certainty was that after years of exploration, not a trace had ever been found of Cipango, or any of the cities described in the Book of Wonders, or one single place where spices flourished. Mauricio was not terribly confident that anything would be any different on the next voyage.

  “Unfortunately, my financial needs are so pressing they cannot withstand any delay.”

  “I understand you perfectly, but although I am rich in honors and titles, my coffers are completely empty of maravedis. Ask me for anything else you might need and if it is in my power I shall concede it to you.”

  “Light, light, more light,” muttered Mauricio with a half-smile. “That is what I shall need so as not to give in to despair when I return to Florence without money.”

  “More light …,” repeated Columbus slowly. “Is that not what we are all searching for? I am afraid I will not be able to help you there either, Mauricio. As a matter of fact, I must admit I do not even know the author of such a beautiful invocation, which seems to be from a prophet in the Old Testament. Am I right?”

  At that instant, Mauricio conceived the idea of using the most daring of all strategies: to tell the truth. If he was mistaken in his judgment of Christopher Columbus, he might risk being denounced to the Inquisition, whose methods of interrogation were well known for the brutality of their tortures. He was, however, confident that if his conjectures were correct, the discoverer would reconsider his refusal to repay the loan.

  “In actual fact that quotation was written by neither Isaiah nor by Ezekiel, nor Jonas … in fact by none of the ancient prophets, but by my ancestor Abraham Abulafia.”

  The admiral must have been a man accustomed to control his emotions under any circumstances, for not one single muscle of his face changed when he heard that Mauricio was of Jewish descent.

  “Abraham Abulafia,” said the admiral in a neutral voice, “was the maximum representative of the ecstatic Kabbalah in the Iberian Peninsula, although his mystic vision of existence was far more appreciated in Italy. There is nothing surprising about that, because I know from experience that no one is a prophet in his own land,” said Columbus, smiling ironically. “Now, even though you may be an exemplary Christian, I recommend you not to go around revealing your Jewish origins, however remote they may be. The holy hand of the Inquisition is far reaching and one can never be entirely sure to whom one is talking in these uncertain times.”

  Christopher Columbus was right. Only those who could claim the purity of the Christian blood for seven generations were completely safe from being hauled up in front of the Inquisition and any accusation could be enough to start proceedings. Mauricio had, however, risked revealing his past to the admiral, as he was persuaded that Jewish blood ran in his veins. It was indeed an extraordinary coincidence that many of the main backers who participated in his exploits were New Christians, descendants of Jews. Curiously enough, no priest had been on board during the first expedition and the only spokesperson was a Jewish convert, Luis Torres. Was Columbus a descendant of converts? Even his surname, so similar to Mauricio’s, seemed to point that way and the gaps and contradictions that littered his biography could well be the result of a past that had been invented to deliberately conceal his true origins. This was no wild hypothesis, because as Columbus had intimated, a few Hebrew ancestors in the family tree was enough to put one in the sights of the fearsome Inquisition. If Mauricio was correct in his assumption, it would be natural for Columbus to secretly sympathize with him and that empathy would prompt him into trying to help, to the best of his abilities. That being so, perhaps all would not be lost.

  “Now listen to me, Mauricio. You have come from far to see me, you seem to be an excellent person, you gave me financial backing when very few had any confidence in me, and it makes me indignant to think that years after having achieved success with my first journey to the Indies, I am still unable to return the money you so desperately need. Neither your person nor my honor deserves such a wrong. Allow me therefore to suggest an agreement which will re-establish some justice. We are planting sugarcane in the newly discovered lands, where the climate is extremely favorable for its cultivation. I propose that you convert this debt into a percentage of my participation in the business. In this way, all the harm I have caused you by my delay in repaying the debt would be compensated by the great profits proceeding from the maritime sugar trade. You must also consider that thanks to this agreement, you could obtain funds immediately if you were to sell your share in the business, although I would not advise you to do so. Frankly, it would be wiser for you to wait.”

  He seemed sincere. It would have been so easy to have maintained his initial negative attitude about
not returning the loan. At the same time, sugar was as highly esteemed as were spices, and no one was better placed than the admiral to know the conditions for its cultivation in those far-off lands. Mauricio would be able to delegate the control of the merchandise to Amerigo Vespucci as it reached Spain and, in exchange for a commission, entrust him the task of sending the sacks of sugar on to Florence. He felt as if that proposal was the way in which Abraham Abulafia was helping him from up above for having returned the ring to its legitimate owner.

  “Is that an agreement?” asked the admiral, offering him his hand.

  “It is an agreement,” said Mauricio, filled nevertheless with a bad premonition as they shook hands.

  The Spanish captains already knew the sea lanes to the new lands and in the future Christopher Columbus would not be indispensable to the Catholic Monarchs. What would become then of the viceroy of the islands and lands that had been discovered? Would their majesties leave such remote dominions to be governed by that proud and enigmatic character? It was not out of the question, thought Mauricio, that one day in the future some Spanish port might witness the great discoverer himself returning weighed down by chains.

  2 The Straits of Gibraltar

  Part Three

  1498

  Nothing endures but change.

  —HERACLITUS

  130

  Florence

  March 25, 1498

  Flavia knelt down to pray in a small and solitary chapel in the church of Santa Croce. She favored that time of the afternoon in which there were neither religious services nor many people. The silence allowed her to meditate upon that day, so heavy with meaning. The twenty fifth of March marked the beginning of spring, a cycle of renewal when everything began to flower once again.

  Flavia was already a woman of a certain age and could not aspire to being a young girl again, but neither was she a faded flower. In her own fashion, she had also prepared herself for spring’s awakening: her newly washed hair had been swept back, her eyes made up, her face had been whitened with powdered mother-of-pearl, and she had chosen to wear an elegant, brightly colored cioppa. Flavia liked dressing well, as she believed that a person’s outward appearance reflected his or her life and history. Beauty also had much to do with the soul, which lit up the eyes, with those small gestures repeated over the years, with that invisible halo that made irregular features seem so unimportant. As she understood it, beauty was also a question of attitude, a way of looking at life …

  She wondered why the church took pleasure in covering its temples with paintings depicting martyrdom and the crucifixion. She much preferred contemplating frescoes such as the one covering the right wall of the chapel, which showed Saint Nicholas of Bari resuscitating three young men who had been unjustly assassinated. For that reason, each spring, after saying her prayers she would follow an unchangeable ritual and offer a candle to the resurrection, in that little chapel erected by the Castellani.

  Michel Blanch was trembling with emotion as he entered the chapel. Four women were kneeling, silently saying their prayers. One of them was Flavia Ginori, the flame that had scorched his life with the wound of love and whose memory had always accompanied him. He only needed to distinguish her silhouette, seen from the back, to recognize her, even after so many years. Her figure had changed, but not that much, and her hair was still beautiful, although it had lost the shine of bygone years. Marveling, he sat behind her on an old wooden bench, contemplating in silence his love of long ago and waited for her to finish praying before approaching his true one, she who had remained in Florence ever since the day he had been obliged to leave the city with a devastated heart.

  Flavia rose slowly and placed her candle of the Resurrection at the altar of the chapel. A masculine hand lit the candle before she could. As she turned around to face the stranger, her heart stood still. The young troubadour, with whom she had shared laughter, songs, and games in the Medici Villa in Careggi had returned to find her in the little chapel. Her eyes misted over with tears, her legs felt weak, and she thought she was about to faint. Michel held her by the forearm and supported her with his hand.

  He was still a tall, handsome man with an imposing presence. His long hair was no longer fair but white and his beard was streaked with silver. His features still transmitted strength and serenity, his clear brow had not lost that appearance of intelligence, and those penetrating blue eyes continued talking to her of other worlds.

  During those few moments, words were utterly unnecessary. They left the chapel together and, united, walked the length of the long central aisle under the enormous central nave of the Santa Croce, moving slowly and solemnly. They both knew that this was a sacred moment and it seemed to Flavia that no more was needed by God for him to bless them both as husband and wife.

  131

  Florence

  April 7, 1498

  All things pass, everything changes, if one waits and watches long enough, thought Lorena. Barely two years ago, her husband was on the brink of death and being tortured in prison, while ruin, that carrion-eating bird of prey, was waiting for the moment to swoop down on its victim. At that time, Savonarola was governing Florence from the pulpit and his black robes covered the entire city with a veil of darkness more impenetrable than the night.

  In just over two years, things had changed a lot. Christopher Columbus had not been mistaken when he assured Mauricio that being a shareholder in the overseas sugarcane business would be far preferable than the repayment of loan. Sugar was much more sought after as a sweetener than honey and the prices being paid for such rare merchandise were, indeed, fabulous. And so, the sweet profits flowing into their coffers were far in excess of the most optimistic estimates, to such an extent that they had allowed themselves to buy the mansion they had rented from Marco Velluti. For the last few weeks, an army of carpenters, marble cutters, gold and silversmiths, cabinetmakers, and painters had been toiling away to restore the old palazzo to its former splendor. The noise, dust, and incessant bustle provoked by the workers had been enormously bothersome, but as a result the cold no longer entered through the cracks in the wall, the rare wood on the floor and ceiling shone once again, free from blemishes, the luxurious tapestries imported from Flanders regained their former glory, and entertaining at home had become again a reason to be proud.

  What Lorena never suspected was that the first guest to enjoy such expensive improvements would be her father. Michel Blanch had appeared by surprise one glorious morning, coming in advance of a letter that might have been lost, in which he explained his intention of visiting them in the spring and asking them to keep the fact that he was a priest a secret. Had he worn his Franciscan habits, the order to which he belonged, he would have been obliged to take up residence in one of the numerous convents they possessed in Florence. If, on the contrary, he appeared under an assumed name, posing as a learned professor of Latin and French, nobody would be able to delve into his past and no one would be scandalized that he was lodging in the refurbished palazzo as part of his salary as a private tutor. Far from causing surprise, Florentine high society interpreted having a private teacher on their staff as yet another example of their recovered family prosperity.

  At the same time, the classes gave him an ideal pretext to share some time with his grandchildren. Michel had not wasted the opportunity, for in just a few weeks he had managed to become adored by his four pupils. Lorena believed that this was due, in part, to the magic instinct by which blood recognizes its own kin. Another reason for the respect they showed toward him was none other than the consequence of him being a lovable professor, so full of wisdom that even Lorena delighted in learning as she listened to his teachings. Today, nevertheless, they had disagreed for the first time about the lesson to be given. She believed that her children should learn that in Florence, it was as easy to rise to the highest summit, riding on the back of the goddess of fortune, as it was to fall from that great height, especially if that peak was as prominent as the one Savonar
ola had reached. For that reason, what better than to contemplate the ordeal by fire that was about to take place in the Piazza della Signoria. Michel, on the contrary, was of the opinion that the gratuitous putting to death of priests should not be allowed and that the public watching such a morbid spectacle would become an accomplice to the act.

  It had all begun without anybody attaching the slightest importance to it. At the very pinnacle of his power, Savonarola had proclaimed in the Duomo before a fevered multitude, that should it be necessary to create a miracle, the friars of San Marcos would be capable of going through a blazing bonfire and emerging without a single hair singed. No one had dared contradict him then and the ascetic monk, inebriated with success, had even dared to publicly defy the pope. Indignant, Alexander VI had excommunicated him and had warned the Florentines that whoever attended his sermons would also deserve excommunication. The Florentines had always been a pious people, afraid of the Lord, and rather than risk seeing their souls condemned to eternal torture in hell, they opted to change their parish. The protests of the prior of San Marcos had come to naught when he proclaimed that the excommunication decreed by such a depraved creature as the Borgia pope, was the most evident proof of his innocence. After all, if the excommunication was valid, they would suffer in hell forever more. On the other hand, if the excommunication did not produce the desired effect, the gates of heaven would still be wide open to them if they attended Mass celebrated by any other priest. For such a mercantile people as the Florentines, accustomed as they were to weighing up profits and losses, the question made pure common sense.

  For other very different considerations, many other citizens had manifestly distanced themselves from Savonarola’s postulates. The majority of merchants and the principal families of Florence were of the opinion that the only magic power Savonarola possessed was to make their bags of florins diminish inexorably day by day. Pisa had not been recovered and Florence, having fallen out of favor with the rest of the Italian cities for having backed King Charles and not possessing any outlets to the sea, had become an impoverished city. Perhaps this did not displease Savonarola, so opposed as he was to superfluous luxuries, but it finally made him lose the support of the popolo minutto. In fact, the price of food had risen spectacularly and those who had not made a vow of poverty were exasperated at having to go hungry.