Dogs of God

by James Reston Jr

  “Consider, my lord, that a great and memorable misfortune, when it is endured with fortitude, does sometimes render men famous.”

  Boabdil was not comforted. “Where then shall be found a misfortune greater than mine!” he wailed.

  At the sight of her wretched son, his mother spat out her contempt.

  “Because you knew not how to defend your country like a man, you weep for it like a woman.”

  In concluding his story of the end of the 800-year-old rule of Islam in Spain, the most important of the Arab chroniclers attached a final epitaph: “Praised be God! who exalteth kings and who casteth them low, who giveth power and greatness at his pleasure, who inflicteth poverty and humiliation according to his holy will. The fulfillment of that will is Eternal Justice which regulates all human events.”

  Christian chroniclers, meanwhile, exulted. The fall of Granada was compared to the fall of Troy. “It is the end of Spain’s calamities,” Peter Martyr declared. Isabella had “redeemed Spain, indeed all of Europe,” wrote another scribe. January 2, 1492, was “the most distinguished and blessed day there has ever been in Spain.”

  News of the Christian triumph raced across Europe. When it reached Rome, there was jubilation and even whimsy. The Spanish cardinal, Rodrigo Borgia, only a few months away from becoming the next pope, treated the Roman people to the novel spectacle of a bullfight. The ailing pope, Innocent VIII, led a solemn procession from the Vatican to the Piazza Navona and the Church of San Giacomo degli Spagnoli, the Church of Spain, which had been built forty-two years before. There, he proclaimed Ferdinand and Isabella to be officially “the Catholic monarchs.”

  They were, the pontiff said, “the athletes of Christ.”

  21

  Promiser of Kingdoms

  THE ALHAMBRA

  In the days after the surrender of Granada, the royals wandered in amazement through the decorative halls and spacious courtyards of the fabulous Alhambra. In the Hall of the Mexuar, hailed by the fourteenth-century poet Ibn Zamrak as “the haven of counsel, mercy, and favor,” Isabella must have wondered whether this too for her would be the place to entertain supplications and to dispense mercy. “Enter and ask,” read the calligraphy in marble. “Do not be afraid to seek justice for here you will find it.” Could she emulate the wisdom and the elegance and the humility of the best Muslim rulers who had come before her? To remind the mighty of their place, the motto of the Nasrids—“The only conqueror is God”—was repeated above the windows over and over in Magrib script.

  The soft, feminine imagery of the legends in the tracery in a niche that led to the Courtyard of the Myrtles must have appealed to the queen. “I am a wife in my bridal gown, sublime in my perfection. Look at this jar of water and you will understand how true my words are. Look too at my crown. It will seem to you like the new moon…” Equally, she must have been appalled by the ghosts of the concubines and slave girls who had inhabited the Courtyard of the Harem.

  Within the roseate walls, the air of celebration lasted for many days. For a time the romance of the place captivated the new occupants as if, as a great storyteller once put it, they “expected to see the white arm of some mysterious princess beckoning from the gallery, or some dark eye sparkling through the lattice.” The prelates did their best to exorcise the spirit of the infidel from the place. In the Hall of Justice an altar was erected, and the Cardinal of Spain celebrated his somber high mass there for the giddy conquerors. Atop the watchtower known as the Torre de la Vela, bells tolled for the great victory of Christianity over Islam. To the Christian newcomer, this was the sweetest of sounds.

  I want to live in Granada

  If only to hear

  The bell of the Vela

  When I go to sleep.

  Outside the walls, a harsher reality was at work. The count of Tendilla had been appointed military governor, and he went about his business of transforming the city with his customary diligence and arrogance. Cidi Yahye, once hero to the Muslims at Baza, now became their oppressor. After his infatuation with Isabella and his conversion to Christianity, he had changed his name to Don Pedro de Granada. Now he was a cavalier of Santiago and had been made master of the Muslims. Meanwhile, the queen’s confessor, Hernando de Talavera—formerly prior of Prado, bishop of Ávila, propagandist for the concept of limpieza, or pure Spanish blood, and head of the Commission of Inquiry into Columbus’s proposal—had been appointed archbishop of Granada.

  It is likely that Columbus was a witness to these exuberant events, if at the back of the room and in dark corners. He had returned to Granada for the final decision on his proposal. All the impediments had been removed. There could be no further excuse for postponement. He had waited six long and frustrating years for this infernal war to be over, and now, with something of a chip on his shoulder, he demanded a clear and definitive answer. He would give the Spanish monarchs one last chance.

  In his last sessions with Talavera’s commission, he had been fighting a defensive battle against pseudo-scientists, religious ciphers, obfuscating “philosophers,” and contradictory reservations. Their specious arguments infuriated him, and he exercised an almost superhuman patience. Five objections had been raised against his proposal. The voyage to Asia across the vast eastern sea would take three years, a duration far in excess of anything that had ever been attempted and which would be impossible to supply. If he managed to reach the opposite side of the earth, the Antipode, it would be impossible for him to return, for the Antipodes were contradictory and opposite and defied interconnection. Conversely, the Antipodes did not exist since, as Talavera himself had often said, according to St. Augustine, the globe consisted primarily of water. Moreover, the Bible identified five zones in the world and made three of them uninhabitable. Finally, at this advanced stage of the world, some four thousand years after Creation, it was unlikely that mysterious undiscovered lands still existed.

  Now Columbus had surrendered to his annoyance and anger and resentment. Compared to the practical Portuguese, this collection of Spanish quacks was hard to suffer. They were, as Don Quixote would say later, a little short of salt in the brainpan. If they were dense and cynical, they were also vain and arrogant, and he had run out of patience with them. He had presented his hard clues and tantalizing rumor. He had invoked the theories of world-class thinkers like Toscanelli and Pierre d’Ailly. He had conjured up mountains of gold, mounds of spices, coasts of pearls, and continents of Christian converts. He had spoken of St. Nicholas of Myra, the patron saint of mariners from the fourth century, who watched over divinely sanctioned voyages and had once caused a tempest to abate on a trip to the Holy Land. Columbus had appealed to national interest, to providential destiny, to the glory of Spain and the Church. He had prodded Ferdinand’s greed and Isabella’s piety. He had nursed relationships with bishops, dukes, and counts. At this last, maddening stage, he was thrown back on the poetry of Seneca, predicting that the age had come when the ocean would lose its chains, and a new world would be revealed.

  That the war was over had removed the final objection of the monarchs. Since the count of Medina Celi was still offering to pick up the tab, the venture would cost the crown nothing. That Portugal controlled the coast of Africa and had discovered a passage to India could tip the balance of power in Iberia. Even the Cardinal of Spain himself was wavering. Nicholas of Myra might have been an important saint and Saint Augustine a giant of the Church, he was overheard to say, but neither was a good geographer.

  For six months as the end game of the war played out, Columbus had been on the verge of abandoning Spain entirely and taking his proposal elsewhere. Since the summer he had been living at the Franciscan monastery of Santa María de La Rábida outside the town of Palos on the Tinto River. There, he poured out his frustrations about the disrespect and mockery he had suffered at the Spanish court. In time, he made two great friends: Brother Antonio de Marchena and Brother Juan Pérez. Brother Antonio was an amateur astrologer and Brother Juan had been the queen’s b
ookkeeper as a youth before he became her confessor. By day, Columbus had enthralled these men with the grandeur of his vision; and by night, he had fascinated them with a display of how he planned to navigate across the ocean by the stars.

  The Franciscans admired and believed in this dreamer. In those months they did their best to calm his frustrations and to dissuade him from taking his proposal to France where his brother, Bartholomew, was even then pleading their case at Fontainebleau. They beseeched him to give the Spanish monarchs one last chance. Just a little while longer; just a few more conversations, they had argued. To keep him active and eager, they had introduced him to shipbuilders and sea captains in Palos, now an important harbor on the southwestern Spanish coast.

  “During the six years I traveled in Castile I found protection from no one, other than eternal God and Friars Antonio and Juan Pérez,” Columbus would say later. “Only these two Brothers have been loyal to me.”

  With Friar Pérez at his side, Columbus waited for his answer. The queen reconvened her ponderous philosophers, and they repeated their well-worn objections, barbing them with the usual mockery. Cardinal Mendoza and Archbishop Talavera, focused now on other excitements, had lost interest. Talavera in particular, as head of the inquiry, was actively working to undermine Columbus’s proposal. As much as anything, Talavera had come to view Columbus as a gold digger and social climber. The new archbishop was still aggravated by what he regarded as Columbus’s appalling demands for titles and monetary rewards.

  “Such demands smack of the highest degree of arrogance,” Talavera told the monarchs, “and would be unbecoming for Your Highnesses to grant to this needy foreign adventurer.”

  Within days of the fall of Granada, the supplicant was summoned into the presence of the queen and informed that his proposal was formally, conclusively, and terminally rejected. Angrily, Columbus threw his belongings on his horse and rode north on the road to Córdoba—and France.

  Sprinkled in the second rank of courtiers, Columbus had his admirers. One was Luis de Santángel, a wealthy Aragonese financier whose family had served the crown of Aragon for generations as merchants and lawyers and who was then serving as treasurer of the Santa Hermandad. Upon hearing of Columbus’s departure, he rushed into the queen’s presence to launch a passionate protest. He was surprised and disappointed that so great and high-minded a queen had dismissed this man of quality when his project involved so little risk to the crown, and yet, if successful, would bring such glory to Spain and to the Church. Columbus’s proposal would allow the Spanish Empire “to grow beyond all imagination.”

  If another European country, such as France, sponsored Columbus, and he discovered even half of what he imagined, Spain would be the great loser, Santángel said. There would be “much damage to your Kingdom… and our enemies would not lack reason to insult Your Highness and affirm that Your Majesty had gotten what she deserved.” The Spanish monarchs would be ridiculed for their timidity and lack of foresight. “Your successors will be deprived of what could have been theirs.” Even if the enterprise turned out to be a failure, the monarchs would be praised for their efforts to penetrate the “secrets of the universe.” Think of Alexander the Great and other great kings in history, he urged. “When they did not succeed in everything they tried, this did not diminish the grandness of what they tried.” If the royal expenditure was huge, that would be one thing. But Columbus was asking for only 5 million maravedis. Let it not be said that a great queen rejected a grand and noble enterprise over such a pittance.

  Santángel’s passion must have been extraordinary, for his speech shook and moved Isabella. For once, the appeal to her vanity won the day, not only as a queen but as the Woman of the Apocalypse. She thanked Santángel for his service to Spain. “If you still feel that this man will not be able to wait any longer,” she said, “then I will provide some jewels from my chest to lend the necessary money…”

  “That will not be necessary, my Lady,” Santángel replied. “If I may render you the smallest service, I will offer my home as collateral. But please, Your Majesty, send for Columbus, because I fear that he has already left.” Immediately, she dispatched a bailiff to ride after Columbus and bring him back to court.

  Sixteen miles up the road at the Bridge of the Virgin over the Cubillas River in the town of Pinos Puente, the bailiff caught up to him. Suspicious and still resentful, Columbus turned back reluctantly. At Santa Fe, Santángel greeted him effusively. The queen had changed her mind. She had instructed her scribe to draw up the necessary documents, giving Christopher Columbus everything he had asked for.

  There is an ironic footnote to Santángel’s pivotal contribution to the Columbus saga. Queen Isabella did indeed reward his service to Spain, for the financier was a converso. His family, both the Jews and the converted Jews, were to be spared the horrors of the Inquisition, she ordered. Five years later, in 1497, Ferdinand as King of Aragon formalized the arrangement with a personal grant. It exempted Santángel and his sons from the ministrations of the Holy Office and guaranteed his heirs the safety of their personal property.

  Queen Isabella’s capitulation was a testament to Columbus’s unshakable persistence, to his single-mindedness, to his certainty in the correctness of his vision. Having waited so long, having suffered so many disappointments and so many indignities, having endured great poverty and dislocation in those endless years of dubiety, he suddenly stood taller than any sea captain in Spain. He had spent many years in pursuit of this dream: it had been thirteen years since he first conceived it. Now forty-two years old, the son of a wool carder had been raised legitimately to nobility.

  And thus, even before his departure, his story was the stuff of legend and of poetry. A hundred years later, an Italian poet named Gabriello Chiabrera would capture the spirit of this moment:

  Surely from the heart such a great destiny he did not choose;

  Beautiful souls to beautiful works are chosen

  For they know how to rejoice in exceptional efforts.

  Neither can popular reproach enchain them

  Nor quest for accolade slow down their course.

  For such a long time in vile ways,

  Did Europe despise his illustrious hope

  People and kings scoffed at him together

  This bare, exposed leader, promiser of Kingdoms.

  The queen, in turn, deserves her due. Over the years she had left the door open to Columbus. Despite her lack of technical knowledge, she alone had seen his quality. She alone had risen above the sniping and the derision of her wise men. Later, after his third voyage, Columbus was still bursting with gratitude for his queen, and once again credited divine guidance.

  “In the midst of general incredulity,” Columbus wrote, “the Almighty infused into the Queen, my Lady, the spirit of intelligence and energy. Whilst everyone else in his ignorance was expounding only on the inconvenience and cost, her Highness approved it on the contrary and gave it all the support in her power.”

  In the weeks that followed the queen’s reversal, the necessary documents were drawn up. Friar Juan Pérez acted as Columbus’s attorney in the negotiations over the language and the fine points. The town of Palos was charged with providing and equipping three caravels, two of which would be offered at taxpayers’ expense, while the funds for the third would be provided, through donations, by Columbus himself. In the royal decree, the town was commanded to provide the ships to Columbus within ten days of receiving the order. Not surprisingly, four months rather than ten days would end up as the actual time it would take to find and outfit the vessels.

  In the “Capitulations”—as the articles of agreement were formally and appropriately called—Columbus was granted the title not only of Admiral but of Viceroy and Governor-General of any lands, specified as islands or mainlands, he might discover. He would be entitled to one tenth of all “pearls, precious stones, gold, silver, and spices” he might find or seize, while the crown would take the remaining 90 percent. Of any com
merce that might subsequently be conducted in lands he discovered, Columbus would be entitled to a cut. Henceforth, he should be addressed with the honorific “Don Christopher Columbus,” and his heirs would be entitled to enjoy the privileges of his admiralty.

  After these essential provisions came the fine points. Under no circumstances was he to call at the Portuguese possession of St. George of the Mine in Africa or conduct any trade with Portuguese agents. “For it is Our pleasure to abide by and enforce the terms which we agreed upon and convenanted with the Most Serene King of Portugal, Our brother, on this matter.” Amnesty was granted to any criminals who might ship out with the voyage, since it was not entirely clear whether it would be easy to recruit a crew. No taxes were to be assized on the supplies for the voyage, and any supplies and repairs to the ships must be provided at reasonable prices. Any attempt to exploit or overcharge would be punished with a fine of 10,000 maravedis.