by K. T. Tomb
Chapter four
RSS feed. Lana Ambrose, 2014
The Mosque-cathedral of Córdoba, also called the Mosque of Cordoba or Mezquita de Córdoba is a medieval Islamic mosque that was converted into a Roman Catholic Christian cathedral in the Spanish city of Córdoba, Andalusia. The cathedral is regarded as one of the most accomplished monuments of Moorish architecture. Since the early 2000s, Spanish Muslims have lobbied the Roman Catholic Church to allow them to pray in the cathedral. This Muslim campaign has been rejected on multiple occasions, both by the church authorities in Spain and by the Vatican.
Lufthansa Flight LH780 to Malaga was quiet, cool and relatively silent, with thankfully limited disruption from mewling children or drunken holiday makers. Although used to flying by private plane or at the very minimum first class, it had been agreed that Found History would travel under assumed identities, and by coach. While being a legitimate, UNESCO-endorsed investigation firm had its benefits when dealing with almost any official around the world, it had certain drawbacks when discretion in transit was a requirement; and when dealing with Agent Anthony Stewart, it seemed prudent to assume that no matter what the team did, he would hear about it eventually. With that in mind, Chyna had sanctioned no unnecessary breaches of confidentiality which included flights, no chauffeured cars, alternate passports for everyone (not entirely legal, but sometimes it had to be considered that international law took second place to secrecy) and the entirely illegal smuggling of five handguns into a country in the European Union rather than arranging with local authorities for temporary licenses to carry concealed weapons. This last requirement necessitated certain special provisions which fortunately were relatively easy to source, under the counter in Switzerland. Hermetically and magnetically sealed flight cases built for transporting guitar amplifiers were Oscar’s idea; Chyna suspected an amusing play on the stereotype of traveling musicians who were really assassins, but in an absence of any superior plans at hand and with a restriction on the preparation time available, she gave the go-ahead for him to proceed. The Lufthansa flight subsequently loaded five bulky steel boxes containing the shells of amplifiers, some x-ray resistant lining and five pistols.
The passenger cabin had lights dimmed, and Chyna dimmed her own lights with the aid of two Valiums and a vodka tonic. In theory, she was not supposed to mix the two under any circumstances—let alone in a pressurized environment—but seeing as the prescription wasn’t hers in the first place and there was a three hour hop to try and finally get some sleep in, Chyna decided the reward outweighed the risk.
The toffee thickness of the pills cloyed her mind and slowed her motor functions deliciously. Everything was fine. She wanted to giggle at the ridiculous idea that Tony was waiting for them in Spain with a hundred men at his command, that the rosary was a poisoned chalice. Oscar was in his customary fashion when traveling, already fast asleep and snoring, propped against the window, mouth open. The flight was slightly under booked, so there was a spare seat in between her and Oscar on which they had piled files of notes and printouts relating to everything Lara had managed to glean from the internet regarding the rosary. Chyna looked at them, and giggled at their ridiculousness. A rosary that drove men to the brink of insanity and beyond. Was it cursed? Did curses even exist, for that matter? And what does that mean, if the rosary is a catholic relic? Did that mean that Christians were actually right?
Chyna’s historian inner self giggled some more. All the gods were false, just a fairy story to assist the weakling human race in coping with mortality and absolving themselves of true morality, responsibility for their own actions. She thought about how her own actions had led her here, and wondered if there were any she should have done differently, and how much blood was on her hands. There was a lot of death on her conscience from the past, but, she reasoned, justifiable deaths. Criminal men looking to steal history itself. Without doubt there would be more in her future, at least one, of that she was sure.
The bastard. Maybe she’d make him wear the rosary, send him mad, make him plead to God for forgiveness before she put a bullet between his eyes.
She ordered another vodka tonic from the flight attendant, a handsome man in his twenties who, contrary to her own preconceptions, showed no sign of effeminacy. Perhaps she could take a couple of minutes to get to know him better. No. It was the Valium and vodka talking, loosening her grip. Must maintain focus. If she didn’t maintain focus she’d end up losing control entirely and she had just spent two months recovering from the consequences of that.
Focus.
Chyna leafed through some of the notes pertaining to the case, but the letters were jumping around and were illegible. Probably turbulence. She looked at the screen in the back of the chair in front of her, which showed a route of the plane’s flight plan and a little pulsing dot to show where the plane was. Somewhere over the Mediterranean, but that too was jolting around, so she shuffled on her half asleep buttocks and looked up the aisle instead. The seats occupied by the Found History team were toward the rear of the plane, so she had quite a good view of the occasional back of head and the air steward making a pass at a pretty stewardess. She let her gaze wander, down the aisle, over the uniform seats with the uniform head sticking out from the top, to the uniformed stewardess and steward, eventually falling into a pair of bright blue eyes.
It was a child, maybe five years old, leaning over his arm rest and dangling his legs over the side of the chair. He waved at her. Chyna waved back, halfheartedly. The child turned back around in his seat, and Chyna couldn’t see him. What was it like to be so young, so innocent? Free from fear and guilt and pain? She couldn’t remember. How long had she been doing this, running around the world chasing things that were lost? Things that people had no real need for? And for what? What did it mean? Was she really happier this way, alone, on the run from a shadowy organization that proclaimed to want to control, well, everything? Most people her age were married, had children of their own. They weren’t running around the world killing people. What was any of this for?
She finished the vodka. She thought about ordering another, but wave upon wave of the Valium caressed her into a dreamless, unconscious sleep, broken only with a jolt and a nervous twitch when the wheels of the plane touched down on the tarmac.
Chapter five
RSS feed. Lana Ambrose, 2014
The Heir: Nobles in Castile were rallying to usurp the throne of Castile and put Alfonso in the seat of power. They saw Enrique as a weak king, which indeed he was, and the behavior of his wife was an insult to their virtuous culture. In 1467, Alfonso's supporters proclaimed him King of Castile. Civil war exploded in Castile: Enrique's forces against Alfonso's supporters. In the end, neither side won, but instead Alfonso mysteriously died at the age of 14 in 1468, probably poisoned on Enrique's orders, though some say that he died of the plague. Alfonso's supporters turned their attention toward Isabel, and proclaimed Isabella as Queen of Castile. Isabella decided to not take the crown from her brother, which delighted him and made him name Isabella as his heir, which enraged his wife and his daughter, who fought to crown Juana 'la Beltraneja'. However, Isabella had wars of her own to fight at home. Queen Juana and King Enrique were both searching for a suitor for Princess Isabel. Among them were: Charles, Duke of Berry; Richard, Duke of Gloucester; Pedro Giron, Enrique's friend; King Alfonso V of Portugal, Queen Juana's brother. As her brother and sister-in-law decided who to marry Isabella to, Isabella continued her relaxed lifestyle. She and her governess, Clara, and confidante, Beatriz de Bobadilla, were deep and close friends, and defied the expectations of a Castilian woman by educating themselves deeply. Isabella learned histories, arts, languages, and was very skilled in diplomatic arts.
***
“Ferdinand, my love.” Isabella I of Castile, or Bella, as her husband so affectionately called her, threw open the gates to the room and sprinted inside even though she knew a royal meeting was underway.
“You are all dismissed,” she sai
d bluntly. “The meeting can continue later in the day.”
The sixteen subjects around the table looked at each other in confusion and then at the King. Ferdinand, on the other hand, was staring at his wife, wondering what she was getting at. Whatever it was, he knew by her grave expression that she was right. The meeting could continue later in the day. He turned toward his subjects and said, “Leave us, please.”
Soon, the hall emptied out. They wanted to talk, his subjects. They wanted to mention the queen's consistently erratic behavior. She had changed by leaps and bounds since the day she had ascended to the throne with the king. Albeit her decisions were wise and sound—something that they did not expect from a woman—they thought she needed to go back and revise her classes in royal etiquette. The only problem was that King Ferdinand believed her. For him, his wife was his light. He encouraged her to think, to act and what he had just done meant that he condoned this behavior of hers as well. But for the sake of their safety and the heads on their shoulders, they kept quiet, played their part, bowed to their highnesses and went out.
As soon as she heard the door shut, Isabella moved toward the windows and shut the drapes, creating darkness where there had been day. She then turned to Ferdinand, who was looking at her with curious eyes.
“I had another.”
His reply came fast. “What?”
She nodded gravely, and her hand reached to her neck in which she wore her rosary. She took it off as if it were something miraculous, as if it were the treasure of Solomon, “I had another vision, Ferdinand. And... and it’s disturbing me.”
“What was it, mi amour?” Ferdinand reached her in an instant and cupped her cheek. “You needn't be worried or afraid. Tell me what it was and I will help you.”
“It was only fleeting, my love.” She sat down at the table where her subjects had sat only moments ago, “But the Virgin is concerned. She says our land is too full of outsiders. It is plagued with people who do not respect our religion, do not follow its customs. They worship different gods, have different rituals and celebrate different festivals. Under our reign, Ferdinand! Under our reign! She says they are the reason Spain cannot prosper. They are holding us back! Their very presence is a dark cloud that overshadows all the good deeds our faithful priests and nuns and people work so effortlessly for. The Moors and the Jews, Ferdinand! They are the ones!”
The air in the room became more and more charged with hysteria as she spoke and sobbed at the same time, and Ferdinand felt a whirlwind of emotions inside his skin. He felt thankful for his wife's gift, grateful for God's timely intervention, and just like his wife, anger at the ones who were holding his country back. Spain had seen enough turmoil as it were.
***
“Gentlemen,” Ferdinand announced to his subjects. “We have a grave matter to discuss here.”
They were all back at the table, but this time were joined by the queen, who looked tired but determined. No one could tell from afar, but there was a fire in her eyes, just under her pupils, that burned brighter by the minute and consumed every inch of her soul.
“My wife, the queen, has been in prayer. She believes in God with all of her pure heart, and it is because of her this meeting has been called, because she fears for the future of our country, as do we all, I'm sure.”
The subjects looked on in doubt and confusion. Had the meeting been called solely because the queen had been in prayer? What was the meaning of all of this?
“Gentlemen.” Ferdinand paused before letting out the secret he and Isabella had guarded with their lives. He didn't want to, but it was impertinent given the circumstances.
“Gentlemen, the Virgin herself has been talking to my wife.”
Loud gasps went around the table, and all eyes turned toward the queen. As for Isabella, she looked straight ahead, clutching the rosary in her hand.
“Yes, it is true.” Ferdinand quieted them down, “and she has brought a matter of great importance to us. This morning, after my wife interrupted our conference, she told me that the Virgin is sad and hurt at our land being plagued by those not of our faith.”
“The Moors.” Someone stated.
“The Jews.” Came another voice.
“Yes, the Moors and the Jews. They live in our country; they eat our food; they sleep in beds they make of our money and yet do not respect our culture, traditions and Gods. How can we let this go on, Gentlemen? How? How many years before they swallow us whole and consume us in their false rituals and mindless mumbles they call prayers? Thus, we need to act, and in light of the same revelation, my wife and I have come to a decision.”
Ferdinand called for the servant behind him, the only one of his stature privy to such an important gathering. While the boy handed him some papers, the table went rife with subdued rage and possible courses of action.
Isabella took the papers from Ferdinand, and stood up. Immediately the table fell silent. She then began speaking. “Gentlemen, my husband, your king, and I have decided on a course of action we think is best. Here are the drafts for the constitution of the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition. Effective immediately, all Jews and Muslims in our land are to be asked to convert to Christianity or leave. Should they choose to accept our faith, they will have a home here. Should they not, they should leave within the dead of night and no one will stop them.
“This document describes the hierarchy of the Inquisition. According to what we have devised, we will appoint a Grand Inquisitor, who will head the council of the Supreme and the General Inquisitors, made up of six members. There will be a total of 21 tribunals in the empire who shall begin their work as soon as we announce the deed. Now, are there any questions?”
The table remained silent.
***
The days that followed could very easily be termed as some of the darkest for Spain. What had started out as a medium to protect the Jews and Muslims in the country had now turned into a terror organization. Isabella was crazed with herself and her rosary. The Virgin Mary came to her on a nightly basis, but was not happy yet.
The next order was to burn the people at stake. There were to be no questions asked.
Terror spread like a wildfire. The air became rife with the cries and wails of the innocents who were subjected to melting skin and burning bones because of gods, who seemingly did not agree.
As for Isabella, she shut herself in with her rosary. She knew she was following the word of God, and it always required sacrifice. Her God was now happy with her and would bring prosperity to her nation. Her rosary, her only friend, would protect her always. It was a magical, magical thing, and Isabella knew she would guard it with her life as long as she lived.
Chapter six
RSS feed. Lana Ambrose, 2014
The Crown: At the age of 18, Isabella took wedding matters into her own hands when she fell in love with Prince Fernando of Aragon. Enrique did not find him suitable and Juana was determined to marry Isabella to her brother, paving the way for her daughter to become Queen of Castile. However, Isabella and Fernando were married in Valladolid without Enrique’s approval on October 19, 1469.
For six days and nights, Fernando and Isabella and their guests celebrated the royal wedding. However, when King Enrique received word of the marriage, he was furious. One by one he tore Isabel’s few possessions, towns from which she received taxes, from her. Fernando and Isabella were without money and Fernando was away from his wife for many months at a time fighting wars in Sicily or Aragon, family possessions. On October 2, 1470, a daughter named Isabella was born to the couple. A daughter was not worth as much as a son, and King Enrique was delighted, who had changed the succession to Juana ‘la Beltraneja’. Four years later, King Enrique became seriously ill and died on December 11, 1474. His councilors urged him to name his heir, but Enrique remained silent. When Isabella heard the news, she grieved for the loss, but there was not a moment to spare if she was to claim the throne. Fernando, who was fighting in Zaragoza, could not be summon
ed in time. On December 13, 1474, Isabella was crowned Queen of Castile in Segovia’s Plaza Mayor by her counselor, Archbishop Carrillo. Fernando returned from Zaragoza not soon after and found himself ‘king consort’ to Isabel. Although somewhat upset, he and his wife forged a loving partnership.
***
Chyna had shaken off the effects of travel weariness and Valium only after she entered the city limits of Cordoba. Even the modernity of this booming hub of southern Spanish life was effervescently coated with the past, down to the partially constructed towers abandoned when the money provided by bankers halfway across the globe suddenly dried up some years previously.
She looked out of her window at the sights of Cordoba. It was so much more beautiful than she had originally thought; a pleasant change from the staid aristocratic architecture of Geneva—not to say that the Swiss city wasn’t truly beautiful, but Cordoba brimmed with the energetic creation of humanity in a way that was free of the reserved self-consciousness of most western and northern European cities. The Spanish sun was shining brightly in the sky, and Chyna rolled down the windows to let the rays play on her face. She leaned out of the window a little, letting the wind flow through her hair. She felt as if she had been transported to a new world, light years away from a cathedral in Germany, at the altar that housed a praying Jesus Christ and under a roof that had seen destruction and rebirth.
