By Fire, By Water (43 page)

“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’ grudging 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.

Levi could not bear the isolation. He had questioned his aunt. He had accused her. Finally, Judith had admitted that the child she was carrying was the chancellor’s. He resented the man who had seduced and abandoned his aunt, the man who had brought her so much pain.

Colón interrupted his thoughts. “I’ll need a translator.”

“What sort of translator? On your ships?”

“When we reach the Indias, I’ll need a man who speaks Arabic. And when we reach Jerusalem—Hebrew.”

The offer seemed preposterous. Colón was obliging the chancellor. Both men knew as much.

“What would I do during the crossing?”

“Over the years,” said Colón, “I’ve collected many texts. Some in Hebrew, some in Arabic. Many of them, I’m sure, contain knowledge that could be useful to me. Will you come?”

“I cannot say, just yet,” said Levi.

“Of course not.” Colón bowed. “It has been a pleasure, doing business with you and your aunt.”

The two men took their leave, both wondering whether their partnership had ended, or was just beginning.

    
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

T
OMÁS DE
T
ORQUEMADA
had instructed the soldiers and monks detaining Luis de Santángel to treat him with the dignity his station merited, to leave him alone with his conscience as much as possible, to be prepared for unusual situations. None, however, foresaw a visit from the king himself.