By Fire, By Water by Mitchell James Kaplan
“Yes, of course,” the chancellor replied. “The Christians believe in Jesus.”
“He was a magician, right? He knew how to turn loaves of bread into fish, how to bring dead people back. That’s what my rabbi told me.”
“I wouldn’t want to contradict your rabbi, but the Christians don’t characterize Him as a magician, any more than Moses was a magician when he threw down his rod and it turned into snakes.”
“But Moses didn’t do that. God did that.”
The chancellor smiled. “Well, I suppose you could say God was responsible for Jesus’s miracles, too.”
“Then why do you pray to Jesus?”
“Levi, stop this,” Judith reprimanded her nephew.
“I just want to understand.”
“Your nephew is unusually intelligent,” the chancellor told Judith.
His words reassured Judith, who agreed with his assessment but knew others often thought Levi bold.
Santángel turned back to the boy. “I’m sorry I can’t answer all your questions. I’m simply not the right person.”
He glanced back at Judith, who offered him the hint of a smile, evidently pleased that he had cut short her nephew’s inquiry.
Santángel lay on the tree-shaded terrace atop Judith’s home. Under a wedge of moon and a splash of stars, a warm breeze washed over him. He relived the evening: Judith’s eyes, lingering on her nephew and Baba Shlomo; the way she tilted her head to the side as she listened; her high cheekbones; her jet-black hair. He was struck by her manner, anxious to please but challenging nonetheless, and the way she unsettled him. He had not found a woman so beguiling since he had first set eyes upon his departed wife.
The warm air of Granada and the spicy dinner made his throat feel dry, keeping him awake. He heard a few quiet footsteps somewhere in the house. He rose to slake his thirst. As he padded down the stairwell, he passed Judith’s room, with its warped door that did not quite close. He saw his hostess preparing for bed. He told himself not to stare at her milky ivory skin, untouched by the sun; her graceful legs; her taut, full breasts; the half-shadowed curve of her back. He caught his breath.
Downstairs, Santángel filled a silver goblet and drained it in one gulp. Water trickled down his chin onto his nightshirt.
For once, as he reluctantly crossed between the waking world into the many worlds of dreams, imagery of blood and horror did not flood his mind. Nor did he frantically search Pedro de Arbués’s apartments, once again, for the book that could damn him and those he loved. Instead, he revisited the evening’s dinner conversation, the synagogue, the glimpse of Judith’s skin, the Alhambra, lulled by the half-remembered refrains of ancient prayers.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ON THE FOURTH NIGHT of the siege, Tomás de Torquemada rode to the king’s encampment outside Velez-Malaga. The city was ablaze. Acting in part on Luis de Santángel’s misinformation, the emir had prepared to defend Malaga itself, not from the Christian forces but from those of Abu Abdullah. The Christians had pounded Velez-Malaga, about twenty miles distant from Malaga, by sea and land, bringing it to its knees well before the Muslim forces arrived.
As Torquemada approached the king’s tent on foot, he heard a woman’s half-suppressed cries. The voice was not Queen Ysabel’s. This came as no surprise to the monk. In her rambling, intimate confessions, the queen had complained about her husband’s lecherous ways. Torquemada turned back with his horses and men for a monastery a half hour’s ride away.
He rode back at dawn. The king’s guard announced him and Torquemada entered alone.
Unlike the palatial accommodations outside Cordoba, where Luis de Santángel had visited the queen, the king’s tent was a one-room affair. The wench was a lean Moorish girl of about fifteen years with long, henna-tinted hair and black almond-shaped eyes, captured by the Christian forces on the road from Cordoba. When the king was finished with her, probably within a few nights, he would hand her over for his soldiers’ enjoyment. She hid under the blanket, shivering, while the king shamelessly dressed in front of the inquisitor.
“Your Majesty,” began Torquemada, “we have learned certain things.”
“Regarding?”
“The assassination, Your Majesty.”
Pulling up his breeches, King Fernando peered at the tonsured monk, with his hollow cheekbones and full, dark brows. “What have you learned?” The king slipped his arms through the sleeves of his blousy shirt.
“It is not only what we have learned. It’s also what we have not learned.”
“We’re speaking in riddles, now.” The king found a rapier belt at the foot of his bed and attached it at his waist.
Torquemada ignored the sarcasm. “Your Highness, the records of Father Arbués’s last deposition are missing.”
Indeed, a thorough search of Luis de Santángel’s home had failed to retrieve not only those registers, but any inculpating evidence against the chancellor. Torquemada attributed this failure not to Santángel’s innocence, but to his cunning.
“We believe Father Arbués was murdered for those records, and for his recollection of their content. And we believe … We believe the chancellor of Aragon was involved. Luis de Santángel.”
King Fernando did not flinch. “What leads you to think that?”
“He was seen paying the killer.”
“Seen? By whom? And what precisely do you intend, Father?” The king picked up his sword and stuffed it into the scabbard on his hip.
“His horse was identified, Your Majesty. A roan courser with a black stripe down its spine. A very particular horse.” Aware that this evidence might not convince Fernando, he quickly changed the topic. “We know Santángel is here in the south. We intend to place the Holy Brotherhood on high alert, throughout Castile and Aragon.”
“His horse?” The king sat down in a chair and shoved his feet into his boots. “Father Torquemada, I’ve known Señor de Santángel for decades. He helped arrange my wedding with the queen. He paid for it. This battle we’re fighting—not just for Castile or Aragon, mind you, but for the whole of Christendom—we’re going to win it. Thanks to whom? To Luis de Santángel, who procured the Giustizia for us, our most important battleship. And as everyone knows but doesn’t dare say, he is a better Christian—a far better Christian—than I.”
Torquemada felt his heart pounding. “Your Majesty,” he tried again, “the best way to demonstrate the innocence of your chancellor, if innocent he is, would be to interrogate him, and let him show those who suspect him of wrongdoing, of wrong thinking, how wrong they are. Good Christians, as you know, my liege, have nothing to fear. But if we fail to give him that opportunity, a cloud of suspicion will hang over him for the rest of his life. And by extension, if you will permit me, over you.”
“Father Torquemada,” spat King Fernando with imperious finality, “don’t threaten me. Now I have a war to fight.”
“So do I, Your Majesty.” He said it softly, but the message was clear. The inquisitor was not daunted.
The king glared at him, astonished. “Allow me to show you something, Father.” He found a letterbox in his trunk and fished out a large envelope with a florid scarlet stamp. Torquemada recognized it as a missive from the pope himself. Fernando shoved it into the inquisitor’s hands.
While Torquemada read the Latin, the king summarized. “The Holy Father asks that the New Inquisition be realigned with the interests of Rome. What does that mean for you? It means this war of yours may no longer be yours at all.”
As he read, Torquemada contemplated the implications of the pope’s letter. If the New Inquisition, which he had been working so hard, for so long, to establish throughout Castile and Aragon, were to be softened and corrupted until it resembled the creaky, lumbering machinery of the traditional Inquisition, all would be lost. Christianity itself might become so sullied, so defiled in these territories as to become an instrument of the devil.
His fingertips, as he clutched the page, were white. He looked up. “Some
“Perhaps,” said Fernando, throwing the letter onto his bed. “All the same, it doesn’t serve our interests to be in disagreement with him. Unless the New Inquisition is willing to take our needs and our present situation into account, it may not be worth it.”
He moved to exit, but Torquemada interrupted one last time. “I understand, Your Majesty, the chancellor is not to be arrested, for now. But can we question his relatives? His associates? As witnesses, they have nothing to fear. The Inquisition has always protected its sources.”
“That is a matter for your judgment.”
Fernando left Tomás de Torquemada in the company of the Moorish girl, who remained half hidden under the blanket. Most likely, she had not understood a word. The monk, furious and indignant, hardly noticed her.
Riding away with his guard, Torquemada told himself that his meeting with the king had not been futile. Fernando had authorized him to investigate Santángel’s cohorts and kin, throughout the realms of Aragon and Castile. They might provide valuable information. They might also be used to pressure the chancellor. He would prioritize the search for the boy with the striped jerkin. He would begin by finding out every detail about the boy’s departure from Zaragoza.
As Torquemada and his men galloped across Andalusia’s wild, mountainous terrain, the inquisitor’s displeasure slowly turned to hope, not only for the soul of Luis de Santángel, but also for the alliance of Church and Crown in Castile and Aragon. Tomás de Torquemada never permitted himself to dwell in despair. Those who loved the Lord must have confidence in His divine plan.
Walking from his tent to greet the soldiers, King Fernando tripped on a small rock and cursed under his breath. His morning conversation with Tomás de Torquemada had brought to mind events he would rather have forgotten.
Seventeen years before, Luis de Santángel had escorted Fernando on a secret mission to meet and betroth Ysabel. The young financier and the prince rode together, ate together, and talked late into the night in their guarded tent, laying out the future king’s aspirations and strategies.
At that time, King Enrique IV still reigned over Castile. Enrique and his half-sister Ysabel despised each other. The king insisted that upon his death his only offspring, Princess Juana, be crowned Queen of Castile. Ysabel countered that Enrique was a sodomizer, that Princess Juana’s birth was surely illegitimate, and that Ysabel was next in line for the throne.
With Santángel, Fernando traveled incognito, dressed as a peasant. En route they stayed with friends of Santángel’s family, New Christians who secretly swore to support their ambitions. Had Juana’s champions, including the king himself, learned that the prince of Aragon intended to marry Ysabel, they would have guessed his intention—to help her usurp the throne of Castile.
The prince hoped, through his marriage, to acquire sovereignty over Castile. He never intended to share power with his wife-to-be. Ysabel insisted they jointly wear the twin crowns of Aragon and Castile. Fernando grudgingly agreed, privately considering it a provisional arrangement.
In the town of Calatayud, Prince Fernando and his small entourage met a dark-skinned soothsayer with a strange accent, a deep voice, and only two teeth. “I tell you only what you must know,” she promised, “by reading words, mystery patterns, leaves in the bottom of the teacup.” Although Luis de Santángel scoffed at the idea, the prince welcomed her offer.
While preparing a brew of strong, hot tea, she spoke with both gentlemen about their travels, the weather, and the land where she was born, “a place far in the east with no name.” She asked the prince to drink as much as he could in one gulp. After he drank, she poured what remained of the liquid onto the ground, replaced the cup on her table, and spun it three times. She studied the small leaves that clung to the sides and bottom of the cup. In some places, they clumped together. In others, they formed dancing strings.
Looking up from the cone-shaped cup, the woman rapidly proved her genius. “You are … you are man of power. Great power.”
Fernando glanced triumphantly at Santángel, seated next to him, then turned back to her. “Tell me what the future holds.”
“Ah,” she told him, holding up a finger. “When I learned secret arts, I made promises. I keep them. God creates man with eyes in the back of his head. He cannot see the path before. I will not cross God. But this much I can tell you.” Again, she pondered the pattern of leaves, then raised her gray eyes, clouded with apprehension. “You will achieve many dreams. But when your wife dies, the door of dreams may close.”
For years following this chance meeting, Fernando tried to make sense of her obscure prognostication. When Ysabel finally fell pregnant, its meaning dawned on him. If the queen were to die before the king, their child would inherit Castile. Fernando would find his royal powers diminished, once again, to the periphery of Aragon.
He spoke of the matter with Luis de Santángel, the only other person who had heard the tea-leaf reader’s strange prediction. To his steward, Fernando entrusted the mission of consulting with an herbalist to discover what might be done to prevent such an outcome.
Fernando’s steward acquired a small quantity of aquae serpentis, an exceedingly costly brew made from rare mushrooms, python’s blood, cow’s dung, and other ingredients. The ingestion of a very small quantity of this blend by a pregnant woman would ensure that her child, upon reaching maturity, would lose control of his or her faculties, and thus be rendered unfit to rule. King Fernando, then, would continue to control Castile as the child’s regent.
In what appeared a normal delivery, Queen Ysabel brought into the light of day a girl, whom the king named after the niece Ysabel despised—Juana. To the world, this princess was the future queen of Castile. Only King Fernando and his steward knew the truth. If anyone else learned it, the queen would certainly have taken all necessary steps to dissolve her legal bonds with Fernando of Aragon.
The king’s steward died five weeks later, in circumstances mysterious to all but the king himself, leaving no one the wiser regarding Princess Juana’s destiny. Fernando, however, began to wonder whether Luis de Santángel did not have knowledge of their dark transaction. The payment of the apothecary had come out of funds the chancellor controlled. Santángel reviewed all such disbursements in detail with the king’s steward.
If Santángel knew about the aquae serpentis, he could be trusted to keep their secret. If, however, the relentless Torquemada were to interrogate the chancellor of Aragon, who could predict what might be said, and how the future of Castile and Aragon might be altered?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EVERY EVENING, Cristóbal Colón rode alone from the port of Santa Maria to the estate of Luis de la Cerda, the duke of Medina-Celi, outside Cadiz. Medina-Celi owned the ships Colón sailed, but their partnership now extended far deeper than mere business. Colón had become the duke’s dearest friend.
Colón took what pleasure he could in the solitude, the calm of the brush-covered hills, the scents of rosemary and heather, the occasional glimpses of ocean below, and, most of all, the time to contemplate the world and his life.
Some men blithely stroll through their lives, accepting what Destiny offers, like farmers gathering fruit in their orchards, not looking off into neighboring properties or envying their yield. Others view Destiny with suspicion, as an adversary. What she freely offers, they value little, while what she withholds, they covet. To satisfy this desire, they will fight Destiny with ardor. Occasionally they succeed; more often they die disenchanted.
Colón viewed his entire existence as a struggle with Destiny. While his peers may have marveled at his ability to ingratiate himself with the powerful of this world, including the duke of Medina-Celi and the chancellor of Aragon, such accomplishments meant little to him. The business of negotiating with buyers and sellers of exotic commodities, hiring sailors, trying to keep them in line, earning and disbursing wages—all this was nothing but a dissipation of th
Nonetheless, during these long rambles he occasionally allowed himself to doubt. So many learned men had seen no value in Colón’s scheme. Even if the Indias could be reached by sailing westward, how could he be certain he would accomplish what none had before him?
Dressed in black, with a small, pointed beard, piercing blue eyes, and long, slender fingers, the duke of Medina-Celi preferred to break his colts himself. As he sometimes remarked, they were his only children. This particular horse, with its long neck, white socks, and spindly legs, was likely to become a favorite.
In the corral, he placed a saddle on the ground and allowed his colt to draw nearer to it, to examine it, to smell its leather. Leaning against the fence, the duke was watching his colt bemusedly when Colón arrived.
“What news from the harbor, my good captain?”
“The ocean’s still breathing, Your Lordship, her tides rising and falling like a beautiful woman stretched out on a bed of silt.”
The duke delighted in the contrast between Colón’s rough, powerful build—his bulbous nose, his deep chest—and his poetic mind. The Genoese captain was the opposite of the duke himself, whose features and manners were finely sculpted and whose mind was practical.
“By day,” Colón added, “men never cease filling some ships with freight, and unloading others.”
Quick-witted and sensitive when he cared to be, Medina-Celi seized the innuendo. “But one seaman has had his fill of all this mundane commotion. A Genoese-Spanish seaman. No?”
“Indeed,” Colón confirmed, noting the sarcastic inflection.
Medina-Celi picked up the training saddle and raised it over his colt’s back. The horse backed off nervously, its ears flattened. “He’s not ready,” he declared as he replaced the saddle on the ground. He tried to stroke the animal’s nose, but the horse broke loose and galloped around the corral, its mane blowing. Luis de la Cerda walked back to join Colón by the gate. “He’s of little value to me, running around freely,” he remarked. “But of course, I’ll keep feeding him. He’ll accept the saddle and the bit sooner or later. They all do.”