By Fire, By Water by Mitchell James Kaplan
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THROUGH FOUR BLEAK and grueling winters, the Christian sword hacked its way toward the center of the Islamic emirate. The hooves of King Fernando’s horses pummeled the wide vega, raising vast clouds of dust. Velez-Malaga, Malaga, Almeria, Guadix, and Baza fell.
A sense of helplessness descended upon Granada. Soldiers bolted and chained the gates of the city. Everyone knew that while the citizens’ provisions might last a few weeks, the Castilians’ assault could continue forever.
A call to arms rose from minarets and battlements. A clamor of metal and horses’ hooves violated the peaceful, clear afternoon as troops assembled throughout the capital. They waited.
The Christian king, confident that only haste, now, could defeat him, decided not to launch a frontal attack against the greatest soldiers of the Moors’ precious stronghold. Instead, he would starve Granada.
He ordered his soldiers to burn and despoil all the towns and fields within fifty miles. For the Christian fighters, the battle of Granada was a great free-for-all. Gold, silk, spices, precious objects, beautiful women, handsome Moors—they seized them, spent them, discarded them, and impaled them at whim. A spectacular, thrilling conclusion to a long series of grueling battles.
Behind the walls of Granada, the Alhambra rationed the citizens’ food. Horse-mounted soldiers patrolled the streets day and night. Even the mosques and the synagogue, vital institutions to most, ceased to provide regular services.
Judith Migdal’s response, once again, was to immerse herself in her work. She and her workers continued production as if there were no war, as if the enemy were not about to plunder their town. No one, other than she and Levi, knew what she did with the bangles and Torah handles they manufactured. No one knew how Judith procured a seemingly endless supply of silver ore and food for herself and her workers.
The answer lay under the walls of the city, where the river Darro flowed through a tunnel, carrying out effluvia. There, once a month, late at night, Judith and her nephew conveyed a crate of silver goods out of the municipality. They came back with a box of food, raw metal, and coin. As arranged, Cristóbal Colón’s courier, Dumitru, acted as their exporter and supplier.
In the underground passage, Judith and Levi often met strangers. Most of them, in fear of imminent catastrophe, were fleeing the city, carrying but a few meager possessions. Others, like Judith, smuggled goods. Judith feared nothing from these fellow lawbreakers. All people, she told herself—Jews and Muslims, thieves and honest citizens—when faced with a shared threat, learn to trust one another.
Abu Abdullah, the emir who had seized the throne from his uncle to save it from the Christians, finally abdicated and capitulated to the forces of Ysabel and Fernando. He knew that to surrender Muslim lands to the Christians was anathema to his faith, that it would bring dishonor to his name. The lives of his citizens mattered more than his reputation or even his religion. In tears, he begged the Christian Crowns to spare the beauty of his capital city.
Hours later, trumpets blew and town criers called out in public squares, armor-clad Christian soldiers deployed flags emblazoned with the Holy Cross from the walls of the capital and flew the banners of Castile from its towers. Ysabel and Fernando, their soldiers, and many of their advisors began a raucous parade into the heart of their new domain.
A clamor of drums resounded through the narrow streets of Granada. Most residents cowered in their shops and residences. Thousands of freed Christian prisoners cheered and danced in the bright sunlight. When the royal cavalcade reached the Great Mosque of Granada, King Fernando stopped the procession and turned to his ecclesiastical advisor.
“Talavera,” he demanded in a voice grown hoarse from shouting battle commands, “It is our fervent desire that the accursed emblems of Mohammedanism be ripped from these walls.” His attendants and knights, together with the freed prisoners, let out an exuberant cheer. “Let us replace them with crucifixes, madonnas, icons, and other objects befitting Christian devotions. And we desire that this edifice be reconsecrated in the name of Jesus Christ, that we may take confession and celebrate a Mass of Thanksgiving in the morrow.” Fernando’s hand, on his hip, clutched the Moorish scimitar his chancellor had sent him, a lovely weapon that symbolized the vast wealth he was acquiring by means of war.
Fernando and Ysabel, their court in tow, progressed up the long, leafy path to the great castle of the Moors, the reputedly impregnable Alhambra. All their lives, they had heard talk of the splendors of this castle. Nevertheless, what they found astonished them: a military fortress, several palaces with fountains and gardens, ceilings painted in gold leaf and lapis-blue, carved partitions, additional housing sufficient for an army of functionaries, all of it utterly deserted.
When Hernando de Talavera and his aides entered the Great Mosque, they found no emblems or symbols that could be construed as representations of God. Talavera had little to do but to cleanse and christen the mosque and erect a great crucifix upon its eastern wall.
Tomás de Torquemada, arriving in Granada that evening, found Talavera along with several other churchmen, patiently washing every stone with holy water.
“Allow me to assist you, Fray Talavera.” Torquemada knelt beside the prior of Prado, took hold of a towel, and began washing the adjacent stones. “I understand you intend to lead Mass here tomorrow morning.”
“That is our sovereigns’ wish.”
“I shall look forward to your homily.”
Talavera raised his eyes again and looked into Torquemada’s, then resumed wiping the stones, observing the patterns created by the play of torchlight on the wet marble. Sometimes their hands, independently of either man’s will, appeared as coordinated as the back-and-forth gestures of dancers executing an elegant carol. At other times, their hands traced inharmonious dashes and jagged vacillations, like the thrusts and parries of swordsmen.
So it is with our lives, reflected Talavera. Each of us has the clear impression that he controls, in some measure, his own small path. The greater patterns lie far beyond any individual’s will. It is in the yielding of our will to God’s that we become holy.
If in capturing the capital Ysabel and Fernando were doing God’s work, they should be careful to continue doing His work in the possession of it. At that moment, Hernando de Talavera conceived the sermon he would deliver the following morning. He would speak not to the people of Granada but to their rulers.
The queen worried that a newly christened cathedral, in a city that only days before had been an Islamic capital, was unlikely to attract many worshipers for its first Mass. She feared God would be offended. She prayed vigorously, in advance, for His forgiveness. She saw to it that word went out: the king and queen would be hosting an important event in the converted mosque. For all Christians in the capital, attendance was mandatory.
Most of Granada’s residents believed that exposure to the Latin rite would turn them into idolaters. Nevertheless, at the appointed time, the Great Cathedral of Granada filled with courtiers, soldiers, even local citizens in their djellabah robes.
Those who knew the Latin intoned the Kyrie Eleison in a solemn, melismatic chant. They sang an uplifting Gloria in Excelsis as a round. Queen Ysabel, wearing the large, intricate silver cross Santángel had sent her, sat with her husband, her confessor Torquemada, and her five children in the front row of worshipers. She felt an exaltation, a presence of the Holy Spirit, which she had rarely experienced in a lifetime of spiritual devotions. God, through this rapture, was speaking to her, thanking her for liberating Andalusia from the tenacious grasp of the Saracens. She knew she would never forget this moment.
Hernando de Talavera launched into an impassioned discourse, an exhortation that tested some of the queen’s assumptions about the meaning of victory:
“The Lord said: Judge not, that you not be judged. And yet, his contemporaries judged our Lord. Some thought him Elijah, back from the dead, Matthew tells us; others thought him Jeremiah or one of the othe
“In Luke, we are told, Love your enemies. Be merciful, as your Father is also merciful. And again: Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven.
“Your Royal Highnesses, and all your faithful servants, and all the children of God gathered here, we have come on this day into a land not our own, and our purpose is to make it our own. We have come into the midst of a people who know not Christ, and we intend to educate them. Let us teach them of God’s glory through words and acts of love, as the Lord taught us. But let us not judge them. For if we judge them, and if we condemn them for their errors, we ourselves will be judged and condemned. But if we forgive them, we shall be forgiven.”
To Tomás de Torquemada, Talavera’s words were arrows aimed at his heart. The Jeronymite monk was brazenly and unmistakably attacking the Inquisition, the arm of the Church concerned with judgment. He was distorting the Word to undermine the authority of the Church. Were we not instructed, in the Epistle of James, He who turns a sinner from the error of his way will save a soul from death and cover a multitude of sins? Did such an act not require judgment? Indeed, without judgment, what did righteousness mean?
As Torquemada pondered these questions, it occurred to him that he would have to take an unusual approach, on this particular occasion, to the queen’s confession. He prayed that the Lord would guide him in this endeavor, as in all things.
Hernando de Talavera’s sermon moved and challenged the queen. She found herself faced with a powerful dilemma, a question she had been unable, until now, to resolve. To what extent was her desire to purify Castile and Aragon motivated by her love of Jesus, and to what extent by resentment over the Muslim theft of her land, centuries before her birth? If anger more than love fueled this desire to cleanse her nation, was that desire unholy?
She took confession in a vast, intricately tiled room, furnished only with a small table and two chairs, at the heart of the Alhambra castle. She posed this question to one of the men whose sagacity she most trusted. She knew his answer would differ markedly from Talavera’s, but cherished their diversity of opinion.
“Where in Scripture,” Torquemada replied, “is it written that it is wrong to hate evil?”
The queen, kneeling before him, reflected upon the holy books she had studied. “We can think of no Gospel where that is written.”
“Did Saint Paul not say, if anyone does not love the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be accursed. And the Jews’ own King David, before him, I have hated the congregation of evildoers, and will not sit with the wicked.”
The queen raised her gold-flecked eyes.
“Your Highness, by the grace of God,” the inquisitor continued, “has been victorious against the infidel. But what is the purpose of this victory? Is it really for revenge?”
“Perhaps not.” To Ysabel, this confession seemed centered around receiving guidance rather than exculpation.
“Is it merely so that you and the king will enjoy more land, more castles, more power?”
“Do not insult us, Father.”
“Then what is the purpose of this victory?”
“To help accomplish the will of God in this world.” She looked up at him, soliciting his approval.
“The will of God? And what might that be?”
“To bring about His kingdom on this earth.”
“But allow me, Your Highness, to probe deeper. If God wants His rule to triumph in this world, why do you imagine He doesn’t simply will that transformation into being? Certainly, you wouldn’t deny He has the power to do so?”
“Because,” the queen replied, “we have not yet sufficiently improved this terrestrial dwelling-place of ours. Because we’re not yet worthy of such grace. Why should the Lord once again sully his feet on our tainted soil, if we haven’t the will to prepare it for Him?”
Torquemada smiled. “Come. Let us sit together.”
The queen rose and joined him at the table. She was not sure whether she was still confessing or not. This did not resemble the usual procedure, but she deferred to the monk’s spiritual authority.
“Let me ask you something,” the inquisitor began again in a more casual manner. “If you invited a great warrior to sup with you in your castle, and if you wanted this hero to have a pleasant time of it and enjoy his meal, would you also invite to the same table that man’s avowed enemy? Would you invite to that very dinner one who had openly stated, and called out, all through the village, his intention to murder this gentle knight?”
“Of course not.”
“Ah, but what if this knight’s enemy were more subtle, more crafty than that. Knowing that you would never place your esteemed friend in harm’s way, suppose he hid his murderous intent. And suppose that by rendering great and important services to Your Highness, he ingratiated himself with your court and procured an invitation to this meal?”
“I should hope, Father, that we would not be so foolish as to fall for such a ruse.”
“Were this Evil One any ordinary mortal, surely Your Highness would not. But suppose he was exceedingly gifted in the art of deceiving even such perspicacious individuals as yourselves? And suppose further that he managed to trick not only you, but even the pages and squires of the good knight, your guest, so that they became, despite themselves, his accomplices in that man’s murder?”
“If we were utterly fooled, Father, I suppose we could do nothing about it, unless someone brought the matter to our attention.”
Torquemada paused, his hands folded on the table. “You have been utterly fooled, Your Highness, you and the rest of Christendom. But it is not too late.”
“Please, Father, explain to us the meaning of this parable.”
“That castle is Your Highness’s domain, Castile and Aragon, all of it. Your esteemed guest is our Lord, Jesus Christ.”
“And the ignoble creature that would kill Him?”
“That people which has already done so, repeatedly, since the day He walked this earth.”
Ysabel knew which people he meant. The Jews’ murder of Christ, as Torquemada had previously explained to her, was not an isolated occurrence, but a pan-historical event, an occurrence that took place at all times throughout history. In every generation, indeed, at every moment, Christ was dying on the holy cross for the sins of mankind, redeeming those who accepted the validity of His suffering, and condemning those who rejected Him.
Ysabel clutched the silver crucifix Luis de Santángel had offered her, searching Torquemada’s eyes.
“I have in my possession a parchment that makes it all clear.”
“Makes what clear?” asked the queen.
“How this evil enters our land. Why we’ve been unable to eliminate it. This parchment was used to provide instruction in secret meetings.”
“What sort of secret meetings?”
“They involved a Jew and a highly esteemed converso in the court of Aragon.”
“And what does this parchment say?”
From under his habit, Torquemada produced the parchment Cristóbal Colón had forced upon Luis de Santángel. Abram Serero had plastered it into the wall of his synagogue before fleeing. He unfurled it on the table and stared down at its twisted, blemished characters.
“It claims to be a lost gospel from the time of Jesus, or a fragment of a lost gospel. But it is not a gospel of the Lord. It is a gospel of the Jews, which they’ve kept hidden from Christian eyes.”
The queen saw magic in those dancing letters, as Luis de Santángel had before her. But this magic was not seductive or alluring. This magic was a dreadful, horrifying demonry.
“What does it say?”
“I dare not even repeat, or give thought to its filthy pretensions, except to say that it makes a mockery of our holy faith and our Lord’s mission. But I’ve taken the liberty of having the translation delivered t
“Judica me, Deus,” she murmured, “et discerne causam meam de gente non sancta.” Judge me, O God, and separate my cause from an unholy people.
“Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus,” Torquemada answered, “et dimissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vitam aeternam.” May almighty God have mercy on you, and having forgiven your sins, bring you to life everlasting.
“Amen.”
The monk’s expression softened into a smile. “Amen,” he repeated.
The queen strode across the stone-paved courtyard, past arabesques in plaster, ornate tile work, a fountain supported by stone lions, and hurried up a narrow staircase to her private rooms. On a table she found Torquemada’s papers, sealed with the stamp of the Inquisition. She sat down on a window ledge, covered her lap and legs with a fox blanket, and began reading:
In the year 3671, in the days of King Jannaeus, a great misfortune befell Israel, when there arose a certain disreputable man of the tribe of Judah, whose name was Joseph Pandera. He lived at Bethlehem, in Judah. Near his house dwelt a widow and her lovely and chaste daughter named Miriam. Miriam was promised to Yohanan, of the royal house of David, a man learned in the Torah and God-fearing.
In the border, a monk-translator had scrawled, “Miriam, that is Mary, Mother of God.”
At the close of a certain Sabbath, Joseph Pandera, as handsome as a warrior, having gazed lustfully upon Miriam, knocked upon the door of her room and betrayed her by pretending that he was the man to whom she had been promised, Yohanan. She was amazed at this improper conduct and submitted only against her will.