By Fire, By Water (22 page)

“And what brought your Baba Shlomo to the kingdom of Granada?” asked Santángel.

“Riots,” said Judith. “Uprisings … against the Jews of Zaragoza. His parents died, like many others.”

“If he lost his parents there,” pursued the chancellor, “and fled to Granada, one wonders why he would insist on speaking Aragonese.”

“It was their language. It’s his way of honoring them.”

“Surely there’s more to it than that. One can honor one’s parents in many ways.”

Taken aback, Judith allowed her composure to slip. “And why would that concern you?”

“For many reasons.”

She frowned. Why was this foreign dignitary addressing her in this direct, familiar manner? Surely he had not traveled all the way from the kingdom of Aragon to discuss her family’s linguistic practice. Nevertheless, she straightened her dress and tried to explain. “We are a community, the Jewish exiles from Christian Spain. We share memories, foods.” She smiled and turned back to the vizier, who had been observing their tense exchange. “Your Excellency, if you will forgive me, I’m expected at the shop.”

The vizier dismissed Judith good-naturedly. Santángel again turned to her and bowed from the waist. “A great pleasure and a rare honor, madam.” He kissed her hand.

No one had ever kissed her hand before. Of course, Christians had different customs. Surely, for the chancellor of Aragon, this exceedingly intimate act meant nothing at all. For the Jewish silver merchant, the touch of a man’s lips was inappropriate and undeniably sensual. She turned to leave.

That evening, amidst the flowers and fountains in the Garden of the Generals, the chancellor of Aragon sat with Mohammed bin Sa’ad al-Zagal, the emir of Granada. Beside the emir sat his vizier, sipping a fig liquor, eating crisp pastries stuffed with squab, cinnamon, and almonds, watching a young girl called Sariya perform a dance she had learned in the harem. Musicians plucked and scraped their bows across stringed gourds, blew on wooden flutes and the
sabbaba
, a reed instrument. They struck the skin of a tambour with their fingertips and the heels of their palms.

Kneeling, partially hidden behind a silk curtain, Sariya at first moved only her hands in graceful, flowing undulations, parabolic flourishes, and sudden sweeps. As the music grew faster and louder, she slowly rose from her knees, her head loosely swaying, her shoulders and chest twitching with the drumbeats, her hands floating through the air on either side, in front of her face, behind her head, like birds lost in flight. The veils seemed to fall of their own accord from her long hair and shoulders. Her belly and hips burst into life, swiveling and thrusting, and then her legs and feet, pivoting, skipping, whirling. Her body bobbed and shuddered, translating the instruments’ twisting melody into one long, delirious gesture. Finally, as the music climaxed and ebbed, Sariya collapsed and disappeared behind the low curtain.

“She is like no other woman, your Sariya,” the emir complimented Ibrahim al-Hakim.

“Indeed, I’ve not seen another like her,” agreed the chancellor, who had found her performance not only refreshingly exotic, but also sensual beyond anything he had seen, or could imagine seeing, in the court of Queen Ysabel.

The emir turned to Santángel. “The women of Andalusia please you.”

“From what I have seen, Your Royal Highness,” confirmed the chancellor, “they constitute a most exquisite breed.”

“And what have you seen, other than Sariya?”

The flutist and tambour player resumed a quiet
taqsim
.

“This afternoon, the lady who delivered these goblets.” Santángel held aloft his cup.

“Yes,” said the vizier, pouring more liquor for his guest. “Stunning, but headstrong, as only Jewish women can be. Migdal. Judith. She has a workshop in their quarter.”

The chancellor nodded, imbibing another mouthful of the fruity, intoxicating beverage. Al-Zagal examined his cup, as if noticing its exquisite craftsmanship for the first time. He was not tall, but at the venerable age of forty-three, he was still muscular and fit, with short, graying hair and coal-black eyes.

“Now, if you will,” he turned back to the chancellor, “explain why you have traveled into the heart of an enemy kingdom, with all the danger that entails, to warn us of a threat from my nephew.”

“Your Royal Highness,” said Santángel. “We hardly need more instability on our borders. Abu Abdullah is, to us, an unknown entity and a greater threat.”

Bringing his hands together under his chin, al-Zagal peered at the chancellor, nodding slightly. The flute music swelled to its conclusion. Al-Hakim leaned close to the emir and whispered a few words.

“Tell me something,” al-Zagal challenged Santángel. “You Christians possess virtually all the land from the Sierra Nevadas to the Balkans. Why are you so preoccupied with the tiny Moslem emirate of Granada, a narrow swath of land in an isolated corner of the continent? Why is it more acceptable for your armies to be stopped by seas than by mountains?”

“Your Highness,” replied the chancellor, “I am hardly qualified to comment on such matters.”

“For the last several years,” resumed the emir, “you have availed yourselves of every opportunity to spoliate our farmlands just south of your border. Your purpose is not merely to harass and demoralize the local populations, but to destroy our economy.”

“These border raids have been going on for centuries,” Santángel objected calmly, “in both directions.”

“It is not the same. Those were small-scale incursions. These are invasions. Tens of thousands of Christian peasants have participated. Granada’s most fertile fields have been laid waste. Your famous knight, Rodrigo Ponce de León, attacked our town of Alhama and took it, separating the two great cities of our emirate, Granada and Malaga, and accentuating the strife between me and my nephew. And now you come warning me of his intentions—as if I were not well aware of them.”

“Neither the king of Aragon nor the queen of Castile authorized Don Rodrigo’s attack.”

“Not openly.”

“Your Highness, if you do not wish to avail yourself of our assistance, that is, of course, entirely your decision. My only purpose is to convey the offer.”

Al-Zagal peered over the hills of his kingdom, toward the sea that divided Europe from the Southern Continent. Santángel knew better than to say anything further, unless asked.

The door of Santángel’s intricately tiled room, deep within the Alhambra castle complex, creaked open. A girl with long, champagne-colored hair, small breasts, and fawn-colored eyes slipped in.

“Carlina,” she introduced herself while disrobing. “A gift from the emir, for one night.”

“And how is it you speak Spanish so well?”

“Before I came here, I was Christian. From Murcia.” She slipped into bed beside the chancellor.

Carlina offered her pleasures graciously, even ardently. Her smile, thought Santángel, revealed a surprising softness; her voice, a certain sweetness.

Later, as he allowed his head to sink into the feather pillow, watching candlelight play upon the ornate, carved ceiling, the chancellor of Aragon reflected upon his inability to find contentment in the fresh-gardenia embrace of a young lover.

He allowed his mind to wander, again, to his departed wife: her laughter, her voice, her hopeful smile. Unlike most women of her station, she had accompanied her husband on many of his journeys, including to Granada, years ago. Her passing had torn a hole in Luis de Santángel’s life. Into this hole, much of the satisfaction he took in ordinary things had flowed, like water down a drain.

For the first time in many years, another woman entered these thoughts. The silversmith he had met at the Alhambra. Migdal, the vizier had later told him, Judith. Something about her had captured his fancy. He had known many beautiful ladies. This Carlina, lying next to him, was hardly less striking, and certainly younger.

In Judith’s regard, he had seen a hint of resilience. In her voice, a resonance of compassion and experience. She had seemed determined not to appear impressed with his finery and station. Her words about Zaragoza and riots had implied a subtle reproach. She remained with him—her amber eyes, the splash of freckles across her nose, her proud bearing.

Late the next morning, as a donkey brayed down the street and a small wagon clattered past, Luis de Santángel dismissed his guide at the gate of Judith Migdal’s home. He noticed the mezuzah on the threshold and contemplated its simple olivewood case, covered with silver branches and leaves so brightly burnished they glistened in the morning sunlight. He had never seen such a lustrous, assertive ornament outside a Jewish home. Then again, he reminded himself, he had rarely visited a Jewish home in the broad light of day.

The door of Judith’s workshop stood ajar. Inside, she was linking a clasp to a bracelet. Her black hair loosely tied, strands of it falling into her face, she wore a work dress and leather mules.

He paused at the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back. “My lady.”

Judith smiled. “Chancellor. Please.” She gestured for him to enter, hiding whatever surprise she may have felt at his sudden appearance.

The chancellor stepped into the room.

Judith rose. “I’m sorry it isn’t more comfortable, here.”

“This is your workplace,” said the chancellor. “I wasn’t expecting a royal palace.”

She smiled vaguely. “Are you enjoying your stay in our city? It may seem foreign to you. Even strange.”

“Not terribly. I’ve had the pleasure of traveling here before. The people I’ve met, your vizier, your emir, have all been most gracious.”

“Your talks with the vizier, were they satisfactory? Did you accomplish what you wanted?”

“Time will tell.”

She seemed to notice he was being evasive, and changed the subject. “May I ask what brings you to my workshop?”

“I was most impressed with what I saw, yesterday. With what I heard. Your silverwork. Your mastery of my language.” Hoping to put her at ease, he added, “The vizier himself seemed quite satisfied.”

“Then perhaps my fortunes are improving.”

“You don’t seem so very unfortunate.”

The chancellor glanced around the dim chamber—the rough beams, the tiled floor and whitewashed walls. A disagreeable, smoky scent hung in the air.

“Were you looking for something?” asked Judith.

“I suppose I was. I am.” The chancellor glanced at the trays and religious ornaments on the table. “Something to take back to Castile. Perhaps a gift. For my queen.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Something she would cherish. A pendant, perhaps. A clasp. A cross. Elaborate, in your arabesque manner, and large. She would like that.”

“How long will you be staying in Granada?”

“Perhaps another night.”

“One night?” She shook her head. “It won’t be possible, Chancellor. The Sabbath starts tonight and lasts through the day tomorrow. We Jews don’t work on the Sabbath. As a matter of fact, I should stop, now.” She began organizing the silver, stones, and tools.

“I’ll send for it, then.”

She smiled. “From Zaragoza? That would cost you a fortune.” Santángel tapped his fingers on the table. He watched her as she prepared to leave. “Perhaps something more substantial, then, to justify the cost of the messenger. A sword-hilt for my king. As well as a cross for my queen. Two items. Perhaps more in the future.”