By Fire, By Water (21 page)

Torquemada noticed his constable staring at her. “Rodríguez, enter her name in the record.”

The constable obeyed.

“Father.” Leonor looked down in apparent shame. “I was with the chancellor.”

“That night? The night of the assassination?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Here, Father. In this house.”

“And what were you doing with him, my daughter?”

“I served him supper.”

“And?”

“And it was late.”

“How late?”

“Very late, Father.”

“Yes, but no one eats supper
that
late. After supper, did you see where he went?”

Again, she cast down her eyes. “We were together all night.”

Torquemada placed two fingers over his lips. If she was lying, she was clever, for there would likely be no witness to an act of fornication—at least not in the spacious house of a wealthy man. Not wishing to antagonize or embarrass her unnecessarily, he turned to his constable. “Rodríguez, why don’t you question the señorita in private?”

Rodríguez assented. Two soldiers took hold of Leonor.

She took a deep breath and swallowed. “I can walk unassisted, thank you.”

Torquemada signaled for them to release her. The soldiers clamorously followed her and Rodríguez out of the room.

For the moment, it mattered little whether this woman was telling the truth or not, reflected Torquemada. Either way, it would be necessary to apprehend and question the
converso
Luis de Santángel.

He turned to leave. Speed, now, was of the essence. Too many judaizers slipped out of the Holy Office’s grasp into foreign lands. To be sure, they were burned in effigy, but such measures were of doubtful advantage for their souls, and ineffective as a deterrent vis-à-vis the public. If the Santa Hermandad was alerted throughout Castile and Aragon, Santángel would be found. Before ordering the arrest of one of the king’s highest-ranking servants, however, Torquemada needed to notify the king personally.

Leonor’s room was a tiny chamber with a trunk and a hay-filled mattress. She had sewn together scraps of silk and velour to form a colorful bedspread. A torn sheepskin covered the unfinished floor. Absent was a crucifix or any sign of religion. She felt no need to demonstrate a false religiosity. Her life had already ended. But if she could help protect Luis de Santángel, she would do her utmost. Juan Rodríguez pulled the clothes trunk alongside her bed and sat on it, facing her.

“How long have you been living here?”

“Since … since that night. The night of the murder.”

Rodríguez raised an eyebrow. “Late that night? Early the next morning? Please, señorita, we need details.”

“The sun had barely gone down.”

“Shortly after sundown? Did you not say you served him dinner quite late?”

“Yes. I served him dinner quite late. But he brought me here much earlier.”

“And where were you living before?”

“On the street.”

“How did this come about?”

“I can’t explain it.”

“Why not? There is nothing to fear, señorita. Father Torquemada could have had you arrested.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “We could be having this conversation in the ecclesiastical jail, rather than in the privacy of your room. But he chose not to.”

Leonor forced herself to smile.

Rodríguez leaned back again. “So, you were living on the street. And now you are living in a wealthy man’s home.” He waved his hand. “Your own room. Let me ask again: How, exactly, did this come about?”

“How do these things ever come about? He saw me. I smiled at him. We spoke very little. That first time, he offered me two hundred maravedis.”

The constable pretended not to understand. “Two hundred maravedis? For what purpose?”

“To come home with him.”

Her avowal of sin elicited no sympathy in Rodríguez. He felt himself growing hot and, momentarily at a loss, contented himself with repeating her words, once again. “To come home with him.”

She assented with a small jerk of her chin.

“And did you go home with him?”

“As you see.” A vein pulsed in her graceful neck.

“A man you did not know?”

“All men are the same.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Of course they are. Even men of religion. They say it’s a sin, but they’re no different.” She inhaled deeply, her well-defined breasts rising under her dress.

“And you, do you not believe it’s a sin?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Under Rodríguez’s cloak, the part of his anatomy that seemed to function independently of his will, the part he hated, asserted itself. To compound the insult, the chancellor’s maidservant lowered her eyes. They stopped upon the bulge there, like a snail hindered by a rock. The persimmon-haired constable allowed himself to do something he feared he would regret the rest of his life. He placed his hand on her leg.

She gasped. Rodríguez wondered why. She was a tramp, was she not? She was used to men who placed their hands on her—indeed, all over her. Was this strumpet being coy?

He could not risk being overheard. He slapped his hand over her mouth, pulled her up, and turned her around. He pushed himself against her from behind.

She struggled, trying to scream—pretending, for reasons he could not fathom, to be a woman of virtue. He held her mouth firmly. In the intoxication of the moment, he pushed harder against her, simultaneously pulling up her robe.

Her naked skin felt soft, warm. As Leonor squirmed and squealed, the constable loosened his tunic so his flesh could make contact with hers. She tried to bite his hand. He pulled her head back, clutching her mouth and nose, as he thrust from behind.

She continued twisting and lurching, trying to shout. It astonished Rodríguez, how strong she was. As he strained against her, he jerked her head back again, as hard as he could—until he heard a crack and her shrieks stopped.

Juan Rodríguez released her. She fell limply upon the bed. He closed his tunic and tried to catch his breath.

As he looked down at her, suddenly immobile, the enormity of his sin filled his lungs, making it difficult to draw air. He sat down, closed his eyes, and instructed his heart to calm.

    
CHAPTER ELEVEN

O
N A CLEAR WINTER MORNING
in the year of the prophet 890, which was the Hebrew year 5246 and the Julian year 1485, Judith set out on foot for the Alhambra. Under each arm, she carried a crate wrapped in green silk.

Sara met her at the gate. Sara looked more lovely than ever, gracefully proportioned, with green eyes, ivory skin, and long auburn locks peeking out from under her partial veil. The slipper-pin clasped her blush silk robe.

“If you please, my lady.” She led Judith through a dark, winding corridor and another gate, into the gardens.

“Sara,” Judith whispered. “Are you well?”

“Oh, yes,” Sara answered quietly. “At first, this was all so different. But now, there is so much to do. The women in the harem are kind. They are teaching me many things.”

Judith found Sara’s diction uncharacteristically formal. “What are they teaching you?”

“My favorite subject? Dancing. I practice every chance.”

“Dancing?” Judith had heard about the belly dancing practiced in the private homes of wealthy Arabs. “And your mother’s visits?”

“There’s a beautiful verse in the Koran.” Sara quoted,
“We command you to be dutiful and good to your parents. Your mother bore you in weakness and hardship upon weakness and hardship.”

As they passed out of the entranceway, the castle grounds opened before them. “Is this not the loveliest home you could imagine?” asked Sara. “These gardens, are they not splendid?”

Splendid they were, beyond anything Judith had ever seen. The contrast between the building’s stark exterior and the lacelike carved walls, thick vegetation, and gurgling fountains inside enhanced the beauty and serenity of the palace. Stone canals adorned the gardens, fragrant orange trees and myrtles flanking their edges. Arcades, on slender, intricately carved columns of white marble, surrounded reflecting pools and opened into private rooms and halls, which in turn gave access to other gardens and chambers. Small geometric tiles in white, blue, orange, black, and yellow covered the walls.

They passed through an enclosed garden. Thin, intertwined plaster tendrils, like lace, formed the rear wall. Through an archway, they entered the small, rectangular room where Ibrahim al-Hakim sat on a cushion, before a brass table, placing his stamp on a document. Two bare-chested guards stood at the back of the room. Sara prostrated herself and introduced Judith.

“Ah, yes, my silver goblets. Come! I’m eager to see them.”

The palace’s blend of exquisite luxury and fortified strength impressed Judith more than she had expected. She replied simply, “It is an honor, Your Excellency,” and placed the silk-wrapped box on the floor.

Al-Hakim took one of the cups in his hand and turned it over. “Beautiful. Beautiful. I can hardly wait to drink from these.” He held up the tumbler for Sara to admire. “What do you think, my gazelle?” The word for gazelle,
rejalla
, also meant “beautiful.”

“They are lovely,” confirmed Sara.

“Will that be all, Your Excellency?” asked Judith.

“Please, sit down. Have some candied almonds.” He placed the goblet on the table.

Judith understood the man’s hospitality to be neither more nor less than polite repayment for the mint tea she had offered him. She sat on a leather cushion and took a dried fruit from the brass tray.

“Tell me,” the vizier asked Judith, “how are your people faring, here in the capital? We know there have been troubles, but that’s over, is it not?” He glanced toward the courtyard as if expecting someone. “The Muslims and the Jews, we are brothers. We must never forget that.”

Judith savored the date in her mouth. Sensing Sara’s gaze on her, she turned again to look at her. She wondered what Sara’s eyes were trying to tell her.

Upon a nod from al-Hakim, Sara turned and strolled away. The vizier watched her until she disappeared.

“Your Excellency,” Judith tried, “yes, there have been troubles. Nevertheless, we thank God we’re comfortable and prosperous, for the most part, these days.”

Al-Hakim nodded, satisfied. “As they say, a ruler who can’t protect his Jews will bring calamity upon his realm. It happened to the Babylonians. It happened to the Egyptians. It happened to the Romans. And so many others.”

Judith could not ignore his graciousness. She smiled.

Al-Hakim glanced at the doorway where a guard had appeared. At the guard’s side stood an opulently attired foreigner.

“My lord, the chancellor of Aragon.”

Familiar with the mores of the place, Luis de Santángel bowed low, placing his right palm on his forehead. “Peace be with you, Your Excellency. The queen of Castile and the king of Aragon send their greetings. May you and your emir enjoy prosperity and health.”

Ibrahim al-Hakim gestured for him to rise.
“Sidi
Luis de Santángel. We were told you were coming. We remember your last visit fondly, though it was too long ago. Come in. Look at this lovely goblet.”

The chancellor took the ornate silver cup. “What does the inscription mean?”

Rather than answer him, the vizier directed his gaze at Judith.

She felt unsure of herself. How was one, in the home of the vizier, to address an advisor to enemy crowns? She assessed the newcomer. He looked wealthy, self-important, and Christian. In her lifetime, she had met only a handful of Christians. She had not trusted any of them.

“Allah alone conquers,” she replied quietly in Santángel’s own language.

The chancellor’s eyes lingered on hers. She shifted her regard toward the vizier.

Ibrahim al-Hakim nodded, impressed, “Not only a master silversmith, but also a linguist. How could one woman be so talented?”

“For me to explain that,” said Judith, “would tax your patience.”

“We have time.” The vizier smiled.

“My family came here from Aragon. On the Sabbath, Baba Shlomo, my late brother’s father-in-law, insists we speak Aragonese.”