The Last Jew (28 page)

Less than a fortnight after Yonah's return, a boy again came from the village with a message that one of Ramón Callicó's kinsmen waited near the tavern for a meeting with him.

This time Fierro frowned. 'We are too busy with work,' he told Yonah. 'Tell your kinsman to come here if he wishes to see you for a brief time.'

Yonah gave the message to the boy and then waited and watched while he worked. When presently he saw two men enter the compound on horseback he left the shed and hurried to meet them.

It was Anselmo Lavera and his henchman. Lavera slid from his horse and tossed the reins to his companion, who remained mounted.

'Hola. We returned to see you, but they said you were away.'

'Yes. Delivering armor.'

'Well, it gave you time to think. Have you remembered where the saint's bones reside, then?'

'Yes.' Yonah looked at him. 'Is there a reward for such news, señor?'

He heard the man on the horse laugh softly.

'A reward? Of course there is a reward. Bring us to the saint now and you shall be rewarded at once.'

'I am unable to go. There is much work here. I was not even allowed to go to the village.'

'Who would give a single sueldo about work? If you are to become rich, why must you work? Come, we'll waste no more time.'

Yonah glanced at the shed and saw that Fierro had stopped his work and was gazing out at them.

'No,' he said, 'it would be very bad for you if I were to come. The men here would pursue me. It would prevent you from getting the bones.' He took from his tunic the copy of the map he had made in Tembleque. 'Here. The cave in which the bones lie is plainly marked. It is on the mainland, just after you leave Gibraltar.'

Lavera studied the map. 'Is it east or west on the mainland road?'

'East. A very short distance.' Yonah explained how they would find it.

Lavera moved to his horse. 'We'll see. We'll return to you, after, and deliver your reward.'

The day passed slowly for him. He threw himself into his work.

They did not come.

That night he lay alone and sleepless in the hut, listening for the sound of a horse approaching in the night, or a footstep.

No one came.

A day passed, and another. And another. Soon it was a week.

Gradually Yonah came to realize that they were not going to come, and that the count of Tembleque had paid the stipulated price.

The armory's orders were almost filled. The days became more relaxed, and Fierro asked that the games should be resumed. He put Yonah into the pit with Angel again, in full armor with the rounded swords, and then once more without armor, using button-tipped dueling blades.

Costa beat him both times. The second time, as they struggled Angel whispered his contempt. 'Fight, you misery, you coward. Fight, you limp prick, you piece of shite.' His contempt was obvious to those who watched.

'Do you mind struggling against Costa?' the maestro asked. 'You are the only one young enough. And big enough, and sufficiently strong. Do you mind being so often in the games?'

'No, I don't mind it,' Yonah said. Yet he had to be honest with Fierro. 'I believe I might win on occasion if we could go back to the mounted tourneys,' he said, but Fierro shook his head.

'You are not a squire learning to be a knight, therefore of what use would it be for you to perfect your skills with the lance? I schedule swordplay against Angel so you can learn from it, for it is a good thing for any man to be a swordsman. Each tourney is a lesson you force Angel to give you.'

Yonah always strove, and it was true he was gaining a small skill through constant practice and imitation. He thought that with enough practice he might become able to parry and strike, able to know when to dance away and when to thrust and lunge. But the older man was faster and stronger, a true master of weaponry, and though Yonah strove he could not best Costa.

Sometimes Angel gave demonstrations with the crossbow, a weapon he didn't like. 'An unskilled man can quickly learn to send bolt after bolt into a closely formed enemy army with a crossbow,' he said, 'but it is heavy to carry, and the mechanism is easily ruined by rain. And it doesn't have the wonderful range of the longbow.'

Now and again he gave the armory workers a glimpse of war, a whiff of the bloody stink.

'When a knight is unhorsed in battle, often he must discard some of his armor lest he be left behind by the sword wielders, spearmen, pikemen, and archers, who are less protected than the horsemen but far less encumbered. The armor isn't made that can cover everything and still allow the wearer to fight well without a horse.'

They stuffed a ragged tunic with straw, marking off the places that would be unprotected by armor. Almost always, from far off Angel's longbow sent an arrow to strike the 'enemy' in one of the narrow, exposed chinks where pieces of the simulated armor failed to come together. Whenever he made a particularly difficult shot, Fierro rewarded him with a coin.

One afternoon the maestro gathered them at the pit and directed the positioning of a large and cumbersome instrument.

'What is it?' Luis asked.

'A French bombarde,' Fierro said.

'What does it do?' Paco asked.

'You shall see.

It was a tube of hammered iron strengthened by rings. Fierro had them anchor it to the earth with great stakes and chains. They loaded into the tube a heavy stone ball bound with iron, and primed it with a powder that Fierro said combined saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur. Fierro spent a time fussing with a hinge that elevated the bombarde's angle. He stationed the workmen a safe distance away, then he placed the flaming end of a pole to the touch hole at the bottom of the bombarde.

When the saltpeter began to smolder, the maestro dropped the pole and scurried to join the others. There was a delay as the powder burned, and then there was a terrible sound, as though God had clapped his hands.

The stone ball swam through the air with a quiet hiss. It landed well beyond the target, striking a good-sized oak and snapping its trunk with a rending of wood.

Everyone cheered, but there was laughter, too.

'Of what use is a weapon of war that doesn't come near the target?' Yonah asked.

Fierro took no offense, understanding it was a serious question. 'It doesn't seek the target because I am unskilled in its use. I am told it isn't difficult to become adept in its practice.

'Accuracy isn't so important. In battle, instead of stone balls these bombardes can send forth case shot, which are balls fashioned from pieces of iron and stone bound together in a cement that breaks up in the act of the discharge. Imagine what several bombardes will do to a line of foot soldiers or horsemen! Those who don't flee will fall like grass before a scythe.'

Paco placed his hand on the barrel and withdrew it quickly. 'It is hot.'

'Yes. I'm told if it is fired overly much, the iron sometimes parts. It's thought perhaps barrels of cast bronze would be better.'

'Truly formidable,' Costa said. 'It makes armor useless. Then, are we to manufacture these bombardes, maestro?'

Fierro stared at the broken tree and shook his head. 'I think not,' he said quietly.

27

Watching Eyes

On a bright Sunday morning several weeks after he had sent Lavera and his henchman to the cave, Yonah rode the Arab horse out to the rocky barren and tethered him to a bush.

Any tracks that had been made in the stony earth had been obliterated by the scouring winds and what little rain had fallen since then.

Inside, the cave was empty.

The bony remains of the saint were gone. As was the rude cross and the earthen vessels. In their search for sacred riches the plunderers had broken up the altar. The scattered dry branches and the drawing of the fish on the wall were the only evidence that Yonah hadn't dreamed of the cave in its former state.

On the wall under the fish was a stain of dark rust, and when he knelt with his candle he saw other rusty remainders, large pools of dried blood on the stone floor.

The ambushers who had watched and waited here had had a profitable piece of work and at the same time had wiped out those who had competed against them in southern Spain.

Yonah knew that when he had given the map to Anselmo Lavera and his companion, he had executed them as surely as if he had drawn a sharp blade over their throats. He rode back to Gibraltar feeling both light-headed relief and the heavy burden of knowledge that he was a murderer.

Since coming back from Tembleque, more then ever Angel Costa had positioned himself as Gibraltar's pious soldier of the Church.

'Why do you ride out on Sunday mornings?' he demanded of Yonah.

'Maestro Fierro has given permission.'

'God has not given permission. Sunday mornings are for the worship of the Trinity.'

'I pray a great deal of the time,' Yonah said, attempting a piety that evidently did not impress, because Costa snorted.

'Among the armorers, only you and the maestro do not worship respectfully. You must attend the Christian Mass. You had best repent your ways, my educated señor!'

Paco had seen and heard. When Costa was gone, he spoke to Yonah. 'Angel is a killer and a sinner for whom hellfire assuredly waits, yet he watches out for the immortal souls of the better men about him.'

Costa also had talked to Fierro.

'And I have been warned by my friend José Gripo that my absence from the Mass has brought dangerous notice to myself, the maestro told Yonah. 'So you and I must change our habits. You will not ride out anymore on Sunday mornings. That time is set aside for prayer. It would be advisable for you to attend the service of worship this week.'

So the following Sunday morning Yonah went to the town and arrived at the church early, taking a place in the rear. He felt Costa's eyes on him when the master of weapons entered the church. On the other side of the church Maestro Fierro was talking comfortably with townsfolk of his acquaintance.

Yonah sat and relaxed, studying Jesus hanging on the cross above the altar.

Padre Vasquez had a high, droning voice, like the sound of bees. It wasn't difficult for Yonah to rise when people rose, to kneel when others knelt, to mouth words as though praying. He found himself enjoying the sonorous Latin of the Mass, the way he had always enjoyed hearing Hebrew.

Following the worship there were lines of people before the confessional and in front of the priest dispensing the wafers of the Eucharist. Yonah was made nervous by the sight of the wafers, for he had been raised on terrifying stories about Jews accused of stealing and desecrating the Host.

He slipped outside, hoping his departure would be unnoticed.

As he walked away from the church he saw, well ahead of him in the narrow street, the departing figure of Manuel Fierro.

Yonah went to church four Sundays in a row.

Each Sunday, Maestro Fierro also was there. Once they walked back to the armory together, chatting amiably like boys walking home from school.

'Tell me about the Jew who trained you to work silver,' Fierro said.

So Yonah told him about Abba but spoke as a former apprentice and not as a son. Still, he didn't try to keep pride and affection from his voice. 'Helkias Toledano was a wonderful man and a talented worker of metals. I was lucky to apprentice under him.'

He knew he was also lucky to apprentice now under Fierro, but shyness left the thought unspoken.

'Did he have sons?'

'Two,' Yonah said. 'One died. The other was a young boy. He took the younger one with him when he departed Spain.'

Fierro nodded and turned the subject to the netting of fish, for the boats that went out from Gibraltar were having a good season.

After that day, Manuel Fierro began to observe Yonah ever more closely. At first Yonah thought he was imagining it, for the maestro had always been a kind man, ready with a pleasant and encouraging word for everyone. But Fierro conversed with him more frequently than before, and at length.

Angel Costa was watching Yonah closely, too. He often felt Angel's eyes on him, and when Costa wasn't in sight, Yonah believed he was watched by others.

Once he was certain Luis followed him to the village. More than once Yonah returned to his hut and saw that his few belongings had been moved. Nothing was stolen. He tried to inspect his own property through a hostile searcher's eyes but saw no incrimination in his few items of apparel, his guitar, the steel cup he had made, and the breviary of the late Bernardo Espina, might his soul rest.

*

Manuel Fierro had been a successful and influential man in Gibraltar for several decades. He had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, and on the rare evenings when he stopped into the village tavern he almost never drank alone.

He saw nothing unusual when José Gripo sat at his table and drank a glass of wine without too many words, for he had known Gripo as long as he had been in Gibraltar, and the owner of the chandlery shop was never overly verbose.