By Fire, By Water (15 page)

They left the city streets behind. Vines, hedges, and fruit trees filled the sides of the road. Judith and Dina approached the base of the hill where the magnificent Alhambra castle stood, a great eagle watching the still valley.

They continued along a path through these gardens, toward the top of the hill. The castle complex presented high, windowless walls, broken with lookout towers and topped with the square teeth of crenellation. The view from these walls embraced the entire region of Granada. Two black slaves with sabers guarded the hoof-shaped archway of an enormous square tower.

“We’re here to meet with the vizier,” Judith told them.

“Is he expecting you?”

“We have a gift.”

The two guards conferred. “Wait here.” One of them went through the gate.

“He’ll have us thrown out,” said Dina. “I already tried this.”

“He won’t meet with us,” agreed Judith.

“Then why are we here?”

The guard returned, cordially explaining, “Unfortunately, the vizier is occupied. But he sends greetings.”

“Please tell the vizier we are honored. Give him this on our behalf.” Judith handed the wooden box to the guard.

Six days later, Judith sat working in her shop, alone. Ever since Sara’s abduction, Levi had been spending a great deal of time in the synagogue, or in Baba Shlomo’s room, studying and praying.

She heard men talking, coughing, and chuckling outside. The clink of a sword, a stirrup, or a chain. One man’s voice, louder. “Wait here.”

Ibrahim al-Hakim, the vizier of Granada, entered, stooping to avoid hitting his head against the low beams.

Seeing him, close-bearded, big-bellied, in a scarlet and saffron silk
juba
, Judith felt her stomach turn, but rose to greet him. “How may we be of service to you, Your Excellency?”

“Quite a teapot, that gift of yours,” said Ibrahim al-Hakim. “But tell me, do you imagine the vizier of Granada takes tea by himself?”

Judith smiled. “It was a personal gift, Your Excellency. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more?” He arched one eyebrow. “My physician, Isaac Azoulay, perhaps you know of him.”

“We are a small community. He’s a famous physician.”

“He insists I drink from silver. Indeed, he insists the emir and all the court take hot beverages only in silver vessels.”

“Why?”

“He says silver promotes health.”

“That is true.”

“Yes, of course.”

Al-Hakim noticed an inlaid-turquoise brooch on a small shelf amongst other jewels. “This is a lovely piece, is it not? Do you think it would please a fourteen-year-old girl,” he picked up the brooch, “with eyes of emerald?”

“That particular piece would please any girl. But it might look better on one of your older slaves. I mean, concubines, of course.”

The vizier nodded slowly. “Feisty and beautiful,” he quipped. “A shame you’re not younger.”

Judith thanked God she was twenty-nine, far too old for the vizier.

“What do you have for my Sariya?”

Judith’s smile vanished.
Sariya
was the Arabic form of
Sara
. That Levi’s friend had been forced to convert to Islam went without saying, but to hear the vizier refer to her by a new name broke Judith’s heart.

“Maybe this.” Judith unpinned the filigree slipper from her dress. Al-Hakim grasped it between his thumb and forefinger and brought it to his face. He could not know that the slipper-pin contained a Hebrew prayer, rolled up on a tiny parchment inside. Perhaps, thought Judith, it would be of some comfort to Sara.

“Sara will look exquisite with it, Your Excellency.”

“Exquisite Sariya looks, with or without any adornment.” Al-Hakim sighed. “I’ll take both. Your slipper pin and the brooch.” He dropped them in his leather satchel. “As well as twenty more cups to match the one you offered.”

For a moment, Judith said nothing. Then she cleared her throat. “If you’ll forgive my impertinence, Your Excellency, I have a small request of my own.”

“You have my ear.”

“Please, follow me.”

Ignoring his armed guards, who stood outside, she led him out of her workshop and into her home.

“I know I’m being presumptuous. I’m sure you don’t often visit the homes of humble citizens.”

“It’s not often they invite me,” he replied politely.

She served him mint tea. As they sat and sipped, she explained all that Dina Benatar had done for her. Ibrahim al-Hakim listened attentively.

“Dina misses her daughter terribly. She is alone,” Judith concluded.

“I’ll allow my Sariya’s mother private visits with her daughter, once a month,” the vizier offered. “But the visits must take place in a guarded room, and each will last no more than half an hour. The subject of religion must never be discussed.” He rose to leave. “Will that be all?”

Inwardly exulting, Judith nodded. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”

He smiled and turned to leave. “When should we expect the teacups?”

“Four months. Maybe five.”

“Four months, then. I’ll expect a visit from you.” Al-Hakim retrieved a few gold coins from his satchel and placed them on the table. “This is for the brooch and the pin.” He had decided on their value without consulting her. The price he paid was far in excess of what Judith would have asked.

    
CHAPTER FIVE

D
EVOTIONAL CANDLES FLICKERED
on La Seo’s altar, a small island of light in the dark cathedral. Luis de Santángel knelt near the back of the pews as if praying.

In the shadows before the transept stood the Basque horseman, tall and lean, with straight hair to his shoulders and an elegant quilted doublet. He acknowledged Santángel with a terse nod.

Pedro de Arbués knelt at a wooden altar, seemingly oblivious to the world, an egg-shaped lump of flesh swathed in a white tunic and a black, hooded scapular. Wheezing inhalations punctuated the canon’s barely audible prayer. As Santángel watched him from behind, he remembered the jackals chewing Felipe de Almazón’s shoulder and the look of satisfaction on Arbués’s face.

“It will all be over soon,” Santángel prayed.

The Basque horseman had been observing the monk for weeks. Pedro de Arbués rarely went anywhere without armed guards, except when he prayed late at night.

As the horseman slid out from the shadows, he knew that Arbués’s conversation with God would continue another sixty or seventy heartbeats. If the canon rose sooner than usual, then something was amiss, and the horseman would have to abandon tonight’s meticulous plans.

He dug in his pocket and pulled the leather strap from the handle of his dagger, freeing it from its sheath. His fingers caressed the dagger’s braided-ivory hilt. He grasped it firmly.

He discerned a slight ridge under the shoulder of the inquisitor’s gown. That would be the edge of his coat of mail. Despite his faith in a better afterlife, the horseman reflected, this man of God seemed in no hurry to shed his corporeal envelope.

As the horseman slid closer, he watched Arbués’s high-arched nostrils and buttery hands for signs of disquiet. He heard the canon’s labored breathing, his mumbled prayer. Arbués was undoubtedly aware of his presence, but did not appear alarmed.

He came so close that despite the dimness of the candlelight, he perceived the canon’s eyelashes twitching. Arbués’s right hand rose to his forehead, then touched his breastbone and shoulders. He started to rise.

The horseman drew the dagger, lifted it above his shoulder, and brought it forcefully down to the base of Arbués’s neck. He fell forward, clasping Arbués’s head and pushing him to the ground. The knife tore through muscle; the horseman wedged it between bones, twisting. The inquisitor’s arms flailed outward. He screamed ineffectively. His attacker’s forearm was in his mouth.

The horseman continued torquing and shoving his knife into the monk’s sinewy nape, aiming for a particular spot that, he knew from long experience, would deliver the canon’s rapid death. When he found that spot, thick, hot blood burbled through the wound onto his victim’s shoulder.

The horseman left the knife in the monk’s flesh. He jerked his other arm free of Arbués’s teeth. The canon fell to the floor, writhing and gurgling.

His doublet and hose spattered with blood, the horseman turned down the central aisle as Luis de Santángel rose in the pew. They heard the clatter of hoof beats on the cobblestones outside. Few other than Pedro de Arbués visited the cathedral this late. An ecclesiastical messenger, however, might be arriving with an urgent note for the local hierarchy.

“Go, now,” Luis de Santángel instructed the horseman. “I’ll find the book.”

“I fear we should both leave, or search together.” The horseman’s voice was guttural, accented. “You must not search alone. Too dangerous.”

Observing the man’s blood-splashed clothing and hands, Santángel caught his breath. “No. Leave now. I’ll finish our task.”

“Are you certain?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Santángel heard himself instructing him.

“At the Bull’s Head.”

The horseman turned, hurried down a side aisle, and walked out through the transept door. The chancellor retreated into the shadows, attentive to the hoofbeats, no louder in his ears than the pounding of his heart. Slowly, the clattering diminished as horse and rider continued on their way.

Santángel proceeded to the back of the nave, trying to avoid the spreading pool of blood, but stopped as he approached the agonizing canon. He had not predicted how it would feel to witness his victim in death-throes.

The Inquisitor of Zaragoza writhed on the floor, gasping, reaching with his left hand for the spike in his neck. His fingers found the ivory handle, crawled around it, tugged on it. He pulled it out. Lips of flesh spewed blood onto the marble floor stones like the liquid words of a final prayer.

The sight of Arbués, defenseless and irredeemable, appalled the chancellor. His throat constricted. A cold sweat coursed his spine. He clutched a bench to steady himself. The expression on the expiring canon’s face, a look that combined ice and embers, yearning and revulsion, defiance and resignation, shook Santángel to the depths of his soul. Even as the canon’s regard grew vacant, Luis de Santángel knew he would never forget that ardent gaze, that foreboding of measureless despair.