By Fire, By Water (25 page)

    
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

E
VERY EVENING
, Cristóbal Colón rode alone from the port of Santa Maria to the estate of Luis de la Cerda, the duke of Medina-Celi, outside Cadiz. Medina-Celi owned the ships Colón sailed, but their partnership now extended far deeper than mere business. Colón had become the duke’s dearest friend.

Colón took what pleasure he could in the solitude, the calm of the brush-covered hills, the scents of rosemary and heather, the occasional glimpses of ocean below, and, most of all, the time to contemplate the world and his life.

Some men blithely stroll through their lives, accepting what Destiny offers, like farmers gathering fruit in their orchards, not looking off into neighboring properties or envying their yield. Others view Destiny with suspicion, as an adversary. What she freely offers, they value little, while what she withholds, they covet. To satisfy this desire, they will fight Destiny with ardor. Occasionally they succeed; more often they die disenchanted.

Colón viewed his entire existence as a struggle with Destiny. While his peers may have marveled at his ability to ingratiate himself with the powerful of this world, including the duke of Medina-Celi and the chancellor of Aragon, such accomplishments meant little to him. The business of negotiating with buyers and sellers of exotic commodities, hiring sailors, trying to keep them in line, earning and disbursing wages—all this was nothing but a dissipation of the brief, invaluable allotment of days given him to accomplish God’s work. Indeed, every moment he devoted to such pursuits was nothing more than a digression.

Nonetheless, during these long rambles he occasionally allowed himself to doubt. So many learned men had seen no value in Colón’s scheme. Even if the Indias could be reached by sailing westward, how could he be certain he would accomplish what none had before him?

Dressed in black, with a small, pointed beard, piercing blue eyes, and long, slender fingers, the duke of Medina-Celi preferred to break his colts himself. As he sometimes remarked, they were his only children. This particular horse, with its long neck, white socks, and spindly legs, was likely to become a favorite.

In the corral, he placed a saddle on the ground and allowed his colt to draw nearer to it, to examine it, to smell its leather. Leaning against the fence, the duke was watching his colt bemusedly when Colón arrived.

“What news from the harbor, my good captain?”

“The ocean’s still breathing, Your Lordship, her tides rising and falling like a beautiful woman stretched out on a bed of silt.”

The duke delighted in the contrast between Colón’s rough, powerful build—his bulbous nose, his deep chest—and his poetic mind. The Genoese captain was the opposite of the duke himself, whose features and manners were finely sculpted and whose mind was practical.

“By day,” Colón added, “men never cease filling some ships with freight, and unloading others.”

Quick-witted and sensitive when he cared to be, Medina-Celi seized the innuendo. “But one seaman has had his fill of all this mundane commotion. A Genoese-Spanish seaman. No?”

“Indeed,” Colón confirmed, noting the sarcastic inflection.

Medina-Celi picked up the training saddle and raised it over his colt’s back. The horse backed off nervously, its ears flattened. “He’s not ready,” he declared as he replaced the saddle on the ground. He tried to stroke the animal’s nose, but the horse broke loose and galloped around the corral, its mane blowing. Luis de la Cerda walked back to join Colón by the gate. “He’s of little value to me, running around freely,” he remarked. “But of course, I’ll keep feeding him. He’ll accept the saddle and the bit sooner or later. They all do.”

The sailor was aware that despite the life of privilege Medina-Celi enjoyed, he often felt lonely and dejected. “It is my private melancholy,” the duke sometimes complained. “I was born with it.” He shared his home with the Genoese sailor to distract himself from his aching solitude.

“Yes, they all do take the saddle, sooner or later,” agreed Colón. “He’s a beast of burden, after all.”

“Are horses so very different from you and me, my dear Cristóbal?”

“No, not so very different. You’ll ride him ten, fifteen years, then he’ll die, or Your Lordship will die, but nothing much will have changed in this sorry world.”

“And suppose I never did saddle him? Suppose I let him canter off into the hills? What good do you imagine would come of that?”

“A horse doesn’t ask why God put him in this world,” replied Colón. “The good Lord didn’t endow animals with the faculty to pose such questions. A horse’s life has no purpose, other than the purpose we give it.”

Before Medina-Celi had a chance to respond, his eunuch rode up to the corral.

“What is it, Fadrique?”

“The table is set, my lord. The players are here. The chancellor of Aragon has arrived.”

“Thank you.” The duke called out to one of his stable hands: “Gonçalo, put him back in his pen, will you? He isn’t ready.” He began walking toward the house. Colón followed. Neither said another word until they reached the door, but Colón was fuming inside. It seemed the duke thought of him the way he thought of his favorite horses: as palliatives, to reduce the anguish of his spiritual isolation.

They found Santángel in the front room of the duke’s manor house. “Ah, Chancellor, such a pleasure.” Medina-Celi bowed. “I see Chronos has been ignoring you, you handsome bastard. If I’m not mistaken there’s even a new spark of youth about you. What’s your little secret?”

“I have no little secrets, Medina-Celi, as you well know.”

“Of course not, only monumental ones. Little people have little secrets.”

“You haven’t aged, either, my dear friend.”

“You’re well versed in the art of deception,” riposted the duke. “But I’m no fool. Look at these crow’s feet.” Medina-Celi sighed. “Ah, well. Our time here is fleeting. Perhaps it’s just as well.”

Santángel turned to Colón. “And you, Captain. Still carousing in Rome?”

“I’m afraid not.” Colón bowed. “Chancellor, if you don’t mind,” he added breathlessly, “do you recall a certain leather pouch?”

“Ah, your little gift. How can I thank you?”

“You have it, then.” Colón broke into a smile of relief. “God heard my prayers.”

“Perhaps we should ask God who put it in my trunk.”

“Dumitru packed your trunk as well as mine. He must have thought it belonged to you.”

The chancellor doubted Colón’s explanation, but decided not to challenge him.

“Did you find out what those documents meant?”

Santángel glanced at the door. Medina-Celi, always alert, pulled it closed. The chancellor cleared his throat. “I’ll try to summarize.” He told Colón what Serero had taught him about the texts: that Abraham’s passage from Ur to the Holy Land was a spiritual journey, as well as a geographical one; that before the People of Israel returned to the Holy Land, corruption and decay would infect Rome. He spoke of the war against the Jews and the great rainbow, as fresh as a bride. He stopped himself, however, before mentioning the other manuscript, the ancient rolled-up parchment that Abram Serero had refused to discuss—the text that, according to the scribe, had caused so many Jews to be murdered.

“Is all that of some use to you?”

“It is, most certainly. I cannot thank you enough,” replied Colón. “The decay of Rome. The great rainbow. The war against the Jews. Now I know what to look for.”

“When you go to Jerusalem, Señor Colón, you won’t need to know what to look for. You’ll see it before your eyes.”

Colón beamed. “Thank you, Chancellor. Thank you.”

“Cristóbal,” interjected Medina-Celi. “We are being somewhat earnest, are we not? You know how exhausted he must be, our friend, the chancellor.” He turned to Santángel. “We’ve prepared an evening of entertainment in your honor.”

As the sun went down, he escorted the chancellor and the captain to his great room. A fire crackled in the stone hearth. A wide array of foods, artfully displayed, awaited them—pheasant, turnip soup, an apricot pie, a salad of boletes, milk cap, and Judas Ear mushrooms.

The duke’s eunuch bowed. “A troupe of players, en route to Madrid, for your amusement and instruction.” The troupe entered. The duke raised his hands and applauded with the tips of his fingers against his open palm.

While the duke, the captain, and the chancellor dined, the itinerant troupe performed a suite of songs arranged around a loose story. The characters had names like “Fortune,” “Charity,” and “Desire.” Their silk raiment, in gold, white, and burgundy, reflected these identities. They sang of love, patience, and suffering. In their passions, they resembled real people rather than figures of allegory. Their melodies were woven together and bridged with rhyming narration, almost forming a unified drama. A eunuch played the young woman. A handsome tenor portrayed the male suitor. This type of theater, drawn from the emotions of common men and women rather than from Bible stories, was a new and bold experiment. Luis de Santángel, charmed, rewarded them with a few coins. The tenor pulled off his pointed cap, releasing long hair, and picked up his lute. He slid closer to Santángel and crooned a ballad for him, the tale of a lonely falconer.

That night, as he drifted off to sleep, Luis de Santángel thought again of the woman he had met in Granada—her pensive expression as she listened to Baba Shlomo, the way she held her wine cup, the graceful unrobed body Santángel had glimpsed. He closed his eyes and once again smelled the sweet, heady scent of jasmine growing in her garden.

Judith was no noblewoman, he reminded himself. She seemed simple, straightforward, touchingly provincial. Yet, despite himself, Santángel wondered whether she was not precisely the kind of woman he would marry if he were living in another time, another world. She was clearly as compassionate as she was intelligent and strong-willed. She had taken responsibility for another woman’s child and elderly father.

But she was a Jewess. Even if she accepted baptism, the choice of such a companion would cast a cloud over the sincerity of Santángel’s faith and destroy everything his grandfather, his father, and he had achieved. His beloved son’s future would be compromised.

As his mind glided downward over the darkening slope of somnolence, just when it could fight his heart no longer, he admitted to himself he had to see her again.

In a dining nook adorned with hunting-scene frescoes, Santángel, Colón, and Medina-Celi enjoyed a midday meal of dried sardines, fresh grilled prawns, flat bread, and wine. Santángel thanked the duke for his hospitality. “As always, my dear Medina-Celi, you’ve shown me unmerited warmth and generosity.”

“In that case,” replied the duke, eyeing a sardine that he held up by its tail, “perhaps you can help our friend Colón, here. He desires an audience with the Crowns.” He dropped the sardine into his mouth.

“For what purpose?” asked Santángel, taken aback.

Medina-Celi looked at the captain.

“The chancellor well knows,” said Colón in his most dignified manner, “how my ambitions could bring glory to the conjoined kingdoms of Castile and Aragon.”