17

The Jews surged toward us, extending their bony hands.

Belo asked a prisoner closest to us something in Arabic, which these Jews spoke, and which I knew little of. The man answered. I caught the word for bread.

A different man said in Spanish, “First food in a week and not much before that.” He smiled, revealing a gap next to his front teeth. “A tooth stayed in the bread. Thanks to the king and queen for their bounty. Will you speak with them?”

Belo nodded. “I will.”

“Tell them we’ll be good subjects, loyal. We’ll work hard. They won’t be sorry.”

Belo promised. He turned his horse, and I followed him, but I kept looking over my shoulder.

No matter how kind the monarchs had been with food, it was their war that had starved the prisoners.

Belo reined in his horse to ask a soldier where to find Don Solomon’s tent.

“The Jew?”

Belo nodded, and the soldier told him the way.

As we went, Belo said, “The monarchs want money again, Loma.”

Don Solomon’s grand tent was an outpost on the edge of the tent city. As soon as we entered, my eyes went to a big man, large-featured, blond, ruddy-complexioned, about Papá’s age, who sat on a cushion across a low table from Don Solomon.

Smiling, Don Solomon heaved himself out of his cushion. The man rose, too, in a lithe surge despite his size, and stood head and shoulders taller than his host.

Belo bowed, and I curtsied.

The man bowed, too, not as deeply as Belo had. Christian? He wore no badge, but neither did we. His green woolen doublet fell in sharp pleats from the neckline to the hem just above his knees. His only jewelry was three silver rings.

Holding out his hands, Don Solomon went to Belo. His robe today was violet silk, and his hose was a dusky red. On his head was an orange turban stitched with silver.

Belo and he embraced.

When they pulled away, Don Solomon said, “Allow me to introduce Don Christopher Columbus, who also has been summoned here. You know his purpose.”

I didn’t know.

Belo kindly explained. “Don Christopher proposes to sail west to where he’s sure the Indies will be, and return with treasure.”

“Treasure for the kingdom and my financiers.” Don Christopher sounded hoarse, as if he’d been shouting.

“He’ll use Abraham Zacuto’s tables for navigation.” Don Solomon smiled. “I’m one of the financiers. Treasure is always nice, and I want Don Abraham to be renowned.”

Don Christopher crouched in front of me. “Zacuto’s Perpetual Almanac will bring us there and back, sweet child, and never let us go astray—if we can find the funds to sail at all.” He touched Bela’s amulet. “Give me this, and I’ll return it tenfold. The chain will be gold, the jewel as big as your fist.”

I drew back. He couldn’t have it!

Belo put his arm around my shoulder. “You’ll do better to apply to me, Don Christopher. The pendant was a gift to Loma—”

“Then I do apply to you.” He towered over Belo, too. “My contributors will be known as men who recognized greatness, and my wealth will restore the coffers of the Jews.” He bowed again and left.

Don Solomon whispered, “He’s a pauper now, but he’ll be rich. Some men are magnets for fortune.” He chuckled. “Their puffed chests pull everything toward them.”

I looked around the tent, which was as big as our living room at home. Cushions were scattered across the rugs. I smelled rosemary. A burly manservant stood at another low table on which rested a platter of roasted eggs, a wheel of yellow cheese, a loaf of bread dotted with sesame seeds, and a bowl brimming with sugar cookies. I thought of the starving prisoners.

Don Solomon held out his arms to me. Surprised, I went into them.

Releasing me, he said, “You’re a pretty girl. Still your abuelo’s favorite?”

“She’s my best girl and better than the boys, too.”

I blushed and wished I was somewhere else.

Don Solomon helped himself to an egg. “The monarchs like her, too. Tomorrow morning she has an audience with the infanta.”

“Oho!” Belo said.

The infanta was Princess Isabella, Queen Isabella’s oldest daughter.

Why did she want to talk to me?

“It’s a great mark of favor for you, Joseph,” Don Solomon said.

Followed by disfavor if I did or said something wrong. My fingers felt icy.

“Loma will make a marvelous impression,” Belo said.

How would I do that? If I didn’t, how disappointed he’d be in me! What would I say to her? How would I produce words at all?

While I worried, Belo and Don Solomon talked about their journey here. I hardly listened until Don Solomon said my name.

“I have a great-grandson Loma’s age, a thinker with a head for numbers.” He filled a bowl and brought it to Belo. “We must talk.”

Oh! Was this how it would happen—a conversation, and my future (if I survived the audience) happily secured, babies likely, despite my horoscope?

And me, still only eleven.

Was the great-grandson kind and gentle, as Bela had promised my husband would be?

Belo said, “She’s too young. There’s plenty of time to talk.”

“Don’t wait long. A dozen mamás have their eyes on my Nattan.” He chuckled. “They squeeze his cheek, as if he were a young bull.”

“I’ll remember,” Belo said.

I touched Bela’s amulet. What if Belo forgot even though he said he wouldn’t, and this boy would have been the perfect father for my children?

Soon after dawn, a secretary, fashionable in silk and fragrant with rose water, came to our tent to announce that the princess yearned (he stretched out the word) to entertain me in her tent in two hours.

I dressed in the best gown I had with me: pale blue with daffodils embroidered in gold thread. On my head went a tight-fitting hood bordered with lapis beads. Don Solomon loaned me a heavy gold chain with a ruby pendant from which dangled a pearl. I’d never worn anything that weighed so much. My neck ached.

I complained, but Belo said I’d better wear it. “The infanta will feel more at ease if you look like the people around her.”

When the hour came, I followed the secretary up the mountain to the exalted tents of the monarchs and their coterie, close on the walls of a fortification, the Gibralfaro. As we climbed, the sounds of the camp diminished, and the air freshened.

This appointment began as a repeat of Tarazona, with waiting, this time in a tent that seemed to be the cooling-the-heels place for courtiers.

As I was about to enter, Belo’s friend the Duke of Medinaceli came out. He recognized me and took my hands in his. “Paloma! I’m pleased to see you. Your advice was excellent the day we met! Now you’re here to advise the monarchs, too?”

I knew he was joking. “Belo may be.”

“You’ll think of something to add to his wisdom.” He bowed and strode away.

A dozen men sat on cushions, which lined the tent sides. I lowered myself onto a cushion as far from the men as possible. I was the only child, and, I was sure, the only Jew. A table held platters of fruit, flatbread, and dried sardines. The men ate and talked among themselves. I could always eat, so I did, and counted each time I chewed.

After two hours or more, a secretary came for me.

Princess Isabella’s tent was a few yards uphill. The tent flaps had been pulled back to make a wide entrance. Inside, a bouquet of three young women smiled from a single large cushion. When I curtsied, they flowed to me and engulfed me, cooing.

“How sweet she is.”

“What pretty hair.” Someone touched my waves around my hood.

Their perfume dizzied me. Which was the princess?

Someone stroked my cheek. “Smooth as a grape. I could pet her all day.”

Fortunately, they didn’t. Two of the women left, looking over their shoulders at me and still smiling.

Princess Isabella took my hands in hers. Our rings clinked. “Thank you for visiting me, Paloma.”

As if I could have said no.

“I’m lost in happiness to make your acquaintance.”

My own sisters had never been lost in happiness to see me. I murmured that I was happy, too.

The infanta gestured, and a woman came in with a tray loaded with plums and placed it on a table at the back of the tent.

Princess Isabella resembled her mother: tall with auburn hair. She was even paler, so fair that a ribbon of blue vein, highlighted by dark powder, stood out on her forehead.

At last, she let my hands go. “We must see you often. You are too sweet not to be close by. I think you’d like the court. My friends would pamper you. Mother would mother you.”

This was familiar. The princess was talking about me converting. Her friends’ embraces had been about conversion, too.

She went on. “My parents love your grandfather. They love him.”

I called up an adult response. “He’s honored to have their affection.” There.

She echoed my syllables and inflection without the words. “Blah blah blah . . . You answer like an ambassador and not a darling girl.”

Was this a terrible blunder? I apologized. “Belo is always glad when the king and queen want to see him, so he can see them.”

“Come!” She led me to the big cushion and waited for me to sit. Then she filled a bowl with fruit for both of us and shared the cushion with me. I wished she weren’t so close.

“Dear, if you recognize Christ, I’ll see to it that Mamá gives you a few of the Málaga Moors.”

For a moment, I didn’t understand. Then it broke on me: Ai! The skinny Muslim captives were going to be slaves.

The infanta waited for me to say something.

I wished people would stop cajoling or arguing or trying to force me to be baptized. I took a baby’s way out. “Belo won’t let me convert.” Meaning: Persuade him, not me. Don’t make me decide.

Princess Isabella beamed at me. “Blessed child! This is marvelous! A miracle. Your words will make Mamá very happy.” She clapped her hands, and the secretary who had brought me appeared.

He gestured for me to follow him. The audience was over.

I was puzzled. What had I said to please her so much?

We’d gone only a few steps before I realized. I whirled. “That’s not what I meant! Your Majesty!” I didn’t mean I wanted to convert and Belo was stopping me. He’d be furious with me for suggesting that.

But her tent was empty.