25

Alas, we didn’t enter a paradise free of trouble from my troublesome brother.

Belo and I journeyed here and there for almost two months—away from the littles, who changed and grew without me. As we journeyed, I imagined their comings and goings and wished they could remain exactly the same when I was away—if the Almighty would accomplish that without harming them.

On July 29, 1490, we were back. Papá met us at the top of the stairs. Mamá was shouting from the living room about the misery of having a son like Pero.

In Belo’s study, Papá told us. Marina had come to the house the week before. Three priests and two constables from the hermandad had taken Pero. When they left, she’d rushed to her parents and then to us.

Belo’s face was untroubled. I saw he wouldn’t have a spell again over Pero.

We all knew how the inquisitors proceeded. My brother would be imprisoned and tortured until he confessed to the sin he’d been accused of. He, who feared a mere flogging, would say whatever they wanted.

But he might manage to wait before confessing—to see if Belo would rescue him. If Belo didn’t come—and quickly—he’d take revenge. He’d accuse us. The Inquisition would widen its net to draw us in.

Belo had to help him!

“Papá,” Papá said to Belo, “we have to go.”

“Where?” Belo sat at his desk. “This doesn’t concern us. Loma, please have Aljohar make up a bowl of something for me. I’m hungry.”

Swollen with heart-hatred for Pero as well as for Mamá, Belo, and even Papá, I went to the kitchen. Aljohar had a stew simmering over the fire. With trembling hands, I ladled a generous helping into a bowl, set the bowl on a tray, and added a slice of bread.

Bela, what would you do?

She wouldn’t be furious with everyone.

But I was. What could I do?

On my way back upstairs, I heard Papá’s low tones in the living room with Mamá.

In the study, Belo thanked me for the stew. “We’ve been gone so long, I forgot I wrote this. Let me read it to you: ‘Eternity belongs to the Eternal One; all else—’”

“If you don’t help Pero, I’ll never come in here or travel with you again.” My hand flew to my mouth. The words, which hadn’t been on my tongue when I came in, wouldn’t soften anyone’s heart. “I’m sorry! I—” I stopped, unwilling to take them back.

“I won’t help him. Go.”

I left for my bedroom, where I threw myself on my bed and stared up at the wooden ceiling, my eyes dry. Pero would die, after turning the gaze of the inquisitors toward us. We’d all be killed, and I wouldn’t be able to stop any of it.

Fatima’s soft knock interrupted my circling thoughts. She said Belo wanted me in his study.

I went, resolved not to stay if he hadn’t decided to help Pero.

He stood at his window, looking out over the street. From the doorway, I could see only the clay roof of the house across the street and a square of blue sky.

“Why do you believe I should attempt to save my worthless grandson?”

“Because Bela would want you to.” Because otherwise he’ll kill all of us. But I was afraid to say that for fear of bringing on a spell.

“How old were you when your bela died?”

“Seven.”

He sat heavily in his chair. “She showed her soft side to children. She’d be as angry at Pero as I am.”

That might be true, but I had an answer from watching Ledicia, my model of a good mother.

“Do you remember when Jamila’s skirt caught flame in the kitchen?”

“I heard about it.”

“Ledicia had told her a dozen times to stay away from the fireplace. When the fire was out and Ledicia saw she was fine, she yelled for half an hour.” I smiled at the memory. Do you think I speak just to hear noise come out of my mouth? Do you think I’m not worth listening to? Your mother is your mother, so you have someone to obey. “Bela would have wanted you to save Pero so she could punish him afterward.”

“You’re right. Bela would have felt as you say. I’ll do what I can to rescue him, but I’ll leave the yelling and punishing to you and your papá, and if I fail—”

He saw my face.

“I’ll do my best, but if my best fails, I won’t suffer. He’s a worm to me.”

I wondered if I could ever become a worm to him.

Belo took Papá with him to the hermandad, and when they returned, it was with the news that the three of us were to travel to Segovia, where Don Solomon lived and where Pero had been taken. I’d been to Segovia twice before, but never to see inquisitors!

This time, I had to leave the littles, not to help all the Jews of Spain but to save one worthless brother.

Before we left home, I pulled Ledicia aside and asked her to find out if Marina was all right. “Nothing is her fault. Help her if you can.”

Ledicia promised she would.

Mamá followed us down to the street and astonished me and probably everyone else by hugging me. “The Almighty sent you to comfort this family.” She stroked my cheek before she stepped away.

And He had sent Pero to torment and frighten us.

The sun had already set and night had fallen when we reached Segovia. After Belo greeted the city guards and gave them a purse, we passed through the city gate. Once inside, we hastened to Don Solomon’s house.

Our host was already asleep, but his nosy daughter greeted us and turned from me to Papá. “This one is still traveling? She isn’t betrothed yet?”

Belo said he was tired.

She led Belo and Papá away and then returned to take me to a bedroom and a bed shared by her three granddaughters. I stretched out on the edge, taking as little space as I could. I prayed to be surrounded by God and His angels, counted my many worries, and finally slept.

Early in the morning, in the dining room, Belo told Don Solomon what had befallen Pero. A warm breeze wafted through the windows. The long trestle table was laid with bread and white cheese.

“Please—” Don Solomon gestured at the food and helped himself to a wedge of cheese. Then he sat on the bench that was drawn up to the table, with his back to it.

We served ourselves. Belo sat next to Don Solomon, and I sat next to Belo. Papá took a folding chair by the fireplace.

After we thanked God for the food, Don Solomon said, “Your grandson picked a bad time. I doubt you’ll get His Excellency’s help.” He told us that the bishop’s parents and his grandmother, who were dead, had been determined to have Judaized. The Inquisition wanted to burn their bones to punish them.

I shuddered.

“His Excellency is treading carefully in hopes that Their Majesties will keep that from happening.” Don Solomon flecked a speck of cheese off his scarlet robe. “You’d have done better if you’d gone to Ávila.”

Belo said, “Torquemada is there?”

The grand inquisitor.

Don Solomon nodded. “He’s directing the questioning from the priory there, but your grandson is here.”

Belo turned to me. “Loma, the inquisitors will find Pero innocent if Torquemada tells them to.”

Belo and Papá decided not to rush to Ávila in hopes of seeing Fra Torquemada before sunset, when the Sabbath would begin.

“Once we see Pero,” Belo said, “we may know what to say in Ávila.”

Don Solomon said he’d take us to the house where Pero was being held. “I know the inquisitors.”

Papá put his bowl on the table. “Let’s see what they’ve done to him.”

My chest tightened.

The Inquisition was being conducted in a private house that had been rented to the inquisitors. In silence, Papá and I walked side by side through the city. Ahead of us, Belo strolled with Don Solomon, setting a slow pace that irritated me. They talked, and once—I could hardly believe it—Belo laughed. I began to count steps.

Why did the Inquisition care that Pero had gambled, which was probably his offense? Gambling was a crime, not heresy.

One hundred and thirty-two steps. Why had he been brought here and not tried in Alcalá de Henares?

My worries revolved from fears for Pero to fears for us to fears of the sights I would soon see and the screams I would hear.

We left the judería. Ahead, bells clanged from a church, announcing nine in the morning. Soon we reached it, with a horseshoe-arch entryway and long porch lined with more arches, each of them reminding me of gaping mouths waiting to swallow Jews.

I reached for Papá’s hand. He clasped mine, but his was hot and sweaty and brought little comfort. I hung on, though, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

Finally, we reached a sad little triangular plaza—no fountain, no trees.

Don Solomon stopped and gestured across the plaza at a long house, three stories at one end, tapering to one story at the other. The doorway arched, reminding me of the church we’d just passed. The door knocker was a foot-long iron lizard.

An omen! I touched Bela’s amulet.

Don Solomon raised the knocker and let go, producing a clank.