28

Belo tried to draw back, but the wall was right behind him.

I pushed words out. “He’s an old man!”

Señor Cruz dropped his hand. “By Christ’s grace, the spell failed, and the guilty were burned in an auto-da-fé.”

I was panting in horror.

Belo cried, “No Jew . . . The commandments . . . We never—”

“Enough.” Señor Cruz held up his hand. “We did our duty. You may go.”

Belo held himself erect until we were beyond the inn of the hermandad, but then he stumbled and would have fallen if I hadn’t caught his elbow. “It’s not an attack. I’m only shocked, which I thought impossible.”

It wasn’t until we turned into the next street that I realized: the trial Pero had been in had been moved to Ávila.

But that was more than a year ago. “Belo, could that be the trial Pero was caught up in?”

He said it probably was. “They take their time, the inquisitors. It’s a slow business, extracting the answers they want.”

Another dreadful thought struck me. “Do you think Christians attacked the judería at home?”

“It’s possible. We must go.”

The littles!

We left Toledo an hour later. Soon, a band of gray-gold smoke throbbed along the horizon ahead. When we drew close, we saw that smoke wreathed the walled city of Ocaña. Belo said that the judería was probably aflame, but we didn’t stop. We could have done nothing.

Riding every inch with me was the memory of the time eight years earlier when the hermandad at home had failed to keep out the mob.

We spent the night on the side of the road. Hamdun built a fire and served us a meal of dried beef and flatbread. We sat on a rug before the fire to eat.

While we ate, Belo mused, “A chief constable, a man of that station, doesn’t usually heed the rabble’s nonsense, even the priests’ nonsense. Why did he listen this time?”

Why would anyone believe Jews could murder a child? Christians and Jews met daily at the marketplace. We bought their goods. They bought ours. Why would they trade with us, if they thought we were evil and wanted to destroy them?

I took another strip of beef and asked Belo.

“You know the answer to that. You’ve seen it again and again.”

Seen what?

Oh. “Money,” I said. “They sell, we buy; we sell, they buy. It makes everyone nice. If they kill us, they lose, too. Why don’t they remember that?”

He said three words I’d never heard from him before: “I don’t know.”

At home, our chief constable had done his job. Everyone was fine. I spent half an hour hugging and petting Jento. At nearly seven, he felt himself too old for cuddling, but he had to endure it anyway. Then I ran in turn to my sisters’ houses and Samuel’s.

I didn’t want to frighten them, but I made all the littles show me that they were wearing the amulets I’d given them.

Clara, the animal lover, had hung her necklace around the neck of the family cat. “Yowl is old, Tía Loma. She needs it more than I do.”

I took it off the cat and clasped it around Clara’s neck. “The pendant will protect you so you can protect Yowl. Yes?”

She nodded.

The others were wearing theirs, even confident Todros. I was both sorry and glad they understood that Jews needed a safeguard.

In January 1492, in the cathedral plaza, heralds announced the monarchs’ victory in Granada. All of Spain was free of Muslim rule.

In the judería, we were foolish enough to rejoice.

At dinner, Belo said, “No more war taxes for a while. The poor will be less poor. Peace will be good for the Jews.” He poured himself more wine.

“Can Loma stay home now?” Jento speared a chunk of lamb with his knife. “She’s teaching me to be better at backgammon. I need her.”

I paused with my knife halfway to my mouth.

“We still have to make money,” Papá said. “Do you like studying with Señor Osua?”

Jento nodded. “He says I have a gift for numbers.”

Like me.

Belo sipped his wine. “He has to be paid, so we still have to travel.”

I resumed eating. “Will the Jews of Granada have to be ransomed?” Those of Málaga had been prisoners for two years before they were set free.

“More Jews live there,” Papa said. “Let’s hope the monarchs are merciful.”

They were, A week later, Belo received a letter from Don Solomon, who wrote that the Jews of Granada could stay in their homes and live as they had under the Moors. Two days after that, royal notices were delivered to Belo and Papá, declaring that their tax-farming commissions had been renewed.

Later, I wondered if these two events—the Jews of Granada and the renewals—were planned to keep people calm, to stop us from suspecting and preparing, and then to create panic when the monarchs loosed their lightning bolt.

At the beginning of February, Beatriz turned eleven and Papá teased her about her betrothal prospects. She fluffed her hair, just as Vellida used to. Belo teased her, too, which pained me.

On March 26, a royal messenger knocked on our door and presented Fatima with a scroll tied with a red ribbon.

The scroll was a summons to Belo to attend the king and queen at their camp outside the new city of Santa Fe, near Granada. I was to come, too. “‘Your presence, kind friend, is required, and the attendance of your granddaughter Paloma Cantala is needed as well. Do not tarry.’”

There was my name, with King Ferdinand’s signature below. I touched the signature. Belo would keep the scroll, and my name would live there forever. I’d joined the annals of the Jews of Spain.

A flurry of packing followed. Granada was far to the south. We’d be traveling for more than a week, and who knew how long we’d have to stay.

As we set out, Belo wondered if the monarchs had decided to levy a new tax on the Jews. “For a cathedral or some such. No doubt they’ll try again to convert you. Don’t frighten me the way you did in Málaga, Loma.”

“I was a child!”

We reached the monarchs’ camp in the evening of Wednesday, April 4. The Spanish court was arrayed in tents on a hill north of Santa Fe. While Hamdun pitched our tent on the outskirts, Belo sent a messenger to let a secretary know that we had arrived. The messenger returned in an hour with tidings that Don Solomon was expected, too, and our audience would await his coming.

In the morning, since Don Solomon still hadn’t arrived, Belo and I strolled through the camp, which bustled with servants, slaves, courtiers, priests, and monks. Belo greeted the courtiers and clerics he knew and invited them to our tent. In the afternoon, he entertained fifteen guests. I sat on a cushion and embroidered a tablecloth I’d brought with me to work on.

No one paid attention to me until the Duke of Medinaceli came. He lowered himself creakily onto the cushion next to me. “Lately, my knees hate me.”

I smiled. In this crowd of strangers, he seemed, slight acquaintance though he was, like an old friend. “Belo’s feet have hated him for years.”

He smiled back and then sobered. “More and more, the queen wraps herself in a cloak of Christ. When she was young, she danced. You should have seen her lift her skirts above her ankles and throw back her head. She had a beautiful neck!”

I hadn’t noticed her neck. Feeling I had to say something, I told him that I liked to dance.

He went on. “Everyone eavesdrops on anything I say to Don Joseph, but no one pays attention when I speak to you.” He raised his hands in mock protest. “I would speak with you anyway! Between us, you are my favorite Cantala!”

Belo was his favorite, but I didn’t contradict him. “What would you tell my abuelo?”

“The grand inquisitor is here. Tell Don Joseph to prepare himself.”

“For what?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Something is coming, but people are aware I’m a friend of the Jews. They don’t confide in me.”

Don Solomon arrived in the evening. When he’d settled on a cushion next to Belo, and sugar candies were brought and prayers said, I told him and Belo about the duke’s warning.

Both thought it rumor of a fresh levy.

Don Solomon smoothed out his silk overgown. “They think they can tax us into the arms of the church.”

In the morning, a secretary appeared at our tent flap with Don Solomon already in tow to escort us to the monarchs, and, for once, we were taken directly to them, which made me uneasy.

Their tent was as richly furnished as a room in a castle, with overlapping carpets, four tables, three benches, ten folding leather armchairs, seven cushions, and three pole lamps threatening to set everything ablaze. The secretary who brought us remained, and two slaves stood at the tent flaps. The monarchs sat on their canopied thrones, and the infanta perched on a high-backed chair at her father’s side. She wore a white surcoat over a white gown, white for mourning. Her husband had died over the summer.

Next to Queen Isabella stood the grand inquisitor, Fra Torquemada.

Don Solomon and Belo bowed, and I curtsied. King Ferdinand’s eyes were on Don Solomon and Belo, but the other three blared smiles at me. Princess Isabella, who began to rise, sank back when the grand inquisitor rushed to me.

He took my hands. His were hot. “Your devotion to your grandfather continues.” He turned to the queen. “She is an excellent young woman.” He returned to her.

“We are met again!” Princess Isabella glided to me so smoothly she seemed not to have feet. She kissed both my cheeks. “Mamá, she’s as plump and pretty as ever.” Continuing to smile warmly at me, she backed away to her father.

She was thinner. I had heard her grief was endless, but she seemed happy now.

Queen Isabella herself left her throne to embrace first Don Solomon, then Belo, and then me. My unease grew. King Ferdinand nodded affably at the three of us.

When the queen had returned to her throne, Belo took my hand and gripped it tight. He didn’t think this was going to be good, either.

Queen Isabella nodded at the slaves. One brought chairs for each of us. Belo let my hand go.

King Ferdinand said, “We will always be grateful to you, Don Solomon and Don Joseph. You helped Christ give us victory here in Granada.”

Don Solomon said that it was his joy to serve them. “We hope to continue as long as we have breath.”

Belo nodded. I nodded, too, not that it mattered.

“That is our hope, too,” the queen said in her breathy voice.

Why did she have to hope? They could make it so.

King Ferdinand leaned back in his throne. “We have long thought on this—”

“Wait!” Queen Isabella held up her hand. “I can hardly say how much I long for closeness with you three and all your families.” She touched the gold cross on her chest. “You are in our hearts, but there is a divide that cuts off embrace.”

Conversion again.

She went on. “The Jews of Spain will have to choose, and we—”

Her husband began his set speech. “Our New Christians—”

But the queen broke in again. “We believed separating the Jews in their juderías would be enough to end the Judaizing among converts, but—”

“The Judaizing continues.” King Ferdinand’s voice was a little louder. “We have concluded there is one remedy—”

“And one inducement,” the queen put in.

“Would you like to tell them?” the king asked.

“I defer to you, my lord, as we arranged.” The queen folded her hands.

“We signed a decree. The Jews of Spain must choose: they may remain Jews—”

Ah. We could choose. They weren’t going to force us.

“—or they may remain in Spain—”

“—which is the wish of our hearts,” the queen said.

For a moment, I was bewildered.

But King Ferdinand made all clear. “Those who become Christians may stay and keep their possessions. The decree expels all Jews from Spain.”