32

We had to let them go by. I shook my head violently at Hamdun, hoping he’d see. He seemed to, because the shadow he had become didn’t move.

Had the Christians sensed us?

People may have been watching Don Solomon’s tent and our tent, and this party may have followed Señor Menahem and the others ever since they left the camp.

Did Señor Menahem realize what the party clinging to them was? Did he understand we couldn’t show ourselves? What might he do?

How long would the Christians stay with them?

When I finally thought we wouldn’t be heard, I whispered, “The doctor who treated Belo rode by with others.”

What if Hamdun ran out? Would he be rewarded with a fat purse?

He whispered, “Then we must stay here.”

We each had a flask of watery wine but no food. Did Belo need food to get better? I was ravenous. I regretted not eating in Don Solomon’s tent.

Belo began to speak softly—not words, just sounds, but I recognized the cadence of prayer. I said the Shema, hoping it would bring him comfort, and he fell silent.

I was afraid to continue traveling. We’d be lone wayfarers at night. If Don Miguel and his company turned back, they’d see us and be suspicious. I told Hamdun we’d remain here. “In the morning, more people will be on the road.”

He helped me lay Belo flat. I wrapped his cloak around him against the night air and folded my cloak to make him a pillow, though I began to shiver. I’d survive.

The clouds on the horizon were still rosy from the sunset. I settled myself on Belo’s left and thanked God for food, whenever we would get it. I closed my eyes. Belo’s hand found mine. I leaned over him. Half his mouth smiled at me.

I lay back. He continued to hold my hand. I closed my eyes again, ignored my stomach and the chill, and fell asleep—

—and woke to a rustling sound, which turned out to be rain on the canopy of olive leaves. If the rain stopped soon, we’d be all right.

It came down harder.

God! We’re not Pharaoh. Why are You sending us plagues?

Drops, cold and stinging, broke through the leaves. I feared a chill would finish Belo off. I could deprive him of his pillow and spread my cloak over him as a blanket, but that would soon be soaked and colder than no cloak. He needed a barrier and warmth, so I lay on top of him, spreading myself as much as I could, my head to the side of his head.

If only I weren’t so hungry. And cold. And wet.

He murmured something that, by its tone, didn’t sound like a complaint.

“We’ll get you to safety. I’ll make sure you stay a Jew.” If I could. I pushed my myriad worries aside and began to count by eighteens, my falling-asleep trick. Remarkably, it worked even here.

I woke myself by sneezing. Rain still fell. Nearby, Hamdun sneezed in the middle of his Muslim prayers. A donkey sneezed. Under me, Belo sneezed what sounded like an ordinary sneeze. Was he better? I propped myself up to see.

Maybe a little. Both eyes were open, and his pupils followed me, although the right eyelid drooped, and he still couldn’t say words.

Morning had come. Somewhere, the sun had risen, but without seeing it I couldn’t guess how early or late the hour was. We were safely hidden, and we could safely die here of starvation.

Hamdun stood over us and held out a hand to help me up. I took the hand and stood. His fingers were as cold as mine.

We didn’t have to waste time cooking (ha!), but I crouched to tip the last of my watery wine into Belo’s mouth. If I was thirsty, I could just tilt back my head. Belo drank and then began his nonsense words, which I believed to be an attempt at prayer.

I hissed, “Softly!”

He stopped, which made me hope he’d understood. I whispered the morning prayer. He moved his lips.

When we finished, Hamdun lifted Belo onto a donkey and climbed up behind him; I mounted, too. Belo sat straighter on the donkey today, a promising sign.

Leaving our hiding spot wasn’t as dangerous as entering it had been. Many travelers would have spent the night on the side of the road, concealed from marauders, and they would have to emerge, too. I doubted the three of us were an appealing target for brigands, who wouldn’t guess that I had a saddlebag full of ducats and fourteen silver reales in the purse at my waist.

It was lucky that I didn’t know the truth, and, seemingly, neither did Hamdun. Brigands would have seen us as valuable—as slaves. He and I could have been taken and sold, and no one the wiser. Belo probably would have been left to die.

But the road was deserted. Not even highwaymen were out in this downpour.

Señor Menahem, please don’t be far ahead. Don Miguel, please have returned to the monarchs’ camp.

My belly sent me memories of fried stuffed partridges. I could taste the gizzards, eggs, cinnamon, and cilantro in the stuffing.

We passed a farmhouse on the left: two stories, white stone, tile roof. A mulberry tree stood in the yard. Smoke streamed from the chimney. Its owners would be warm and not starving. For a ducat, they might feed us and let us dry off, but they’d question us. As soon as we left, they’d tell a priest. Maybe they’d earn another ducat.

Hamdun’s donkey coughed. A few minutes later, mine did. I patted her neck and tried to comfort her. “I know. This is terrible.” The coughs became frequent.

Belo coughed, too, so hard his shoulders shook. Hamdun and I exchanged worried looks. With his left arm he pulled Belo close while his right hand held the reins. In all our bad luck, God had sent this sweet man to us. I touched Bela’s pendant.

We plodded on. Between humans and donkeys, we made a quintet of coughs, wheezes, and sneezes. The rain continued. I wondered if we’d gone even ten miles from the camp.

Imagining the best, I pictured entering Málaga. We’d go straight to the wharf.

Oh no! I realized the mistake I’d made. Don Solomon would tell Papá that we were going to Lisbon! And that’s where he’d take the family.

Belo and I had to go to Lisbon, where we had no relatives, if we were to be reunited, if I were to see the littles again.

I had to see them!

“Loma, your abuelo feels very hot. I think he has a fever.”

God forgive me! I was a terrible granddaughter, because the worst thought I’d ever had came to me: If Belo died, I could go home and be with the littles.

I turned my donkey. We had to beg for shelter at the farmhouse we’d passed if Belo was going to get well.

In half an hour, we reached it and dismounted in the yard. Hamdun cradled Belo in his arms. I knocked on the door, which creaked open. A bearded young man stood on the threshold. Bearded! A Jew? Couldn’t be.

The man’s wife, plump like me, wearing trousers and a short jacket, came to the door, too. Moors.

Hamdun spoke to them in Arabic. He gestured at Belo and me and the donkeys. The couple smiled. The man opened the door wide. The woman took my hands and tugged me in. Her hands were warm. Hamdun carried Belo in behind me. We dripped on a stone slab. I smelled lamb roasting with cilantro and oranges. My mouth filled with saliva.

A wooden staircase rose in front of us. The man gestured to Hamdun, who carried Belo up. The woman let go of my hands and led me upstairs.

To our right, a fire blazed in the fireplace. A girl of three or four stood with her fist in her mouth in the middle of a large room. I wanted to go to her, pick her up, and press my cheek against her silky hair.

The man pulled cushions close to the fire. Hamdun laid Belo down on them.

“Do you think we can take off his wet clothes?” I said. “Can they spare a blanket?”

“Certainly,” the woman said in Castilian. Her r was more from her throat than on her tongue, but I understood. “I’ll bring blankets.” She left through an arch across the room from the fireplace.

The man said something in Arabic to Hamdun, who told me, “We’re going to see to the donkeys.” The two went down the stairs.

I knelt by Belo. Dots of pink bloomed in his cheeks. His forehead was burning.

“Please be stubborn, Belo.”

He blinked his left eye.

The woman bustled back, her arms filled with blankets and linen cloth. Between us, we stripped him down to his drawers. She didn’t comment on his silks or his jewels. We rubbed him dry and wrapped him in a blanket. He said his nonsense sounds. I touched Bela’s pendant and prayed.

“You’re wet, too.”

“I’ll dry.” I was almost warm by now, and I hadn’t sneezed since we came indoors.

But she insisted. “Come with me. Your abuelo will be fine for a few minutes.”

He couldn’t go anywhere. “I’ll be right back, Belo.”

She scooped up her daughter and led me through the archway into a corridor. The child stared at me over her mamá’s shoulder. I smiled and wiggled my fingers at her. She looked dubious. If we were here long enough, I hoped to be able to hold her.

Her mamá entered a bedroom through another archway. I shivered. At home, we would have kept a coal brazier sizzling.

She set her daughter down on a long sleeping cushion. The child stood and put her fist back in her mouth. I crouched and waved my finger in a figure eight in front of her. Her whole head followed my finger.

“Here.”

I turned.

The woman knelt over a carved oak chest. “My things should fit you.” She lifted out white trousers that were baggy above the knee, tight below; a shift, like the one I was wearing; a brown shirt that seemed more correct for a man; a short white jacket edged with silver thread; and a red-and-white pleated head scarf over which went a green-and-blue padded band. The folds of the head scarf fell like a curtain with a gap for my face. Everything was linen.

“Try them on.”

I undressed and removed my jewelry. Goose bumps stood out on my arms. The woman gave me a length of muslin to dry myself with and helped, rubbing me vigorously until I felt warm. She was beyond kind. I squeezed back tears. Everyone wasn’t our enemy.

I donned the apparel and put the jewelry back on. “Thank you!”

“It becomes you.”

Belo coughed from the other room. When we got to him, he seemed no worse and no better. I stroked his forehead. Still hot.

“Are you hungry?” the woman asked.

“I am.” I blushed. “My abuelo hasn’t had any food since he fell ill yesterday.” Like Jews, Muslims didn’t eat pork, though many of their dietary rules were different from ours.

“When the men return, we’ll eat.”

I looked up from Belo. “Why are you so kind to us?” We were strangers at a dangerous time, so soon after the war.

“Your servant says you’re an angel, the way you care for your abuelo. He said you covered him all night with your whole self to keep him dry and didn’t marry for his sake, and you mother your family’s children even though they aren’t your own.”

That was how Hamdun saw me? I waved away the catalog of my virtues. An angel who had—for a moment—wished her belo dead.

Hamdun and the husband returned, both soaking wet. They retired to the bedroom to dry off.

I said, “I’m Loma from Alcalá de Henares. My abuelo is Don Joseph Cantala. We’re Jews. Our servant is called Hamdun.”

She didn’t recognize Belo’s name. Her husband’s name was Qays, and hers was Yasmina. The child’s name was Kanza. The three of them were the angels.