36

God help me! My breath stuck in my throat. He could do it. If I found a constable to complain to, the constable would investigate me as well as Hamdun and Señor Gonzalo, and the villain had guessed that.

Still, he couldn’t take Hamdun. “No,” I got out, sounding hoarse. “I’m sorry, Señor Gonzalo, but you can’t have him.”

He glared at me and waited. What would Belo do if he were here?

The silence stretched. I thought my heart would explode. To calm myself, I began to count, and my heart slowed. My breaths deepened.

When I reached thirty, he said, “Leave. If you follow us to steal my protection, I’ll let these wolves loose on you.” He gestured broadly.

I began to turn.

“On second thought, I can just take him. Who would stop me?”

What would Belo do?

Even now, he’d bribe. I turned slowly. I had nothing.

I had a mind that Belo admired.

“Señor Gonzalo . . .” I faced him and raised my hands, palms up. “You may have noticed I’m wearing silk.” Of course he had. If I gave him Hamdun, he’d have my gown, too. “You frightened me, and my wits fled, but I’m not a peasant. My family has friends who are my friends.”

“Where is your family? Grand ladies don’t travel alone.”

I could tell him we’d been attacked, which was believable enough, but then I’d be explaining to a man I hoped to make my inferior.

I swallowed. “My affairs are none of your concern.” Truth strengthened my voice. “I’ve dined more than once with Cardinal de Mendoza and my grandfather. In Toledo, I can commend you to him. He needs courageous men. But you must return my necklace and my purse and stop threatening me.”

His expression turned calculating. Would a recommendation to the cardinal be worth more than my jewels and a slave, or—ai!—two slaves?

Finally, he said, “I keep the belt?”

“Yes. That was our bargain.”

“Tell the cardinal I go all over Spain. I’m true. I’d never betray him.”

“I’ll say those precise words.”

He returned my things.

I didn’t want to stay near him, so we started back across the caravan.

When the men started their calls again, Señor Gonzalo shouted, “Let her be!”

The men quieted, as if the Almighty had closed their throats.

Hamdun murmured, “Your abuelo would be proud of you.”

I thought so, too. Would I ever be able to tell him?

As we walked away, I thought of our other danger: Don Miguel, who would likely be among the travelers streaming past the caravan. We had to lose ourselves in the caravan, but the men! And Señor Gonzalo!

I told Hamdun the problem.

“We’ll stay with the servants and slaves. They won’t betray us.”

But Belo spoke in my mind: You mustn’t stay with them. That will look weak. Establish yourself near Señor Gonzalo—

Me: Oh, no.

Belo: —but not so close that you seem weak. Create a space around your person that no one will invade without your permission.

Me: How will I do that?

Belo: You’re my grandchild. Do it.

I told Hamdun what Belo had said and what I thought we might do.

He smiled. “That’s what he’d say.”

We made our way back toward Señor Gonzalo, who now reclined on the ground, leaning against a mound of satchels. About three yards from him, I stopped.

Hamdun approached the largest man nearby, with a chest as wide as a cupboard. The man lay on the ground, too, propped up on his elbow, watching us.

“My mistress, Paloma, requires a respectful distance. Please move back.”

The man’s eyes went to Señor Gonzalo. Mine did, too. Señor Gonzalo said nothing. Merciful One, help me! Belo, help me!

The idea that arrived was sent by neither. I dropped to my knees, put my palms together, and began the prayer I’d heard a hundred times from the priests who invaded our synagogue. “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .” At the end, I crossed myself.

The man had stood and backed away. The others nearby followed suit.

In my mind, Belo approved: You did what you had to, Loma.

But what did the Almighty think?

We left Málaga the next morning, on Saturday, April 21, the Sabbath, less than three and a half months before the Jews, most still unknowing, would have to begin their exile.

I didn’t have a view of the whole caravan to make an exact count, but we had well over a hundred mules, many donkeys, and a dozen or more horses. Señor Gonzalo rode a horse, and he found one for me, too.

Hamdun refused to share it with me. “It will make you less safe; I can walk. Caravans don’t travel fast.”

Ours traveled at the pace of a worm. When we finally neared Santa Fe, the caravan skirted the camp where Belo and I had stayed. Next, we proceeded to Granada, and I deduced from the galloping of secretaries up and down the avenue that the monarchs had relocated there, undoubtedly to the enormous palace, all sharp corners and staring windows, called the Alhambra. In my imagination, every window watched me.

Though I knew I was being silly, I dismounted to make myself less noticeable.

Granada’s market filled the square outside the enormous white-stone mosque—now a cathedral. Priests’ plainsong drifted from the four open doors. We stopped while Señor Gonzalo bargained for supplies to continue our journey.

When we were about to set off again, a party of a dozen priests hurried out of the cathedral and joined us. Fortunately, they weren’t traveling far and would be with us for just a day. I prayed to the Almighty that they would keep to themselves.

They didn’t. They found me, because God was punishing me for the many reasons I had given Him.

They were kind! I shouldn’t have been astonished—they thought me a Christian. Kind, yes, but worried for me.

Father Davalos, the talkative one, took the lead in asking how I came to be traveling alone. “Marina”—I had borrowed my sister-in-law’s name—“what befell you?”

Señor Gonzalo slowed his horse to eavesdrop.

I reached for Bela’s pendant. Was it strange that I didn’t wear a cross? Had I drawn attention to the fact?

Father Davalos touched my shoulder in a gesture that I knew he meant to be reassuring. He was a short, stooped man, hardly taller than I was. “You may tell me.”

My mind flew to all I couldn’t tell him.

Belo was a practiced liar and even Papá could lie convincingly if he had to. I swallowed. “My abuelo was struck with a paroxysm.” Belo and Papá always told as much of the truth as they could. “He had spells before, but in the past he recovered quickly. This time, he didn’t.” I swallowed again, grief catching up with my fear. “I was his constant companion after plague took my abuela.”

“The Lord took her.”

“Yes.” I didn’t say more, hoping he would respect my sadness.

But he pressed on. “Where was he struck?”

I misunderstood the question. “On the right side. He had no strength there. And in his tongue. He could speak only nonsense.”

“I meant, where were you when he fell ill? In Granada?”

“In Málaga.” The rest of my story took shape. “My abuelo and my papá and I, along with a servant and three slaves, traveled there from our home in Alcalá de Henares.” Where we lived didn’t seem dangerous to tell. “At night, when we traveled, I massaged his feet.” Tears threatened.

“He was lucky to have such a good grandchild.”

Until I left him. “The trip was to buy five large vases for a customer of my abuelo’s, but he was struck before we could do it.” I’d been along on such missions. “The physician in Málaga said there’s a doctor in Naples who can cure such attacks.”

Belo prodded me. Don’t forget you’re a Christian!

I added, “Papá swore to go to Rome with Belo if he recovered.”

“To Pilate’s stairs?”

I nodded, hoping I wasn’t stepping into a trap.

“You didn’t go with them?”

“My mamá is all alone. One of us had to go home and one had to take Belo. Papá didn’t want me to be unprotected in a foreign city, and we had the servant and the slaves to accompany me, so I was to join a caravan, as I’ve done.” I shrugged. “The slaves slipped away in the night, leaving me with only the servant.” I gestured toward Hamdun, trudging several paces behind us. “The Lord watched over me.”

“He’s our shepherd.”

I was about to mount my horse and get away, but he spoke first.

“I suppose you aren’t married.”

I shook my head.

“Betrothed?”

“My grandfather kept me at his side.”

“You’re a good child. You’ll be rewarded.”

Probably not.

The cook rang her bell. The caravan came to a slow halt.

“Will you eat with us, Marina?”

For a moment, I didn’t realize he was speaking to me. “I’ll be honored.”

Señor Gonzalo had issued me a blanket along with the horse. Hamdun spread it for me to sit on.

“Hamdun brings me my meals.” God forgive me. “Hamdun, don’t forget the pork sausage. Sometimes he fetches only food for Muslims.”

Father Davalos sat with me. “They’ll bring me something.” He waved a hand at his fellow priests. “I don’t care what I eat.”

He’d care what I didn’t eat.

While we waited, he regaled me with a tale of a son who reminded me of Pero, who left home and wasted his inheritance. When the son came back, his father welcomed him. It was a sweet story, revealing again that Christians could be nice to each other.

I wondered what would happen if I couldn’t eat the sausage. Father Davalos would work out the reason. At best, Hamdun and I would be left on the side of the road.

The priests returned and gave Father Davalos his dinner in a tin bowl. When the priest prayed over his food, I pretended to pray, too.

Hamdun presented me with my bowl and a wooden spoon: lentils, cheese, cucumbers, bread, and a glistening sausage. “May it go down well, mistress.”

I took a spoonful of lentils and had trouble getting even them down.

Don’t leave the sausage for last.

I ate a bite of bread, took my knife out of my purse, and cut a slice of the sausage and stared at it. Mottled with clots of fat, it looked hardly different from beef sausage.

I could never tell anyone about this crime.

Eat it.

I put the slice in my mouth, which filled with saliva. Tears streamed down my face. God forgive me, I began to chew.

I managed not to throw up. I got the sausage down, though without tasting it. Father Davalos patted my arm and asked why I wept. I gulped out that it was because my abuelo loved sausage. “And because you’re here. He was devout.”

The priest beamed at me.

We reached Toledo on the afternoon of Wednesday, May 2, the day after the expulsion decree had been proclaimed in all churches and synagogues, and three months minus two days before we all had to depart from Spain. I promised Señor Gonzalo that I’d meet him in the morning in the cathedral square to introduce him to the cardinal. May he wait there forever.

A rabbi took us in, and his first question was about Belo. I recounted his pleas to the monarchs and then his paroxysm. The rabbi wept.

“We had hopes he could change their minds.” He wiped a tear away. “The Jews are leaving Egypt again. God willing, the sea will part.”

God willing.

On Sunday, accompanied by six Jewish guards from Toledo, Hamdun and I reached home.

Fatima cried out when she opened the door. “Loma!”

Mamá came running. “Where’s your abuelo?” Without hugging me or waiting for answers, she ran upstairs, crying, “Asher! Asher!”

I followed her. Hamdun headed toward the kitchen. I felt his absence.

Papá emerged from his study, tears streaming.

No! “Belo didn’t die, Papá.”

Don Solomon had been here, so Papá already knew we’d had to flee.

“Thank God!” He hugged me. “Where is he? He wasn’t baptized? You’re not both Christians?” He searched my face.

“We’re not.” I took a deep breath and told him.

He let go of me. “You abandoned him?”