41

I recited the Shema. The two New Christians joined me—softly.

If they were heard, would Don Rodrigo run in, take them to another cell, and summon the inquisitors?

Would my converso children, the future powers of Spain, have to whisper in corners what they believed most deeply? Would I have to teach them to?

Belo spoke in my mind: Don’t convert! Think, Loma! You can live and remain a Jew. Think!

The door to my cell hadn’t been locked, because the charge against me had been dropped. Don Alonso and Don Fernán, whether they realized or not, had given me freedom and the means to reach my family in time—with luck and God’s help.

Belo would give them something in return.

What? Not my jewels. They had plenty of jewels.

What?

In all Belo’s and my visits to New Christians, our hosts longed most to be treated as if they were still Jews.

“Thank you.” I felt obliged to curtsey. “God willing, when I’m reunited with Belo—”

“Loma!” Don Alonso cried.

I held up my hand and stopped the words, whatever they were going to be. “I’ll tell him what you did for me. I’ll tell him that righteousness still lives in Spain, and that you’ll do whatever you can to help the fleeing families. And, later, as you can, you’ll aid the ones in exile.”

Don Alonso looked thoughtful.

God forgive the lie I was spinning. “Your conversion was good for the Jews, because now we have a powerful ally in you and the descendants Don Fernán will surely have. You’ll keep alive our traditions.”

Don Alonso nodded, his eyes moist. He would tell the monarchs something about me that would satisfy them.

His grandson was looking sad again. I wanted to give him a gift, too.

Belo or God sent me inspiration. I wet my lips. “Don Fernán, the sort of man you are, your offer of protection . . .” I forced myself to say the next words, because they were true, and he would like them. “. . . your person—” His handsomeness that lit up the room.

He blushed.

“—I’ll treasure the memory forever.” I touched his hand. “If I live to be old, I’ll think of you and how happy we might have been together.”

He bowed.

I curtsied and turned to Don Alonso. “Will you help me again?” I held out the bill of exchange and asked him to use it to pay for an escort for me to Valencia. I doubted that my lawyer, who had done nothing, would come forward with the money he’d been given for this.

He waved away the paper and promised that horses and guards would be at the judería gate in the morning.

Maybe I would see the littles again!

After they left me, I hastened to Don Rodrigo to confirm that I could leave and to thank him for making my stay no worse than it had to be. In parting, I gave him my garnet ring. I might need him again—I hadn’t left the city yet!

In fact, I needed him immediately. Thinking more clearly than I was, he assigned a constable to accompany me home.

But I had an errand first. The constable hurried to keep up with me as my feet flew to Hamdun’s livery stable, where I found Hamdun gentling an elderly man onto a horse. I smiled, watching his care.

When the old man had set off, he rushed to me. “They let you go?” He didn’t ask the next question though I saw it on his face.

“I’m still a Jew.” I gave him his backgammon set. “There will be an escort tomorrow morning to take me to Valencia. Can you see me off?”

“I will.”

Papá had sold our house to a converso family, friends who hadn’t turned against us and had paid almost its worth. When they knew that my presence wouldn’t endanger them, they were happy to let me spend the night in my old room and share the bed—after I’d bathed—with their four-year-old daughter. The child’s mother, who was more or less my size, gave me a clean gown and shift.

Because of the daughter, I slept more deeply than I had in weeks.

In the morning, Hamdun and I embraced at the judería gate, which hadn’t been closed overnight, which I assumed would never be closed again. We both wept. I told him that when I thought of the blessings God had given me, he’d be among the highest.

He said he’d remember me and our adventure forever. “I’m filling my eyes with you to hold in my heart.”

Don Rodrigo, who’d decided to come with us, coughed.

We set off at a trot, Don Rodrigo, seven constables, me, and—ominously—a priest. But I turned my thoughts to joy and imagined my reunion with the littles.

We made better time than I thought possible, trotting through most of every day despite the relentless sun. The uniform of the Santa Hermandad warned off bandits. Though the priest rode next to me and regaled me with parables of Christ, he never hectored me.

In towns or villages, we slept in the local monastery or church, with the priest smoothing the way for my presence. In the mornings, we changed horses, so our mounts always started out fresh.

Almighty, please don’t bring me all this way just to discover that every ship bearing Jews has sailed.

As the sun set behind us on July 30, ahead, across the plain, Valencia’s spires pricked the sky. A pulse hammered in my throat.

We reached the wide Turia River, spanned by a wooden bridge, but we didn’t cross. Instead, we galloped on a sandy road along the river. Reeds waved in a marsh to our left. A seagull soared overhead. I smelled salt.

Warehouses rose ahead, their coral-colored bricks deepening in the dusk. The buildings blocked the port, but a ship peeked out at the end of the line of them.

We reached the bay. Five tall ships and a swarm of fishing boats clogged the harbor. On the wharf, the scene was as busy as it had been in Málaga—seafaring folk running errands, climbing sails; laborers bearing chests, cabinets, and bedsteads.

Clusters of people stood, facing the sea, surrounded by sacks of belongings. A baby cried. A child ran circles around a woman.

I dismounted and gave my reins to a constable. Crying “Jento, Todros, Beatriz”—naming all the littles—I ran.

A voice I didn’t recognize called, “Don Asher! Your daughter!”

Papá emerged from the farthest group, followed by the rest of my family.

Beatriz reached me first and hugged me. In a month, she’d grown taller than I was. “I told God I wasn’t going if you didn’t come.”

I kissed her cheek. “Here I am.”

“I didn’t tell Mamá, though.”

Todros, usually too old for hugs, hugged me. “Beatriz and I were going to stay together. We had a plan.”

Everyone else—my sisters and brothers, but also aunts, uncles, cousins—engulfed me. I was passed from person to person for hugs and kisses.

Even Mamá embraced me. “I had resigned myself to the loss of you, too.”

Too?

Vellida squeezed me. “I don’t know what I would have done if you didn’t come.”

Papá held me longest. “Thank God we have you back. We’ve suffered enough.”

Finally, they let me go, and we all looked at each other, smiling.

I remembered Don Rodrigo. “Papá, we have the chief constable to thank for getting me here in time.”

Papá took the hint, untied his purse strings, and hurried to Don Rodrigo. Whatever he gave the chief constable must have satisfied him, because he bowed from his saddle and turned his horse. The others followed, their hooves swishing in the sand.

The hermandad was a part of Spain I’d never see again.

I turned back. “Where’s Clara? Where are you, my love?”