Guzmán de Alfarache recounts the story of the two lovers Ozmín and Daraja, as it was told to him.
As soon as they had finished praying, which was a very brief affair, they closed their prayer books and placed them in their satchels. Everyone paid close attention as the good priest began the promised story.1
The Catholic Monarchs Don Ferdinand and Doña Isabella had laid siege to Baza,2 a place so bitterly contested that for a long time neither side had the advantage. Even though the army of their Royal Majesties had great numbers, the Moors were also numerous and benefited from the location of the town.
Queen Isabella was in Jaén arranging the necessary provisions, while King Ferdinand personally attended to the army. He had divided the force into two sections: on the one side the artillery was entrusted to the Marquises of Cádiz and Aguilar, to Luis Fernández Portocarrero, lord of Palma, and to the knight commanders of Alcántara and Calatrava, with other captains and soldiers; and on the other lay his own camp with most of his knights and men, with the besieged city between the two.3
Had the Christians been able to cut through the city, their two camps would have been a scant half league from each other. But since they could not pass, they went by way of the mountains, adding another half league, and so lay one league away from each other. Because it was difficult for the King’s men to protect themselves, they decided to build trenches and fortifications, which the King often visited in person. Although the Moors tried to prevent their construction, the Christians defended the fortifications valiantly so that no day went by without two or more skirmishes, with many wounded and dead on each side. In order to keep the construction going, given its importance, companies of soldiers watched over the laborers night and day as necessary.
One day, when Don Rodrigo and Don Hurtado de Mendoza, governor of Cazorla, and Don Sancho de Castilla were on guard, the King commanded them to remain at their posts until the Counts of Cabra and Ureña and the Marquis of Astorga entered with their troops, for a certain maneuver. The Moors—who, as I said, stayed up nights trying to disrupt the Christians’ construction—led around three thousand infantry and four hundred cavalry up the mountains against Don Rodrigo de Mendoza. The Governor and Don Sancho began to fight against them, when in the thick of the battle the Moors were relieved by many others who came out of the city to help them. King Ferdinand, who was present and witnessed all this, ordered the Count of Tendilla to attack them from the other side, and there ensued a very bloody battle for all. The King, seeing the Count wounded and in danger, ordered the Commander of Santiago to attack on one side and the Marquis of Cádiz, the Duke of Nájera, the governors of Calatrava, and Francisco de Bobadilla to charge with their troops from the side where the artillery lay.
The Moors led a third squad against them and fought most bravely, as did the Christians. When the King found himself in the middle of this struggle, those from his camp noticed and quickly armed themselves to come to his aid. So many rushed to help him that the Moors could not resist them and began to flee with the Christians after them. In their pursuit, the Christians killed a great many and chased the rest to the outskirts of the city. Many soldiers entered Baza, sacking it for great booty, and capturing a few head,4 among whom was Daraja, a Moorish damsel, the only daughter of the governor of that fortress.
Hers was the most perfect and rare beauty ever seen in a woman. She must have been barely seventeen years of age. If her beauty was of a high degree, her discretion, demeanor, and grace raised her even further. She spoke Spanish so well that it would have been difficult to tell that she was not an Old Christian,5 for as a fluent speaker she could pass for one.6 The King was very taken with her, recognizing her great worth. He immediately sent her to his wife, the Queen, who held her in no less esteem and received her happily, as much for her merits—for being the noble descendant of kings and daughter of a most honorable knight—as for the possibility that she might secure the rendition of the city without further injuries or battles. The Queen endeavored to treat her well, favoring her even over those nearest to her person and granting her all their privileges. She embraced her not as a captive but as family, in the hope that such a woman, whose body was so lovely, would not have an ugly soul.
For these reasons the Queen kept her always by her side, and for the pleasure she took in conversing with her, for Daraja described the land to her in great detail, as though she were a much older and wiser man who had seen it all. And although the King and Queen were soon reunited in Baza, once the city had surrendered on certain conditions, the Queen never wished to part with Daraja, so great was the love she bore her. She promised great favors to her father, the Governor, in exchange for her. Daraja’s father keenly felt her absence but was heartened by the love the King and Queen had for her, which would result in honor and wealth for her family, and so he did not argue.
The Queen kept Daraja with her always and took her to the city of Seville. She longed for her to become a Christian and prepared her little by little, peacefully and without violence. One day she said, “Daraja, you already know how much I care for you and your pleasure. In return, I ask that you do something for me: exchange your clothes for some of mine that I will give you so that you may enjoy how our dress enhances your beauty.”
Daraja answered, “I will gladly do as Your Highness commands. For once I have done as you say, if there is anything worthy in me, from this day forward I will value it more, and indeed it will merit it, for your dress will make it so and supply my faults.”
“You come by it naturally,” the Queen replied, “I appreciate this service and your good will in offering it.”
Daraja dressed in the Castilian fashion and remained in the palace for a few days until the monarchs left to lay siege to the city of Granada. Given the hardships of war and her wish for Daraja to acquire a taste for our faith, the Queen thought it best to leave her in the house of Don Luis de Padilla, a noble knight and a very close confidant of hers, where Daraja might pass the time with his unmarried daughter, Doña Elvira de Guzmán, to whom they entrusted her care. And although Daraja was well cared for there, she felt keenly her absence from her homeland, as well as other, even greater sorrows that she did not disclose. Instead, with a serene look and a happy face, she indicated that Her Highness’s pleasure was her own and that she valued her favor.
The damsel’s parents had promised her in marriage to a Moorish knight from Granada whose name was Ozmín. His qualities matched Daraja’s: he was a rich young man, gallant, intelligent, and, above all, brave and daring, and to each of these qualities one could add a well-deserved very. He was as adept at the Spanish tongue as if he had been born and raised in the heart of Castile. That is worth praising in virtuous youth, the glory of their parents, who set their offspring to various languages and noble exercises. He loved his betrothed dearly. In fact, he idolized her so that, if allowed, he would have placed her statue on altars. His memory dwelled on her, his senses lingered on her, and her will was his own. And his betrothed, acknowledging this devotion, responded in kind.
In their love they were equals, as in most other things, and especially in the virtuous dealings they maintained with each other. The sweet words they wrote each other, the loving messages they sent, cannot be praised enough. Although they had seen and visited each other, they had never actually spoken of their love. Yet their eyes often spoke for them, never wasting an opportunity to converse. For many years—not that many, really, given how young they were—since childhood, then, they had loved each other and yearned for each other’s visits. True friendship bound their parents, and love their children, so tightly that they all wished to make the bonds familial, as they did through this marriage. Yet it came at a wretched time, and the planets were aligned against it, for no sooner had it been arranged than Baza was besieged.
The disruption and upheaval of the siege led them to postpone the wedding, for they hoped to unite the spouses in a time of greater ease and happiness, and to celebrate the occasion with the games and festivities appropriate for such a joyous event among such distinguished people.
I spoke already of Daraja’s father. Her mother was the niece of Boabdelín, the king of that city, on his sister’s side, and he had helped arrange the marriage. Ozmín was first cousin to Mohammed, the king of Granada known as the Small King.7
Yet things did not turn out as Ozmín wished: fortune proved averse at every turn; Daraja fell under the monarchs’ power, and they kept her in Seville. As soon as her betrothed received the news, his laments, his cries, his sighs and manifest sadness moved everyone, and no one could escape them. Yet since the loss was his alone and the wound so close to his heart, his growing sorrow affected him bodily, and he suffered an illness as difficult to cure as it was to diagnose, with no remedy in sight. He soon seemed on the verge of death, for his symptoms grew as did their cause, and medicine had no effect on him. Worst of all, no one could understand his malady, which was essential in order to cure it. His grief-stricken parents had lost all hope for his recovery; the doctors gave them none, and the symptoms confirmed their opinion.
While everyone suffered, and the sick young man lay almost on his deathbed, he had what seemed a promising idea, though it was risky. Nothing could be more dangerous than the risk he ran at that moment, however, and so, eager to carry it out and longing to see his beloved, he gathered his strength and courage, bravely resisting anything that might harm him. He dismissed sadness and melancholy and focused only on recovering his health. And so his health improved, against all hopes of those who had seen him reach such a sad state. It is truly as they say: desire will always find a way, conquering fear and overcoming all obstacles. Happiness is the best medicine for one who is sick, and so it is wise to find him some; when you see someone happy, consider him cured.
Ozmín soon began to convalesce. He could barely stand when he took as his guide a Moor, an interpreter who had served the kings of Granada for many years as a spy, and gathered jewels and money for the trip. On a good black horse, with a harquebus in the back of his saddle and armed with sword and dagger, he set out from the city at night dressed in Andalusian garb, taking shortcuts along the way, as do those who know the land well.
They passed within sight of the Christian camp and, having left it far behind, headed toward Loja by way of paths and trails. Nearing the city, their miserable fortune led them to a captain rounding up men who had deserted from his troop, fleeing the army. As soon as he saw them, he captured them. The Moor pretended he had a passport, searching for it first in his bosom, then in his purse and all about him. When he failed to find it, and given that they appeared to be lost, the captain became suspicious and arrested them to take them back to the camp.
Ozmín was not in the least perturbed. He freely dropped the name of the knight who held his wife captive, pretending to be his son. He claimed his name was Don Rodrigo de Padilla and that he had come to bring a message to the King and Queen on behalf of his father, as well as news of Daraja. And because he had fallen ill, he was on his way home. He also told the captain he had lost both his passport and his way, and had taken that path in order to return to the road.
It was all to no avail, as the captain still insisted on returning them to the camp, claiming that it made not a cent of difference to him whether they were on their way there or back. He was hoping that a nobleman, such as Ozmín pretended to be, might blind him with some doubloons,8 for no general’s signature can trump the royal seal, especially when it is stamped on one of the nobler metals. Rules apply only to ragged soldiers and turncoats: their superiors show their power by carrying their orders out on them, and not on those from whom they might extract some profit, which is what they truly seek.
Ozmín, who had a sense of where so many threats were headed, said once again, “Do not misunderstand me, Sir: I would not mind returning with you, once or even ten times over, nor would I mind retracing my steps, were it not for my ill health. But since you know my condition, I beg of you not to suffer because my life was placed at risk.” And taking from his finger a rich ring, he placed it in the captain’s hand.
It was as if he had doused the flames with vinegar, for the captain immediately said: “Go with godspeed, Sir, for clearly such a noble man as you would not take off with the King’s pay or forsake the field except for the reasons you give. I shall travel with you to Loja, where I will give orders to ensure that you may carry on safely.” And so the captain did, and they became fast friends. Having rested, they said their good-byes, each going his separate way.
After these and other such misfortunes, they arrived in Seville, where, with the information he had, Ozmín soon found out the street and the house where Daraja dwelt. He passed by at different times of day for several days, yet never succeeded in seeing her, as she did not even leave the house to attend church but spent all her time on her handiwork and amusing herself with her friend Doña Elvira.
Ozmín recognized the difficulty of his task and the suspicions he was raising, as strangers usually do anywhere, with all eyes on them, longing to know who they are, where they came from, what they seek, and how they make their living, especially if they frequent the same street and carefully watch windows and doors. This leads to suspicion, rumor grows, and hate builds freely, even if it has nothing to do with them.
Some of this had begun, and so, to avoid scandal, Ozmín was forced to stop for a few days. His servant, who did not merit attention, continued the task. But as he could not see a clear path forward, Ozmín’s only consolation came late at night, when he walked down her street embracing the walls, kissing the doors and thresholds of the house.
He lived for some time in this despair until, by chance, the moment he longed for finally arrived. For his servant, taking care to pass by the house several times a day, saw that Don Luis was having a wall repaired, rebuilding it from its foundations. Seizing fortune by the forelock, the servant urged his master to purchase a humble garment and to find some way to get hired as a masonry worker. Ozmín approved of the plan and carried it out. Leaving his servant in charge of his horse and belongings at the inn so that they would be available when he needed them, he headed to the construction site. He asked if there was any work for a foreigner, and they said there was. He certainly did not worry about the wages agreed upon.
He began his task, striving to outwork the others, and although his misfortunes had kept him from a full recovery, he drew—as they say—strength out of weakness, for the heart rules the flesh. He was the first to arrive at work and the last to leave. While the others took their rest, he sought out more tasks. When his fellow workers faulted him for this—for even in misfortune does envy turn up—he claimed that he knew not how to be idle. Don Luis, who noted his diligence, decided to make use of him in the affairs of the house, especially in the garden. He asked Ozmín if he had any skills of that sort; Ozmín responded that he had but few, though his desire to please would soon teach him more. Don Luis was taken with his eloquence and appearance, finding him in all things as capable as he was willing to please.
The mason finished his repairs, and Ozmín stayed on as a gardener.9 Yet he had never, to that day, managed to see Daraja. On that morning, however, it was his good fortune to have the sun rise bright in a serene and favorable sky, scattering the clouds of his misfortune and shining a new light on the happy haven from all his shipwrecks. On the first afternoon that Ozmín practiced his new office, he saw his betrothed strolling by herself along a wide path bordered with myrtle, musk rose, jasmine, and other flowers, some of which she gathered to adorn her hair.
He would not have known her in her new attire, if the true original had not matched the vivid image inscribed in his soul. And he realized such great beauty could only be hers. He was too unsettled to speak to her as she passed, and so bowed his head, bashful and tongue-tied, working the earth with the hoe in his hand. Daraja looked again at the new gardener. The side of his face, which was what she could see readily, recalled that on which her imagination always dwelt, for he resembled her betrothed so closely. This brought her such sudden grief that she fell to the ground. Holding onto a garden trellis, she gave a distressed sigh, accompanied by infinite tears. Putting her hand to her rosy cheek, she recalled many things, any of which, had she dwelt on it, could have served as her executioner.
She dismissed these memories as best she could with a new desire to comfort her soul with the sight of the gardener, deceiving it with what little resemblance to Ozmín he bore. She stood up, her whole body trembling and her heart in anguish, to contemplate once again the image she adored, for the more closely she looked at him, the more vividly the image turned into him. She thought it was a dream, yet she could see that she was awake, and so feared he was a ghost. Realizing that he was a man, she hoped only that he would turn out to be the one she loved. She remained perplexed and doubtful, unable to grasp what he was, for his illness had left him thin and devoid of his usual color, while everything else—his features, his stance, his manner—confirmed that it was he. Yet his office, his attire, and the very place where he stood banished her hopes and disabused her of them. She was sorry to have seen the truth of the matter, and yet she persevered in her desire, unable to prevent a special affection for him, given whom he resembled. And in her doubt and anxiousness to know who he was, she asked him, “Brother, where are you from?”
Ozmín raised his head to see his exquisite and sweet beloved. His tongue knotted in his throat and left him unable to utter a word or to give an answer so that his eyes spoke for him, watering the ground with the many tears that sprung from them as if from two reservoirs whose gates had been lifted. And so the two lovers recognized each other.
Daraja responded in the same manner, and strings of pearls ran down her cheeks. They longed to embrace, or at least to exchange some sweet and loving words, when Don Rodrigo, the eldest son of Don Luis, entered the scene. As he was in love with Daraja, he followed her every footstep, seeking any opportunity to contemplate her beauty. To avoid suspicion, Ozmín returned to his work while Daraja continued on her way.
From her sad countenance and burning eyes, Don Rodrigo could tell that something had occurred. He suspected something had upset her and asked Ozmín about it. Even though he himself had not recovered from his emotion, Ozmín forced himself to do so out of necessity and responded: “Sir, the way you see her now is the way she looked when she arrived. She did not exchange a word with me, and so did not tell me, nor do I know, what has upset her so. And especially as this is my first day in this place, it would not have been fitting for me to ask, nor for her in her discretion to tell me.”
With this, Don Rodrigo moved on, intent on asking Daraja herself; but while he had paused to exchange these words with Ozmín, she had quickly mounted a spiral staircase to her chambers and closed the door behind her.
The lovers spent several mornings and afternoons in this manner, enjoying at times some of the flowers and honest fruits of the tree of love, with which they relieved their sadness, contemplating their true pleasure, and longing for that happy time when they could freely enjoy each other without shadows or impediments. Yet they did not long enjoy even these pleasures, or at least not very safely, for the length of their conversations, the sight of them speaking together in Arabic, and the fact that Daraja excused herself from the company of her friend Doña Elvira to do so soon vexed everyone in the house, and especially Don Rodrigo, who was filled with angry concern. He was consumed by jealousy, not because he believed the gardener could be discussing anything illicit or amorous with her but simply because he was worthy of such frequent sweet conversation with Daraja, which she would have with none other so freely.
Rumor, the natural daughter of hate and envy, always seeks to taint the lives of others, sullying their virtues. And so for those of base and lowly condition, among whom she keeps her court, it is the most delectable sauce, without which no meat seems tasty or well seasoned. It is the swiftest bird, for it pounces most speedily and causes the most harm. There was no lack of people to pass the word from hand to hand, some adding to and others elaborating on their great familiarity until the ball dropped and the rumor reached the ears of Don Luis, carried by those who thought it would bring them advantage as their lord’s honored favorites. This is what the world practices: to curry favor with their betters at the expense of others through connivance and lies, if the truth gives them no ground for achieving what they desire. A fitting office for those with no virtue of their own and whose works and persons are of no worth!
Don Luis listened to these well-composed and embellished words. He was a wise and prudent gentleman, and so did not let them linger where they had been set before him but sent them on to his imagination, leaving room for what the accused might say. He kept an open mind and would not allow it to be closed, even though he was somewhat alarmed. He had many thoughts, all of them far from the truth, and what most troubled him was the suspicion that his gardener might be a Moor cunningly trying to steal Daraja away. Convinced that this was the case, he was immediately blinded to any other possibility. And as is often the case with rash decisions, no sooner have they been acted upon than regret sets in. Yet with this suspicion Don Luis resolved to arrest Ozmín.
Ozmín did not show sorrow or alarm, nor did he resist, but allowed himself to be locked in a room. Leaving him thus secured, Don Luis went to Daraja, who from the uproar of the assistants and servants already knew everything that had occurred and had even predicted it for some days. She came to Don Luis very aggrieved, complaining that the goodness and chastity of her life had been cast into doubt, with such a smear as would allow anyone to think whatever he wished, for the door had been left wide open to all bad suspicions.
These and other well-considered reasons, affectingly delivered, easily led Don Luis to feel remorse for what he had done. He now wished, after Daraja had chastised him, that he had never brought up such matters, and he berated himself and those who had put him up to it. In order not to seem fickle, however, and to avoid admitting that he had acted on such a grave issue without due consideration, he disguised his regret as he responded:
“Dear Daraja, I fully grant that you are right and recognize how wrongfully this matter was pursued, without having first examined the motives of the witnesses who testified against you. I know your worth, that of your parents, and that of the ancestors from whom you descend. I know your own merits have elicited from the King and Queen, my lords, all the love that a true and only child can inspire in her devoted parents, and that they have showed you their bountiful and well-known favor. Yet you must acknowledge that they placed you in my house so you could be served with the utmost care and diligence according to your will, and that I will be held accountable for you according to the trust that was placed in me. Because of this and of my desire to serve you, you must act in kind, according to who you are, with the good treatment that my loyalty deserves. I cannot, nor do I want to, believe that you could be capable of anything that is not honorable. But the great familiarity you have with Ambrosio (for this was the name Ozmín took when he began work as a laborer) has raised some concern, as has your speaking to each other in Arabic, which makes everyone want to know what it means and how it started, given that neither you nor I had ever seen or known him before. If these questions were answered, you would dispel many of their doubts and quiet in me an impertinent and profound unease. I beg of you, for who you are, to relieve us of this doubt and to believe that, insofar as possible, I will always be at your service in all that you desire.”
Daraja listened intently to what Don Luis was saying so that she could respond, even though her sharp mind had already prepared explanations in her defense in case something were to be discovered. But in this short while, she was forced to leave aside her previous excuses and to rely on others more pertinent to what was asked of her so that he might be reassured and relax his vigilance. With great foresight, and in order to continue taking pleasure in her betrothed as she was wont to do, she said:
“My lord and father, for so I may call you—lord, for I am in your power, and father, for your treatment of me—I would ignore my obligation for the continual favors I receive from their Majesties by your own hand, and through your intercessions on my behalf, which increase them, if I did not entrust my greatest secrets to the repository of your discretion, finding refuge in your shadow and taking your good sense for my rule, and if I did not satisfy you with the truth itself. For even though recalling the things I must relate will cause me great sorrow and no small amount of suffering, I want to repay you in this way and lay my sorrow at your feet, and reassure you that I obey your commands.
“By now, my lord, you have come to know who I am, and that my misfortune or my good luck—I cannot condemn one thing or praise another until I see the fruit of so many trials—brought me to your house after my marriage had been arranged to one of the most esteemed knights of Granada, a close relative and descendant of its kings. This husband of mine, if I may call him that, was raised from the time he was six or seven years old with another boy, a Christian captive of the same age, whom his parents purchased for his service and entertainment. They were together constantly, played together, ate and slept together, all for the love they had for each other. See, my lord, whether these were not the pledges of true friendship! My husband loved him as if he had been his equal or his relative. He entrusted his person to him, for he was so brave; he was the storehouse of his pleasures, his companion in entertainments, treasury of his secrets—in essence, another of him. The two were so similar in all respects that only their religion set them apart, which, for they were both very wise, they never discussed, to avoid straining their brotherly bond.
“The captive—truly, I should call him brother—deserved this treatment for his loyalty, his upstanding manners, and his noble behavior. Had we not known that he had been born to humble laborers, who were captured with him on a lowly farm, we would have thought he was descended from some noble bloodline and generous household. This man, once our marriage had been arranged, carried all messages between us and was so loyal in that task that he did nothing else. He would bring me letters and gifts, and return with the due response. He was in Baza when it was captured, and so he was freed along with most of the captives who were found there. Yet I cannot say whether the joy of gaining his liberty was as great as his pain at having lost us. You may easily ask him for yourself, along with anything else you might want to know, because he is Ambrosio, the one you have in your service, where, God being served, he came to relieve my sorrow. I lost him without quite knowing how, and by chance, I have found him again. With him I review the courses of my disgrace, in which I have now attained my degree. With him I tend the hopes of my adverse fortune and distract myself from a sorrowful life, to disguise the weariness of time’s slow passing. If this consolation, which is for my good, offends you, then do as you will, for my will follows yours.”
Don Luis was astonished and moved, as much by the strangeness as by the sadness of the case, and by the way it was recounted—without any pause, hesitation, or mistake from which one might assume that Daraja was making it up as she went along. She gave even more credit to her story by shedding some effective tears, which would have softened the hardest stone or cut the finest diamond. And so Ambrosio was released from prison without a single question, so as not to cast doubt on the information Daraja had given. Simply placing his arms around Ambrosio’s neck, Don Luis happily announced:
“I now know, Ambrosio, that you must come from noble blood, and if you did not, your own virtues and nobility would stand in for it. What I have learned about you now obliges me to treat you as you deserve.”
Ozmín responded: “In this, Sir, you shall act as befits you, and any favor I might receive I will treasure as coming from your generosity and your house.”
With this, Ozmín was allowed to return to the garden with the same familiarity as he had first enjoyed and with even more license. Now he and Daraja could speak to each other as often as they wished without scandalizing anyone any longer.
Meanwhile, the King and Queen always took care to inquire about Daraja’s health and well-being, of which they were carefully apprised. They enjoyed hearing about her and always remembered her in their letters. This royal favor was so powerful that, in their longing for influence as much as for the damsel’s own merits, Don Rodrigo and the other principal lords of that city wished to make her Christian and courted her for their wife. But because Don Rodrigo had her—as they say—in-house, he had the best chance among them all, according to common opinion. The case was simple and their suspicion well founded: she had already experienced his condition,10 manners, and demeanor, and the display of such qualities is hardly insignificant, nor is it a small step to display one’s virtues and nobility in public, so as to be known and favored. But as the lovers had already exchanged souls and no longer possessed their own, they were as loyal in their love as they were averse to hurting one another. Daraja was never bold, nor did she offer any excuse that would invite any amorous advances, even though they all adored her. And so each one tried to find his own way, slowly casting his nets, yet none had any reason to hope.
Don Rodrigo was aware of what little use his attentions had proved, how fruitless his efforts, and how slim his hopes—for after the many days he had spent in continuous conversation with Daraja he was no further than he had been on the first. And so it occurred to him to use Ozmín, thinking that through his intercession he might achieve some favors. Seeking them through the most likely means, he said to Ozmín one morning in the garden,
“You are well aware, my brother Ambrosio, of your obligations to your religion, your king, and your country, as well as for the bread my parents’ provide you, and for all our good wishes for you. I believe that, as a Christian of the quality that your actions demonstrate, you will act according to who you are. I come to you with a particular need—the increase of my honor and my very life depend on it, both of which are in your hands. I beg you to speak with Daraja and convince her to leave the false sect and turn Christian, adding your own persuasions to other reasons. You know full well the good that would come of this: salvation for Daraja, good service unto God, fulfillment for the King and Queen, honor to your country, and a complete cure for me. Requesting her as my wife, I will marry her, and this will benefit you as well, bringing you not just honor but as handsome a profit as your intelligence might conceive, because God will honor you for the soul you win over, and I, for my part, will reward you fully for saving my life and interceding on my behalf with favors and friendship. Do not refuse me, since you can do so much with her. I should not press you any further when so many obligations compel you to do this.”
When Don Rodrigo had finished his exhortation, Ozmín responded as follows:
“The same reason with which you seek to bind me, Don Rodrigo, will make you believe how much I long for Daraja to follow my faith, as I have countless, multiple times persuaded her. My own wish in this matter is none other than your own, and so I will do as you ask for my own sake, in a matter that so concerns me. Yet she so loves her husband, and my lord, that to try to turn her Christian is to redouble her passion to no end, for she still harbors hope for a change of fortune that might let her have her way. This is what she has told me and what she has always said, and I have seen her hold to it. Yet to follow your command, fruitless though it may be, I shall talk to her again and discuss it with her, and give you her answer.”
The Moor had not lied at all in what he said, had his true meaning been understood. Not remotely suspecting anything so far from his own purpose, however, Don Rodrigo believed what Ozmín had actually said instead of what he had meant to convey. And so, deceived in this way, Don Rodrigo felt newly confident, for he who truly loves finds hope in hopelessness.
Ozmín was so distressed to discover these attempts against him that he almost lost his wits from jealousy. The news so oppressed him that from then on he was never cheerful, as the impossible became possible in his mind. He wrestled with his thoughts, imagining that this new rival, so powerful in his land and in his household, and so determined, would have tricks and strategies to hinder Ozmín’s own plan. Ozmín feared they might change his Daraja, for battering rams breach strong walls and secret mines level them and ruin them. With these misgivings, his thoughts ran to tragic ends and terrible events, all of which took shape in his mind. He did not so much believe them as he feared them greatly, as would any perfect lover.
When Daraja saw her beloved husband so dejected for so long, she longed to know the cause; but he neither told her nor spoke a word of what had occurred with Don Rodrigo. She did not know what to do nor how to cheer him, but spoke to him with sweet words and good cheer, uttered with a soft tone and a firm heart, and underscored by her beautiful eyes, which softened her features with the tears that flowed from them:
“Lord of my liberty, god whom I adore, and husband whom I obey, what has such power to torment you when I am alive and in your presence? Is my life perhaps the price of your happiness? Or what would you do with it so that my soul might escape the hell of your sadness in which it now suffers? Let the sun of your happy countenance scatter the clouds in my heart! If my entreaties mean anything, if my love for you deserves any consideration, if the sorrows I endure move you at all, if you do not wish my life to be buried in your secret, I beg you to tell me what makes you so sad.”
Here she stopped, drowning in tears, as her words had a similar effect on Ozmín, who could only respond with burning, loving tears of his own. They tried with their own tears to wash away those of the other, until their tears became as one, for their tongues could not speak.
Crushed by his own sighs, but fearing they would be heard, Ozmín so repressed them, trying to return them to his soul, that he fainted away as if dead. Daraja did not know what to do, how to rouse him or console him, nor could she conceive the cause of such a change in one who had always been so cheerful. She busied herself with cleaning his face, drying his eyes and placing her beautiful hands on them, having wet a precious handkerchief that she held, embroidered with gold and silver and many other colors, and woven with small and large pearls of great worth. She was so altered by this new sorrow, and so wholly caught up in remedying it, that Don Rodrigo almost found them there all but embracing. Daraja had his head on her knee, and Ozmín was resting on her skirts when he came to himself. Just as Ozmín recovered, and while he was preparing to say good-bye, Don Rodrigo entered the garden.
Daraja, in her confusion, withdrew as best she could, leaving behind on the ground her rare handkerchief, which was quickly retrieved by her lord. And when she saw that Don Rodrigo was approaching, she took her leave and left the two men alone. Don Rodrigo asked Ozmín what he had worked out. Ozmín responded as he had before:
“I find her so firm in her love for her husband that not only will she not become a Christian, as you hope, but for his sake she would cease to be one if she were, becoming a Moor instead, so extreme is her madness, her love for her religion and for her husband. I presented your offer, but she so hates you for attempting it and me for proposing it that she has determined not to see me if I speak of it again. And when she saw you approach, she fled. So do not insist nor waste your time on this matter, for it will be all in vain.”
Don Rodrigo was disheartened by so resolute an answer, so harshly delivered. He suspected Ozmín was actually working against him rather than in his favor. It seemed to him that even if Daraja had given such a distasteful response, Ozmín should not have relayed it in that manner, as though it were his affair. So we see that love and discretion rarely go together: the more one loves, the more one comes undone. Don Rodrigo recalled the very close friendship that Ozmín was said to have with his former master: that flame, he surmised, still burned, and the ashes of that fire had probably not grown cold. With this thought, and bolstered by his passion, Don Rodrigo resolved to dismiss Ozmín from the house, telling his father how dangerous it was to allow Daraja near someone who would recall her past love and discuss it with her, especially as it was their Majesties’ intent to turn her Christian, which would be hard to do as long as Ambrosio was present. “Let us,” he said, “try separating them, Sir, and see what comes of it.”
His son’s counsel did not displease Don Luis. Right away, inventing complaints where none were warranted—for the powerful do not need to justify themselves, and the captain with his soldiers does as he pleases, so that two and two make three—he dismissed Ozmín from his house, commanding him not to set foot in the door again. This took Ozmín by surprise, and he was not even able to bid Daraja goodbye. Obeying his master, and feigning less sorrow than what he felt, he dragged away his body, which was all he could take with him, for his soul remained with her in whose power it had long rested.
When Daraja learned of this sudden change, she assumed that Ozmín’s former sorrow must have come from his misgivings about it and that he had already known it was to occur. So one blow joined with the next, sorrow with sorrow and grief with grief. Although the poor lady dissembled as best she could, what hurt her most was to lose all chance of seeing her husband. Let the afflicted cry, moan, sigh, shout, and carry on, for if this does not dispel their suffering, at least it may alleviate it and somewhat lessen it. Daraja so lacked for all happiness that she lost all pleasure and taste for things, and her sorrow could be clearly read in her face and manner.
Our Moorish lover did not wish to change his condition. Dressed as before, in the habit of a day laborer, he followed his weary fortune. In this dress, he had known good luck, and he hoped for even better. He worked for wages wherever he could, trying his luck as he went from place to place. In this way, he hoped to learn something useful, and only for this reason did he do it, as he could have lived well for a long time on the money and jewels he had taken from his house. Yet for this reason, and given that he had already shown himself in dress that gave him free rein, allowing him to go undetected and protecting his designs, he carried on with it for the time being.
The young knights who served Daraja, knowing how she favored Ozmín and that he was no longer a servant in Don Luis’s house, all coveted him for their own ends, which they soon made public. Don Alonso de Zúñiga, a rich heir in that city and an honorable, gallant, and wealthy knight, took the lead, confident that necessity, his riches, and his recourse to Ambrosio would grant him victory. He sent for him, agreed on terms, did him many good turns, and showered him with praise. And so they began a kind of friendship—if such a thing can exist between master and servant, for though it is possible insofar as they are men, in this situation it is generally known as favor.
After several attempts, Don Alonso revealed his desire to Ozmín, promising him great rewards. All this opened Ozmín’s wounds and inflamed his sores, making them worse. If before he had been jealous of one, now there were two; soon he learned of many others whom his master revealed to him, what paths they took, and whose assistance they sought. For his part, Don Alonso claimed, he did not want or seek any help beyond Ozmín’s good intelligence, for he was certain that his intercession alone would be enough to achieve his end.
I could not express, nor could anyone truly imagine, what Ozmín felt when asked once again to play the pander for his wife and how important it was for him to carry on with discreet dissembling. He responded kindly to Don Alonso, lest what had happened with Don Rodrigo should occur again. Had he challenged them all while he still had such a long way to go, he would have lost everything and learned nothing. Patience and sufferance are required to reach one’s ends peacefully. So he continued to distract Don Alonso, burning alive all the while. He battled his own thoughts, which assaulted him from all sides and covered him with blows, so that he did not know where to turn or whom to follow, nor could he find any comfort to ease his torments.
There was a single hare, and the hounds were many and swift, aided by falcons of the house, female friends, acquaintances, banquets, and visits, such as often set fire to honor. For to many honorable houses there come those who appear to be ladies and yet who cease to be so while on their supposed visit, whether because of their own need or by trickery, for all of this goes on. Noble and grave people were not neglected when the devil procured bawds and bodies.
Ozmín feared all this, but above all he feared Don Rodrigo, whom he and the other rivals hated for his false arrogance. Don Rodrigo tried to dissuade them with his manner, hoping to convince them that it was born of Daraja’s favor and that they should therefore desist. Meanwhile, they spoke to him kindly but did not love him. Their mouths dripped with honey while their hearts harbored poison, and they held him to their hearts while longing to tear his to pieces. They smiled at him as dogs grin at a wasp, for so it is in this day and age, especially among the great.
Let us now return to the torments that Daraja suffered and her efforts to learn of her husband’s fate—where he had gone, what had become of him, if he was in good health, how he spent his time, if he loved elsewhere. This last concern troubled her the most, for even though mothers, too, fear for their absent sons, there is a difference: a mother fears for the life of her son, while a wife fears for the love of her husband, worried that another woman might be distracting him with caresses and flattery. How sad were those days for Daraja, how long those nights, how she wove and unwove her thoughts, as Penelope did her cloth, with her chaste desire for her beloved Ulysses!11
Here I will say most by remaining silent. For to depict such sadness, not even the trick used by a famous painter would do. At the death of a maiden, he painted her in her place, and surrounded her with parents, siblings, relatives, friends, acquaintances, and the servants of the house, each in their place and showing the sadness befitting their condition. Yet when he came to her parents, he left their faces unfinished, allowing the viewers to paint for themselves the pain they might feel. For there are no words nor brushes to express the love or the sorrow that parents feel, but only certain deeds among the gentiles, of which we have read.12 So will I do. My coarse tongue would be but a broad brush that could only paint blots. Best then to leave it to the discretion of the listeners, and to those who know the story, to consider how such passions are felt. They should imagine it for themselves, judging the heart of another by their own.
Daraja was so sad that her demeanor betrayed her inner feelings. Seeing her in such an extreme state of melancholy, Don Luis and his son Don Rodrigo ordered some bullfights and riding games13 to cheer her up. Because the city was so well suited to these pastimes, they soon came about. The quadrilles gathered, each one dressed in silks of different colors, with which each of the riders revealed his feelings: some showed their despair, others, their hope; some, their enthrallment, others, their doubt; some, their joy, others, their sadness; some, their jealousy, others, their love. But Daraja responded to all alike.
When Ozmín learned of the planned festivities and that his master would participate in the quadrilles, he decided to waste no time in seeing his wife and to show his worth by distinguishing himself on that occasion. When the day came, and just as the bulls began to run, he entered on his mount, both well fitted. He had covered his face with blue taffeta and his horse’s eyes with a black band. He pretended to be a foreigner. His servant went before him, bearing his thick lance. He circled the entire plaza, beholding the many marvelous things that were there. Among them all, Daraja’s beauty shone as the day does against the night. Her presence threw everything else into shadow. He placed himself near her window and from there saw the whole plaza in a commotion as the crowd ran from the threat of a famously fierce bull that they had just let loose. He was from Tarifa, large, malicious, and fierce as a lion.
As soon as he stepped out, the bull reached the middle of the plaza in two or three bounds, bestriding it and frightening all who were there. He turned his head in all directions, and they threw some canes at him. Shaking them off, he artfully prevented them from throwing any more from below, striking out at a few and missing none. They no longer dared to take him on, nor was there a soul who would challenge him on foot, even from very far away. Thus they left him alone, with no one but the enamored Ozmín and his servant standing by.
The bull then charged like the wind, and Ozmín had to take up his lance with no delay, for the bull admitted none in his charge. He held high his arm, around which he had knotted Daraja’s handkerchief, and with graceful dexterity and a gallant air he stabbed the bull through the back of the neck, piercing his whole body and nailing his left hoof to the ground. There he left him quite dead, as though made of stone and no longer moving at all. Ozmín himself was left with a piece of the lance in his hand, which he cast to the ground as he left the plaza. Daraja was overjoyed to see him—she had recognized him as soon as he rode in because of his servant, who had also been hers, and then by the handkerchief on his arm.
Everyone was left murmuring admiration and praise, impressed by the fortunate blow and the strength of the masked man. No one could talk of anything else. They had all seen it, and yet they all wanted to tell the story. They all thought it had been but a dream, and yet they could not stop recounting it again and again: one person clapping, others shouting and gesturing. One stands amazed, another crosses himself, yet another raises his hands, their mouths and eyes full of joy. One bends over and leaps up; some raise their eyebrows; others, bursting with pleasure, do an antic dance. . . . All of this was for Daraja a greater glory.
Ozmín withdrew to some orchards outside the city, from which he had come before. Leaving his horse, he changed his dress but kept his sword at his side. Becoming Ambrosio once again, he returned to the plaza. He stood where he could see what he desired and where he could be seen by one who loved him more than her own life. They rejoiced in beholding each other, though Daraja was fearful that some harm could come to him, as he was on foot. She signaled that he should stand on a scaffold. He pretended he did not understand her and remained there for the rest of the bullfights.
As the evening drew near, the quadrilles for the games of canes entered in the following manner: first came the trumpets, shawms, and drums in their colorful liveries, and behind them followed eight mules carrying bundles of canes. They belonged to the eight quadrilles that would play, and each was covered with a velvet cloth bearing the arms of its owner embroidered in gold and silk. They were secured with cords of gold and silk with silver ties.
Next came 240 horses belonging to 48 knights—5 for each, not counting the one he started on, which made 6 in total. The horses that were led in first came in two lines from opposite directions. The first two were paired together, and the rest were organized into groups of five, which bore on the arson of their saddles, facing outward, their owners’ shields, upon which were painted emblems and mottos, with ribbons and tassels, each according to his fancy. The rest of the horses wore only harnesses with bells and rich, rare trappings: proud bridles of gold and silver with the most precious stonework, beyond all description. What more can I say than that this all took place in Seville, where there is no lack of such things or expertise in them, and that the knights were lovers, rivals, rich, and young—and their lady was present.
They entered through one gate and, after circling the entire plaza, left through another next to the one they had used before, so that those who were going out did not hinder those who were coming in, and in this way they all paraded by. Once the horses were gone, the knights came in again, with the eight quadrilles running two by two. Their liveries were as I have described, and in their hands they held their lances, shaking them so that the stock and the point blurred together and each one appeared to be four. The horses were encouraged with loud shouts. Nudged with sharp spurs, they fairly flew, with each rider so close on his saddle that they seemed to be a single body. This is no exaggeration, for in most of Andalusia—in Seville, Córdoba, Jerez de la Frontera—children are placed—so they say—from the cradle onto the saddle, just as in other places they are given hobbyhorses to ride. It is a wonder to see such hard steel and such dexterity at such tender ages, for they think nothing of hurting their mounts.
They circled the plaza, galloping around all four sides, then exited and made another entrance as they had before. But this time, having changed horses, they wore their shields on their arms and held their canes in their hands. They took their places in groups of six, as is the custom of the land, and began a handsome, well-ordered game. After about a quarter of an hour had passed in this way, another group of knights entered the game to break them up, beginning another organized skirmish with new horses. One side and the other showed such precision that it looked like a concerted dance, which all watched in suspenseful pleasure.
This sport was interrupted by a furious bull that they released as the grand finale. Those who were on horseback took up their pikes and began to surround him. The bull stood still, not knowing which way to charge: he looked around at all of them, tearing at the ground with his hooves. And while each awaited his fate, a rascal ran out from the crowd and began goading him on, gesturing and making faces.
It did not take him long to make the bull, as if enraged, abandon those on horseback and charge toward him. The boy turned in flight and the bull followed, until he was right below Daraja’s windows, where Ozmín also stood. Ozmín felt that the boy had sought refuge in a special place and that any harm that came to him there would dishonor both his lady and himself. In light of this, and given his fury at those who had wanted to show off their talents there that day, Ozmín broke through the crowd and charged the bull who, leaving his previous target, ran toward him. Everyone thought that a man who would charge such a beast, and with such conviction, must be mad, and they fully expected to extract him in pieces from between the bull’s horns.
Everyone yelled at him in loud voices to be careful. Imagine the state his betrothed was in—I cannot describe it except to say that she was a woman bereft of her soul and insensible from feeling so much. The bull lowered his head to gore Ozmín but actually turned out to be humbling himself in sacrifice, as he would never raise it again. For the Moor moved his body to the side, and simultaneously, with extraordinary dexterity, unsheathed his sword, plunging it through the animal’s neck. Shattering the skull, he left the head hanging from the gullet and jowls, and there the bull lay dead. Then, as if he had done nothing at all, he sheathed his sword and left the plaza.
But the curious and common crowd, horsemen as well as footmen, began to close in on him from all sides to discover his identity. So many crowded him in admiration that they almost suffocated him, and he could not take a step. From windows and scaffolds, there arose another chorus of admiration much like the first, with widespread excitement. And because they had happened as the festivities were ending, the crowd spoke of nothing else but the two marvels of that afternoon, debating which had been greater and expressing gratitude for the delightful last course they had been offered, which had left their palates and their mouths full of relish to recount such feats for time immemorial.
As you might imagine, on this day, Daraja’s own pleasures were interrupted, her joy marred with grief, her good news proven false, and her relish soured. Barely had she seen what she longed for, when she was struck by the fear of danger. She did not know when she would see him next nor how to calm her heart, satisfying the hunger of her eyes with the sweet taste of her desire, and the very thought tortured her. Pleasure cannot live where sorrow lingers, and so no one could tell from the look on her face or even by speaking to her if the festivities had entertained her. Yet the gallant suitors were even wilder for her than before, aroused by Daraja’s great beauty, desirous to know how best to please her and to see her again. In the heat of their pride, they called for a joust, declaring Don Rodrigo the challenger.
The challenge was posted a few nights later, with so much music and so many torches that the streets and plazas seemed ablaze. They placed it where it would be visible to all, and easily legible. There was a tiltyard near the city wall, next to what is known as the Córdoba gate—I saw it in my own time, though in poor condition—where knights would go to practice their jousts. There Don Alonso de Zúñiga, who was new to such things, practiced among the rest. He was eager to distinguish himself since he was so taken by Daraja.
He was afraid to lose the tournament and admitted it freely, not because he lacked the will or the strength but because practice is what makes experts of men and theory alone fools the most confident of them. He did not wish to err and so proceeded modestly and carefully. Ozmín, for his part, wanted to have as few enemies as possible, and since he could not joust nor would he be admitted, he wanted someone to enter the lists who might overthrow Don Rodrigo’s pride, since he was more wary of him than of all the rest. With this in mind, rather than to serve his master, Ozmín said to him: “My lord, if you give me license to speak, I will tell you something that may benefit you on this honorable occasion.”
Don Alonso, distracted and without the slightest idea that he might be referring to the joust, assumed instead that Ozmín had something to tell him about his love, and so said, “Get on with it, then. I long to hear what you have to say.”
“I see, my lord,” Ozmín said, “that you must participate in the announced festivities of this tournament. And it is no surprise that, when a glorious name is at stake, the great longing to secure it might daunt a man. I, your servant, will help you, quickly training you in whatever you wish to know of chivalry and the use of arms so that my lessons are fruitful for you. Do not let my youth surprise or scandalize you because I was raised to this and so know a thing or two about it.”
Don Alonso was delighted at what he heard, and, thanking him, said, “If you can deliver what you offer, I will be greatly in your debt.”
Ozmín replied: “He who promises what he does not plan to keep ventures far from his word, and seeks only to distract and make excuses. But he who, like myself, cannot make any such moves, must deliver even more than he promises, unless he is a fool. Order them, my lord, to prepare weapons for you and for me, and soon you shall see how much longer I have taken to make this promise than I shall take in fulfilling it, though doing so will not free me of the obligation to serve you.”
Don Alonso quickly ordered the necessary equipment, and when it was ready, they headed to a secluded place where they dedicated that day and most of those remaining until the tournament to practicing. Soon enough, Don Alonso was so steady in his saddle and good with his lance, which he took out with such a skilled air and carried with such grace, that it seemed as if he had been practicing for many years. In addition to all the practice, the grace of his body and his good strength were most important and helped him accordingly.
Ozmín’s talent for riding both kinds of saddles14 and for carrying out the lessons, as well as his figure, composure, behavior, habits, and manner of speaking, all led Don Alonso to think that his name could not actually be Ambrosio and much less could he be a mere worker. Instead, his whole person was carefully wrought. His actions betrayed the polish of a principal and noble person who, because of some turn of events, was going about in this fashion. Unable to contain himself until he could resolve the matter, Don Alonso took Ozmín aside and said to him privately: “Ambrosio, though you have served me for only a short while, I owe you much. Your virtues and your manners reveal who you are so clearly that you cannot disguise it. Under the veil of that base suit you wear, and under those clothes, that occupation, that name, there lies another person hidden. It is clear to me from the evidence you have given me that you are deceiving me, or rather that you were deceiving me. For the poor laborer that you pretend to be would never know so much, particularly about chivalry, especially being as young as you are. I have seen through you, and I know that under those clods of earth and muddy shells lie the finest gold and oriental pearls. It is patent to you who I am and most unclear to me who you are, even though, as I said, causes are known by their effects, and you cannot conceal yourself from me. I swear to you by the faith that I have in Jesus Christ and the order of chivalry that I profess to be your faithful and secret friend, keeping whatever you entrust to me and helping you with whatever my person or my purse can provide. Tell me of your fortunes, so that I may somehow repay the good deeds you have done for me.”
Ozmín replied: “My lord, you have conjured me so powerfully and so tightened the screws that I must wring from my soul what only your noble manner could extract. So, to obey your orders, and trusting in who you are and what you have promised, I must tell you that I am a knight from Zaragoza in Aragon. My name is Jaime Vives, son of a father of the same name. A few years ago, it so happened that I fell into the hands of Moors and was taken captive due to the conniving of false friends. Whether it was because of their envy or my misfortune is a long story. While I was in their power, they sold me to a renegade,15 and by that name you can imagine the treatment I received. He took me inland to Granada, where a noble Zegrí knight16 bought me. He had a son my age named Ozmín, who was the very picture of myself; we were alike in age as in stature, features, condition, and kind. And because I so resembled his son, he was intent on buying me and treating me well, leading to a greater amity between us. I taught him what I knew and what I could, according to what I had learned from my people in my own land and from our frequent practice of such exercises. From this I reaped no small benefit, for in discussing those exercises with my master’s son, I learned more about what I might otherwise have forgotten, for those who teach learn. So both father and son grew fonder of me and began to entrust me with their persons and their wealth. This young man was betrothed to Daraja, daughter of the mayor of Baza, my lady whom you so adore. The wedding was about to occur, and it would have taken place as their agreement stipulated had the siege and the wars not impeded it. They were forced to postpone it, and then Baza surrendered and the wedding was left in suspense. Because I was their confidant, I exchanged gifts and presents between them from one city to the other. I was fortunate to be in Baza when the city surrendered, and so I recovered my liberty with all the other captives there. I longed to return to my land but had no money to do so. I heard that a relative of mine lived in this city, and so two things came together: my desire to see a place so illustrious and magnificent and my hope to improve my lot in order to continue on my way. I was here for a long time without finding the person I sought, because the information I had received had been uncertain. What was certain, however, was my own perdition, for I found what I was not seeking, as is often the case. I was wandering through the city, with little money and great cares, when I saw a rare beauty, or at least so she appeared to my eyes, though she may not to those of others, for only what pleases us is beautiful. I surrendered completely, and my soul left me; I no longer knew myself and I was entirely hers. I refer to Doña Elvira, sister to Don Rodrigo and daughter to Don Luis de Padilla, my lord. As they say, necessity is the mother of invention, and so finding myself so lost in love and with no way to demonstrate it with the actual qualities of my person, I decided to write my father to tell him that I owed a thousand double doubloons17 for my liberty and to ask him to help me with them. This plan worked out well, for he sent them to me along with a servant and a horse for me to ride, all of which served me well. For the first few days, I began to frequent her street, making rounds at all hours, but I could not see her. My constant rounds made certain people notice me, and then they had their eye on me. To throw these spies off track, I had to be more careful. My servant, in whom I had confided my love, counseled me, as he was older and more experienced. Carefully considering the situation, he suggested that, as my lord’s house was undergoing repairs, I should purchase these work clothes and, changing my name so that no one would know who I was, I should settle down there as a stone worker. I considered what might happen to me if I carried out the plan, but since love and death conquer all, I overcame my own doubts, and it all seemed easy to me. I made up my mind, and it was the right choice. Then an unexpected thing happened: when the repairs were done, they kept me on as a gardener in that same house. That was truly my lucky day, and my moon grew full as I reached the pinnacle of my good fortune, for on the first day in my new position, and as soon as I set foot in the garden, I found myself before Daraja. I was no less surprised to see her than she was to see me. We gave each other an account of our lives, sharing with each other our misfortunes. She told me hers and I told her mine, and how my love for her friend had put me in such a state. I begged Daraja, as she knew full well who my parents were and who I was and of the noble blood of our line, to seek Elvira’s favor for me, so that by her hand and generous intercession I might in holy matrimony enjoy the fruit of all my hopes. She promised to do so and fulfilled her promise as best she could. Yet my fortune is so miserly that, as soon as our tender love had finally begun to grow, the buds fell off, the flowers shriveled in a hot dry wind, and some worm gnawed at its roots so that it all came to an end. I was banished from their house with no explanation, falling from the pinnacle of good fortune to the lowest depth of despair. He that killed one bull with the stroke of a lance, he that killed the other in one blow of the sword, that was I, for I did it in her honor. She plainly saw me and recognized me, and was no end glad, as I read in her face and her eyes revealed to me. And if it were possible on this occasion, too, I would distinguish myself to please my lady and secure my everlasting fame by revealing who I am and what I am worth. I am ready to burst with grief at not being able to do so. If I could somehow manage it, I would give in exchange all the blood that runs through my veins. So you see, my lord, I have now given you a full account of my history and the whole sum of my misfortunes.”
Don Alonso, having heard him out, threw his arms around him and held him tightly. Ozmín attempted to kiss his hands, but he would not allow it, saying: “These hands and arms are to be used in your service so that they might deserve to gain yours. This is no time for compliments, nor to alter your plans, until you wish to do so. As for the tournament, do not let it trouble you, for you shall enter the lists, no doubt about it.”
Once again Ozmín attempted to kiss his hands, bending his knee to the ground. Don Alonso did the same, as they offered each other their support in the strength of their new friendship. Thus they passed in long conversation the days that remained until the tournament in which they were both to prove themselves.
I told you before how Don Rodrigo was secretly disliked for his arrogance. It seemed to Don Alonso that he had found what he sought, because if Jaime Vives were to joust in the tournament, he would surely defeat Don Rodrigo, humbling his pride. Ozmín, for his part, also longed to do so. And before it was time to arm himself, he walked slowly about in order to see Daraja come in, admiring how festive the plaza looked with its countless hangings of silk and gold, its varied colors, its curious windows, its beautiful ladies, their costumes and adornments, and the parade of illustrious people, so that all together it seemed like a priceless jewel with every detail a precious stone set within it. The tiltyard ran through the middle of the plaza, dividing it into two equal parts. The judges’ scaffold was situated in a convenient spot and opposite the windows of Daraja and Doña Elvira. These two entered upon two white palfreys harnessed with trappings of silver and black velvet adornments, with great accompaniment. After having rounded the plaza, they took their seats. Once he saw Daraja there, Ozmín made his way out because the challengers were now about to enter. Shortly they arrived, wonderfully arrayed.
The shawms, trumpets, and other instruments began to play, strumming and sounding constantly until they had arrived at their places. Then the combatants entered, and among the first came Don Alonso, who, after his three very good courses (for few did better), returned home. He had already secured permission for a knight, a friend of his, whom he pretended to expect any moment from Jerez de la Frontera, to join the tournament, and Ozmín had been awaiting his return. They proceeded to the tiltyard together for Don Alonso served as his sponsor.
The Moor’s arms were all black and so was his horse. He had no feathers in his helmet but instead a rose from Daraja’s handkerchief, fashioned with great care—a clear sign by which she immediately recognized him. He took his place and, as luck had it, ran his first lance against one of the challenger’s seconds. They gave the signal, and they raced off. Ozmín hit his adversary on the visor of his helmet, breaking his lance. Then he hit him again on a second pass with what remained of it, knocking him from the saddle to the ground over the haunches of his horse, yet the fall did him no more harm than what he suffered from the weight of the armor.
For Ozmín’s last two courses, Don Rodrigo himself came forth. With his first lance, he grazed the Moor’s left arm, while Ozmín wounded him on his right side, under his gardbrace, breaking his lance into three parts. With his last lance, Don Rodrigo missed, while Ozmín broke his on the beaver18 of Don Rodrigo’s helmet, leaving behind a large splinter of his lance. Everyone thought he had been badly hurt, but his helmet prevented him from being seriously harmed. Thus the Moor, having broken his three lances, was the proud victor. Even prouder was Don Alonso, who had sponsored him, and was beside himself with joy.
They left the plaza and went home to take off their arms without letting anyone recognize Ozmín. Then, wearing his ordinary dress, he left secretly by a small gate, returning to contemplate his Daraja and see what was happening in the tournament. He stood so close to the lady that they could almost have held hands. They looked at each other, yet his gaze was sad, and thus hers grew even sadder, wondering what could make it so that her sight did not cheer him. She did not know what to make of his jousting with weapons and a horse all in black, which is among them a bad omen.
All this caused her the most profound melancholy. It so took possession of her and weighed on her so heavily that no sooner were the festivities over when, her heart bursting in her chest, she left the window and hastened home. Those who were with her were surprised that nothing could cheer her. They gossiped about it, each one suspecting that which best suited his or her own malice. Don Luis, as a prudent knight, explained her behavior when he heard it questioned. And he did the same with his sons that night, saying to them:
“An afflicted soul weeps even among pleasures. What can possibly cheer one who is away from those she loves most? Good things are worth that much more when enjoyed in the company of those we know and consider our own. Delights may be found among strangers, but they are not deeply felt, and they increase the sorrow of a soul who sees in others a greater joy. I do not blame her nor am I surprised at her behavior; instead, I attribute it to her great prudence and strength, for the contrary would have reflected a blatant frivolity on her part. After all, she is away from her parents, far from her betrothed, and, although freely treated, a captive in a strange land, with no remedy for her troubles or any means to acquire it. Examine your own hearts and consider what it would mean to be in her place, and then you will feel what that is like. To do otherwise is to be like the healthy who urge the sick to eat and be well.”
After this secret exchange, they publicly praised the knight from Jerez, exclaiming over how well he had jousted. And although they would have liked to know who he was, Don Alonso never said any more than what he had told them at first, and they believed it.
Meanwhile, Daraja’s sadness increased day by day. Nobody could guess its cause, and they were all wide of the mark, although they took many stabs at it. They all came to the wrong conclusion, seeking to distract her as much as possible with whatever entertainments they could devise, yet no one was able to square the circle of her desires.
Don Luis had a house and an estate in Axarafe, a little village outside Seville. It was a temperate season, around February, a time of year when the game and the fields seem to come to life. They decided to pass a few days there at their leisure so as to leave no stone unturned in trying to distract Daraja from her sorrows. She seemed pleased at this development, assuming that if she left the city, she would find some way to see and speak to Ozmín. They prepared all the trappings for their expedition, and it was a happy sight to witness such commotion: one man led the greyhounds on their leashes; another brought the hounds and the ferret; others brought the falcons, another the owl; some carried a gun on their shoulders or a crossbow in their hands; and others guided the loaded pack mules. They all traveled together with great noise and fanfare, rowdy with the excitement of the festivities.
Don Alonso had already heard the news, and he told Ozmín that their ladies had gone to the countryside for recreation and would be there for some time, with no word on when they would return. This was not all bad, they thought: in the country, they might have fewer rivals courting their ladies and more opportunities to go undetected.
The nights were neither clear nor too dark, neither cold nor hot, but delightfully calm and peacefully serene. The two enamored friends agreed to try their hand and their good luck by traveling to visit their ladies. Dressed as laborers, they left at sunset riding two nags. A quarter of a league before reaching the village, they dismounted near a country house, for on foot they would be less noticeable. Their plan would have succeeded had fortune not turned its back on them, for they arrived just when the ladies were out on a balcony, absorbed in conversation.
Don Alonso did not want to risk approaching them for fear of startling the quarry, and so asked his companion to sort things out by himself on behalf of them both, for as Doña Elvira loved him and Daraja knew him well, there was little to worry about. Thus Ozmín stole ahead little by little, nonchalantly singing in a low voice as if to himself an Arabic song, such that it would resound clearly for one who knew the language, but to one who did not and was not listening carefully, it would just sound like he was humming “la-la-la-la.”
Doña Elvira said to Daraja: “Even these rude folk have their God-given gifts, if only they knew how to use them. Do you not hear that savage, what a sweet and tuneful voice he has, even though he is just humming nonsense? It’s like the rain that falls on the sea, to no end.”
“You know,” Daraja said, “all things are esteemed according to the subject who possesses them. These laborers, if they are not transplanted into an urbane life while young, grafted from rough to cultivated soil, and stripped of that rugged bark in which they are born, will almost never learn good mores,19 while on the contrary those who are city dwellers and of a political nature are like the vine, which still gives fruit, although not much, even if neglected for a few years, and when well tended again responds in kind, brimming with the fruits of that labor. This man who sings here—not even a carpenter with his powerful axe and his adze would be able to straighten him out nor to make him useful. His cooing makes me sad. Let us go, if you please, for it is time for us to go to bed.”
The two lovers had well understood each other—she, his song, and he, her words and to what end she spoke them. The ladies left, and Daraja lingered a little, asking him in Arabic to wait there. So he did, wandering up and down the street until she returned.
For some unknown reason, common folk always harbor a natural hatred for the noble sort, like the lizard for the snake, the swan for the eagle, the cock for the partridge, the prawn for the octopus, the dolphin for the whale, oil for pitch, the grapevine for the cabbage, and the like. And if you ask what might be the natural cause of this, no one knows more than that it is like the magnet that attracts steel, the heliotrope that follows the sun, the basilisk that kills with its glance, and the swallow-wort that helps the eyesight. Just as some things naturally love each other, others repel each other by celestial influence, the reason for which, to this day, men have not discerned. That things of different species should behave thus is no wonder because they have different constitutions, qualities, and natures. But rational men, the ones and the others molded from the same earth, of one flesh and blood, of one beginning and tending to the same end, of one law, of one religion, and all of them in every way self-same men! For all men naturally to love each other and for these to persist in their ways! That this stubborn rabble, more obdurate than Galician nuts, should persecute nobility with as much determination as they do never ceases to amaze me.
Some local lads were also out and about that night. They happened to see the strangers, and immediately, without any cause or reason and completely unprovoked, they called to each other and banded together, shouting, “Get the wolf! Get the wolf!” Tossing small stones at them like rain from the sky, they forced them to flee before any encounter. And so the two turned back, without even giving Ozmín a chance to say good-bye. They found their horses and rode back to the city, determined to return even later the next evening so that no one would hear them. Yet it was to no avail, for deathly lightning would not have made the villains leave their posts just so they might cause mischief and harm. They had barely set foot in the village the following night when a band of those louts formed around them, having recognized them. One with a slingshot, another with his arm, some with small lances, sticks, and spears, others with spits—leaving no shovels or oven mops behind, they set off after them as though they were chasing a rabid dog.
But they found the strangers better prepared than the night before for now the two wore sturdy armor, steel-plated helmets, and strong shields. From one side you could see stones, sticks, and shouts; from the other, strong sword strokes, and between the two, there was such commotion that the entire village appeared submerged in a fierce battle. As Don Alonso crossed a street unaware, they threw a stone at his chest with such force that he fell to the ground, unable to rejoin the fight. As best he could, he slowly backed away. Ozmín, meanwhile, drove them up the street, doing great damage to them, with not a few of them injured, and three dead.
As the commotion grew louder, the entire village came out at once. They blocked his way so that he could not escape, though he tried. From another direction, a clodhopper came up to him and gave him such a blow on the shoulder with the bar of a door that it brought him to his knees. Then not even the fact that he was the mayor’s son could save him, for before he could strike again, Ozmín lunged at him and with one stroke of his sword split his head through the middle as though he were a kid goat, leaving him like a beached tuna on the shore, having paid with his life for his insolence. Then so many rushed at Ozmín with such force, from all directions, that he could no longer defend himself and so was made prisoner.
Daraja and Doña Elvira witnessed everything, from the beginning of the fray to the uproar as they captured him and tied his hands behind him with a rope, as if he were their equal. They all mistreated him in turn, punching, shoving, and kicking him, and ignominiously insulting him a thousand times over, taking their revenge on one who had surrendered. How shameful and ugly—only peasants such as these could act like this!
What do you make of this misfortune? And what can that lady have felt who worshipped Ozmín’s very shadow? This, on the one hand, and on the other a number of dead and injured men, and her honor hung in the balance. For as soon as he learned of the case, Don Luis would be sure to ask what business Ambrosio had in the village. In her confusion, Daraja took counsel from necessity. She produced a letter, sealed it, and placed it in a little chest so that she could use it in her defense when Don Luis arrived.
By this time, daylight had come, and still the people had not settled down. They had sent to the city a report on the case so that an investigation could begin. Once the notary arrived, they began to examine witnesses. Many came forth unbidden, for evil people need no invitation to evil; it even makes enemies into friends. Some swore that there had been six or seven men with Ozmín; others that the strangers had come out of Don Luis’s house and that from the window someone had yelled, “Kill them! Kill them!” Others claimed that the strangers had attacked the villagers, who had been calm and at peace, while yet others alleged that they been challenged in their own houses to come out and fight. And not one of them, though sworn to it, told the truth.
God deliver you from such peasants for they are as stiff as oaks and just as hard! They only yield their fruit when they are beaten and would rather be uprooted, destroyed completely, and their estates ravaged than bend a little. If they decide to persecute someone, they will perjure themselves a thousand times on what matters not a whit to them so long as they can cause harm. And what is worse: these wretches think that in this way they will save their souls, and it is a marvel if they confess to this venom.
The deaths and injuries were recorded, and the prisoner loaded with chains under careful watch. When Don Luis learned of it, he hastened to the village and inquired of his daughter, who told him what had actually happened. Then he asked Daraja, who said the same, adding that she had sent for Ambrosio so he could take a letter to Granada for her and that before he had even been able to speak to her, they had thrown stones at him two nights in a row; though her letter was written, she had been unable to send it.
Don Luis asked her to show him the letter to see what she might have to say, and she pretended to be reluctant to do so. Yet she was soon persuaded, as she actually wanted nothing else. Taking it from where she kept it, she said, “I give it to you so that my truth may be known, and so that no one may suspect that I write things that need to be kept secret.”
Don Luis took it from her, but when he tried to read it, he saw that it was written in Arabic, and could not. So he found someone to read it to him: Daraja wrote to her father that she was concerned about his health and that she herself was well, and that other than for her desire to see him, she was more content and more pampered by Don Luis than any of his children. And so she beseeched her father that they should send Don Luis a gift in recognition of his courtesy and good hospitality.
When there are incidents such as these, words become heated, and people take their own assumptions about the matter as gospel; so they began gossiping about Don Luis and his household. This made Don Luis’s hackles rise, but as a sensible knight, he thought it best to hide his feelings and return his household and family to the city.
When these events took place, Granada had already surrendered on the terms that we know from histories and that we still hear our parents relate. Among the nobles who remained in the city were the two fathers-in-law, Alboacén, who was Ozmín’s father, and the mayor of Baza. Both asked for baptism, as they wanted to become Christians. Once this had been done, the mayor begged the King and Queen to give him license to see Daraja, his daughter. It was granted, and they said they would let him know how and when it would occur. Alboacén, who believed that his son was dead or captured, made many inquiries to try to find news of him but never discovered a trace. He was as afflicted as one might expect by the loss of such a son, the only heir of rich and noble parents. The mayor felt it no less, for he loved Ozmín as though he were his own son, and also for the grief Daraja would feel when they gave her such dire news.
The King and Queen, for their part, sent a messenger to Seville to request Don Luis to come to them from wherever he was and bring Daraja with him, with all due respect, as they had entrusted her to him. When these letters were received and the order understood, Daraja was beside herself: it meant she would have to leave without knowing how things would turn out or in how tight a situation she was leaving the prisoner.
She found herself distracted, pensive, and dejected, deeming herself a thousand times more unfortunate than misfortune itself and the most injured of all women. She longed to sweep everything aside and lose her life alongside her husband. In her doubt, she almost decided on a most atrocious error, a sign of the chaste and true love that she felt for Ozmín. But her good judgment allowed her to cast her cruel thoughts aside; she returned to her good senses and determined to leave her misfortunes in the hands of Fortune, her enemy, and to await whatever end she might give them. Since death was the utmost evil, she would not take her own life. But the barrier of her long suffering could not contain the sea of tears that burst from her eyes. Everyone assumed that they were for the happiness of returning to her family, and they were all deceived. They all encouraged her, and yet no one could console her.
Don Rodrigo arrived to bid her farewell. With her cheeks bathed in the crystal streams that dropped from her divine eyes, she said to him: “I hope to persuade you, lord Don Rodrigo, with an abundance of reasons to do the favor that I need to ask of you at this moment. It is so just that neither can I refrain from asking nor you from granting it to me for it so concerns you. You already know how obliged we are to do good where required, as this is a divine natural law that touches everyone and which no savage ignores. This law becomes stronger the more reasons are added to it, and among these, a key and not insignificant one is the obligation we incur to those who have served us.20 This alone should be enough that, given who you are, I should not even need to intercede. But what I want to ask of you, given this obligation, is as follows. As you know, Ambrosio served both your parents and my own. We are bound to help him, and I all the more so, for the sentence he presently endures is all my fault and his only concern in the matter was my own interest. I placed him in danger, a responsibility that I must assume. If you wish to free me from this burden, if you have ever longed to please me, if you want to place me in your debt so that I shall remain forever grateful, then you must procure his liberty, which is also mine, as earnestly as I beseech you. My lord Don Luis, before he leaves me here, will do everything he can through his friends and relatives so that all might come together in his absence to deliver me from this obligation. . . .”
Don Rodrigo promised her to do so, and thus they parted. The poor lady left her beloved husband in such danger and suffered for him more and more the farther she traveled from him, so that by the time she reached Granada she did not seem like herself. They took her immediately to the palace, where we must leave her and return to the prisoner, whom Don Rodrigo assisted as though he had been his own brother.
Don Alonso, who had fled the brawl with injuries to his chest, had taken to his bed in a bad state. When he learned that the prisoner had been brought to Seville, however, he got up and tirelessly pursued the case as though it had been his own. But all the parties made their accusations, the plaintiffs were full of ill will, and the dead and injured were many so that they could not prevent Ozmín’s being sentenced to hang in public.
Don Rodrigo was furious at such a show of disrespect toward him and his father as to attempt to hang their innocent servant. Don Alonso, for his part, insisted that a knight of noble blood, such as his friend Jaime Vives, could not be hanged. Even had his crime been greater, the difference between the persons should spare him his life and especially such a death as hanging; he should instead be beheaded.
The judges were confused, unsure of what was the case. Don Rodrigo calls him a servant and Don Alonso a friend; Don Rodrigo defends him as Ambrosio, while Don Alonso pleads for Jaime Vives, a knight from Zaragoza, who at the bullfight had carried out the two feats that the entire city had witnessed, and at the joust, for which Don Alonso had sponsored him, had defeated the challenger, valiantly proving himself. The difference was so pronounced, the names so contradictory, and their alleged qualities so discrepant that in order to resolve these doubts the judges decided to take Ozmín’s own declaration.
They asked him if he was a knight. He responded that he was noble and of royal blood, but that his name was neither Ambrosio nor Jaime Vives. They asked him to give his name and some account of his person. He answered that revealing who he was would not prevent the punishment, and that if he was to die regardless, it was as unnecessary for him to say and that it did not matter whether he suffered one form of death or another. They begged him to say if he was the one that Don Alonso claimed, who had so distinguished himself at the bullfight and the joust. He answered that it had been him but that his name was not what they had claimed.
Because he refused so vehemently to identify himself, they assumed he was a nobleman. And so they took some time trying to confirm who he was, why the two knights defended him so, and, moreover, why the whole city longed for his freedom and was so taken with him. So they sent a messenger to Zaragoza to find out the truth of the matter and his actual origins, yet after a few days and many inquiries, they had discovered no one who could tell them about him or knew who a knight of such a name and appearance might be. When they returned with this bad news, his friends begged him and the judges required him over and over again to identify himself, but he did not wish to do so, nor was it possible. After this respite, the judges, much against their will and pitying his youth and valor, could not refrain from executing justice as the plaintiffs insistently demanded, and so they confirmed their sentence.
Neither Daraja nor her parents had a moment’s rest while this was occurring, as they had already relayed an account of the entire case to their Royal Highnesses, who were now informed of the truth. They submitted petition after petition. Daraja personally pleaded for her husband’s life as a special boon but received no response. Yet soon Don Luis was secretly dispatched with a royal order to the judges that, no matter what stage Ozmín’s case had reached, the entire thing from the start should be delivered unto the monarchs along with the prisoner in order to do them service.
Don Luis left posthaste, as he was instructed, while poor Daraja, her father, and her father-in-law broke down in tears at the thought of how quickly the judges might dispatch the poor knight and how slow the response to their petitions and pleas for mercy had been. They knew not what to make of such a delay, during which no one gave them any positive or negative response or any reason to hope. This caused them much grief, and they could not find a solution, even though they never stopped trying, as they feared above all the danger of the delay.
While they wondered what to do, Don Luis—as I said—was already swiftly and very secretly on his way. As he entered the gates of Seville, Ozmín was exiting the gates of the jail to be executed. The streets and plazas through which they took him were full of people and the entire city in an uproar. There was not one person whose eyes were dry at the sight of such a fine and handsome young man, brave and well loved for the famous feats he had publicly performed, and what made them saddest was that he refused to confess before dying. They all thought he did it for a chance to escape or to prolong his life a little. Yet he spoke not a word, nor showed any sadness on his face; instead he gazed upon them all as he passed, almost with a smile on his face. They stopped him and tried to persuade him to confess so that he might not lose his soul along with his body, but he would not answer and kept silent through it all.
While they were all in this state of confusion, with the whole city awaiting the sad spectacle, Don Luis arrived, pressing his way through the crowd to stop the execution. The bailiffs thought he was resisting justice, but because they feared him greatly and he was a bold and powerful knight, they abandoned Ozmín and with great commotion hastened to tell their superiors what had happened. These, in turn, came to inquire what might account for such disrespect for the rule of law. Don Luis came to meet them with the prisoner in hand. He showed them the order and message from the King and Queen, which they obeyed with great pleasure. Then to everyone’s delight, and with all the knights of that city in attendance, they took Ozmín to Don Luis’s house, turning that night into an elegant masquerade, with torches and lamps lit in the streets and windows to show the general happiness. To celebrate, they longed to hold public festivities in the days following because they had by then discovered who he was. Yet Don Luis gave them no time for, as had been instructed, he left with the prisoner the very next morning, transporting him in a most comfortable manner.
Once they had arrived in Granada, he held him secretly for a few days until their Royal Highnesses ordered him to take Ozmín to the palace. When he was brought to them, they were delighted to see him, and with him before them, they sent for Daraja to come out. When they saw each other in such a place as that, completely unbeknownst to one another, you may judge with your own hearts the unforeseen happiness they experienced and what they each felt. The Queen went toward them and announced that their fathers had become Christians, although Daraja already knew it. She asked whether they would do so as well, promising them great rewards, but said that no love nor fear should oblige them save that of God and their own salvation because either way, from that moment on, they were free to do as they wished with their persons and their estates.
Ozmín wanted to answer with all the joints and sinews of his body, turning them into so many tongues to give thanks for such great mercy. He stated that he wished to be baptized, and before the King and Queen he asked his wife to do the same. Daraja, whose eyes, brimming with soft tears, had not left her husband, then cast them toward the King and Queen. Because it had been the divine will to reveal to them the true light, leading them to it through such harsh trials, she said, she was ready with all her heart to do the same and to swear obedience to the King and Queen, her lords, in whose care and royal hands she placed herself.
And so they were baptized: he was christened Ferdinand and she Isabella, after their Royal Highnesses, who served as their godparents for both their baptism and their wedding just a few days later, granting them many favors in that city, where they lived and had an illustrious lineage.
We had listened to that story in complete silence for the whole way, until we arrived within view of Cazalla. The priest seemed to have timed it perfectly, even though he told it to us at greater length and with a different soul than I have recounted it here.
1 As we explain in the introduction, the novella appears in the first book of Guzmán de Alfarache (1599), a picaresque novel by Mateo Alemán. The larger story recounts the life of the poor son of a Genoese converso, a descendant of converted Jews, who at the age of fourteen leaves home to seek his fortune on the road. While Guzmán makes his way from Seville to Cazalla with some travelers, a priest in their company narrates the tale of Ozmín and Daraja.
2 The siege of Baza described here took place in 1489.
3 Alcántara and Calatrava were military orders for knights in service of the Castilian Crown. Some characters referred to in this account of the siege of Baza, such as King Ferdinand, Queen Isabella, Luis Fernández Portocarrero, Don Rodrigo de Mendoza, Don Hurtado de Mendoza, and Don Sancho de Castilla, correspond to historical figures active in the war.
4 Captives from the defeated city are here counted as though they were cattle, emphasizing their monetary value in the ransom money that would be paid to free them.
5 As we note in the introduction, in early modern Spain some argued for the superiority of “Old” Christians, whose families had always been Christian, over “New” Christians, who were either recent converts themselves or had been born into a family with Jewish or Moorish origins.
6 The original uses the term ladina for “fluent speaker.” In Spain, this term referred to a non-native speaker of Spanish who had mastered it to the point of being almost indistinguishable from a native speaker (Covarrubias 1611, 511) and was used mostly for Spanish-speaking Moors. In the New World, however, it began to be used for acculturated Amerindians and blacks, and thus signaled transformations beyond language proficiency.
7 Both of these kings were of the Nasrid royal family. Boabdelín, also known as Mohammed al-Zagal, ruled Baza, Guadix, and Almería at the time of the siege of Baza in 1489, while his nephew Boabdil, the Small King, still held power over Granada.
8 Valuable gold coins stamped with a coat of arms on each side. See the “Note on Coinage” in the introduction.
9 By the 1590s, both masons and gardeners—the two disguises that Ozmín adopts here—would have been stereotypically associated with Moriscos. There may be an oblique reminder here of the connection between the idealized Moors of the text and their persecuted brethren in the late sixteenth century.
10 “Condition” here refers to someone’s perceived position in society, that is, whether someone is “rich, or poor, noble, or plebeian” (Covarrubias 1611, 231).
11 The narrator here mentions explicitly the parallels with Homer’s Odyssey, strongly suggested in the descriptions of the suitors vying for Daraja’s attention while Ozmín moves about them in disguise.
12 The author may refer here to the practice of hiring plañideras to weep at funerals as a means of producing catharsis in the crowd. This practice is described in the Book of Lamentations (Jeremiah 9:17).
13 The juegos de cañas (games of canes) that Alemán refers to here were immensely popular among the nobility in early modern Spain, particularly in Andalusia. Of Andalusi origin, the games involved richly attired quadrilles that performed elaborate maneuvers on horseback and threw light reeds at each other.
14 The jineta saddle, with short stirrup leathers, was often associated with the Andalusi style of riding, and more broadly with Spain, whereas the brida, with long stirrup leathers, was associated with France.
15 “Renegade” (or renegado, used in early modern English, too) referred to Christians who abandoned their Christian faith for Islam. The word derives from the Spanish verb renegar (to reject or deny), which refers to the action of declaring oneself apostate.
16 The Zegrí family was a noble clan in Al-Andalus memorialized (along with the Abencerrajes) in Ginés Pérez de Hita’s Civil Wars of Granada.
17 Gold coin stamped with two coats of arms on each side. At the end of the sixteenth century, the sum of 1,000 doblados (1,700,000 maravedís) was equivalent to what an average day laborer (who made approximately 85 maravedís a day) could only have made after 20,000 days of work. See the “Note on Coinage” in the introduction.
18 Technical terms for parts of the armor: the gardbrace protects the upper arm, the beaver the nose and mouth.
19 The original uses the term morigerados: tempered or tamed. The verbal echo of moro (Moor) suggests Daraja’s recognition that she speaks of Ozmín. Hence our choice of mores.
20 The original states “our obligation to those to whom we have given our bread,” emphasizing the responsibility of the noble person for those of his or her household.