Journey of Strangers

by Elizabeth Zelvin

  “Sir,” she said timidly, despising herself. “Dom Pero.”

  “Who’s that?” he snapped. Pulling the folds of his clothing together, he whirled to face her, hand flying to the hilt of the dagger at his waist.

  “It’s me. Joanna.” She wasn’t sure he knew her name, but he had taken her often enough to recognize her.

  Hand dropping from his dagger, he crossed the space between them in a single bound. He gripped her shoulders hard enough to bruise them. Then he grinned and took her by the chin, lifting her face toward his.

  “Well, well. Did your mistress send you, girl? Has she not yet realized that coin will get her nothing in this place? Not unless she’s rich enough to invest in a slave when those ships depart for the Guinea Coast. Or can you simply not get enough of me? No matter, I’m an obliging man. I’ll take what’s offered. Down on your knees, now.”

  Now his hand cupped the crown of her head, pushing down hard.

  Die, you bastard, die now, she thought. If hate alone could kill, you’d be dead already.

  It was over quickly. He uttered a shout of triumph and released her. She turned away to hide her face and take a moment to master herself. Mindful of Imaculada’s threat to starve the children if she got no information, she could not simply leave. She stood, head hanging, until he grabbed at her hand and forced her to turn toward him.

  “Not ready to leave yet, missy? You’re a lusty girl. You’re right, we’ve only just begun.” He dropped to the sand and patted the ground beside him. “Come! Sit here and wait for me. Put your hand just so—that’s right—and it won’t be long.”

  “Sir, can we not sit and talk awhile first?” She flushed with embarrassment. But he did not protest when she lifted her hand and placed it in her own lap. “What think you of this new land? Is it what you expected, sir?”

  “Like hell it is!” He stared out to sea, his arms around his knees. “I begin to think this venture was a mistake. It’s all very well for Alvaro. By the king’s decree, he owns the lot of it. The last governor was an incompetent. No slaves brought in yet! No land cleared! No sugar planted! And the settlement placed where there is no harbor, though ships must come and go constantly for the slave trade to flourish. Alvaro swears he’ll move it.”

  “What happened to the last governor, sir?” she ventured.

  “Dead! Dead of fevers, and most of the colony with him, so there’s no one to be held accountable, just one big mess to straighten out and not enough hands to do it. We’ll have to crack the whip upon the degradados, that’s for sure. And the sooner we get the first lot of Africans in, the better. Maybe they’ll stand the season better than the whites, being used to this damned climate.”

  “Season, sir? It is very hot.”

  He gave a crack of laughter.

  “The Ponta Figans tell us this is the hot season and that the island has but two seasons: hot and hotter. You’d better weave yourself a hat before the hotter season comes. Well, there’s nothing to be done but make the best of it. It’ll be a long time till a ship returns to Portugal. First they’re bound to the Congo to round up the blacks, then back here, then to Elmina, the big fort on the coast that’s the trade’s clearinghouse. They’ll sell off those we don’t need and collect the money, our share as well as what Alvaro must send to the king. Alvaro has promised that should any ill befall him, I’ll inherit the lot, provided the king approves. Seize the moment, girl, that’s my philosophy.”

  Without ceremony, he tipped her onto her back and rolled onto her.

  Chapter 16: Diego

  Signore Boccanegra advised us to do nothing until we had better news of the battle and its aftermath. In the meantime, the banker offered us the hospitality of his own palazzo. He bade the apprentice Beppo run to inform his wife, so the household could prepare for our arrival, while we refreshed ourselves and perused San Giorgio’s excellent maps of the region and the lands beyond. Whichever route we chose, we were likely to find soldiers on it and therefore trouble.

  Signore Boccanegra withdrew to the other end of the room to speak with a colleague. We were still studying the maps when the two men crossed the room and came toward us. Signore Boccanegra took the other’s arm and drew him forward.

  “This is Signor Adorno,” he said. “I must go about my duties, which will not wait, but Signor Adorno is at your disposal. Please do not hesitate to make your needs known. And young Beppo, when he returns, will be your messenger and porter while you remain in Genoa.”

  Signor Adorno bowed as I hastened to express our thanks and gratitude.

  “If it is not too much of an imposition,” Rachel said, with a dazzling smile, “may we have some kind of paper, along with quills and ink? My brother and I are both fair scribes, and if we might copy portions of these wonderful maps, having them would greatly increase our chances of success.”

  “Rachel!” I blurted. “Paper is expensive! Sir, I apologize for my sister’s boldness.”

  Signore Boccanegra laughed.

  “The Banco di San Giorgio is rich,” he said. “We can easily spare a sheet or two of paper for the niece and nephew of a valued client. Giuseppe, see to it.”

  Signor Adorno bowed again. He had not taken his eyes off Rachel since she smiled. Hutia had also noticed, for he squared his shoulders and moved closer to her. He said nothing, but his eyes were watchful.

  That evening, we dined sumptuously on soup made flavorful with herbs, a roast sirloin of beef basted with rosewater and the juice of oranges and dusted with sugar, a salad of leafy greens tossed with the vegetables of the season and bits of beef liver and kidney, an enormous fish that I did not recognize, fried whole, and cheeses, also sprinkled with sugar, which Rachel and I politely declined. The Palazzo Boccanegra was filled with marble, tapestries, and fine paintings, but Signora Boccanegra was a homely soul who hugged Rachel when she greeted us and exclaimed throughout the meal about our long journey and how hungry we must be. When Rachel inquired about the recipes for the soup and the sirloin, the lady herself whisked her off to the kitchens to be introduced to the chef and given a brief lesson in Italian cookery.

  “I doubt we will have an occasion to roast a cow in the near future,” I remarked to Hutia, “or make a soup that consists of more than an onion and a couple of turnips boiled over a fire in the woods.”

  “If thinking she might gives Rachel one evening free from care,” Hutia said, “I am satisfied. ”

  I looked at my friend and shook my head.

  “You really are in love with her,” I marveled.

  Hutia laughed.

  “Does it only now occur to you?” he asked. “I marvel at your blindness to her virtues.”

  “I know she has many virtues,” I said, “but she is still my little sister, the snot-nosed brat who tagged along everywhere after her elders and was given to falling out of trees and leaving the door of the chicken coop unlatched.”

  “For which no doubt she was roundly scolded,” Hutia said. “Today, she not only remembers to latch the coop but can catch a chicken on the run and wring its neck, a skill we may need. I doubt we will be offered abundant dinners like tonight’s on the road. And the ability to climb a tree, which, as you failed to mention, must precede falling out of it, may well save her life some day.”

  On the third day of our stay in Genoa, Signore Boccanegra came to us with a smile of satisfaction on his face.

  “I have news for you,” he said.

  “Good news?” Rachel asked.

  With an avuncular pat on the shoulder, he told her, “The aftermath of a battle is never good news, I fear. But someone who knows far more than I do has returned to Genoa. I believe he can offer enough information to make it possible to continue your journey.”

  “Is he a banker too?” she asked, not at all abashed.

  “No,” he said. “He is a trader and a sutler to armies. His name is Niccolo Pesaro, a Jew of Venice and an old friend. If you will accompany me to the bank, I will bid Beppo escort you to his home, which is a
lso his place of business.”

  It was the first time in years that either of us had heard any man named openly as a Jew without vituperation and denunciation immediately following. Rachel and I were struck speechless, leaving it to Hutia to express our thanks and interest in meeting Signor Pesaro as soon as possible. Indeed, once we reached the bank and Beppo was summoned, Rachel took the boy’s arm and set a brisk pace through the streets to the trader’s dwelling.

  The gentleman greeted us warmly, whether out of regard for Signore Boccanegra or because, from our faces and our turn of speech, he guessed that we too were Jewish. His home was spacious, save that the rooms through which he led us were crammed to the ceilings with an astonishing assortment of objects, from full suits of armor and helmets stained with blood to tottering piles of books, many singed about the edges as if snatched from a fire. I saw wooden chests, also marked by fire, heaped with jewelry and household plate, enough clay jugs and barrels of wine and spirits to stock a tavern, and stacks of ladies’ gowns, some fine enough for a princess with skirts of silk or velvet, sleeves dripping with lace, and bodices sewn with pearls or heavily embroidered in gold or silver thread. Atop a giant bell that might have come from a church tower perched a spotted cat as big as a child, stuffed in a realistic pose with back arched and predator’s teeth bared in a snarl. I thought it might be a leopard, of which I had seen pictures.

  “Forgive the mess,” Signor Pesaro said, sweeping a tangle of tapestries and velvet hangings off a padded bench and gesturing for us to sit. “This is my stock in trade, which in times like these I have barely time to sort through and dispose of before more comes in. My palazzo in Venice is five times the size of this, but at the moment, Genoa is ideally placed for commerce such as mine.”

  “Signore Boccanegra said you were a sutler?” Rachel said on a note of inquiry.

  “That is how I started out,” he said. “Now, how can I help you?: He cocked his head and raised one eyebrow, his sharp eyes appraising us.

  “We come from Seville,” I said. “That is, it was once our home. Our parents settled in Firenze some time in 1492 or 1493, but we believe they must have left there. Our mission is to find them, along with our older sisters. That is why we have come to ask your help.”

  “I will aid you if I can,” Pesaro said, “but I must caution you against undue optimism. Many have died since leaving Spain, and I must tell you that young women fare badly on the road.”

  “I will not travel as a young woman,” Rachel said, eyeing a pile of tattered doublets flung over the back of an ornately carved chair. “Nor will I travel unarmed. I have weapons, and I know how to use them.”

  “I gather that you have traveled far since leaving Seville,” Signor Pesaro said.

  “That is true,” I said. “I joined Admiral Columbus’s expedition to the Indies in 1492 and have spent the past two years there as well, as has my sister.”

  Pesaro’s eyes gleamed with interest.

  “I would like to hear more of that at a time when you are not so pressed,” he said.

  “And we of how the Jews have fared in Italy during our absence,” I said.

  “That is a long and tragic tale,” he said. “My friend Don Isaac Abravanel, our most distinguished scholar and champion, has lost several fortunes to the cupidity of kings. Most recently, he fled to Venice after his home in Naples was pillaged and his library destroyed.”

  “I know of Don Isaac as a great scholar,” I said. “My father corresponded with him in happier times.”

  “The French soldiers burned books?” Rachel’s lips tightened. As Amir had said, we were People of the Book. We had been brought up to revere books and treat them with great respect.

  “So the Neapolitans would have us think. But I rescued these.” Pesaro nodded at one towering pile. “And I can tell you that the Jewish quarter of Naples was attacked and looted before ever the French army marched into the city.”

  Rachel broke the ensuing silence.

  “I am not exactly sure what a sutler is.”

  “Purveyors to the army,” Pesaro said, “without whom armies and their train of camp followers could not survive. Most deal mainly in provisions, buying up supplies of meat, grain, and beer as well as cheese, onions, and strong drink and transporting them to where they can be sold at a profit.”

  “I see,” Rachel said. “They buy up these staples in regions that are out of the line of march and bring them to the armies.”

  “Exactly,” Signor Pesaro said. “I proved apt at anticipating events. Thus I could obtain my wares before prices were driven up too high. But there are many sutlers, and armies have rules concerning them. So I diversified. No one can prevent soldiers from looting. Indeed, allowing the sack of cities is kings’ and commanders’ favorite way of paying their troops. But how is an army to advance or retreat, burdened by such quantities of booty as you see here?” He waved an arm, the gesture encompassing the contents of the room. “Soldiers want cash, and I supply it. In any city that has been spared attack or occupation, as Genoa has in this war, I can find buyers for these orphaned luxuries.”

  Hutia shook his head. Pesaro, thinking he marveled at the scope and ingenuity of such trade, bobbed his head in a bow of acknowledgment. Rachel took Hutia’s hand and squeezed it. She and I both knew that he was thinking of matu’m, the Taino virtue of generosity, which decreed that all possessions must be shared, not hoarded or sold. Even barter was not an exchange of value for value, but each giver’s effort to be more matu’n than his neighbor. Even gold they valued chiefly as a potential gift. But European rapacity had won the day. The Taino were no more.

  Rachel’s eyes were bright with unshed tears as she steered the conversation back on course.

  “We must cross Italy,” she said, “no matter how perilous the road, for we will not abandon our search until we find our family. If your business brings you close to where sieges and battles have taken place, and if you have occasion to speak with those on both sides of the conflict, you must know what places we must avoid. We have maps. Would you be kind enough to look at them with us and help determine our route?”

  “Willingly,” Pesaro said, “but I cannot guarantee your safety on any route. Has any of you seen an army?”

  Hutia glanced at me, eyebrows raised. I shook my head.

  “Only raiding parties in the Indies,” I said.

  “Parties of savages?” He cast a speculative glance at Hutia.

  “No,” I said. “Of Spanish soldiers.”

  “Then you cannot imagine what you may encounter. If I thought I could dissuade you from continuing your journey, I would try. An army on the march stretches for miles in all directions. First come the troops and then those who follow them: blacksmiths, wheelwrights, carpenters, apothecaries, bakers, and a host of other necessary artisans, as well as women and children.”

  “Loose women?” Rachel asked. “You need not hesitate to speak of them in my presence.”

  “Both these and the wives and families of soldiers,” the trader said. “The camp followers can number in the thousands, even exceeding the tally of troops. In addition, the French have been drawing behind them artillery in wagons, as well as wagons filled with plunder.”

  “Cannon?” I said. “That must considerably slow their march.”

  “It does,” Pesaro said, “but it accounts for the success of this invasion. We Italians find ourselves frequently at war among ourselves, but until now, we have left mercenary companies led by condottieri to do our fighting. The goal of condottieri is to take as much loot as possible, including captives who might be worth a goodly ransom, and to do as little killing as they can. These French have turned our way of making war upon its head.”

  “If they travel more slowly after taking this plunder you speak of,” Hutia said, “it seems to me they must despoil more of the countryside as they go to keep their people fed.”

  “Exactly,” Pesaro said. “The longer an army has been in the field, the wider it spreads its wings
. Armies uproot and trample crops and regard the dozens or even hundreds of villages in their path as their rightful prey. Soldiers on the move are pitiless, rapacious, and often desperate. Since this latest battle at Fornovo, both the French and the Venetians and their allies wander the countryside. Some are wounded. All are unpaid and hungry. We will look at these maps of yours. But as to avoiding the war, you cannot, no matter which route you take. If you avoid the main roads and take to the mountains, you may not meet regiments, but you will still encounter soldiers. Some are merely trying to get home. Others are no better than bandits. Before you lies only a choice among dangers.”

  Chapter 17: Joanna

  Joanna hated São Tomé. She hated every vine and lizard, every shoot of cane. She hated every insect, crawling or flying, and every human being on the island except her brothers. She especially hated the masters, priests, and degradados and the king in Portugal, who had wantonly tossed away so many Jewish lives and thought himself a good man, beloved of God, for doing it.

  Caminha chose to build a new settlement, farther east along the coast than Ponta Figa, overlooking a shallow but usable natural harbor. Beyond the beach lay a flat expanse of fertile land well suited to agriculture, which made it ideal for the cultivation of sugar cane. Everyone called the new site the Povoação, the Settlement. Perhaps they feared to tempt fate by giving it a grandiose name, as the inhabitants of Fig Point had done. On the other hand, the governor chose to name the modest stream that flowed through the settlement Agua Grande.

  The governor could not imagine why this site had not been chosen in the first place. Once he had expressed his contempt for his late predecessor and the remnant of the first colony, his sycophants, led by his cousin Pero, repeated it incessantly. So did the degradados, whose self-esteem was raised by having someone to despise. No one but Joanna seemed to have an adverse opinion of the Povoação’s location, alongside the pestilential swamp.