The Galician Woman
William Mesusan
William Mesusan, Publisher
Copyright © 2020 William Leslie Mesusan
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781736460702
Cover design by: Vila Design
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021901611
The garden of the world has no limits
except in your mind.
--Rumi
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgments
Tenth Century Islamic Spain
Chapter 1
Solomon Levy's day began like most, but it would end like none before it.
The poet had no way of knowing this as he worked quietly, during the predawn hours, dipping his quill into a small bowl of pomegranate juice and withdrawing it to place the tip onto a piece of paper illuminated by a softly burning candle. He loved the ruby red color of the juice and the liquid flow of letters dancing along to form words upon a page, words describing the wonders of earthly, sensual life, a realm his people hadn't portrayed for almost two thousand years.
His efforts weren't appreciated by those in Córdoba's Arabized Jewish community who were content to live within the status quo. They wanted to confine Hebrew to the synagogue. Solomon found support and friendship among a committed group of revolutionary Jewish poets who explored ways to describe a wider universe with their language. They tired of seeing their Muslim counterparts excel because their dynamic Arabic prose celebrated the world of their times, accepting the paradox that religion and science can peacefully co-exist. These Muslims walked, but not by faith alone. They also walked with their eyes and minds wide open.
Pale light began to shine through an open window as Solomon continued to write. The poet remembered the exhilaration he felt while walking one starry, moonlit night in the ancient city of Granada. He hoped to convey his impressions of the city's Jewish Quarter, a place he'd visited for the first time earlier that year while engaged in a search for a rare manuscript. He recalled, with a certain fondness, the disheveled bookseller who helped him succeed in his quest. Those bloodshot eyes and bread crumbs nestling in a scraggly grey beard. How the old man lovingly touched each volume he shared with Solomon, caressing the book covers like lovers.
Quill to pomegranate juice to paper; the poet made notes for later revision.
Solomon loved the magical feeling of an engaged heart and hand. Smiling to himself, he felt an internal warmth infuse his entire being, a slow burn fueling his efforts to fashion poetry from his personal experience of the world. Solomon ran his hand through curly black hair as he contemplated the words just written. He understood that his limited time meant ceasing his avocation when daylight came in order to work at his principal occupation as a translator of scientific texts from Arabic into Latin. Writing poetry may have been his deepest desire, translating afforded him a good living.
Solomon had one more hour to work on his poetry, perhaps slightly longer. He took up his quill and wrote. And, he wrote and wrote in a trance-like state, but his reverie was interrupted by the proverbial knock at the door, only this was a deafening din, a series of hard raps employed to awaken even the soundest of sleepers from a deep and satisfying slumber. The poet sighed and put down the quill. He went to the door, opened it, and found himself staring at two Arabs. He didn't recognize either of them.
"The Foreign Minister requires your presence,” said the shorter messenger.
The taller man handed him a folded dispatch bearing a waxed seal. Solomon studied the bold red "S." He tried to make some sense of the unexpected summons. Cousin Hasdai, he said to himself.
"I'll be right back," Solomon told them
"Hurry," commanded the shorter Arab.
Solomon closed the door behind himself. He didn't want these men to see or hear what he was about to do as he walked over to his writing table and pounded his fist down hard.
Pomegranate juice spilled out across the table, but the poet didn't even notice it. It mattered not because he felt too angry to care. "Damn," he uttered to himself. "Not again, Hasdai."
Solomon threw on something warmer, a blue tunic over his cotton chemise and white pants cut long and snug at the ankle. He blew out the candle, and locked his front door. He soon found himself hustled through Córdoba's narrow, deserted streets. The chill in the air, along with the fast pace set by his escorts, awakened his senses. He felt a light breeze blowing through his hair as the two men whisked him out of the city through the Almodovar Gate, the main entrance to the Juderia neighborhood that Solomon called home. A nervous old driver, with a mule and two wheeled cart, sat waiting to rush him eight miles away to Muslim Caliph Abd al-Raman III's palatial city, Madinat al Zahra.
"Your driver knows the way," revealed the taller Arab. "We have to leave you now."
There came no further word of explanation so Solomon climbed up into the cart. The old driver shook the reins and the powerful mule trotted off, carrying the two men down the road. Solomon didn't have a clue why he'd been beckoned to Andalusia's corridors of power, but he suspected that his older cousin, Hasdai ibn Shaprut, had a new assignment awaiting him. It hadn't been that long since the kingdom's highest ranking Jew, serving as Foreign Minister and personal Physician to the reigning Muslim ruler, had pressed the aspiring poet into service as his private investigator.
They entered al-Zahra as the sun rose above the horizon to bathe the world in soft morning light. After the uneventful journey, the poet arrived at the Foreign Ministry's offices. The driver waited obediently outside.
What's the problem this time, Solomon wondered as he reached his destination at the end of a long, marble-tiled hallway and found a guard stationed in front of the arch-shaped doorway. Posting a sentry at the portal seemed unusual and Solomon noticed the sentinel at the door observing him with more than a casual interest.
He took a closer look at the guard. He's a Tangerine, Solomon said to himself using an Arabic slang term for black-skinned mercenaries imported into Andalusia through Tangier, a resilient port city sitting atop the northwest tip of the African continent.
The translator remembered the face securing the entrance to the Foreign Minister's office. He'd seen him deployed as one of the Caliph's personal guards during official state functions and other important social gatherings. Solomon was good at facial recognition, but terrible with names. He searched
his mind, came up blank, and decided it wasn't important. The guard appeared nervous, his right hand resting atop the steel handle of a long, backward curved sword hanging in a sheath by his side, a cold chisel with a thirty-inch long cutting edge. Standing stiffly in his proud military bearing, the imposing, broad-shouldered mercenary remained guarded himself, offering the visitor little more than a curt nod.
"I'm here at the behest of the Foreign Minister," Solomon explained.
At first, no flicker of recognition registered on the sentry's ebony countenance. Observation and memory finally evoked recall. The sentinel had placed him so the royal guard relaxed his grip. A tight-lipped smile creased the blue shadows of his enigmatic black face and his hand left the scimitar's handle as he stepped aside to push open an elaborately carved door. Solomon entered the Foreign Minister's chambers and the heavy door closed behind him.
Solomon entered a room designed with a thirty-foot high ceiling and massive walls carved from translucent marble blocks. It's grandeur and openness offered an impressive sense of space. We're meant to feel dwarfed in the presence of the Caliph's hand-picked advisors, mused Solomon.
He failed to understand the seriousness of the situation, but this soon changed as Solomon found Hasdai sitting in the center of the well-appointed room slumped over and brooding behind an oak-carved desk. Solomon sensed a tension in the air and knew something was terribly wrong when Hasdai waved him forward without looking up to greet him. Cousin Hasdai, dispensing with formalities--no talk of family, translations, or poetry--quickly revealed the reason behind the portentous summons.
“The Caliphate might be under attack.”
"What happened?"
Hasdai motioned for Solomon to sit down and the poet complied.
"The Caliph's nephew Umar was found murdered in his bed. His brother discovered him with a dagger stuck in his heart," explained Hasdai. "We think the last person to see him alive was a woman. She appears to have vanished."
It took a few seconds for Solomon to absorb the news. The severity of the crime had taken him by surprise and confirmed his earlier suspicions. This meeting had all the earmarks of a new assignment, one he might not be able to refuse though he would surely make an attempt. Solomon shrugged his shoulders and adopted a pose of nonchalance, but his quizzical expression met with an immediate response.
"I want you to find her, Solomon."
Time for a countermove, thought the poet.
"I've just regained my momentum, replied Solomon as he squirmed in his chair. "I'm feeling inspired."
"I'm sorry," apologized Hasdai. " I normally wouldn't ask, but this is a matter of the highest urgency."
That's what you said last time, thought the poet. Why me again? Why now?
"Are you sure I'm the right person for this mission, Hasdai?"
"You found the lost manuscript."
"That was a book," Solomon replied. "This missing woman is a living person."
"That doesn't matter. You have a proclivity for finding missing things."
Solomon knew better than to argue against the assessment of the Foreign Minister of the most powerful kingdom in Europe, especially when he found himself the recipient of his relative's probing eyes and raised brows.
"You seem reluctant," chided Hasdai. "I was hoping I could count on you."
There came a pause. A long, unsettling pause. The poet thought hard about whether he should share his true feelings, his deep reluctance to be recruited for yet another mission. In Solomon's world, the Foreign Minister had always been cousin Hasdai, eloquent son of his mother's brother, Isaac, the son of Ezra, from the sons of the Jerusalem exile. Although he wielded considerable political influence, his older relative didn't mind calling upon familial loyalties when he needed to exert a more subtle form of pressure. He’d utilized this type of persuasion once before when soliciting the translator's cooperation in matters of political intrigue.
"A cycle of inspiration doesn't often last, and I've already experienced one major interruption," he reminded Hasdai as frustration crept into his voice.
Hasdai gazed at Solomon for a moment, his face expressionless until a smile creased the edges of his mouth. He understood how much it meant to Solomon to write his poetry, and he remained a supportive, generous patron of the Andalusian poets. But he also knew how important it was for his people, for all of the peoples of the kingdom, to maintain the integrity of the Umayyad Caliphate.
"The survival of the Caliphate may be at stake which means our people's future is in jeopardy."
Although Solomon didn't appreciate this intrusion into his creative life, he believed that Hasdai was sympathetic to his plight; and, despite his well-founded trepidation at getting involved in a murder investigation, one that might last for weeks, Solomon also desired the continued good fortune of Jews in Andalusia.
"What do we know about the woman?" he asked.
"She from Galicia. . .she's a quyib. . .you know, a songstress. She lives with a roommate, another entertainer, in the old Christian quarter of Córdoba. Bishop Racemundo knows the women and says the roommate is a Mozarab. "
"Not much to go on," Solomon replied, sitting with hands in pockets and one foot nervously tapping the floor. "Is this Galician woman an agent of the Reconquest?"
"We're not sure. This entertainer is only one among many suspects. We have to discover the meaning of this event," continued Hasdai. "If it's personal, the family will absorb the loss. If it's political . . . well, the Umayyad Caliphate is fragile."
Solomon wasn’t convinced.
“After two decades?” he wondered aloud.
We still have enemies. Both internal and beyond our borders. The Fatimid Caliphate would like nothing more than to destroy us and you already know that Christians in the north are obsessed with the idea of Reconquest. The old Muwallid families are always seeking revenge and the Caliph’s own family isn’t above suspicion.”
While he sat listening, Solomon detected the sweet aroma of ripe oranges. He guessed they came from the Caliph's private garden; only the best was good enough for the ruler's inner circle. He felt a spasm in his stomach and realized he was hungry, but he knew he'd have to wait to remedy this deficiency.
"Your people need for you to act on their behalf. Your poetry has to wait."
Hasdai is the Nasi, thought Solomon. As spiritual leader of all Sephardic Jews living in Andalusia, his cousin exercised a dual claim upon his services. Not easy to wiggle out of an assignment if Hasdai deemed it necessary.
Solomon cringed as he felt control over his destiny slipping away.
Chapter 2
Hasdai tapped his fingers nervously on the desk's hard surface.
This drew Solomon's attention because his cousin was usually a model of composure. He began to feel uncomfortable in Hasdai's presence. His eyes wandered along the desktop until he spied the bowl of oranges sitting in one corner. He knew an offer wouldn't be forthcoming, and he decided not to ask for one of the fruits out of fear of seeming presumptuous. He took a closer look at his cousin who appeared much the same as the last time they'd gotten together with his luminous eyes and broad shoulders. Only now the square jawline was hidden by a sandy-colored beard and his eyes couldn't hide a sense of sadness.
"Andalusia is the light of Europe and we cannot and will not allow it to be extinguished. Our people's destiny is linked to the success of the Umayyad Caliphate," continued Hasdai. "They've given us a free rein to develop our own culture while contributing to the common good. Umar's murder could be the catalyst that changes this rare opportunity."
"You're right again, as usual," the poet grumbled.
Solomon felt wet perspiration soaking through his clothing, compounding his mental discomfort. He also experienced an element of emotional disquiet. In his resistant heart he realized that Hasdai spoke the truth. In Andalusia, almost every Jew looked up to Hasdai Shaprut and for good reason. The man had earned that respect. The extraordinary Hasdai Shaprut, personal physician to Caliph Rahma
n III, displayed a brilliance and versatility far beyond his thirty-four years; and, like many of the hundreds of physicians practicing medicine in the twin cities of Córdoba and al-Zahra, Hasdai enacted a multitude of roles: advisor, diplomat, scholar, spiritual leader, benefactor and patron.
Hasdai had initially gained his reputation as a physician specializing in antidotes to poisons, a valuable asset in a political environment where intrigue and assassination were a common occurrence. Poison emerged as the most popular mode of revenge in mid-10th century Andalusia and its antidotes fueled Hasdai's meteoric rise to prominence. Summoned to the palace to treat the Caliph during a debilitating attack, the physician used his knowledge of herbal medicine to affect a cure. He might just as easily have poisoned the Caliph while acting as an agent for one of the ruler's numerous enemies. He earned the young sovereign's trust and respect for his integrity and soon found himself appointed Chief Customs Official, a lucrative and sought-after position.
This was only the beginning. The Caliph later sent Hasdai to León on a diplomatic mission to procure the freedom of a high-ranking Muslim nobleman captured at the battle of Simancas. Hasdai spent seven months in the Christian capital where he also recovered a personal copy of Rahman III's Quran, perhaps the most illustrious prisoner taken during the conflict. The Jewish envoy also embarked upon a mission to Barcelona that same year. This time he was entrusted with the task of forging a treaty with the Counts of Catalonia and those of southern France, a trade agreement ensuring that commercial exchange with Andalusia would continue uninterrupted.
A wise ruler and a loyal servant who pledged loyalty and peace; and, Hasdai possessed enough clarity of vision not to abuse his influence but to use it for the benefit of his ruler. Rahman III, being free of jealousy and possessed of great wisdom, rewarded Hasdai fittingly. It came in the form of a promotion to Foreign Minister. It wasn’t long before the charismatic Hasdai Shaprut emerged as leader of the Jews in Andalusia. The poet knew how hard he’d worked and how much he'd sacrificed to help his people given Hasdai's long absences from family gatherings, Solomon sat quietly, his eyes trained on his cousin.
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