By Fire, By Water

by Mitchell James Kaplan

  Earlier in the day, Sara Benatar had found Levi in the silver workshop. “My father is coming home,” she told him. “He’ll have a gift. Want to come?”

  “Come where?”

  “He always takes the same path through the Arab city. Come!”

  Levi put down his tools.

  She led him down the hill into an opulent neighborhood of sprawling villas and gardens. They passed women wearing silk veils and men in fine wool robes. Three boys bounced a small ball to one another off the wall of a residence. A courtyard gate yawned open. Sounds of drums and conversation wafted out. Sara peeked inside.

  A woman in a dark silk robe with gold embroidery was dancing—swaying and dipping, her arms bobbing, her finger cymbals accenting the beats. Sara watched, fascinated. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

  Levi swallowed, uneasy. In the crowd of men, he noticed a pair of dark eyes. They wandered toward Sara and halted. Levi recognized the man.

  “Let’s go. We have no place here.” Levi took Sara’s arm and pulled her away.

  The man left the group and met them outside. He looked down into Sara’s eyes and smiled warmly. “I have seen you before, have I not?”

  Sara lowered her face, remembering the day of the parade and the vizier who had peeled the monkey off her chest.

  “How old are you now?”

  “Fourteen, Your Excellency.”

  The vizier nodded.

  When Judith finally returned home, the sun was setting. Her nephew was sitting in the courtyard playing Quirkat, a board game, with Sara.

  “Levi!” Judith exclaimed. “You gave me such a fright. Don’t ever do that again!”

  “I’m no longer a child,” he told her.

  “I know, I know. Where were you? I looked everywhere.”

  “Sara’s father had something for you.”

  “What did Yonatan have for me?”

  “Look in your bedroom.”

  Judith gazed at him, bewildered, and turned to go into the house.

  On her brass table sat a box of intricately carved olivewood, with inlaid ivory, gold, and silver.

  “Open it,” Levi urged her, standing in the doorway. Sara stood beside him, watching curiously with her striking green eyes.

  As carefully as if she were opening a precious book, Judith lifted the cover. Inside, several small jars with corks in their mouths gaped at the sky like mackerels in a fisherman’s crate. She took one and removed the cork. A fragrance of orange blossoms crept out. She touched the cork with her finger and rubbed it on her palm. A body oil. The most delicate, beguiling essence she had ever breathed. She recorked the vial and opened a second. Roses. And a third. Jasmine.

  “Read the note,” said Sara impatiently.

  Beneath the main body of the perfume box, she pulled out a small drawer. In it, she found a missive addressed to her in a delicate Hebrew cursive. Never had anyone sent her such a note.

  The congregation of the Great Synagogue of Cairo told her of their joy upon receiving the silver ornaments, and their regret upon learning of her brother’s fate. This box and the perfumes in it were a small expression of their appreciation and condolences. Although the synagogue had no further need of silver ornaments, for now, several members of the congregation wanted to commission mezuzot, beakers, bracelets, and necklaces.

  The next page listed their orders, line after line of bracelets, menorahs, cups. Judith read all of it, pronouncing each word like a prayer.

  “Levi, we have work. A lot of work. You, me, and maybe another silversmith or two, if we’re going to fill these orders promptly.” In her visits to the silver shops of Granada, she had come to know some of the workers. More than a few were barely eking out a living and would welcome the opportunity. “Come here, both of you.”

  She took Levi and Sara in her arms. They hugged her back.

  The clinking of tweezers, the clatter of chasing hammers, and the rasp of files once again filled Yossi’s atelier. Odors of sweat and sulfur pervaded the cramped, musty workshop. Levi hummed as he worked.

  Ten weeks into this labor, Dina Benatar shuffled in, her hair unbrushed, her robe loosely thrown together, her eyes rimmed with red. She leaned down and placed her palms on Judith’s worktable.

  “I know you’re busy.”

  Judith, who had never seen her friend in such a state, put down her tools. “Come. I have mint and orange-blossom tea.”

  They crossed the courtyard.

  “They took my Sara.”

  “Sara?” asked Judith. “Someone took Sara? Who?”

  “The vizier’s guard. They promised her … they promised her jewels, clothes, everything, except freedom.”

  Judith ushered Dina inside. “When?”

  “Two soldiers of the royal guard.” Dina dropped onto a cushion. “In the middle of the night, they knocked. I served them fig liquor. They spoke about the vizier, his kindness, his generosity, his … his interest in my Sara.” She sniffled, trying to hold back her tears.

  “The vizier.” Judith sank onto a cushion beside Dina, forgetting the tea.

  The soldiers had assured Sara, Dina continued, that Ibrahim al-Hakim would provide her with comfort the rest of her days. She would enjoy the honor befitting a member of the emir’s court.

  What they chose not to say was just as telling. Dina and Judith understood that Sara would dwell in a harem with the vizier’s concubines. Al-Hakim would compel her to accept the truth of Islam. He would forbid her to communicate with her family or her community.

  “She chose to go with them. I tried to stop her. She did it to protect me. To protect us. With Yonatan away again …” Dina could no longer hold back her tears.

  “What could Yonatan do?” asked Judith. He was a wealthy man, but his wealth would mean little to the vizier. Judith held Dina in her arms until she stopped crying.

  “I walked to the Alhambra. At sunrise. The guards turned me away.” Dina swallowed. “So I went to the rabbi’s house. I talked with his wife. Maybe he’ll put in a complaint.”

  “He won’t. He can’t. If he offends the vizier, our whole community will pay.”

  Dina wiped her eye. “Then my last hopes were false hopes.”

  “Hope can’t be true or false.” Judith stroked Dina’s arm. “Hope is hope.”

  Judith hired another silversmith, and with Sara in mind, began work on a new project. She created an exquisite teapot with curves suggesting a young maiden, and a matching cup. She labored three weeks designing, crafting, and buffing these two items, pouring more feeling and care into their fabrication than into any previous work. She also composed a note for the vizier.

  Your Excellency,

  We, your loyal subjects among the Hebrew residents of the capital, honored that you have chosen one from our midst to love and gratify, humbly offer you this drinking vessel from the workshop of Yossi Migdal, Master Silversmith, in honor of your choice. Long may the emir of Granada, his vizier, and his kingdom thrive!

  Her work finished, Judith slipped the note, the teapot, and the cup into a box and set out for Dina’s house.

  Dina had lost weight. Her complexion was sallow. She wore a simple white gown, as if in mourning.

  “Look.” Judith removed the lid from the box. The teapot and its cup lay glistening on a bed of silk, a mother sleeping beside her child.

  Dina gasped. She dared not touch them, for fear of dulling the silver with fingerprints. Judith showed her the note.

  “To love and gratify?” asked Dina, outraged. “He seized her. He’s raping her.”

  “We need to be cautious.”

  “Why only one cup? Do you imagine the vizier, that animal, drinks tea alone?”

  “That’s the point,” said Judith. “Now slip on your nicest dress. We’re going for a walk.”

  The two women set out through quarters they hardly knew, where roosters, dogs, and children playing with marbles shared the streets with merchants, who stood outside their shops watching them pass.

  They left
the city streets behind. Vines, hedges, and fruit trees filled the sides of the road. Judith and Dina approached the base of the hill where the magnificent Alhambra castle stood, a great eagle watching the still valley.

  They continued along a path through these gardens, toward the top of the hill. The castle complex presented high, windowless walls, broken with lookout towers and topped with the square teeth of crenellation. The view from these walls embraced the entire region of Granada. Two black slaves with sabers guarded the hoof-shaped archway of an enormous square tower.

  “We’re here to meet with the vizier,” Judith told them.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “We have a gift.”

  The two guards conferred. “Wait here.” One of them went through the gate.

  “He’ll have us thrown out,” said Dina. “I already tried this.”

  “He won’t meet with us,” agreed Judith.

  “Then why are we here?”

  The guard returned, cordially explaining, “Unfortunately, the vizier is occupied. But he sends greetings.”

  “Please tell the vizier we are honored. Give him this on our behalf.” Judith handed the wooden box to the guard.

  Six days later, Judith sat working in her shop, alone. Ever since Sara’s abduction, Levi had been spending a great deal of time in the synagogue, or in Baba Shlomo’s room, studying and praying.

  She heard men talking, coughing, and chuckling outside. The clink of a sword, a stirrup, or a chain. One man’s voice, louder. “Wait here.”

  Ibrahim al-Hakim, the vizier of Granada, entered, stooping to avoid hitting his head against the low beams.

  Seeing him, close-bearded, big-bellied, in a scarlet and saffron silk juba, Judith felt her stomach turn, but rose to greet him. “How may we be of service to you, Your Excellency?”

  “Quite a teapot, that gift of yours,” said Ibrahim al-Hakim. “But tell me, do you imagine the vizier of Granada takes tea by himself?”

  Judith smiled. “It was a personal gift, Your Excellency. Nothing more.”

  “Nothing more?” He arched one eyebrow. “My physician, Isaac Azoulay, perhaps you know of him.”

  “We are a small community. He’s a famous physician.”

  “He insists I drink from silver. Indeed, he insists the emir and all the court take hot beverages only in silver vessels.”

  “Why?”

  “He says silver promotes health.”

  “That is true.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Al-Hakim noticed an inlaid-turquoise brooch on a small shelf amongst other jewels. “This is a lovely piece, is it not? Do you think it would please a fourteen-year-old girl,” he picked up the brooch, “with eyes of emerald?”

  “That particular piece would please any girl. But it might look better on one of your older slaves. I mean, concubines, of course.”

  The vizier nodded slowly. “Feisty and beautiful,” he quipped. “A shame you’re not younger.”

  Judith thanked God she was twenty-nine, far too old for the vizier.

  “What do you have for my Sariya?”

  Judith’s smile vanished. Sariya was the Arabic form of Sara. That Levi’s friend had been forced to convert to Islam went without saying, but to hear the vizier refer to her by a new name broke Judith’s heart.

  “Maybe this.” Judith unpinned the filigree slipper from her dress. Al-Hakim grasped it between his thumb and forefinger and brought it to his face. He could not know that the slipper-pin contained a Hebrew prayer, rolled up on a tiny parchment inside. Perhaps, thought Judith, it would be of some comfort to Sara.

  “Sara will look exquisite with it, Your Excellency.”

  “Exquisite Sariya looks, with or without any adornment.” Al-Hakim sighed. “I’ll take both. Your slipper pin and the brooch.” He dropped them in his leather satchel. “As well as twenty more cups to match the one you offered.”

  For a moment, Judith said nothing. Then she cleared her throat. “If you’ll forgive my impertinence, Your Excellency, I have a small request of my own.”

  “You have my ear.”

  “Please, follow me.”

  Ignoring his armed guards, who stood outside, she led him out of her workshop and into her home.

  “I know I’m being presumptuous. I’m sure you don’t often visit the homes of humble citizens.”

  “It’s not often they invite me,” he replied politely.

  She served him mint tea. As they sat and sipped, she explained all that Dina Benatar had done for her. Ibrahim al-Hakim listened attentively.

  “Dina misses her daughter terribly. She is alone,” Judith concluded.

  “I’ll allow my Sariya’s mother private visits with her daughter, once a month,” the vizier offered. “But the visits must take place in a guarded room, and each will last no more than half an hour. The subject of religion must never be discussed.” He rose to leave. “Will that be all?”

  Inwardly exulting, Judith nodded. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”

  He smiled and turned to leave. “When should we expect the teacups?”

  “Four months. Maybe five.”

  “Four months, then. I’ll expect a visit from you.” Al-Hakim retrieved a few gold coins from his satchel and placed them on the table. “This is for the brooch and the pin.” He had decided on their value without consulting her. The price he paid was far in excess of what Judith would have asked.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DEVOTIONAL CANDLES FLICKERED on La Seo’s altar, a small island of light in the dark cathedral. Luis de Santángel knelt near the back of the pews as if praying.

  In the shadows before the transept stood the Basque horseman, tall and lean, with straight hair to his shoulders and an elegant quilted doublet. He acknowledged Santángel with a terse nod.

  Pedro de Arbués knelt at a wooden altar, seemingly oblivious to the world, an egg-shaped lump of flesh swathed in a white tunic and a black, hooded scapular. Wheezing inhalations punctuated the canon’s barely audible prayer. As Santángel watched him from behind, he remembered the jackals chewing Felipe de Almazón’s shoulder and the look of satisfaction on Arbués’s face.

  “It will all be over soon,” Santángel prayed.

  The Basque horseman had been observing the monk for weeks. Pedro de Arbués rarely went anywhere without armed guards, except when he prayed late at night.

  As the horseman slid out from the shadows, he knew that Arbués’s conversation with God would continue another sixty or seventy heartbeats. If the canon rose sooner than usual, then something was amiss, and the horseman would have to abandon tonight’s meticulous plans.

  He dug in his pocket and pulled the leather strap from the handle of his dagger, freeing it from its sheath. His fingers caressed the dagger’s braided-ivory hilt. He grasped it firmly.

  He discerned a slight ridge under the shoulder of the inquisitor’s gown. That would be the edge of his coat of mail. Despite his faith in a better afterlife, the horseman reflected, this man of God seemed in no hurry to shed his corporeal envelope.

  As the horseman slid closer, he watched Arbués’s high-arched nostrils and buttery hands for signs of disquiet. He heard the canon’s labored breathing, his mumbled prayer. Arbués was undoubtedly aware of his presence, but did not appear alarmed.

  He came so close that despite the dimness of the candlelight, he perceived the canon’s eyelashes twitching. Arbués’s right hand rose to his forehead, then touched his breastbone and shoulders. He started to rise.

  The horseman drew the dagger, lifted it above his shoulder, and brought it forcefully down to the base of Arbués’s neck. He fell forward, clasping Arbués’s head and pushing him to the ground. The knife tore through muscle; the horseman wedged it between bones, twisting. The inquisitor’s arms flailed outward. He screamed ineffectively. His attacker’s forearm was in his mouth.

  The horseman continued torquing and shoving his knife into the monk’s sinewy nape, aiming for a particular spot that, he kn
ew from long experience, would deliver the canon’s rapid death. When he found that spot, thick, hot blood burbled through the wound onto his victim’s shoulder.

  The horseman left the knife in the monk’s flesh. He jerked his other arm free of Arbués’s teeth. The canon fell to the floor, writhing and gurgling.

  His doublet and hose spattered with blood, the horseman turned down the central aisle as Luis de Santángel rose in the pew. They heard the clatter of hoof beats on the cobblestones outside. Few other than Pedro de Arbués visited the cathedral this late. An ecclesiastical messenger, however, might be arriving with an urgent note for the local hierarchy.

  “Go, now,” Luis de Santángel instructed the horseman. “I’ll find the book.”

  “I fear we should both leave, or search together.” The horseman’s voice was guttural, accented. “You must not search alone. Too dangerous.”

  Observing the man’s blood-splashed clothing and hands, Santángel caught his breath. “No. Leave now. I’ll finish our task.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Santángel heard himself instructing him.

  “At the Bull’s Head.”

  The horseman turned, hurried down a side aisle, and walked out through the transept door. The chancellor retreated into the shadows, attentive to the hoofbeats, no louder in his ears than the pounding of his heart. Slowly, the clattering diminished as horse and rider continued on their way.

  Santángel proceeded to the back of the nave, trying to avoid the spreading pool of blood, but stopped as he approached the agonizing canon. He had not predicted how it would feel to witness his victim in death-throes.

  The Inquisitor of Zaragoza writhed on the floor, gasping, reaching with his left hand for the spike in his neck. His fingers found the ivory handle, crawled around it, tugged on it. He pulled it out. Lips of flesh spewed blood onto the marble floor stones like the liquid words of a final prayer.