The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Bambola’s gift for storytelling in this work of historical fiction is nothing short of remarkable. The reader is skillfully and masterfully drawn into this time in history in 1493 Seville during the Spanish Inquisition and The New World. A riveting tale that all comes “alive” while captivating the reader with passion and intrigue. The Salt Covenants is a novel you won’t soon forget . . . it has left an indelible imprint upon my heart. I highly recommend it. Truly delightful!”

  Sallie Yusko

  Pastor, founder of Women of Worth and Destiny, conference speaker and writer

  “In her historical novel, The Salt Covenants, Sylvia Bambola paints a masterpiece with words. Rich in character, language, and emotion, this novel is a powerful story of love, friendship, and forgiveness. I marvel at her ability to place her characters in my heart to stay.”

  Micki Sorbello

  Artist and free lance writer

  “Bambola masterfully weaves historical gleanings into this epic tale of romance and adventure set against the backdrop of the Spanish Inquisition. You won’t want to put it down.”

  Cristaña Carlton

  Musician, composer, teacher and author

  “An enthralling page-turner! Sylvia Bambola’s historical novel is full of heart-felt emotion as she weaves a tale of one woman’s courage, hope and love.”

  Gina White

  Mixed media artist

  Sylvia Bambola

  Heritage Publishing House

  Copyright © 2014 by Sylvia Bambola

  ISBN # 978-0-9899707-7-8

  ISBN # 0989970779

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014946937

  Heritage Publishing House, Bradenton, Florida

  Map copyright © 2014 by Gina White

  Scriptures taken from Holy Bible, King James Version, Cambridge, 1769

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

  For information:

  Heritage Publishing House

  1767 Lakewood Ranch Blvd.

  Bradenton, FL 34211

  Also by Sylvia Bambola

  Rebekah’s Treasure

  Return to Appleton

  Waters of Marah

  Tears in a Bottle

  Refiner’s Fire

  A Vessel of Honor

  The story and main characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is strictly coincidental. However, all historical novels must, of necessity, be based on fact. Set in 1493 Seville where the Spanish Inquisition rages, as well as in the New World where life is alien and difficult, I have tried to portray the novel’s backdrop as accurately as possible. Some useful information has been inserted in the back matter to aid the reader in clarifying some unfamiliar words (see glossary) as well as a list of “bells” and the Jewish months and feasts.

  Dedicated to

  Gina and Cord

  my delights

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  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

  Glossary

  Epilogue

  Authors Note

  Seville, Spain 1493

  I have broken Mama’s heart.

  That thought has festered a fortnight. Our physician, Hernando Diaz, would call it a lingering agitation, the kind that upsets the bodily humors. He is full of such vague assertions. I am not as vague. I picture sores, like the ones on Catalina’s legs, marring the fabric of my brain and robbing it of peace.

  The soft shuffle of Mama’s feet pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn from the cupboard. Please . . . look at me. But she does not. Her eyes have not met mine in weeks. And the silence between us is as thick as the Pillars of Hercules. It is strange, this silence, so foreign to us who once discussed the writings of Maimonides and Rashi for endless hours. I have the power to repair this breach but I will not. Even now that knowledge overwhelms me, and I wonder at the wisdom of my confession. I have learned too late that confessions are not always the satisfying exercise one anticipates, unless they are made to God.

  “I have checked the larder for mold, and bunched the sage.” I wait for Mama’s response, but she just raises her knife in the air. The metal glints as it catches the light coming through the small overhead windows. In one swift motion she drags the blade across the edge of her thumb nail. A sliver, like an almond chip, flies across the room and disappears. My heart flies with it, for I know she is testing to see that the knife conforms to halakah, to Jewish law.

  Oh Mama.

  A rivulet of sweat works its way down her cheek, then her chin, then follows along the hollow of her neck, and ends at the large emerald hanging below her throat. Grandpapa’s gift. She has not worn it in months. Many claim emeralds bring success. Does she wear it now hoping to successfully turn me from my course, from the course I have foolishly revealed to her?

  My stomach churns as I remove the ring of keys pinned to my bodice. The keys are a trust, an honor bestowed, for they secure all that is valuable in our home. It is a privilege reserved for the woman of the house or a trusted steward. I am neither, though Papa says I am better than any steward he has known. And Mama says my skills and good sense have earned me the honor.

  But that was before Eastertide.

  I unlock the spice cabinet; then take out a cone of sugar, all the while keeping Mama in my line of vision. She is busy stoking the embers beneath a large clay pot. Already the aroma of galingale and grains of paradise fills the room. Because she uses the large pot and not the one hanging from the tooth iron rack, I know there will be guests at our table tomorrow, and I am encouraged. Perhaps they will bring laughter into our sad home.

  But my feelings of hope plummet when I notice the large leg of lamb sitting on the woodblock. Mama will certainly purge it to make it ritually clean. I watch her slice the lamb lengthwise, remove the vein, then begin to remove the fat. The back of my neck is a tangle of nerves as I glance around to see if anyone is watching. A foolish gesture. It is, after all, Friday, and as usual all our servants have been sent to the groves.

  I squeeze the sugar tighter as Mama works. I must not speak. But even before the thought becomes vapor, I blurt, “Inesita Garcia was burned at the stake for purging her meat like that. You must stop this. Eventually someone will see. Eventually someone will tell.”

  Mama looks up and finally meets my gaze. Her eyes are as blue as the rivers of Galicia, testifying that Ashkenazi blood intermingles with the Sephardic. Surprisingly, there is no anger in them, only shame for what I know she considers a cowardly remark. But I cannot stop now. I have opened this wound, and that took as much courage as Mama opening the lamb, though I doubt she would see it that way.

  “We must be careful, now that Catalina has been discharged.”

  Mama blows the tendril of hair that has escaped her netted halo-like headdress, and I notice, with surprise, how gray she has become. “Am I a child that you need to caution me? Do I not always send the servants away and prepare the Sabbath meal myself ?”

  “More than one person has been called to the Holy House because of the testimony of a vindictive servant.”

  �
�She had to be discharged. This is a respectable home. The scabs alone condemn her.”

  I carry the sugar to the table where the mortar and pestle sit. A month ago I overheard our physician call Catalina’s scabs, las buas. These days las buas is as common as cankers, and I am old enough to understand how they are passed between a man and a woman when the oil lamps go out.

  I also understand Mama’s objection. Catalina is not married.

  “I do not question your action. I only remind you of its danger.”

  “Danger?” Mama stops working the meat. Her long linen apron, newly made from the quarterly allocation of household fabric, is still unstained. In it she looks like a large sail blowing out over the deck of her kitchen. “Danger?” she repeats. “When you have been through as many pogroms as I, then speak to me of danger. Besides, what has changed? Why are you so worried now?”

  I am amazed she is actually speaking to me. Oh, how I long to throw my arms around her! To feel her kisses on my cheek! But I stand my ground. “This time it is different, Mama. This time they come not as a howling mob carrying clubs and torches, but with satin robes and soft voices and ringed fingers, and call us to the Holy House. And soon we could all end up like Inesita Garcia, burning at the stake.”

  Mama’s shoulders roll forward as she returns to the lamb.

  “They have confiscated all of Inestia’s property.” The sugar makes a dull noise as it slips from my sweating palms onto the wooden table. “Even her three houses, which her children occupied, now belong to the Crown. We must be more cautious. Surely you understand the added danger that discharging Catalina has produced?”

  Mama’s knife again catches the light. The kitchen, though larger than most, and with a flooring of urnel stone to cool the feet, feels as stifling as a tomb. Mama’s face glistens with perspiration as she cuts the lamb into small cubes then tosses them into the steaming clay pot.

  When it is clear Mama has nothing more to say, I begin scraping small clumps of sugar into the mortar. If only Mama and I could be as we once were. That thought swirls as I grind the sugar and mix it with cinnamon. If only I could find the right words. I chop almonds, then cilantro which I add to the cinnamon-sugar, and which will, along with lemon slices, form the garnish over the stew. If only I could make her understand this new love I have for the Nazarene, the man-God who now consumes my heart like a bonfire.

  Absently, I prepare the sugar cakes that will end our Sabbath meal and balance the bodily humors by aiding digestion. If only Mama would look at me, with forgiveness and love and understanding in her eyes. If only . . . .

  And just when I think she might, the bells chime None, destroying the moment by reminding her that she is surrounded by the enemy; for to the north lies the convent of Saint Leandro; to the East, the Church of Saint Esteban; to the west, the Church of Saint Isidoro; and to the southwest, the great Cathedral.

  Anger mars her face as she abruptly walks over to me. A cloud of flour swirls upward when she pats her apron. Then one hand finds its way to my neck, and I feel her warm, soft fingers tug at the strip of leather that hangs there . . . leather that holds a crucifix hidden beneath my bodice. And by her action I know she desires, at long last, to speak to me about my grievous transgression.

  Her fingers shake as she draws out the crude carving of oak I made myself. She holds it a moment before sliding her thumb across the leather strap. I know what she is thinking. Her revulsion is clear. The strap is not unlike the leather tied around Inesita Garcia’s neck while being lead to the auto-de-fe’.

  “What will you tell your husband?” Mama’s voice is tight, and I am startled by its severity.

  I shrug. The truth is I have thought little of him. He is a stranger, someone I have seen only once, and who is now a vague memory of curly black hair and long spindly legs.

  “What will you tell him?” Mama repeats through lips pinched as thin as her knife blade, and with her thumb remaining on my leather strap.

  Suddenly I am offended, though I tell myself I have no right. Nine years ago I was married, but it will be another year before my husband and I consummate. More than sufficient time to formulate a plan. “I will tell him nothing,” I finally say.

  “Your wedding followed Jewish law. The presence of the rabbi and two Jewish witnesses made it so. Would you dishonor that with your treachery?”

  “Would the Holy One expect me to violate my conscience? To give up the truth of what I know? To reject the Savior?”

  “The marriage contracts are signed! You took a holy oath!”

  “I was seven, Mama.”

  “A little young, perhaps, but it was needful. Papa knew that soon there would be no Jews left in all Seville. Where would we have gotten our witnesses with the Expulsion Edict already yellowing on the nail post in the public square? He was right in rushing the marriage. But rushed or not, it is lawful, and young or not, you made a vow.”

  It was no easy task to dissolve such a marriage. Only death or divorce could do it. And neither would come by my hand. “I will honor my vow.”

  “But will he? If he finds out what you have done, he can divorce you. He would have every right. He married a follower of the Law of Moses and now has an Edomite, instead. Have you thought of what that will mean to the family?”

  I had not, but obviously Mama has, and it takes only a minute to understand she is concerned about losing the valuable trade alliance my marriage has secured. I feel resentment. Am I wrong to be angry? I know my character is lacking. I have confessed my pride and bad temper to the Holy One so often I am sure He is weary of hearing my voice. But still I suffer from these defects.

  “My husband and his family became conversos when we did. Many forced converts have become sincere Christians. Perhaps they have, too.” Besides, were daughters only good for furthering trade?

  Mama’s face turns as red as the rose petals my sister, Beatriz, keeps in a jar. “Never say such a thing. The Evil One might hear and bring it to pass. Your husband is still a devout Jew. I only pray he fails to discover that you are not. All must go as planned. Before Tisa B’Av your sister will consummate her marriage, and next year, you. Preparations are already being made. Suitable gifts for both grooms have been commissioned.” Mama lowers her voice to a near whisper in embarrassment. “And the silk has been purchased for your gowns.”

  The gowns Mama speaks of will be worn for the Cathedral ceremony. She has told Beatriz and me time and again that we must, each in turn, endure the humiliation of being married by a priest, then sitting with our husbands under a veil-covering during the nuptial mass that follows.

  “I will honor my vow,” I repeat.

  “Yes, but if your husband finds out . . . .” Mama looks inconsolable, and with the ever increasing number of gray ringlets escaping her net, she also looks old. I feel pity, but there can be no relenting for I have made an irrevocable covenant with the Nazarene.

  “Over and over I ask myself, ‘Why have you done this?’ On the day of the Great Pardon do I not walk barefoot and fast and ask forgiveness of all those I have wronged? What sin still lurks in me? There must be a remaining transgression, otherwise you could not have done this to the Holy One. Or to Papa and me. Or the rest of the family.”

  “I only follow my heart.”

  “Your brothers have not followed theirs! They wanted to remain in Seville, but instead married Ashkenazi to secure our access to the ports in Kiev and Hamburg. Without complaint, they left those they loved, moved to faraway lands, married wives they had never seen, learned new languages, and with Papa’s and my connections in the Ottoman ports, increased the family fortunes.”

  “But you needed Genoa and Antwerp, is that it? Ports Beatriz and I secured through our marriages.”

  “You need not sound so smug. You are old enough to understand what is at stake. If we lose those ports now, can Papa send money to the scattered Jewish communities? Or to our relatives? Or help the conversos right here in Seville? And how will he ever become powerful enoug
h to secure our position with the Catholic Kings? I speak of survival, Isabel.” Mama returns to the hearth and rests her hands on plump hips. “We have worked hard to ensure our future. Will you throw it away now by this . . . this folly?”

  I have been preparing for this quarrel since the beginning of Eastertide when I first confessed to Mama that I had made a covenant with Jesus; that I had given Him my heart. But now that it is here, I have difficulty remembering the words I have spent so many hours rehearsing in my mind. “This is about more than trade, Mama,” is all I manage to stammer.

  “Yes, so much more, Isabel, so much more. Just tell me how you can turn your back on the Holy One and the Law of Moses and align yourself with these . . . these idolaters, these . . . these worshipers of the one from Nazareth?” A wrinkled handkerchief flutters in Mama’s hand. She has pulled it from the large pouch in her apron. When I was younger she kept her pouches filled with sweets and little wooden puzzles and colored ribbons and combs for Beatriz and me. Now I think it is filled only with handkerchiefs. She dabs the perspiration on her neck, and when she thinks I am not looking, she dabs her eyes.

  “Oh, Isabel! Isabel! Think. You will never be happy. They will never accept you as one of them. They call all Jewish converts, marranos. Pigs! We convert and still they call us pigs, these followers of this Nazarene of yours. What can be done with such people? How can there ever be peace between us?”

  Mama absently stirs the stew with a long wooden spoon. “And even your own people will despise you. You will forever be in the middle, neither Jew nor Gentile. Belonging to no one. Consider how difficult it has been for Papa and me, even with all our connections and good works to our people, and even with most understanding that ours was not a sincere conversion. Attitudes are changing, Isabel. Many of our people no longer trust those of us who have converted yet still remain true to the Law of Moses.”

  She puts down her spoon and picks up the whetstone to strop her knife. “Many rabbis criticize us for not leaving with the others. They call us ‘renegades from Judaism.’ They say the ‘leprosy of heresy’ is upon our foreheads. And now, you have proven them right.”