Chapter Twenty-seven
Saulo
WE REVISITED THE Arab’s shop, usually in the hours of darkness. Listening to the conversations he had with Columbus I learned more about the waves and the winds and the storms at sea than any book could teach me.
Thus the time passed and my knowledge increased, until one day in early December we got word that the Spanish ships were making ready to return to Spain.
‘I must hurry to finish the details on this map-in-the-round,’ said the Arab cartographer when Columbus gave him this news.
‘You have all my information and my further projections,’ Columbus said.
‘Yes . . .’ The Arab hesitated.
Christopher Columbus looked at him closely. ‘You don’t believe my figures are correct?’
‘There are discrepancies. The circumference of the Earth has been estimated at varying amounts. Yours is a conservative figure.’
‘I use more than one source. Where is the problem?’
‘The Atlantic – the Ocean Sea as you call it . . . To reach the far eastern side of Asia, the water between this island of Gran Canaria and the shores of Cathay needs to be much wider.’
‘There is evidence in the Bible that states the land is in proportion to the seas.’ Columbus spoke with conviction.
The old man said nothing.
‘And my older sources go back to Egyptian times.’
The Arab grunted. ‘Ah, yes, Ptolemy.’
From the books I’d read I now knew that Ptolemy had not been accurate in all his suppositions.
‘Ptolemy, and others,’ Columbus replied. ‘I am correct in this. I know I am.’
I caught the glance of the Arab and his eyes slid away from mine. He was too intelligent to pursue an argument with a man whose mind was so unequivocally made up. But I had glimpsed the stubbornness of Columbus; a flaw in his character that caused him on occasion to disregard the opinions of others or those who disagreed with him.
Despite his misgivings as to the accuracy of the markings, the Arab cartographer fulfilled his commission and the map-in-the-round painted upon the wooden ball was finished and varnished in time for us to take it with us when we set sail for Spain.
Columbus stood at the ship’s rail looking back at Las Palmas as we headed for the open sea. ‘When I return, it will be as leader of an expedition such as the world has never known!’ he said.
I said goodbye to the slave Sebastien, who’d decided not to return to Spain. He liked the hot dry climate of the Canaries and had joined an order of mendicant monks who were establishing a community to assist the native peoples.
It was good to be at sea again. I had a sense of homecoming and was able to observe a larger crew and a professional pilot at work and witness the practical application of the theoretical knowledge I’d learned over the last months. I soon realized that book-learning differs from actuality, and mentioned this to Columbus.
He nodded. ‘Without experience a man has no true expertise.’
‘And yet,’ I said, ‘you have no experience of the waters where you intend to sail.’
On the day the coast of Spain came into sight we were standing on deck together.
‘Saulo,’ said Columbus, ‘you are young and fit. You know adequate navigation to be a good sailor. If I am recruiting crew in the near future, would you be available?’
My heart quickened and my brain whirled. What kind of adventure would that be? To cross the Ocean Sea! I imagined myself on the deck of such a ship as might make that journey, setting off to find a land where no man had set foot. ‘Captain Cosimo told me that others have tried what you intend but have failed and turned back,’ I told him.
‘They sailed west from northern waters, deliberately going against the wind, for they feared if they did not, then they would have no wind to blow them home. I intend to set off from further south than from where those westerlies blow. Castile now has a port in the Canary Islands which is far enough south for me to pick up the prevailing winds that blow from east to west. You yourself saw the truth of this. So that is how I will make the outward journey. When I’ve discovered the route west to the East and reached landfall, then I will sail in a northerly direction along the coast of the Orient and pick up the westerlies to bring me home.’
‘These winds that blow across the ocean . . .’ I asked him. ‘What if they fail? What if you are becalmed?’
He looked at me in delight. ‘So you have given it thought. You are intrigued by the prospect of discovering new sailing routes.’
And he talked animatedly about the astrolabe he’d purchased from the Arab mapmaker, but I noticed he hadn’t answered my question.
‘This extra knowledge of mine will quell all doubts and set aside any objections put forward by the royal advisers. I have been seeking patronage for many years,’ Columbus went on, ‘but I’m very confident this time. The queen and king are now in the last stages of the siege of Granada. By Christmas the city will fall. In the new year of fourteen ninety-two they will ride in triumph through the streets of Granada to the palace of the Alhambra. And when they’ve done this they will be in a mood to listen to me. I recognize in them something of myself. Ferdinand gained the throne of Aragon and Isabella that of Castile after huge upheaval and long struggles. They were successful because they believed in themselves. I too believe in my destiny.’
‘And do you think they’ll support your plans?’
Columbus patted his tunic. Inside he had the latest letter from one of his most ardent supporters, a Father Juan Perez of the La Rábida monastery, where Columbus’s young son was being educated. ‘Father Perez writes to tell me that Queen Isabella herself wishes to speak to me! The royal treasurer has sent him an advance of money to pay for fine clothes so that I will be able to appear properly dressed at court. Therefore I know that they now look on me with favour.’
Later, as I prepared for sleep, I thought of the only clothes I possessed: second-hand garments that Lomas had given me when I’d outgrown those I’d worn as a boy, and some others paid for by Columbus – rough sandals, a pair of hose and a tunic – and . . . the splendid but not very useful jacket that had once belonged to Captain Cosimo. I pulled it out of Lomas’s bag and picked idly at the embroidery on the peacock jacket. I would sell it as soon as I got ashore and use the money to find my way back to Las Conchas. It was too heavy and cumbersome for me to wear. I moved to toss it to one side.
Then I paused and held it up. I’d noticed a curious thing. There was a weighting within the jacket that wasn’t accounted for by either the padding or the embroidery. I took Panipat’s long knife from my waistband to rip open the lining.
And discovered the second secret of Captain Cosimo.
I saw why there was never much money in the galley cash box, despite the captain’s astute trading skills; why he never let the jacket out of his sight; and why, even though it was so heavy, he’d brought it with him when we ran aground on the deserted island fleeing in peril of our life.
When he’d left me in the marketplace the day he’d collected his profit from the cargo, Captain Cosimo hadn’t gone off to gamble secretly. Instead he’d paid one of the tailors of the souk to stitch his coins into the jacket lining – something he must have done in every port where we traded. My canny captain hadn’t squandered his money. He’d been saving it against the day when he would no longer be able to sail his boat to make a living.
I shoved my fingers through the hole I’d made with my knife. Florins, lions, reals, ducats, doubloons – all manner of silver and gold coins were tucked into the seams, along the hem and around the waist.
I had a fortune in my hands.
Christopher Columbus spoke to me again as the ship docked in the deepwater port of Cádiz and we made ready to disembark.
‘I would dearly love to join an exploration such as yours,’ I told him, ‘but I have business to see to. Family matters that I must . . . put right.’
For although I had no hope of finding my m
other alive, I knew that I had to return to Las Conchas and search for her. But, be she alive or dead, I still needed to go there, for I intended to come face to face with the magistrate who had executed my father.
‘I too have family I need to attend to,’ Columbus replied. ‘I must go to Palos to see my son. After I’ve spoken to him I will travel to the court outside Granada for my audience with the queen. If you change your mind, Saulo, that’s where you’ll find me.’
I watched him walk away across the quayside, a man who believed that his destiny had been writ, yet had to struggle to see it come true. I contemplated the prospect of sailing off to explore the world. And I hoped that one day I might indeed board ship with Christopher Columbus.
But first I had a mission to accomplish.
Lomas had charged me with ensuring that his family received his wages. His dying declaration was one of love. ‘All I did, I did for them.’
I thought of my own family. It had shamed my father to beg but he’d done it; for the same reason Lomas had indentured himself to row in the galley – in order to provide for his family. And just as Lomas’s family was owed money, my father was owed justice.
So I would find Lomas’s family and give them his savings. But it would be while I was on my way to seek out Don Vicente Alonso de Carbazón. I would return to Las Conchas and go to the magistrate’s house to burn it to the ground – and fulfil my vow of vengeance.
PART THREE
PRISONER OF THE INQUISITION
1491–1492
Chapter Twenty-eight
Zarita
SISTER MADDALENA LAID the cutting shears close to my ear.
The grating sound of metal on metal.
My hair, the shining locks of burnished black that Mama had brushed each evening and my papa had plaited before I went riding with him each morning, tumbled onto the cold tiled floor.
Tears trickled down my cheeks. People had always admired my hair. Many said it was what made me distinctive. From when I was the tiniest child Ardelia, my nurse, had told me the story of the princess who’d been rescued from a tower by a prince using her hair as a rope to climb up to reach her. Ardelia declared that one day a rich and handsome prince would ride up to our house, fall deeply in love with me, and I would become his bride – all because of the length and lustre of my beautiful hair.
Sister Maddalena fetched a broom and gave it to me to sweep up. ‘A woman’s hair can be her bondage,’ she said briskly. ‘Think on it, Sister Zarita de Marzena.’
In my aunt’s order of nuns a woman could keep her given name. I would still be Zarita, and I’d decided to adopt Mama’s family name rather than use Papa’s name any more, as, in my view, my father had abandoned me. Not long after the terrible day when he’d told me what was to become of me, we’d learned that Lorena was expecting a child. I realized that Papa would soon be taken up with his new family and then there would no longer be a place for me in his house. I was left with no option but to enter the convent.
My aunt was very quiet on this matter. She wouldn’t speak against Papa. I wasn’t sure if this was to do with one of the vows of her order: to be charitable in all things. Surely she wasn’t supporting Papa’s point of view? Once, when I’d been railing against him, she’d murmured, ‘Sometimes people do what they think is for the best, and their intentions are misinterpreted.’
I’d put my hands over my ears. ‘I won’t listen to any justification of his actions. As he has cast me off, thus will I do to him.’
And so it was as Zarita de Marzena that I began my new life as a novice in the convent of the Sisters of Compassion.
Summer cooled into autumn, and autumn became winter, but to my surprise the greyness of the skies was not reflected in my spirits. There was a happiness present in the enclosed community of women that I hadn’t expected. The nuns took joy from their work and prayer. They laughed when they ate and sewed together, and delighted in both playing and singing music for Evensong each night.
Removed from the tension of my home and the constant bickering with Lorena, I found calmness seeping into my mind and I began to acquire a peace and perspective that had been absent in my life. My aunt ensured that her nuns continued their education, and encouraged discussions on history, philosophy, politics and science. Many of the texts she used were from scrolls by Jewish scholars and books she’d translated from the Arabic language. Through letters from relatives and friends the enclosed community was kept well informed of events in the outside world.
And so we learned of the culmination of the inquiry by the Inquisition into the case of the holy child of La Guardia. In November 1491 an auto-da-fé was held where three people of Jewish origin, accused of capturing, torturing and crucifying a Christian boy child, were burned to death.
‘Despite no family reporting a child missing during the time the boy was supposed to have disappeared.’ Sister Maddalena shook her head. ‘And despite no body being found; stories were told and denouncements made. It’s likely that the officers of the Inquisition employed the same tactics as they used here to get people to betray one another.’
It was December before this news reached us. I was with my aunt and Sister Maddalena in the sewing room, engaged in embroidering a new altar cloth for our chapel in preparation for Christmas.
‘This is what happens when fear and suspicion are let loose,’ my aunt Beatriz observed. ‘It requires a great deal of self-discipline to rein in one’s emotions and act in a thoughtful way.’
I began to cry.
The two nuns looked at me and then at each other. Neither of them rose to place their arm around my shoulder or to pat my hand. ‘Sister Zarita,’ my aunt said calmly, ‘tell us why you are distressed.’
‘I’m a foolish girl,’ I sobbed. ‘I did as those you speak of did. I was one of the betrayers of this town when it was inspected by the Inquisition. When I heard the screams of Bartolomé on the morning they began to question him; when I saw what they had done to him; when’ – I gulped, tears and tension causing my throat to block and my voice to tremble – ‘when I knew that they planned more atrocities for him, I would have said anything, anything, to make them stop.’ I shuddered. ‘They had prepared red-hot pokers and pincers, and . . . and . . .’ The memory of that day in the barn rose up in my mind as a vision and I couldn’t continue.
My aunt said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘It’s only to be expected that you would react in a certain way upon seeing another human being that you love suffering torture.’
‘An innocent human being,’ Sister Maddalena interjected.
‘Yes, indeed, Sister Maddalena,’ my aunt went on. ‘An innocent human being in great pain. Naturally one would take steps to try to prevent it continuing. I wouldn’t blame myself too much over that incident.’
I swallowed my tears and tried to compose myself. If I was to recognize my guilt, then I must do it properly and not in an emotional outburst under the guise of concern for the welfare of another. ‘I don’t even have that excuse. When I spoke out it was because someone else had named the doctor who lives in the Jewish quarter of the town.’
‘Then you named someone to protect another,’ Sister Maddalena said loyally.
‘No,’ I said. ‘When I spoke out to avert Father Besian’s attention from the doctor, it was only partly to protect him . . . It was mainly to protect myself.’ There, I had said it. I had owned up to my cowardice. I hung my head in shame for my actions, but nonetheless felt an enormous relief wash through me. ‘I thought that if Father Besian quizzed the doctor, then he might say that I’d consulted him and then they would question me.’
‘You consulted the Jewish doctor, Zarita!’ Sister Maddalena exclaimed.
I nodded. ‘I went to the Jewish doctor’s house to enquire if he knew of a sick woman in the area. It was he who brought me to the beggar’s wife and told me she was dying.’
Sister Maddalena glanced at my aunt. ‘We didn’t realize things had happened in quite that way. When you came to us with the
dying woman we thought you’d sought her out yourself and realized that she needed hospital care.’
‘Who else knows about this?’ my aunt said sharply.
‘No one, only us. And Garci,’ I added.
‘You are sure?’
‘Yes, why do you ask?’
‘In a small town everyone can learn each other’s business. Or’ – she reflected for a moment – ‘members of a household can find out things about each other.’
I looked from one to the other in anxiety. ‘Have I brought trouble to your door? I had no idea—’
My aunt smiled reassuringly. ‘Let’s not dwell on this matter. Father Besian is gone away, we hope never to return. We are little fish compared to the huge catch they hope to make when they finally take Granada.’
There was a silence in the room and then Sister Maddalena asked, ‘Whom did you denounce?’
‘I spoke against the women who seduce the sailors at the docks. And I feel responsible that two of them were taken to be stripped and scourged. Although they are bad women,’ I observed.
‘Are they?’ my aunt said quietly. ‘Would it surprise you to know that we treat some of them within these walls, discreetly and free of charge?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘For in the months I’ve been here I know you practise true mercy and compassion to everyone without question.’
‘And would it shock you to learn that they have clients other than the sailors and packmen who pass through the docks?’
I stared at my aunt. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I mean that respectable men of this town visit these places in the hours of darkness. Men of all classes and affluence. They use and abuse these women. If a pregnancy occurs, they usually abandon them, sometimes even exhorting them to kill the baby, and try to have the women punished if they don’t do this.’
‘Yet,’ I demurred, ‘don’t they bring this treatment on themselves by their wanton behaviour? Why would any decent woman resort to living in such a manner?’
Prisoner of the Inquisition Page 13