"It shall be my greatest wish to bring you delight, my Sultan," Francho murmured, salaaming and bowing out backward.
He emerged from the Gate of Justice just as the sunset cry of "Allah akbar... echhed en la ila ella Allah, echhed en Mohammed rasou Allah, hai ala Elsalat. Hai ala Elfalah. Allah akbar, la ila ella Allah" pierced the air from all the city's mosque towers in every direction, and he hurried to reach his little house before dark. He was famished and thirsty. And he was utterly incredulous. Not even the cynical whispers he had heard as the aristocrats attendant upon Boabdil had bowed themselves out—"The Great Sultan has found yet another pet"; "At least a good sight more entertaining than was that boring poet"—not even the knowledge that he wasn't the first favorite and might not even remain a favorite as long as the poet could spoil his elation or dampen the conceit that sent him humming down the road with his natural swagger.
***
Francho was becoming accustomed to the taste of the dark, acrid, honey-sweetened kavah that Ali boiled up for him. A mug of it steamed at his elbow as he squatted at the low table in the yellow light of his oil lamp and, with reed pen and a sheet of the thick, glossy-surfaced paper in whose manufacture the Moors excelled, composed another report of his observations to Don Iñigo.
"...has come my way, as I am in the Sultan's presence every day, often within earshot in the background as his courtiers converse with him." Francho shook his head in disbelief, looking at the simple sentence he had placed on paper, remembering the worry of his first days in Granada with his plans gone awry, still astonished with the breathtaking speed of his access to the halls of power; sensibly wary that the mercurial ruler whose aesthetic sensibilities he had captured might just as quickly tire of him.
"Granada is like a boiling pot. Peaceful citizens are upset about the failing economy, which has no foreign outlets, and the army daily parades its might before them as temptation to break the blockade. During the popular jousting tourneys on the Vivarrambla, Muza Aben Gazul fires up the cheering crowds by speaking from the Sultan's pavilion on the skill and daring of the Moorish warrior which should not be left to wither when it can reap great rewards. As the armored, beplumed knights rear up on their horses and whirl their scimitars about their heads, he exhorts the crowds to remember the carnage at Malaga, the ten thousand kinsmen and friends dead by infidel flames and sword, the fair cities of the Prophet waiting for release from bondage. He raises up a great, mailed fist to the skies and shouts, 'Death to the Christian dogs! A cup of Christian blood for every tear we have shed over our captured lands. Allah so wills it!' and the spectators go wild acclaiming him. The growing power of this general, Gazul, is a most dangerous threat to Boabdil's throne, as I see it, my Lord.
"The Sultan hides from assassins by keeping to the Alhambra, hoping for Spanish troops to prop up his other- wise numbered days. I note daily great stores of weapons and supplies rolling through the streets from the foundries in the vega to the supply depots. Those reporting to the Sultan say the army is at peak, swelled by some fifty thousand men, with more recruits from the countryside available in case of war.
"I strongly believe that the people of this city abjure Boabdil not for his leaning toward pacification but for his vacillation—his lack of settled policy and power to uphold his decision. If the Sultan's arms could be strengthened and his orders enforced, I think the greater part of the citizenry would in the end choose to save their skins and fortunes through peace. I do what I can to stiffen his resolve not to fight.
"I pray for your continuing good health, and that of our King and Queen and of our friends, especially the Lady Leonora, to whom recommend me as soon as you deam fit.
"This night, 5 May 1490. F."
And the second to the last word in the body of this letter he misspelled, one of the agreed upon signs whose absence would indicate forgery.
He left the house quietly without waking the sleeping Ali and padded through the dark and narrow streets, his dagger close to hand in case the supine bodies snoring in doorways and niches might have aggressive ideas. He turned into a crooked alley that smelled of goats and excrement; rats scrambled away from hunks of refuse as he approached. After knocking on the low door of a rotting shack he waited and then pushed it open, stepping into pitch darkness.
"Who enters?" asked a sleepy, querulous voice.
"He who speaks with a golden voice." Francho responded with the identifying phrase. "Strike a light. I cannot see you."
There was a fumbling, a scratching, and finally a tinder spark jumped and flamed the wick of a tiny lamp. The man sitting on a heap of filthy straw turned the milky-white disks of his eyes toward Francho's voice, his grinning mouth displaying rotted stumps of teeth. "Light or no light, it is all the same to me, raiss. But you are welcome to my humble abode."
The blind beggar who could not see his face was Francho's contact, passing his messages on and receiving others in turn from a man whose frequent visits outside the city were required: a snow gatherer, who went out to the mountains with a string of donkeys and empty baskets and came back with hard-packed snow from the peaks, insulated with straw and mats, to sell in the markets for preserving meat and fish, for chilling liquids and making the iced desserts so dear to the Moors. The snow vendor would leave the message under a cairn of rocks at a certain spot in the mountains far from the Moorish patrol routes, and there it would be retrieved by another agent and rushed to Mendoza at Alcala la Real. Even in the event of war the preserving of foodstuffs would be highly important. Snow gatherers could still find unblocked paths behind the city and another cairn would be arranged.
Francho put his sealed letter in the blind man's gnarled fist. "This missive must depart the city as soon as possible, old man."
"Your voice comes from a height, master, and it has a deep quality. I have perceived that you are tall and strongly built."
"You are not paid to fathom my looks. You would be safer to make no conjectures but do your job well and keep your prattle to yourself."
"I only jest, raiss, forgive a lonely man. It shall be as you say; the message will go forward without delay." The blind gaffer cackled and stretched forth his other hand to receive three gold dinars in his dirty palm, for which he called Allah's blessings upon his generous gentleman.
The old man could be trusted to a certain extent; he was a miser who cared for naught but the coins he fondled with greedy fingers and probably buried in the dirt beneath his straw. The sum he was given with every visit plus the promise of further payment every third month had always ensured his silent cooperation with Mendoza's agents. But he knew neither Francho's features nor his name or lodging. The torture racks and dungeons waiting for a wretch suspected of treason could wring names and descriptions from misers and patriots and even the ignorant alike.
Francho returned to his abode and fell upon his pallet, satisfied with his progress so far. He lulled himself into a relaxed state with longing thoughts of Leonora—although flashes of the Golden Horn's hypnotic dancer intruded— and his sleep was dreamless and tranquil. Had he known it was to be his last untroubled sleep for many days he would have enjoyed it more.
***
"But the Sultan will be most angry. He expects me." Francho strongly objected to Mustafa Ata, his way into Boabdil's quarters having been barred by stolidly adamant guards.
"The Sultan has no time for you today, ibn Ghulam. He is closeted with his council. But wait here if you wish, should he call for you." The paunchy worthy perfunctorily waved Francho to a bench in his chamber as a man wearing the silver breast medallion of a minor functionary bustled through the beaded entrance.
"But..."
The newcomer held a short, whispered conversation with Mustafa Ata, who then nodded and followed him, hurrying past Francho and out the door, his waddle more pronounced by his agitated gait. He spared not even a glance in the Head Musician's direction.
Francho heard loud voices approaching, and peering through the beaded curtains, saw a group of
white-robed officials crossing from the far side of the colonnaded court, arguing violently as they hastened toward the royal council chamber. A large troop of pantalooned guards, barked onward by a grim officer, quick-stepped by, headed in the direction of the outer plaza. Men of rank, their faces tense, crossed the fountained court in increasing numbers, some muttering angrily. It was plain that some dire occurrence was disturbing the composure of the entire Court. Torn between wanting to wait should the Sultan summon him and aching to find someone to question, Francho paced Mustafa Ata's office. He willed himself to patience in spite of his rising sense of trouble, passing time by absently fingering melodies on the new lute Boabdil had presented to him and hoping at least Mustafa would return.
But the Sultan did not remember him nor did Mustafa come back. The ebon sky over the open court was flung with a net of twinkling stars and an owl hooted in a tree before he admitted to himself that no summons was forthcoming and that he might as well return to the Albayazin. Wearily he left the chamber. As he trekked along the wide reflecting pool of the Second Plaza he noted the grilled windows of the council chamber bright with the glow of lamps. Bareheaded slaves passed coming from the kitchens with delayed suppers for their masters, whispering among themselves as they transported their heavy salvers. The First Plaza too was swept clean of people, as always at night, but the guards at the gates and on the palace towers had been tripled and the pickets walked in fours along the walls. Trying to question some of the guards got him nowhere. They stared sternly and hurried him on.
The streets which were his route from the hill of the Alhambra to his little house seemed quiet enough, filled with the ordinary number of ordinary people. Evidently whatever was the alarm it was still contained within the walls of the Alhambra.
But not for long. By the time Ali shook him awake just after dawn the next morning with the report that there were great shouts and turmoil coming from the bazaars below the bad news seemed to be in every mouth throughout the city. Throwing on his clothes he loped down the hill and arrived in a main square just in time to hear a news teller shout out from the beginning again the report that was causing such angry commotion among his turbaned listeners, and to the facts that were known to the news teller Francho added his own ideas of what had transpired.
Ferdinand El Rey Catolico, it seemed, had become fed up with gradual measures and had brought his wily game of cat-and-mouse to a resounding end by sending back with Boabdil's outraged ambassadors demands which left no doubt of what Spain wanted. He reminded the Sultan of an agreement made during his Spanish captivity, that in the event the Catholic sovereigns should capture the cities of Gaudix, Baza and Almeria, Boabdil would surrender Granada into their hands peacefully, accepting in exchange some small Moorish towns to rule as a vassal prince. Ferdinand now called in the promise. He demanded a complete surrender of the city of Granada with all its supplies and arms, in return for which he would be a lenient and indulgent victor, as with Baza and Gaudix. Otherwise the city would suffer the same merciless and ravaged fate as Malaga. The worst insult was Ferdinand's contempt for any defenses the city could muster; he grandly allowed the Sultan a month in which to make his decision and name the city's fate.
Francho hurried to the Alhambra. He demanded entree to the Sultan and again wound up sitting all day in Mustafa Ata's cubicle. The atmosphere of the palace was as tense as a drawn bowstring. He came the next day and the next and the next, each time more afraid that his luck had failed and that now, when Boabdil's leaning toward peace needed special advancing, the Sultan did not remember his existence. Bleakly contemplating the toes of his heelless slippers and his slipping fortune, he understood how very cocksure he had been that the Sultan would continue to confide in him even when events went sour. In such a setback to his policies Boabdil seemed to have need of anything but an amusing minstrel.
Francho wondered what had caused Ferdinand's mask to slip. Perhaps it was that the powerful ruler of Egypt had speedily indicated to di Lido that he would not interfere in this local quarrel. But, like a tarantula with the juicy beetle at last in its maw, Ferdinand had closed the jaws of his friendship with a terrible, final snap. And knocked the Sultan's leisure time for minstrels into the less demanding past.
Chapter 18
"If she knew it was me behind her she'd not be turning from the font so jauntily to pass the holy water from her fingers," Dolores snickered to herself as Leonora turned around. Dolores had deliberately hurried her steps and pushed through the crowd streaming into the great Seville Cathedral as the sonorous summons of the bells in the square tower died away, smiling her apologies as she went forward so she might slip in right behind Leonora. She needed to talk to her.
Leonora wore a loose, quilted surcoat edged in gold braid and a puffed, heart-shaped headdress covering her honey-colored hair. The famous dimples acclaimed by the Court poets were winningly in evidence as she turned to face the person behind her, one of the members of the Infanta's circle she thought. That it turned out to be Dolores caused immediate evaporation of the dimples and left a blank expression. But to her credit Leonora recovered in an instant both her manners and a stiff smile, and she touched the water drops to the Baroness de la Rocha's fingertips as prescribed.
Crossing herself with lazy grace Dolores returned a bland smile of her own, but she told herself, "Now, my girl, you could simply mutter 'thank you' and walk on and not have to deal with her sanctimoniousness or your own embarrassment. Do it and the day will be much fairer." Still, her overriding need to know drove her to stay with her plan. She said, "I thank you, Doña Leonora. And what good fortune for me that we have met. I need urgently to speak with you. A matter of importance."
Leonora hid her surprise behind a rigid carriage. The small, pretty lips pressed together primly. "I cannot imagine what business we might have together, Baroness."
Snob, Dolores scowled mentally. But outwardly she remained smiling. "I would be grateful for a few minutes of your time, doña, and I will explain."
"Right now?" came the reluctant response and Leonora turned her head to look toward the backs of the regal Infanta and her peacock-hued coterie retreating into the incensed gloom of the giant nave. "I shall miss the Mass."
"Only a few moments. I will release you before the Agnus Dei..."
Curiosity got the better of Leonora. She tilted her small head questioningly and then shrugged. "As you wish." And she allowed herself to be shepherded to the edge of the crowds pressing in through the Gothic arched doorways. Dolores looked about and indicated a wide, groined stone pillar in the bluish-purple shadows just beyond the vestry of the immense building. "Why don't we just step over to that column where it is quiet?"
Gathering up the short trains of their gowns to keep them from being trod on, they made their way through the knots of whining beggars and noisy vendors of merchandise whose transactions often competed with the services, and were soon separated by the girth of the huge column from most curious eyes.
Dolores turned to face Leonora, whose dubious expression already reflected regret for having been drawn into this association with a woman whom she regarded as indecorous, and began without ado: "You could be of help to me, Doña Leonora."
"In what way?"
"Just a bit of information, that is all." Dolores smiled with forced warmth. The warmth was as false as her offhandedness. She was anxious to hear any bit of news on Francho, for it was almost six months he had been absent from Court. She'd heard he had not joined di Lido's party but had been detained in Italy and that was the last word there had been. She had the feeling that he'd blinked out of sight as precipitously as the sun dropping behind a mountain ridge, one minute there and the next minute gone. She found herself thinking about him and thinking about him, going over in her mind the events of their meetings in Toledo, in Seville, and especially the wild, galloping escape from the Moors in Baza. She remembered the fright in his voice when the horse had thrown her and he'd called her name, fearing she was dead. She reme
mbered the raspy warmth of his chin pressed against her cheek to comfort the pain of her cracked ribs as his horse bore them toward the camp. And the involuntary wince and crinkle of sympathy around his eyes when he first saw her bruised face as she lay in her invalid's bed.
Now it was her turn to fear that he might be ill, or dead. Even his best friends had had no word from him.
She saw Leonora fidget and hurried on. "I was merely wondering if you had received any recent news of Don Francisco de Mendoza, since you were, ah, particular friends. Surely he must have written to you."
Leonora's lips parted in surprise. Then her eyes narrowed slightly, slyly. "And how would such information 'help' you?"
"Why, it's a question of a gambling debt," Dolores murmured smoothly. "A large sum I lost to Don Francisco at cards before he left Seville and which I was not able to pay at the time. It has been on my conscience ever since—I am very scrupulous about paying gaming losses—and I have had the money for him for a long time. I thought I might send it by the Queen's couriers to Rome. If he were still there, that is..." Her voice trailed off in a question.
Leonora looked down and pulled fastidiously on her velvet glove. "Why don't you ask Antonio de la Cueva, who is close to him?"
"I did, but he could say—or would say—only that Don Francisco is in Italy on his sire's business. He was not sure where. And my lord Tendilla, who would know, is on the frontier." Dolores tried to sound easy and casual although she hated to have to come to Leonora. Yet it was all she could think of to help scratch her intense itch to know how Francho fared.
Leonora's expression turned smugly patronizing. "I am sorry to tell you, doña, that I have nothing more to add to Don Antonio's statement. I cannot help you." She started to turn away, but Dolores slid around her and barred her path.
"No, wait. Surely he would have written you some letters in all this time? Please, doña..."
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