Fabulous Voyage Across the Ocean Sea

By Jay Prasad

The D'Avilas, a family of conversos from the south of Spain, whose lives are intertwined with that of  Christopher Columbus, take part in his journeys in order to escape the Inquisition. Their narratives offer vivid impressions of the New World, and the enslavement and genocide of the native population.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597055765

Book preview

Part 1

Miguel de Avila

One

Every life has a turning point, my late father used to say.

He was born in Saragossa of Jewish parents, who, shortly before his birth, were forcibly converted to Catholicism when a fanatical Dominican monk leading a mob of peasants carrying clubs, axes, and torches offered them a choice of death or conversion to Christianity. Many of their friends and neighbors chose the former, but my grandfather—who had some knowledge of the Talmud and believed it was permissible to forsake his faith under coercion—became a Catholic, even though he never entirely abandoned the practices of his old religion, observing its holidays and dietary strictures.

The new Christians—called conversos in polite language, and marranos (swine) in the ordinary speech of the peasant and the soldier—did very well in the next several decades, rising to high eminence in the Church as well as the Government. My father’s lucky moment, according to him, came when he decided to join the group of conversos who decided to raise money and give political support to Ferdinand of Aragon in his suit for the hand of his cousin, the princess Isabella of Castile, even though her brother King Enrique, was opposed to the alliance. At that time my father—like his father before him—was a small-time money lender and pawnbroker, his clients being farmers or shopkeepers in the Saragossa area. After the marriage and subsequent ascension of Isabella and Ferdinand to the joint throne of Castile and Aragon, he grew immensely rich; his status changed to that of a banker to the Crown and he moved his residence to Toledo, where he had made considerable acquisitions of real estate, becoming one of its leading citizens. The Royal Couple had decided to take a firm hand against the aristocrats of Castile—most of whom had been against the marriage as well as the accession of Isabella to the throne, showing preference for Juana, King Enrique’s daughter—to consolidate their own shaky foundations of power. They would travel throughout Spain hearing complaints from our beloved people and ask the assembled peasants and farm workers to air their grievances in public sessions, and the result would often be the seizure of the estates of the gentry—a small percentage of which would then be handed over to the peasants who had made the complaint. My father, like many conversos, would buy the land from the Crown for payments in gold. This, together with his investments in sugar factories in the Canary Islands—annexed by the Crown a few years ago—was how, during the course of a decade and a half, he amassed his wealth.

The turning point in my life came when I went to visit him in the winter of fourteen hundred eighty six. I was living in Barcelona—having been estranged from him because of a wrong he had done to me, of which I shall talk about later—when word was sent to me through one of his trusted stewards that he was very ill. I wondered how he had traced my whereabouts, until it dawned on me he must have learned it through the network of Saragossa conversos, who had, by now, spread all over Spain.

I looked over the message—cryptic to the point of slyness—which was given to me by Senor Bernal, who was my father’s close friend as well as his steward for Toledo. It merely said, Come at once if you want to see me alive. Was he dying? Was he in prison, waiting for execution?

What is wrong with him, Senor Bernal? I finally asked the portly, grizzled messenger.

Your father, Miguel, was discussing business matters with his chief clerk in his study when he noticed a sudden numbness of his left leg. He has not been able to walk after that. His mind is clear and sharp as ever, but he has no sensation from the waist down. He is very depressed about it and says his end is near. That is why he wants to see you.

I was his only son and, according to the custom of our ancestors, I had to be by his side if he was dying. After arranging for a room at a nearby inn where Senor Bernal could rest comfortably for the night, I called in my manager, Senor Sanchez, to settle my business affairs before leaving for Toledo.

I am a dealer and appraiser of gems and precious metals, having stumbled into that line of work by accident some thirteen years ago, when I was only eighteen. After leaving my father’s house, I had moved to Barcelona, and found a job doing odds and ends for Senor Alfonso Sanmiguel, a leading gem dealer of that city. Over the years, I won his trust by hard work and loyalty, and it was he who taught me, first the rudiments, and then the finer aspects of the trade. When he passed away six years ago, I took over the business from his widow, Raquel, at her suggestion; she wanted the business to stay in the family, and I was the logical choice since she had no sons and I had married her only daughter, Evita. A year later Evita died in childbirth, and Raquel followed her soon, leaving me the sole owner of all her property.

Dealing in gems is a secretive business and it was with reluctance I took Senor Sanchez into full confidence regarding the pending purchases of heirlooms from certain noblemen in Barcelona, who had been reduced to straitened circumstances because of the seizure of their estates by the Crown. But it had to be done, for I did not know how long I would be gone, and I had to leave Senor Sanchez in charge. Before I left, I decided to put some of the most valuable gems I owned inside my money belt, for I saw no point in placing temptation before my assistant, trustworthy as he was. I then made a list of the prospective buyers of the estate jewelry—mostly newly rich conversos and a few cardinals and bishops—and leaving instructions to Senor Sanchez for dealing with them, I left Barcelona early next morning with Senor Bernal, and two bodyguards, for the roads were not safe, even though they were much better than they had been a few years ago, when Isabella’s brother Enrique was the king of Castile. We did not encounter any groups of brigands—they still lurked in hiding places according to reports I had heard, especially on the border between Aragon and Castile—probably because of the unusually chilly weather, and, after resting and changing horses at Guadalajara and Madrid, reached Toledo in four days.

I had been in Toledo on two prior occasions on business, and it had struck me as a quiet, peaceful city, conscious of its wealth and power, but avoiding display. This time, as we rode our horses through the main streets, we frequently encountered town criers beating drums and announcing an auto-da-fe was to take place the next day, which was a Sunday. I had heard of autos-da-fe taking place in Seville, some five years ago, and conversos being burnt in the public square for being negligent in their allegiance to their new religion—specifically, for observing Jewish holidays and practicing the time-honored customs of the children of Israel—but I thought it was a temporary phenomenon and would not spread to the rest of Castile. Consequently, I was surprised to see crowds milling around the newly built stands and pavilions—decorated festively with bunting and flags—for the ceremony that was to take place the next day.

What is that? I asked my companion on seeing a public square stocked with piles of firewood where the peasants were making merry, drinking wine and eating their sausages with bread and pickles.

"It is the Plaza de Quemadero, Miguel, said Senor Bernal. It is for burning conversos who have not given up their old faith completely."

I still remember how his words sent a chill through my heart. Burning human beings for observing some of the religious practices of their ancestors seemed to make a mockery of the Christian martyrs who had been burned, throughout the centuries, for their faith in a religion that stood for love and humanity. But times had changed, obviously, and the friars and monks were out for vengeance, having laid aside considerations of forgiveness and charity. But why were they vengeful?

Why are they doing this, Senor Bernal? I asked my companion.

He gave me a sardonic, lopsided smile. He was my father’s best friend, his most trusted business associate, but I did not think he was a warm, caring man. It seemed to me that he was amused by the burning of the conversos, and probably thought they deserved what was coming to them for having abandoned the faith of their fathers.

It is money, Senor Miguel de Avila, he said. "The conversos are the richest of the land and are ready to be killed, like the fattened calf. The king and the queen need the money to fight the war against the Moors. So does the Church, which has too many officials now and not enough revenue to pay their salaries."

Why do they have to burn them? Can’t they fine them and confiscate their properties?

He smiled again, the smile of someone who has lost all faith in himself and humanity.

"You are getting into deep waters by asking these questions. As the descendant of Jews, I know what cruelties people are capable of. For the past one hundred years in Spain, they have tortured and murdered Jews, and above all, submitted them to the basest of humiliation—by means of forced conversions. Conversion did not bring us security, for the same mobs led by the same monks are now attacking the marranos. Now, perhaps, for your sake as well as mine, we should drop this conversation."

Coming toward us, as if on cue, were a group of Dominican friars and their followers, brandishing crosses and carrying a banner proclaiming the event scheduled for the next day. We spurred our horses and drove past them, and did not speak until we came to my father’s house—or mansion, I should say, because it loomed before me, more a monument to wealth than to architectural taste. It was a hybrid of several styles—Saracen, Gothic, Roman and Greek—and similar in appearances to the houses of other wealthy conversos I had seen all over Castile, and was not pleasing to the eye or the mind.

We rode past massive wrought-iron gates, down a graveled path with hedges on either side, until we reached the front entrance and handed our horses over to a groom.

Do you want to change into something more comfortable? asked Senor Bernal, casting a glance at my leather breeches and the thin mail armor I wore under my sheepskin jerkin.

I want to see my father first.

Senor Bernal guided me through winding corridors and porticos until we moved to the farthest end of the house, where my father was resting on a divan in a large room with a fireplace. A beautiful carpet with a tantalizing design, obviously from Andalusia, captured my attention momentarily, before I saw his face. His eyes were the same—cool, cynical, and exercising a hypnotic effect on me, as they did in my boyhood—when they would probe into mine after detecting a lie, and would appear amused at my endeavor at duplicity.

"I am glad you have come to see me, Miguel," he said.

I knelt by his side and kissed his cheeks. They felt cold, like those of a marble statue, and I looked at him in surprise.

I am dying, Miguel, he said, reading my thoughts.

It is as the Lord wills, I heard a voice say, and noticed two people in the room—a Dominican friar and a tall, beautiful lady—who had suddenly sprung into my view.

This is Fray Juan Santhome and Dona Inez Maria Lorca, he said by way of introduction, while I got up and bowed.

We will leave the two of you alone, said the friar, and he and the lady quickly opened a door at the back and stepped out to a portico.

"Dona Inez is my housekeeper. She is a hidalgo from Seville. She was married to a much older man, who became a victim to the plague that took many lives from Seville two years ago. She is a distant relative of a duke—a poor cousin of sorts—with whom I have extensive business dealings, and I took her in as housekeeper, at his request. She is very religious, goes to church twice a day. Fray Juan Santhome is her confessor. He came here today to deliver an invitation to me personally from the Chief Inquisitor of Toledo, to attend the auto-da-fe tomorrow."

Are you going?

I can’t move that easily. I was telling him before you came in, that I shall send you instead, on my behalf, said my father, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Father, I don’t want to see conversos—our own people—being burned."

You have no choice—if one of us doesn’t go, they will think we are not really Christians at heart, and try us as heretics.

They cannot do this to us. We are Christians, the same as they are.

To them we are Jews, or worse than Jews. Jews are allowed by law to practice their own religion. In our case, they have decided to punish us by legal means by reviving old inquisitorial practices.

"But the conversos are intermarried with the nobility. They say both the king and the queen have converso blood in them."

"Miguel, the conversos are their own worst enemies, and more than half of the inquisitorial staff is made up of them. While it is true the clergy hates us, and the Jews hate us for forsaking our faith, we hate ourselves more than even the Castilians of pure blood hate us. That is the way things are, and we cannot change the world. Don’t expect too much from life, my son. Take what you can get, and enjoy life while it lasts. You are going to be a very wealthy man after my death..."

He did not finish the sentence and drifted off to sleep. His face looked pale, but peaceful. He was fifty-six years old, but did not look it, except for the white hairs on his head. His eyebrows were still black, and in sleep, his closed eyes fringed by thick black eyelashes gave him a sense of vulnerability, as though there was something frail and feminine in his soul. I thought it was time to forgive him, even though I could never forget my hurt when I discovered he had seduced my betrothed—my first cousin Hanna Baroli, my mother’s niece—who had been staying at our house in Saragossa at that time. She had come there to visit my terminally ill mother, wasting away from what the Jewish and Muslim doctors, brought in by my father from Cordoba and Morocco, diagnosed as a lesion in her abdomen.

Taking care not to disturb him, I opened the door and went to the corridor outside his room. A page was waiting there for me, probably at the order of the housekeeper, and he led me to my room, which was quite a distance away at the other end of the house. It was a large and well-furnished chamber, with Moorish carpets on the floor, and a couch with silk covering and several cushions. A large bed on a low wooden frame sprang to my view when the page pulled apart the blue silk drapes hanging from a rail around it. He then showed me a closet containing some of my father’s clothes; my father and I were of an identical build, and ever since I turned seventeen, I could wear anything of his, from his cap to his shoes. The page then took me to a bathroom where there was both hot and cold water in tubs, and told me dinner would be served an hour after sunset.

I took a leisurely bath and, wearing one of my father’s tunics, fell asleep on the bed. I must have slept for several hours, for when I was awakened by the page it was dark outside. He lit several oil-lamps in my room, helped me put on my father’s breeches, doublet and jacket, which fitted me perfectly as of old, and led me to the dining room.

My father was reclining in a chair at the head of the large dining table, having been carried there in a sedan chair by servants. I was touched that he had allowed himself to be subjected to all this inconvenience to eat with me, and sat next to him and lifted his hand to my lips. I then noticed that Dona Inez Maria Lorca, who, dressed in black, sat at the other end of the table, was subjecting me to her scrutiny. I have been stared at by women before, being tall, broad-shouldered and athletic-looking, but her stare disconcerted me, for there was a cat-like gleam in her gray, translucent eyes.

I paid no attention to her during dinner, which was served by my father’s butler, Enrique Garcia. There was a dish of lamb and rice cooked with spices, a roasted pigeon, and stewed chicken and vegetables in the Moroccan style—I should mention here that my father had acquired his cook some twenty years ago when he lived in Andalusia, where he had business at that time—and a goblet of very good wine from Portugal.

After dinner my father told me the carriage would be ready early in the morning to take me and Dona Inez Maria Lorca to the auto-da-fe, and a familiar from the Inquisition council would meet us, to guide us to our seats.

I politely informed Dona Inez Maria Lorca I would be glad of her company, wondering in the meanwhile, if she was my father’s mistress, since I was puzzled by her presence in the dining room, and my father treating her as an equal.

Wear my velvet cloak, my son, was my father’s parting advice. It will be cold in the morning, and also there will be many people of rank and wealth there, dressed in their finery.

IT WAS COLD IN THE morning as the coach drove the three of us—Dona Inez Maria Lorca, the familiar, and me—toward the north of Toledo where the auto-da-fe was to be held. A bodyguard wearing armor and carrying arms rode behind us. I was too depressed to pay any attention to my two traveling companions, who seemed to hold lengthy whispered conversations, the tenor of which, as far as I could make out, was the type and variety of punishment to be meted out for the heretics.

The streets were full of carriages, men on horses, and soldiers walking around with pickets and swords. Following our guide’s suggestion, we got out of the carriage—I helping Dona Maria Inez, for the sake of courtesy—and we walked through the streets to the public square where the ceremony was going to be held. Following the custom used in public spectacles, balconies from the surrounding houses had been appropriated by the Inquisitors to seat the distinguished citizens of Toledo, of which my father was one. He had one of the best seats in the balcony of the palatial house of the Sanchez family—who were conversos, and one of whose members, a boyhood friend of mine, was a victim to whom punishment was to be meted out that afternoon—and our guide took us there. There were refreshments inside the house, and the guide offered to show me the food stalls. I was not hungry and looked at Dona Maria Inez, who said she was feeling faint from the crowds and the noise. I escorted her inside the house and sat at a table with her, joining a dozen or so others, who were having breakfast. There were large jars of wine on the table, and trays of bread and cheese, and dishes containing olives and walnuts and hazelnuts, and various cold meats, but the hidalgo lady and I were content with drinking a cup of sheep’s milk and eating some rolls with honey.

The conversation at the table was about the auto-da-fe and I listened to the words that were tossed around me in all directions.

Tomas Torquemada is going to be present, said a stout jolly converso, who was eating cold ham.

Fray Tomas is going to give the sermon, said a beetle-browed individual, drinking wine.

I heard forty people are going to be burned, said the first speaker.

Maybe some of them will be forgiven, said a third individual, a kind, distinguished looking man, with grey hair and brown eyes.

Even then they would be burned. The clemency consists in garroting the victim first. In one case you are burned alive, in the other you are killed first and then burned.

A great tolling of bells took place announcing the beginning of the proceedings, and we went to our assigned seats. The Inquisitors sat on a high platform at the centre of the square, and, facing them a few yards away, was a mound of sorts, on which a green cross, the symbol of the Inquisition, rode high. The doomed prisoners were led toward it in a procession, priests on either side intoning verses from the gospel. Their hands were tied with ropes which were then wrapped around their torsos, and they wore sacks of yellow linen showing their names in black under the words herejia condenado. They were bareheaded and were not allowed to wear shoes, despite the cold weather, and, as last gesture of the power of the Church over them, were gagged to prevent them from bringing attention to their plight, or worse, from uttering blasphemy or profanities.

The proceedings were monotonous—there was a lengthy Mass, followed by an equally lengthy sermon, and then the reading of names of the condemned, their crimes and punishment. The gathered mobs let out howls of rage after the reading of each name, and were it not for the presence of the soldiers, it would have been impossible to control the crowd, which wanted to take justice in its own hands.

After the reading of the names was complete, a Dominican friar read verses from the Bible to justify the burning of heretics. "The Son of Man shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all things that offend, and them which do iniquity; and shall cast them into a furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth, he read from St. Matthew’s Gospel, and proceeded to strengthen the sentiment contained in it by a verse from St. John, which said If a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered; and men gather them, and cast them into the fire, and they are burned." He then announced the sequence of events that were to take place at the Plaza Quemadero: the effigies of those who had fled Toledo would be burned, followed by the bodies of those who had died in prison while undergoing interrogation; those who had pleaded for forgiveness and reconverted to Catholicism would be strangled next and their bodies burned, after which would come the punishment for the unrepentant ones: they would be roasted alive over a slow-burning fire.

When the proceedings at the square came to an end, the crowds rose up to make their way to the Quemadero. Our familiar came to our side and told us he would take us there, using little known bystreets and alleys. I followed him, giving my arm to Dona Maria Inez, after taking a last look at the condemned ones—conversos, just like me, who were standing there with vacant, unseeing eyes.

Walking through deserted shortcuts, we reached the Quemadero before the procession, and the familiar found seats for us on raised platforms, close to the stacked piles of wood. Soon, the shouts of the mob reached us and we saw the prisoners being driven to the burning grounds. The crowd was spitting on them, and kicking them, and some even set fire to their beards and hair. After they had been herded to the square, the proceedings began with a representative of the king and queen setting fire to a pile of wood, and burning the effigies of the ones who had fled the persecution. This was followed by the strangling and burning of the repentant ones. And finally, the unrepentant prisoners were gathered in a group and tied to a pile of wood, which was then set on fire by the royal representative. A Dominican friar read from the Bible the admonition of Paul to the Corinthians, to "purge out the old leaven, that ye may be a new lump, and in his instruction to deliver such a one unto Satan for the destruction of the flesh, that the spirit may be saved in the day of the Lord Jesus." Most of the victims accepted their fate passively, but some yelled, shouting that they would not go quietly and began singing Jewish hymns or chanting Jewish prayers until they were quieted by blows on the head by the guards who were watching them. The spectacle taking place before me—the penitents plaintively screaming as they were charred by fire until the smoke, fortunately, made them unconscious, the spurts of flame caused by the burning of the fat in their bodies, the crackling of the bones, and the reduction of their humanity to a heap of ashes—was making me sick, but I managed to hold my bile by swallowing repeatedly.

It was at this time I noticed a transformation on the part of Dona Maria. Her face was flushed, her breathing had quickened and her eyes had a dreamy look which I had seen in women when they are sexually aroused. I turned my eyes away from her, because my instinct told me not to get close with her—she was a hidalgo, she probably was my father’s mistress, and she was religious.

All things eventually come to an end, and the ordeal I was witnessing came to a close, with smoldering limbs and ashes stirred by the wind strewed on the burning grounds. The familiar appeared again and conducted us to our carriage. I looked for our guard, and finally found him, a little drunk, sitting on the steps of a house around the corner. I asked him to let me have his horse, which was tethered to a nearby tree, for I wanted to ride for a while in that winter afternoon, to clear my head. He saddled it for me, and I told Dona Maria I would be home in a few hours, and to tell my father not to wait for me for dinner.

I RODE WITHOUT ANY sense of where I was going, wandering without purpose or direction, noticing only the church steeples that abounded in Toledo as landmarks for my return. I rode along the banks of the Tagus River for a while, and then changed directions and made my way toward the Fort, marveling at the hideousness of the hybrid architecture I encountered—Moorish, Gothic, and Christian, nestling side by side. After a while, I noticed my horse was getting tired, for Toledo is a city built upon a hill, and I was not a light burden. A chill wind began to pick up, and my horse occasionally shivered. I turned direction again, and rode toward my father’s house.

The horse knew the way back and I let him trot, pulling my father’s cloak around me. I could hear the cries of the bloodthirsty revelers borne by the east wind and it angered me, and for the first time in my life, I felt estranged from the Old Christians—who referred to themselves in this fashion to set themselves apart from us conversos—and I felt I had become a foreigner in the land of my birth, where my ancestors had lived for more than a thousand years. I remembered my grandfather telling me Toledo was originally called Toledoth, from the Hebrew word meaning City of the Generations, and it struck me as strange that the Old Christians, instead of feeling a debt of gratitude to the Jews as founders of the city, first converted them under threat of extermination and then persecuted their Catholic descendants for heresy.

The moon had risen by the time I reached my father’s house—larger and brighter, it seemed, than it appeared in Barcelona. A servant led the horse away, and my page, who had been waiting for me all this while, led me to my chamber.

How is my father, Pedro?

He is asleep, Senor Miguel, he said. The doctor was here until a while ago, and gave him a sleeping drought.

I don’t want any dinner tonight, Pedro. Please tell the kitchen that.

How about a cup of warm milk?

I said yes to that, and in a few minutes, Pedro brought me a silver tray containing a cup of milk, and a bowl of rice pudding with raisins and nuts and a sprinkling of cinnamon. He respectfully stood in a corner while I finished the meal, and then bidding me goodnight, left the room.

I walked around the large room, looking out each window. On one side was the full moon, rising on top of the hill. On the other side, there was darkness streaked with the vague glimmer of the River Tagus. Against the wall opposite the canopied bed, there were two shelves containing printed books and manuscripts, and I looked at them for a while, idly turning pages—a Gutenberg Bible in Latin with forty-two lines per page, manuscripts of Claudius Ptolemy, Aristotle and Plato, and works of Moshe Ben Maimon—commonly known by the Greek version of his name Maimonides, which means son of Maimon—in its original Arabic.

Soon I began to feel drowsy and, changing into my father’s tunic, I fell asleep without closing the curtains so I could see the moonlight. I don’t know how long I slept, for I was awakened by the presence of someone dressed in a white robe standing next to me. The moon had moved to the other side and it was dark in the room. I thought at first it was a ghost—being superstitious at heart, even though I think of myself as a modern man, a man of science and enlightenment—but my doubts were laid to rest when the form sat on my bed and put its arms around me.

What are you doing here, Dona Inez Maria Lorca?

The answer was a low throaty moan. I thought she was sleepwalking—for she appeared to be in some kind of a trance. She cast aside her robe, and started kissing me wildly and passionately. I saw what a beautiful woman she was, with full breasts, a narrow waist and a shapely posterior. Wasting no time, she took my hand and placed it between her thighs, and without saying a word of love or endearment to me, she climbed on top of me. We had intercourse many times that night, and after each climax she knelt between my legs like someone performing a religious ceremony before a strange god and resuscitated my phallus with her mouth and hands, making inaudible sounds as though she were saying a prayer. After a while, I was getting tired and putting my hand on her shoulder, I said, Let us sleep for a while, Dona Maria Inez. There is always tomorrow. On hearing this, as abruptly as she came, she left me, putting on her robe and walking out of the room without even looking back.

IT WAS DREARY THE NEXT day. It rained in the morning, and a fog rose from the river and spread itself around the house. My page woke me around the time the church bells were ringing for matin, prepared my bath, and brought me breakfast from the kitchen—bread and honey, and warm milk. He then asked me shyly if I played chess, and upon saying yes, for I had learnt the game from Moorish classmates in Andalusia, he took a chessboard and pieces from the bookshelf. He was a good player and beat me after some thirty moves.

I then asked him a question relating to a matter that had been foremost in my mind all that morning.

Pedro, can I trust you?

Yes, Senor.

Will you find out what Dona Maria Inez Lorca is doing?

I wanted to talk to her about a lot of things—in the courtyard, or the garden or some other public place, so no slanderous tongues would wag—such as her prior life before she came to live in this house, her relationship with my father, and whether last night’s episode meant she would like to come with me, with my father’s permission, to Barcelona as my housekeeper (and possibly mistress). My wife had passed away three years ago, and I wanted a woman to take care of my house until I found a suitable bride, a young woman of wealth and culture, from one of the converso families in Barcelona.

She went to church early this morning, Senor, said Pedro, upon his return. She told me she was going to see her confessor, Fray Santhome.

My mind was not quite clear about what I should do with Dona Maria Inez Lorca, and I decided to go for a walk on my father’s land, which covered quite a substantial area. Wearing my cloak, I wandered from the browned-out rose garden to the fishpond, to rows and rows of bare trees, denuded by the winter. I clambered up a rock in the garden, slippery because of the rain, and covered with brown mud. I then saw a brook and little bridge that spanned it, and sat on a wooden trestle next to it for a while, wondering how glorious the place would look when summer rolled around. Around noontime, I went back to my room and saw Pedro waiting for me.

Your father wants to see you, Senor Miguel.

"Did Dona Inez Maria Lorca come back yet?

No, Senor.

When she comes, please ask her to speak to me at the Reception Room.

Yes, Senor.

This time I did not need any help finding my father’s room and walked through the innumerable corridors and open passageways until I saw an elderly morisco—I knew he was a hakim by his dress, probably one of my father’s several physicians—coming out of his chambers. I greeted him in a respectful manner and introduced myself.

How is my father doing, honored physician?

His heart is bad, his blood does not flow properly. There are times when a physician cannot help.

Is he near death then?

He merely nodded, and with a courteous bow, terminated the conversation and walked off, and I watched him get into his coach with two white horses—obviously a present from royalty or the nobility—which had pulled up to the front entrance of the house.

With sadness, I walked over to my father’s room, with no anticipation of what was in store for me.

We have to talk, Miguel, he said, after exchanging greetings.

I drew a chair next to his bed and sat down. He pointed to a red morocco leather case that was lying on top of a carved ebony writing table.

Please bring it here, he said.

I brought it to him and he asked me to open the case and take out the papers inside it. There were two notarized documents, signed by him a month ago.

Read it, he said.

I read the documents quickly, without paying too much heed to details. One was his final will and testament, leaving all his wealth to me. The other was addressed to several members of the Santangel family, his bankers in Saragossa, authorizing me to act on his behalf while he was alive, and to act as the executor of his will after his death. After reading the documents, I put them back in the case and looked at him.

I have made plans for you to leave for Saragossa as soon as possible. A mule is being saddled, and you can easily reach Madrid. From there you can take the public coach to Saragossa.

I was so shocked I was speechless for a few minutes.

But I planned to be with you for a few days, I said.

The cool eyes looked at me with detached amusement. He then quoted an Aragonite proverb, which said only a fool would make plans for his next meal when a fire is destroying his kitchen.

I don’t understand what you mean, I said.

What happened between you and Dona Maria Inez last night? he asked in a casual manner, avoiding my eyes.

I flushed.

I cannot reveal what happened for reasons of honor, as you well know.

I would not have asked you, but the circumstances call for it.

He reflected for a while, and then continued in his dispassionate tone, with his eyes averted, as though he was trying to convince himself of the truth of his narration.

"Dona Maria Inez went to Fray Juan Santhome, her confessor, this morning, and said she wanted to retire to a convent to do penance. Upon his asking her the reason for this sudden request, she told him the sight of you aroused desires she had never experienced—certainly not toward her late husband, who was an older man, and who suffered from gout. She told him that sitting next to you at the auto-da-fe, she was so aroused physically she went to your room last night and satisfied her carnal needs. Our good friar asked her a lot of indecent questions and found out you were circumcised. He immediately conferred with his superiors and they decided the de Avilas were secret practitioners of Judaism. You know your grandfather followed some of the ancient customs of the Jews. I too did likewise. I did not think circumcising my son would condemn me or you to hell for all eternity—nor would the celebration of the feast of Passover with my friend Bernal. But the Church views these acts as crimes, and they are going to arrest you and me, and throw us into a dungeon, under the power given to them by the Grand Inquisitor."

He paused, and looked very tired.

You should rest for a while, father.

I shall rest after you leave. They have spies in this house. The page Pedro is in the employ of the Inquisition Council.

Seeing the shocked expression on my face, he said, wearily, "You cannot trust anyone, Miguel. I have spies too. The familiar who took you to the auto-da-fe, Senor Luis Hermano, is in my pay. He is the one who reported to me the proceedings of the Inquisition Council. It was convened this morning at the behest of Fray Santhome, who has persuaded Dona Inez Maria to come forward as an accuser against you. You are going to be served notice to appear before the Council tomorrow."

On what charges? I am no heretic, as you well know.

"Dona Inez Maria watched the expression on your face during the auto-da-fe and she has issued a sworn statement that you showed grief and sympathy for the heretics. She has revealed you are circumcised and the Council’s examiners are going to verify it tomorrow. They will accuse both of us being secret Jews, and that is why I want you to leave."

Can’t I stay here and fight it? It is an unfair accusation, as you well know.

You don’t understand. They—by they I mean the Church and the Crown—want my property. They know I am one of the richest men in Toledo. They want to do to me what they did to the Sanchez family: they brought charges against them as secret judaizers because they were present at a Passover dinner at a friend’s house. They used torture to extract false confessions, and burned them yesterday. You cannot stay here and fight. They won’t tell you what your accusers have told them, nor will they confront you with specific charges. You will be thrown into a dark room with closed windows, with rats scurrying around, and periodically they will torture you to ‘tell the truth,’ until you blurt out something which they will use as evidence against you.

How about you, father? Won’t they do the same to you?

I have only a month to live, according to the physicians. Besides, I have made the decision to convert to Judaism. I prefer to live out my last days as a Jew instead of a Christian.

They will confiscate your lands, if you are a Jew. According to the law, you are supposed to live inside the Juderia, and you are not supposed to own land.

I have already sold most of my land and buildings. This house is heavily mortgaged, and the creditors will claim it if my title is taken away. Most of my holdings are in gold, and they are with my friends, the Santangels. I will move to the Juderia and spend the rest of my life there in the house where my father lived. No harm will befall me, unlike you, who are in imminent danger. Please leave this house, Miguel, and, after showing the legal documents I gave you to the Santangel family in Saragossa, return to Barcelona. The arm of the Inquisition has not reached Barcelona yet, and you will be safe. Disguise yourself as a pilgrim in the library, and go to the stables. I have sent Pedro away on an errand, and there are no other spies in the house. The mule must be saddled by now, and you must leave the house through the rear gate.

I agreed to his suggestion, albeit reluctantly. He had explained everything lucidly—everything, except one fact.

Father, before I leave, there is something weighing on my mind.

What is it?

What is your relationship with Dona Inez Maria?

A gleam of amusement appeared in his eyes, then vanished, to be replaced by sadness.

"You are wondering if I have any interest in her, are you? Perhaps you are thinking that you have done to me what I did to you when I seduced your betrothed, Hanna Baroli? My son, let the past stay buried. You are not guilty of any wrongdoing, since it was Dona Inez Maria who initiated the affair. Actually, her behavior comes as a surprise to me. She is usually very strict and proper in her manner, and has never been alone with me without a chaperone. The spectacle of the auto-da-fe must have unhinged her. Need I say more?"

No.

Oh, before you leave, I want you to do me a favor. Hanna Baroli bore me a son, and she is living in Saragossa. His name is Luis, and I have provided for their support. Think of Luis as your brother. He bears our name, and looks like you when you were his age. I want you to meet him and give help and support to him and his mother.

My reaction, when I heard this, was annoyance at this outrageous request, but, seeing the pleading look on the dying man’s face, I relented.

I shall carry out your wishes, father, I said.

One more thing, Miguel. Write down everything that happens to you and keep it in a safe place so future generations can learn the truth about us.

I will.

I then kissed his forehead, and left the room; in a few minutes, I was on the road to Saragossa on the back of a sturdy mule. I never saw him again, and I never went back to Toledo. Every now and then I would get a secret message from Senor Bernal telling me about the happenings in Toledo. His first message merely said, You need a Guttenberg Latin Bible. The subsequent messages were in code—he would use number triplets to indicate the page, line, and position of the word in the Bible. A traveler—a Moor or a Jew, usually—would give one of my servants an envelope containing the message, and would disappear without waiting to see me. By these means, I