THE CHRONOS OF ANDALUCIA

By Merom Toledano

The Chronos of Andalucía

An epic tale of identity, power, and the limits of time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amazon
• Release date: Apr 10, 2025
• ISBN: 9781069606419

Book preview

Chapter 1: The Andalucian Spark

T

he golden sun of Andalucía cast its glow upon the whitewashed walls of Granada, where the Alhambra loomed like an eternal guardian over the city. The scent of orange blossoms and distant sea air interwove with the smoky spices of the bustling souks, painting a world that straddled the past and the present, Moorish grandeur and impending Spanish dominion.

The year was 1487, and Granada pulsed with a restless energy, its heart still echoing with the grandeur of Moorish civilization, but steadily sinking beneath the weight of Christian dominance. Under the iron fist of Catholic Spain, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, united in marriage and purpose, had driven the Moors from most of the Iberian Peninsula and now set their sights on the final stronghold: Granada. The streets of the Albayzín, winding and labyrinthine, teemed with the clamor of a city caught between worlds. The sounds of bustling merchants hawking their wares in the souks—brightly dyed silks, perfumed oils, spices from distant lands—mixed with the heavy clang of Christian soldiers’ boots against cobblestones, their armor catching the light of the late afternoon sun. The scent of fresh bread and roasting lamb rose from the smoky kitchens that spilled out into the streets, blending with the heady perfume of orange blossoms in full bloom. The air was thick with the heat of summer, and the soft murmur of conversation—half-Spanish, half-Arabic—floated on the warm breeze, laced with an undercurrent of tension. Women veiled in bright fabrics passed by in quiet haste, their eyes sharp, always alert, while children—free for the moment from the shadows of the looming Inquisition—ran through the narrow alleys, their laughter mingling with the distant calls to prayer from the minarets of the Alhambra.

Above it all, the Alhambra stood as an unyielding sentinel, its walls a silent testament to a fading past, while the flag of Castile fluttered above, a reminder of the new order taking root. The city was a delicate dance of cultures, yet a quiet fear hovered like a storm cloud waiting to burst—whispers of the Inquisition, the fear of betrayal, and the ever-present reminder that change was coming. People knew that the winds of history were blowing in directions they couldn’t control, and in the shadows of the old city, the fate of Granada itself hung in the balance.

Catalina de Valois was no stranger to the weight of secrets. Catalina, at twenty years of age, was a vision of Andalucian beauty, a delicate bloom in the twilight of Granada's reign. Her skin, the color of sun-warmed honey, possessed a softness that belied the strength within her. It was the kind of skin that seemed to hold the warmth of the Andalucian sun, smooth and luminous.

Her eyes, large and dark, were the windows to a sharp, keen intellect. They held the depth of an ancient Roman poetry and the acute observation of a seasoned astrologer's apprentice. They could gleam with intellectual curiosity one moment, and darken with the shadows of the secrets she uncovered the next. Her thick, raven hair, often adorned with intricately woven braids and delicate silver ornaments, cascaded down her back, a stark contrast to the pale silk of her garments. Catalina had never parted with the pair of floral enamel earrings that adorned her ears—a cherished gift from her mother. Their intricate design bore an ancient, enigmatic symbol, etched into the metal with a craftsmanship long forgotten. The texture, uneven yet deliberate, hinted at origins shrouded in mystery, their meaning lost to time.

Her features were delicate, yet strong: a straight, elegant nose, high cheekbones that hinted at her dignified heritage, and full, expressive lips that could curve into a knowing smile or tighten with determination. Her hands, though slender and graceful, were not those of a pampered noblewoman. They were the hands of an artist, skilled in the delicate art of crafting astrolabes, transcribing celestial charts and hand-woven bracelets. The calluses on her fingertips and the subtle stains of ink and pigments spoke of hours spent in meticulous work.

Despite her youth, Catalina possessed a quiet confidence, a sense of self forged in the vibrant, yet precarious, environment of Granada. She had navigated the complex social currents of the court, learning to read between the lines and decipher the hidden meanings behind whispered conversations. Though she carried herself with grace and composure, there was an underlying fire in her spirit, a determination to uncover the truth and protect the fragile peace of her beloved city and region.

Born into a world that rejected her existence—half Christian, half Jewish—she had learned from a young age to navigate the corridors of knowledge in silence. Books had been her sanctuary, numbers her solace, the stars her unwavering guides. The courts of Granada, where she had managed to find tutelage under the famed astronomer Zacuto, had provided her the rarest of privileges: the chance to study the heavens beyond the limitations of her birth.

But to Catalina, even this was a dream far beyond reach, and one she had to sneak toward, step by cautious step. She had always been resourceful, and tonight was no exception. As dusk draped itself over the city, she had waited in the shadows near the Alcaicería, its narrow alleys barely lit by flickering torches. The pungent scent of tobacco, spices, and sweat hung thick in the air, the sounds of merchants calling out to passing customers fading as she crept closer to the Royal Astronomical Academy.

Her heart raced—not just from the thrill of defying her circumstances, but from the anticipation of hearing Zacuto speak. She had always been drawn to the stars, their quiet, endless language calling to her with an intensity she could not explain. But more than that, she felt she had been born for something more. Her hunger for knowledge, her drive to understand the universe, was like an insatiable flame, and Zacuto—he was the key to unlocking it.

Her footsteps were silent on the stone streets, and though she was but a girl from the poor quarters of Granada, the weight of her ambition felt like something heavy and profound. As she reached the heavy wooden doors of the academy, she could see through the cracks the dim glow of lanterns, the muffled sound of men discussing the heavens. Zacuto's voice, strong yet calm, carried even through the door.

Catalina didn’t hesitate. She slipped through the gaps, just another shadow in the labyrinth of academic intrigue. She found her way into the small lecture hall, filled with men who spoke of things too complex for a girl like her. She had no official place here, and she knew it. Her rough hands, worn from years of hard work, gripped the edge of a pillar, where she could remain hidden yet close enough to listen.

Zacuto was at the front, his dark, sharp eyes flicking over ancient celestial charts. The words he spoke were filled with such gravity that they seemed to carry the weight of time itself. The other students, mostly young noblemen or well-off merchants, hung on his every word. But to Catalina, it was as if the universe itself was unfolding before her eyes.

She leaned in closer, her breath held, her mind racing. She had only heard whispers of the secrets he had unlocked, of the ancient maps he had created that guided sailors across uncharted waters. Tonight, the opportunity to listen was worth everything. She felt as if she were seeing the stars for the first time, each one a revelation she could never return from. Every word he spoke echoed in her heart, the knowledge sinking deeper into her soul.

Her gaze never left Zacuto as he spoke of an astronomical phenomena, of celestial alignments and the secrets hidden within the stars. The lecture wasn’t just about charts or calculations—it was about unlocking the mysteries of time itself. She clung to every syllable, her youthful naivety making her believe that, somehow, she could master these same skills. The possibility of it—of learning more than what her birth had destined for her—was intoxicating.

Her fingers itched to take notes, but she had nothing to write with, and no place to write them even if she had. But it didn’t matter. She would remember, and her heart would carry the knowledge until she could one day prove herself. She was not just any girl from the streets of Granada—she was Catalina, and she would not be bound by her birth. She would transcend it.

When Zacuto finally paused, Catalina’s breath caught, the weight of his silence heavy with the promise of more. The other students murmured amongst themselves, scribbling down notes or asking questions, but to Catalina, all the world had been reduced to that one moment of pure, unbridled yearning.

She remained hidden in the shadows for as long as she could, drinking in every last drop of Zacuto’s knowledge. But when the lecture began to wind down, and the voices of the men grew louder, Catalina knew it was time to leave. She slipped away, her footsteps light but filled with a weight of purpose she had never known before.

She couldn’t wait to return to the streets, to return to the quiet of the night, where she could again dream of the stars, of the vastness beyond the walls of Granada, and of the secrets that only Zacuto could reveal.

Yet even the vast expanse of the night sky had not prepared her for what lay hidden within the astrolabe before her.

Chapter 2: Revelation

It had been a mere accident—or perhaps fate—that led her to it. She had been tracing constellations in the candlelight of her childhood chamber, running her fingers absently over the woven fibers of the old rug beneath her feet. A flicker of movement caught her attention—a thin, near-invisible line etched into the floor beneath the carpet.

Curious, she peeled back the fabric.

The wooden planks beneath held a whisper of something deliberate, a fine seam in the grain that should not have been there. Heart pounding, she pressed her fingers against the edges, feeling for a latch or a groove—anything that would hint at a hidden compartment.

Then, a shift. A slight depression under her touch.

With a soft creak, the floorboard lifted.

The dust of decades swirled in the dim light as she reached inside, fingers grazing the cool surface of something metallic, something ancient.

An astrolabe.

But not just any astrolabe.

It was heavier than the ones she had studied in Zacuto’s chambers, its brass worn smooth by the passage of time, its edges engraved with sigils and star-charts unfamiliar to even her trained eye. Symbols wound their way around the outer disc—not merely Latin or Aramaic, but something older, something forgotten.

The moment she lifted it into her lap, she knew.

This was not just an instrument of navigation.

It was an inheritance. A relic passed down through generations, hidden within the walls of her mother’s home.

A secret meant for her to find.

With shaking hands, she traced the intricate engravings on the brass instrument with a reverent hand, feeling the cool metal beneath her fingertips. This was no ordinary device for measuring the stars; it bore markings beyond the known constellations, symbols that resonated with something buried deep in her memory. As she pressed her palm against the ornate patterns, a faint click resonated within the chamber.

The astrolabe split open, revealing a concealed compartment.

Inside lay a fragile fragment of parchment, aged and delicate as if it had weathered centuries untold. Upon it, celestial charts stretched in a cryptic dance, their lines whispering of a realm beyond the reach of mortal understanding. A small weight settled in her chest—this was not simply an astronomical guide; it was a map. Seemed cut in half. And it pointed to something that should not exist.

Catalina’s breath quickened as she carefully unfolded the parchment. The inked script, though partially faded, pulsed with meaning. It spoke of a hidden nexus where time wove itself into the fabric of the stars, where ancient energies ebbed and flowed like the tides of the seas may lead to the Chronos Stone. A relic of whispered legends, of impossible power.

Her mind raced. She had spent years proving herself in a world that dismissed her for her gender, for her heritage. To possess such mastery was a dangerous privilege. A knock echoed sharply on her door, followed by a low voice.

Open up, señora. The Grand Inquisitor’s orders!

Catalina froze. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She had heard those words before—the same chilling tone that signaled the Inquisition’s patrols were upon her. She could feel the weight of her bloodline in the air, the undeniable truth that it was only a matter of time before they would come looking for people like her.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the torn map. She couldn’t afford to be caught now, not with this knowledge, this key to her mother’s legacy in her hands.

Señora, open the door. We know you're inside.

The voice on the other side was calm, almost casual. But it sent a ripple of fear through her as she glanced nervously around the room. Her instincts kicked in—the Inquisition officers had no interest in formality. They were here to root out heretics, to search for anyone who didn't belong.

Without another thought, Catalina seized her cloth bag, carefully tucking the map into the folds of her bodice, ensuring it was hidden from view., feeling the parchment warm against her skin as her pulse quickened. There was no time to think—no time to hide, no time to run.

She turned back toward the door, pushing a steadying hand through her tangled hair, and tried to control the panic rising in her chest. A deep breath. Calm. Stay calm.

The knock came again, louder this time, almost forceful. We are coming in!

Panic rose as she heard the creak of wood in the hallway. They were inside.

In one fluid motion, she grabbed a heavy iron candlestick from the table and, without thinking, swung it wildly toward the door. It connected with a dull thud against the first officer’s head, sending him stumbling back into the second officer with a grunt of surprise.

They were stunned, but not for long.

Catalina bolted toward the small window at the back of her house, already shedding her apron, hoping the officer would not recover in time to stop her. She yanked the window open and ducked through, her legs straining as she hit the dirt floor below.

Her heart raced as she scrambled to her feet, not pausing to look back. A shout sounded from inside—louder this time. They were coming for her.

The cool night air hit her face as she took off down the alley, her breath sharp and uneven. She moved swiftly through the narrow streets, ducking into the shadow of a larger building to change her appearance.

She tore off the last traces of her apron, and in the midst of her frantic escape, she swapped her dress for one she had tucked under her arm earlier—a simpler, nondescript outfit meant to blend in. She ran a hand through her hair, pulling it back into a tight braid as her pulse thudded in her ears.

By the time she emerged back into the bustling marketplace, she had transformed from the anxious, young woman they might have recognized into just another face in the crowd. Her hand-woven bracelets, tied in bundles, jingled softly at her side as she walked quickly through the busy street. The sound of lively merchants and haggling customers filled her ears, and for a moment, it almost felt like everything was normal again.

Lament of Oblivion

Diego Navarro had long stopped believing in destiny. Diego was short