Miriam gave birth to a son and named him Yeshu.
“Yeshu, that is Jesus, Our Lord,” the monk-translator had noted.
On the eighth day he was circumcised. When he was old enough, the child was taken by Miriam to the house of study to be instructed in the Jewish tradition.
The queen looked up from the page, attempting to make sense of what she had just read. Jesus, the Lord Incarnate, the bastard issue of the Virgin Mary’s rape? Jesus, God Himself, trained in the Jewish tradition? The queen knew that none of the Gospels even entertained the possibility that Jesus had received a Jewish education. On the contrary, the only mention of any event in the Lord’s life, between his birth and his baptism at thirty, was found in Luke, who recounted that at the age of twelve, Jesus wandered into the Temple and—far from receiving the Jews’ corrupt instruction—offered instruction to the elders there, who were flabbergasted to discover such depths of learning in a young child.
In the Temple was to be found the Foundation Stone. On it, the letters of God’s Ineffable Name were engraved. Whoever learned the secret of the Name and its use would be able to do whatever he wished. However, there were two lions of brass, bound to the pillars at the place of burnt offerings. Should anyone enter and learn the Name, when he left the lions would roar at him. Immediately, the valuable secret would be forgotten.
Yeshu came and learned the letters of the Name. He wrote them upon a parchment that he placed in an open cut on his thigh. Then he drew the flesh over the parchment. As he left, the lions roared and he forgot the secret. But when he came to his house, he reopened the cut in his flesh with a knife and lifted out the writing. Then he remembered and obtained the use of the letters.
Yeshu proclaimed, “I am the Messiah! Concerning me Isaiah prophesied and said, ‘Behold, a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call him Immanuel.’”
They brought to him a lame man, who had never walked. Yeshu spoke over the man the letters of the Ineffable Name, and the man was healed. Thereupon, they worshipped him as the Messiah, Son of the Highest.
When Yeshu was summoned before the queen, he said, “It is spoken of me, ‘He shall ascend into heaven.’” He lifted his arms like the wings of an eagle and flew between heaven and earth, to the amazement of everyone.
The sages of Israel then decided that one of them, Yehuda Iskarioto, should learn the Ineffable Name, so as to rival Yeshu in signs and wonders.
“Iskarioto,” read the monk’s annotation, “that is, the traitor Judas Iscariot.”
Iskarioto flew toward heaven. He attempted to force Yeshu down to earth but neither could prevail against the other, for both had the use of the Ineffable Name. However, Iskarioto defiled Yeshu, so that they both lost their power and fell to earth, and in their condition of defilement the letters of the Ineffable Name escaped from them. On the head of Yeshu, the people set a crown of thorns.
Below her window, dignitaries were gathering in the spacious courtyard of the Alhambra, expecting to meet Ysabel and celebrate her victory. She turned her eyes back to the page in her hands, appalled but also spellbound.
Yeshu was put to death at the sixth hour on the eve of the Passover and of the Sabbath. His bold followers came to Queen Helene with the report that he who was slain was truly the Messiah and that he was not in his grave. He had ascended to heaven as he prophesied. A diligent search was made and he was not found in the grave where he had been buried. A farmer had taken him from the grave, brought him into his field, and buried him there.
The erring followers of Yeshu said, “You have slain the Messiah of the Lord.” And the other Israelites answered, “You have believed in a false prophet.” There was endless strife and discord for thirty years.
The sages desired to separate from Israel those who continued to claim Yeshu as the Messiah, and they called upon a greatly learned man, Simeon Kepha, for help.
“Simeon Kepha,” the monk had scrawled in the margin, “that is, Saint Paul.”
Simeon went to Antioch and proclaimed, “I am the disciple of Yeshu. He has sent me to show you the way.” He added that Yeshu desired that they separate themselves from the Jews and no longer follow their practices. They were to ignore the ritual of circumcision and the dietary laws.
This text, the queen understood at once, claimed that Saint Paul was nothing but a secret Jew, a converso working for the Pharisees, preaching to the Nazarenes to deceive them and separate them from the Jews, so that the faith of the Jews might remain pure and untainted by the deceptions of this “Yeshu.”
Further, this monstrous document appeared to claim that Judas Iscariot, the venal, devious apostle who sold the Lord for thirty pieces of silver, was Jesus’s equal. She attempted to puzzle through the distortions of history and revelation that this reinvention of Paul and the Gospels represented, until she stopped herself, wondering whether she was being drawn into a devious and perverse path of reasoning.
To give any credence, any thought at all, to the outrageous propositions in this—what was it called again? this Toledoth Yeshu—was to expose her mind, her heart, her eternal soul to heresy and blasphemy. She did not know whether to thank Tomás de Torquemada or curse him.
How could anyone, she asked herself, believe such filth? Did not the evidence of history prove beyond a doubt that God hated those who denied His Word? Did not the fate of the Jews speak for itself? Did not her own defeat of the Muslims, hers and her husband’s, here and now, on this soil of Andalusia, prove that God was on the side of the Christians?
If this ignominious parody was the secret teaching of the Jews, and she had seen proof of that, in unmistakable Hebrew characters on an ancient parchment—if this was indeed what they taught New Christians, and possibly old Christians, too, in their secret meetings—then, just as Father Torquemada had predicted, she knew precisely what she had to do.
She stood and, with quivering hands, replaced the translated text in her trunk. Her heart and mind in turmoil, she slowly brought her crucifix to her lips and kissed it. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. Wiping them, she hurried downstairs to meet her husband and some three hundred courtiers for a sumptuous, celebratory meal. Her thoughts, however, were elsewhere, already planning her next battle, the greatest and holiest battle of her life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
UNAWARE OF THE DISCOVERY of the Toledoth Yeshu, Luis de Santángel rode again to Granada to meet with the king and queen. There, he attempted to sleep in one of the numerous homes the Christian victors had seized from their Moorish enemies. A party of noisy, giddy soldiers downstairs, and the knowledge that he lay within blocks of the Jewish quarter and Judith Migdal’s home, kept him awake.
He wondered how all this disorder had altered her life. So much had changed since he had first set eyes on her at the Alhambra castle. He remembered the warmth of the vizier whom he had betrayed on Ysabel’s orders, the splashing of fountains in the courtyard, the raven-haired silversmith in her gold-embroidered dress, her proud bearing, the softness in her smile.
Now, he reflected, Baba Shlomo was dead, as was his own brother and, in a different sense, his son. Granada now belonged to Ysabel and Fernando, and to Christ. The chancellor’s world and Judith’s had utterly changed.
Did Judith still reside in Granada? Perhaps she was lying in bed at this moment, similarly wondering about his fate. He arose and dressed. With so little left to lose, he found his way to the Jewish quarter.
After wandering through the quarter for some time, he happened upon the synagogue, which he recognized by the menorah and the Hebrew inscription carved in stone over the entrance. From there, he retraced the path to Judith’s house, only a few streets away—the heavy wooden gate, the olivewood mezuzah. He stood for a moment at a loss.
It was not Santángel’s custom to enter a home unbidden, but if he did not do so tonight, when would he? Now that Granada belonged to the Christians, with Ysabel and Fernando in the city, he would not dare wander into the Jewish quarter in the broad light
of day.
He pushed the gate open and entered the courtyard. There was the moss-covered fountain, the jasmine, the door of Judith’s dwelling.
He had taken so many risks and lost so much. This small moonlit quadrangle in the midst of a vanquished town felt simultaneously like refuge and perdition. All that had happened to him, to his aide Felipe, to Catalina, to his brother, to his son, to the last shreds of his family, had brought him to this modest home, seeking tenuous consolation.
Inside he found the brass table where he had once dined, the silver goblets, the colorful wool rugs strewn across the tiled floor, the water jar from which he had sipped, that night so long ago. He climbed the narrow staircase to the second story. In her room at the end of the hallway, Judith Migdal lay slumbering on several pillows, her body half covered, molded in a sheet that concealed as much as it revealed. Moonlight streamed over her peaceful features, her graceful neck, her smooth shoulders, her shapely leg entangled in linen. She muttered in her sleep, turning slightly, and the sheet fell away a bit. Luis de Santángel held his breath.
With Judith Migdal lying before him, unaware of his yearnings, the unreality of Santángel’s asylum glowed as starkly bright as the moon. He turned to leave, bumping against the door. It creaked loudly. Judith sat up with a start, drawing the sheet around her shoulders.
“Please, forgive me, my lady,” the courtier fumbled. “I so wanted to see you again. I meant no disrespect. I realize, now, how rash I’ve been.”
“Chancellor?”
“I shall take my leave.”
“No, no. Please.” She gestured for him to sit.
Luis de Santángel, the chancellor of Aragon, sat on pillows beside the mattress of Judith Migdal, the Jewish silver merchant.
“What brought you here? Tell me.”
He tried not to think of her form under the sheet, so near he could feel its warmth. He spoke of the tragedies and betrayals he had experienced since their last encounter.
She interrupted from time to time, but mostly listened, more to his distress and confusion than to his words.
She heard something else, too, not in his voice, but in her heart. He had sought refuge in her home. She remembered the brooch he had sent her, their evening together in the king’s trysting place, the way he had kissed her hand, when they first met at the Alhambra. She remembered how he had sought her out at her shop, at the synagogue, and then come to her home.
She realized that Luis de Santángel had fallen in love with her and had come to her for comfort when he had lost everything. She had misjudged him. She had thought him a Christian and therefore unworthy of her trust. Tonight he was neither Christian nor Jew but simply a man.
For a moment, she seemed at a loss. Then she made a decision: to trust her instinct, to trust this man, to trust the moment.
She leaned toward him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. After hearing the harrowing story of his son’s disloyalty and his brother’s tragic death, she longed to provide what comfort she could, to herself as well as to him.
They learned that night that even at the center of dismal distress, there beats a heart of hope and comfort, if only one listens for it, if only one allows oneself to feel its affirmation.
Hours after Judith fell back to sleep, Santángel remained beside her. Finally, telling himself it would be wise to leave the Jewish quarter before dawn, he kissed her gently on the forehead and rose. In drizzling darkness, he marched back through the small, dark streets of Granada to his temporary lodgings. He tried to imagine how he and Judith could arrange their lives to provide companionship for one another. He could devise only two strategies, both impossible. Either Judith would have to accept baptism, or he, Luis de Santángel, royal chancellor of Aragon, would have to abandon wealth and rank to flee with her.
He would never ask Judith to become Christian. Not only would she refuse, she would also lose respect for him.
He had fought his entire life for acceptance and dignity in a society where neither was his birthright. To abandon that struggle, to walk away from his achievements, would be to hand a victory to those who wished to deny his humanity.
His wealth and eminence had protected him and Gabriel. As much as he wished to spend the rest of his days in the company of Judith Migdal, the cost seemed unbearable. Such a sacrifice would alter his identity itself. A person was not merely a soul or a Platonic abstraction. A person was a web of relationships with social and religious groups, with society as a whole, with God. To change these affiliations was to alter one’s being. To sever them was to destroy oneself.
And yet … and yet, he had been alone long enough. Having found the answer to his solitude, he could no longer bear the thought of a life without her.
He turned a corner and spotted two soldiers of the Santa Hermandad, stationed before the home where he was staying, oblivious to the rain. Tomás de Torquemada either had shown Felipe de Almazón’s confessions to the king and queen and obtained permission to arrest him, or decided to bypass the Crowns entirely.
If they captured him, what would become of Judith? Would she await him the following night, and the night after, and finally conclude he had abandoned her? The thought of her waiting in vain for him was as unbearable as the solitude, interrogation, and judgment that might await him if he were taken.
He looked around, down the street, toward the alleys abutting it. He could still flee, but how far would he get? For how long? What would become of his reputation? To run would amount to suicide. If he allowed the Inquisition to detain him, however, he might negotiate his way back to freedom. The king still owed him a great deal.
One of the soldiers saw him, then consulted with the other. The two men approached. “Your name, sir?”
“Luis de Santángel, royal chancellor of Aragon.”
“Sir, we have instructions to take you.”
The Inquisition detained Luis de Santángel in an abandoned private home a few miles outside the city. Hooded Dominicans provided him with bread and broth twice a day. His room afforded a view of wild, unkempt gardens and the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
The monks and their masters forbade him to send word of his arrest, but provided him with a printed Latin Bible, both Old and New Testaments, in two large tomes. Far from the clatter and business of the city, with little to distract him but the soft rustle of wind in olive and oak leaves, the chirping of sparrows nesting under the roof, and his own thoughts, he began reading. The many worlds of the Bible opened their gates as they never had before—the gardens, deserts, and meadows; the mangers and palaces; the past, present, and future.
When he was not reading, he lay on his blanket on the floor, savoring recollections of the night he had spent with Judith Migdal, but anguished to think of the confusion and betrayal she must be feeling as she awaited word from him. He could still hear the bafflement and understanding in her voice when he had unburdened himself. He wondered how the two of them could have allowed themselves to sail into impossible-to-navigate waters.
When Judith had accepted Santángel into her bed, she had made a decision. She would allow her life to mingle with this man’s life. The chancellor was exceptional in so many ways: in the breadth of his intelligence and knowledge of the world, in his refusal to let others define away his own sense of right and wrong, in his ability to sympathize with those less fortunate than himself, in having loved his wife so deeply and not having hurried to replace her.
When Judith held Santángel, she felt she was bathing in warm waters, waters of comfort and certainty in which she had never before immersed herself. She had no doubt his emotions mirrored hers.
When he failed to return the next day, she assumed he had important business elsewhere. Days later, his absence and lack of communication began to trouble her. She worried he had come to harm at the hands of the Inquisition. She set out to find him.
Where, in the former kingdom of Granada, was one to search for the chancellor of Aragon? The only place she could think of was t
he Alhambra, where the king and queen now resided. As she approached the base of the hill upon which the great castle sat, she found soldiers and other foreigners, thousands of them. They had pitched tents in the streets. Pigs and ducks roasted on spits in the open air. They had converted some of the opulent residences into taverns where they drank and played card games, gambling away their booty. The alleys reeked of beer and wine.
In the heart of her own city, she had entered another realm, a realm free of Jews and Muslims. The only women she met were prostitutes. As she circulated among the soldiers, they whistled, grunted, and made obscene gestures. She quickened her step.
One soldier broke away from his companions. “Do you need something, señorita?”
“Yes,” replied Judith in Spanish. “I’m looking for the chancellor of Aragon.” She smiled politely.
“The chancellor of Aragon. Is that right?”
“Could he be up there?” She glanced toward the Alhambra castle, at the top of the hill.
“They’re all up there. But you and I?” He shook his head.
“And if I tried?”
With his foot, the soldier pointed to a roach scurrying across a cobblestone. “You see that bug?” He squashed the roach. “Can I escort you home, señorita?”
“No, thank you.”
As she hurried back toward the Jewish quarter, an opulent carriage clattered up a narrow street. Inside sat an elegant woman in a purple velvet dress with a high, lacy neck. On her chest hung the silver crucifix.
Judith saw Queen Ysabel turn and look at her, smiling icily and fingering her pendant, as if conjuring its talismanic powers to protect her from Judith’s stare. The queen’s carriage passed and disappeared around a corner.