how little it takes to convict a converso of judaizing.”
“Pah! We go to mass regularly and abstain from eating meat on Fridays. What more is asked of us? You are only upset because the expulsion date draws near and our son sails with the Genoese.”
“At least Aaron will be safe—oh, I must call him Diego, not Aaron! You see, even our names betray us. I fear even the walls have ears, and the daughter of a Crossbearer...” Serafina ran her hands over her silvered hair, smoothing it into her stiffly embroidered headdress. “When will this end, Benjamin? When?”
Across the city Aaron Torres reined in his mount at the Torres palace, letting the warm, golden sunlight and sweetly burbling fountain in the courtyard welcome him. “Soon I will be far away at sea. I will miss this place,” he murmured to Andaluz, forcing himself not to think of how much he would miss his parents and Ana and her baby daughter. Bidding farewell to Isaac and Ruth had nearly broken his heart.
A deep bitterness welled up inside him as he recalled the final leave-taking on that bleak mountain road high in the Pyrenees. At least his aunt and uncle were safe, along with much of their hard-earned gold. Yet tens of thousands of other Jews would not be so fortunate. In mid-July, with only weeks before the final expulsion deadline, they clogged the roads in a stream of human misery that stretched from the high plateaus of Castile to the rocky promontories of Catalonia. Aaron had seen merchants and bankers, physicians and skilled tradesmen, all forced to sell priceless family heirlooms, thousands of acres of land, magnificent palaces, and blooded livestock for a pittance.
In Lerida he had seen a wool merchant sell his warehouse for less than a thousand maravedis, which Aaron knew, would barely pay his way from Barcelona to Naples in a leaky, worm-eaten trading vessel. The fortunate ones were highly placed politically, men who had planned ahead pragmatically. Few Jews had believed the monarchs would expel them from their ancient home and now the majority of the doubters were paying a bitter price.
The noonday heat was drugging as he dismounted. A groom took Andaluz and headed toward the stables to give the splendid beast a thorough rubdown. A wide grin suddenly slashed Aaron's face as he entered the shade of the spacious courtyard. Mama always had a fit when he had done it as a boy, but now—how could he resist the fountain? He had ridden the length of Aragon and Castile far south into Andalusia, spending weeks in the saddle. Dust coated his sweat-soaked skin beneath layers of clothing. Aaron unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall with a clatter, then tossed his cape atop it and began to peel his tunic over broad muscular shoulders. He knelt beside the fountain and then plunged his head beneath the cool, sparkling water.
Magdalena stood rooted on the porch watching in rapt fascination as Diego appeared at the opposite end of the courtyard, striding purposefully toward the central fountain. Her eyes widened in amazement as he stripped to the waist and dunked himself in the water. Entranced, she drew nearer, her silk skirts rustling softly as she approached.
Years of survival on the battlefield had honed Aaron's instincts. He stood up and turned with blurring speed to confront the silent intruder, shaking long shaggy golden hair from his eyes. “Who—you are the Valdés girl! What by all the saints has brought you to my home?” His scowl was as fierce as if he faced a Moorish soldier instead of a mere slip of a girl.
As he turned toward her, Magdalena watched the water that darkened his hair fly in a spray about his head and her eyes followed the path of the glistening droplets as they rolled over the muscles of his chest and arms. She could smell the faint aroma of male musk and horse that still clung to him. He had journeyed a
“Pah! We go to mass regularly and abstain from eating meat on Fridays. What more is asked of us? You are only upset because the expulsion date draws near and our son sails with the Genoese.”
“At least Aaron will be safe—oh, I must call him Diego, not Aaron! You see, even our names betray us. I fear even the walls have ears, and the daughter of a Crossbearer...” Serafina ran her hands over her silvered hair, smoothing it into her stiffly embroidered headdress. “When will this end, Benjamin? When?”
Across the city Aaron Torres reined in his mount at the Torres palace, letting the warm, golden sunlight and sweetly burbling fountain in the courtyard welcome him. “Soon I will be far away at sea. I will miss this place,” he murmured to Andaluz, forcing himself not to think of how much he would miss his parents and Ana and her baby daughter. Bidding farewell to Isaac and Ruth had nearly broken his heart.
A deep bitterness welled up inside him as he recalled the final leave-taking on that bleak mountain road high in the Pyrenees. At least his aunt and uncle were safe, along with much of their hard-earned gold. Yet tens of thousands of other Jews would not be so fortunate. In mid-July, with only weeks before the final expulsion deadline, they clogged the roads in a stream of human misery that stretched from the high plateaus of Castile to the rocky promontories of Catalonia. Aaron had seen merchants and bankers, physicians and skilled tradesmen, all forced to sell priceless family heirlooms, thousands of acres of land, magnificent palaces, and blooded livestock for a pittance.
In Lerida he had seen a wool merchant sell his warehouse for less than a thousand maravedis, which Aaron knew, would barely pay his way from Barcelona to Naples in a leaky, worm-eaten trading vessel. The fortunate ones were highly placed politically, men who had planned ahead pragmatically. Few Jews had believed the monarchs would expel them from their ancient home and now the majority of the doubters were paying a bitter price.
The noonday heat was drugging as he dismounted. A groom took Andaluz and headed toward the stables to give the splendid beast a thorough rubdown. A wide grin suddenly slashed Aaron's face as he entered the shade of the spacious courtyard. Mama always had a fit when he had done it as a boy, but now—how could he resist the fountain? He had ridden the length of Aragon and Castile far south into Andalusia, spending weeks in the saddle. Dust coated his sweat-soaked skin beneath layers of clothing. Aaron unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall with a clatter, then tossed his cape atop it and began to peel his tunic over broad muscular shoulders. He knelt beside the fountain and then plunged his head beneath the cool, sparkling water.
Magdalena stood rooted on the porch watching in rapt fascination as Diego appeared at the opposite end of the courtyard, striding purposefully toward the central fountain. Her eyes widened in amazement as he stripped to the waist and dunked himself in the water. Entranced, she drew nearer, her silk skirts rustling softly as she approached.
Years of survival on the battlefield had honed Aaron's instincts. He stood up and turned with blurring speed to confront the silent intruder, shaking long shaggy golden hair from his eyes. “Who—you are the Valdés girl! What by all the saints has brought you to my home?” His scowl was as fierce as if he faced a Moorish soldier instead of a mere slip of a girl.
As he turned toward her, Magdalena watched the water that darkened his hair fly in a spray about his head and her eyes followed the path of the glistening droplets as they rolled over the muscles of his chest and arms. She could smell the faint aroma of male musk and horse that still clung to him. He had journeyed a
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