The Apprentice's Masterpiece Read online

  A STORY

  OF MEDIEVAL

  SPAIN

  Melanie Little

  This book is dedicated to

  victims of intolerance

  everywhere, and to those

  who have resisted by asking

  questions, even if only of

  themselves.

  You can burn the paper,

  but you cannot burn what it contains;

  I carry it within my heart.

  Ibn Hazm, Cordoba

  994 – 1064

  Contents

  Prologue

  ONE: Ramon

  TWO: Amir

  THREE: Ramon

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  SPAIN HAS ALWAYS BEEN a place of stories. In fact, the first great novel, Don Quixote, came from Spain. Medieval Spaniards were enchanted by tales of knights and ladies, and even the kings and nobles loved the rather far-fetched story of their origin from the Greek demigod Hercules. But sometimes this fondness for storytelling had a dangerous side.

  In the years leading up to what history books call the Golden Age of Spain, the country was divided into three separate kingdoms: Christian Castile in the center, Christian Aragon to the east, and the small but important Granada, ruled by the Muslim dynasty of the Nazrids, at the southern tip. On October 19, 1469, Prince Fernando, heir to the throne of Aragon, married Princess Isabella, heiress to the throne of Castile. The first stone on the road to the great dream of “One Spain” had been set.

  But Spain had already had a Golden Age. From 711 A.D. until the twelfth century, it was known as the kingdom of al-Andalus, ruled by Muslims who had come from Damascus in Syria. The Muslims’ holy book, the Koran, taught them to respect other religions—particularly those of the other “peoples of the book,” Christians and Jews. The conquered Christians of al-Andalus were allowed to practice their own faith and speak their own language; so, too, were the Jews, who had been settled in Spain since Roman times. Yet many chose to learn Arabic, and a great society of culture, learning, and coexistence (often called convivencia) flourished. For more than a hundred years, the Spanish city of Cordoba was the seat of the caliphs— the supreme leaders of the Muslim world. Because of them, important books on medicine, science, and philosophy were brought to Europe. Cordoba’s libraries grew to contain nearly half a million volumes.

  With the gradual Christian “reconquest” of Spain, Muslims and Jews were at first treated with similar respect. The three cultures continued to live side by side. Muslims and Jews were still relatively free to practice their faiths. But they were subject to heavy taxes unless they converted to Christianity. Both Mudejares—Muslims living under Christian rule—and Jews were encouraged, and often forced, to remain in sections of cities enclosed by walls and guarded gates. New laws barred them from certain kinds of work, from marrying or employing Christians, from wearing fine clothes, and even from leaving their quarters on Christian holy days. They had to wear badges—in Castile, yellow for Jews, red for Muslims—so Christians would know “what” they were and be warned. The Crown and the Church claimed that Jews were constantly trying to convert Christians to Judaism, though there is no historical evidence to support this. In 1483, Jews were expelled from southern Spain.

  Cordoba became a place of fear. It was now home to large populations of conversos: Jews who had converted to Christianity. Many had been forced to convert against their will—some upon pain of death. Others had chosen to convert for their own reasons, especially to stay in Spain. Spain—called Sepharhad in Ladino, the Spanish-Jewish language—was their new Jerusalem, their beloved home.

  Encouraged by the Church, people began to turn against the conversos. A wild story spread that a converso girl had poured urine from a window onto an image of the Holy Mary in the street below. In supposed retaliation, hundreds of conversos were massacred. After that, the lives of the remaining Spanish conversos got much worse. They faced discrimination in their businesses and professions, in church, and in their everyday lives. They were often harassed or assaulted in the street.

  Increasingly, the remaining Jews, conversos, and Mudejares were considered non-Spanish. The Crown and the Church, once seemingly motivated by a genuine desire to spread the Christian faith, now became obsessed with what they called “pure” Christian blood.

  In 1481, the Holy Office of the Spanish Inquisition was born. Its purpose? To ferret out heresy against the Catholic faith. (Heresy is defined as a practice, belief, or even an opinion that doesn’t conform to orthodox teachings.) Its practice? To arrest, torture, and punish every Spanish Christian even suspected of such heresy. It seemed the converted Jews had fallen into a trap. Now that they were legally Christians, the Inquisition could try them for not being Christian enough.

  “Edicts of Faith” encouraged people to accuse their friends, relatives, and neighbors of heresy. “Familiaris” were chosen from the populace and appointed to spy and report on their fellow citizens. “Transgressions” as simple as refusing to eat pork (a Jewish dietary restriction) could get a person—and especially a converso—arrested. Thousands of people were burned at the stake at huge spectacles called autos-da-fé. And the Office’s judges did not usually require proof. Those who held grudges could denounce their enemies for offenses that may never have happened.

  So far, Mudejar subjects had not suffered the same per-secutions, perhaps because there were powerful Muslim kingdoms to the south and east that might rush to the Spanish Muslims’ defense. But the Inquisition, which confiscated the wealth of its prisoners, had made Castile rich. It could now afford to attack Muslim Granada, the third kingdom of the Spanish peninsula. It was the final piece of the puzzle in Isabella and Fernando’s quest for a unified Christian Spain under their rule. The “Spain of the three cultures” was over. The war of the Holy Reconquest, as they called it, held the day.

  A NOTE ABOUT SOME TERMS USED IN THIS BOOK

  conversos: A term used for Jews who converted to Christianity. They were also called New Christians and, sometimes, Marranos, which some historians think means “pigs” or “swine,” perhaps an ironic reference to the fact that Jews and, allegedly, many conversos, don’t eat pork.

  Moors: This was the most common word used by the Spanish (and other Europeans) for people of the Muslim faith. It was often considered a derogatory term.

  Moriscos: A word meaning “Moorish,” which was used for Muslims who converted to Christianity.

  Mudejar (plural, Mudejares): This was the Spanish word for Muslims who were living under Christian rule.

  Old Christians: This term became more and more common as Spain became obsessed with “blood purity.” True “Old Christians” were said to have had no Jews in their family history. After the Inquisition was instituted in Spain, many jobs and societies required documents proving that a person’s family had been Old Christian for at least seven generations.

  ONE

  Ramon

  Cordoba, Castile

  1485–86

  Papa’s Credo for Scribes

  A scribe does much more

  than just copy words.

  He makes worlds

  come alive.

  Take pride in your art.

  Take care.

  Take your time.

  A good scribe is a pitcher.

  A pitcher holds wine

  and spills not a drop.

  That is how scribes

  must treat words they take in.

  Look at them closely.

  If you miss even one,

  it is gone. Maybe for good.

  You must also be careful

  of what you pour out.
/>   Your hand must be steady.

  Avoid what will shake it.

  Wine itself—that is one thing.

  Chasing girls is another.

  “And if the pitcher

  develops a crack?” I ask.

  “Then it’s of no use,” says Papa.

  “Don’t worry. See here!”

  Holds out a hand, slightly shaking.

  “Sixty years old and never a tremor.”

  I try to laugh with him.

  But we both know his whole

  blessed body’s been shaky of late.

  Papa pretends not to notice

  my worry. His grip on my shoulder is steady.

  “Above all, Ramon,

  you must always be true.”

  Our New Old Home

  Cordoba.

  It’s been royal at least since the time

  of the Romans. Even Hercules,

  the great Greek, loved this city

  of mine.

  When the Moors conquered al-Andalus,

  fair Cordoba, shut in by the Guadalquivir,

  was the natural choice for their caliphate.

  It became home to the head of all Muslims—

  the caliph himself.

  But the Moors were defeated a long time ago.

  It has since been a jewel in the crowns

  of our Christian kings. And now Isabella,

  our gracious Queen, has arrived.

  She’s set up her court in the grand alcazar.

  I can walk to its gates

  in two thousand paces, plus thirty-three.

  Amid all this glory, we Benvenistes

  must eke out our days in the space

  that was once used for servants.

  Our stuffy rooms squat like beggars

  deep in the heel of this house.

  It’s a fine house, you know:

  as big as you’ll see along this whole street.

  But it’s no longer ours.

  When the Old Christians chased us

  away from Cordoba, Papa said,

  “There’s no choice.”

  He knew of a place called Gibraltar.

  We sold our fine house and ran

  for our lives.

  When we returned,

  the house was still standing.

  We were lucky—

  few in our quarter still were.

  But still standing, too,

  was the man who had bought it.

  He would not sell it back—

  certainly not for the pittance he’d paid.

  But he does rent us out

  these four little rooms—

  that’s counting our shop—

  for a handsome price.

  Should we, I wonder,

  be thanking God

  for our blessings?

  Why?

  During the riots

  the whole of the city attacked

  the New Christian quarter.

  Hundreds of conversos—

  people like us—were wiped

  from the Earth.

  I was just four. Mama tells me

  we traveled by night to flee

  Cordoba. By day, we hid.

  Those who stood fast were attacked.

  They were beaten with clubs.

  With fists and stones.

  One man we heard of

  was dragged from a cart till he died.

  So, why come back?

  Good question.

  We stayed just six months

  in Gibraltar.

  All Mama will say is,

  “It didn’t work.”

  It must have been bad

  to be worse than this.

  Now we’re no more than servants

  in our own home.

  Fur

  It’s bizarre. I remember one thing

  from the riots—so vividly

  that it seems like this morning,

  not ten years ago.

  I am covered in soft, warming fur.

  I think someone—an Old Christian

  magician?—may have transformed me

  into a rabbit.

  I tell Mama this now,

  my face burning. I’m fifteen!

  What a babyish thing

  to think you remember.

  But I can’t get it out of my head.

  She gapes at me.

  “Isidore,” she calls,

  “come and hear this.”

  Papa joins us.

  Mama recounts it.

  An Old Christian lady

  saw us from her window.

  We were crouched in a ditch.

  Brave soul, she came out.

  “Follow me,” she whispered.

  She hid us inside a vast trunk of coats

  all that day, wedging it open

  a crack for some air.

  Well, all I remember

  is the feel of fur.

  They shake their heads.

  “Isn’t it—almost—quite funny?” asks Papa.

  “‘Changed into a rabbit!’”

  We sit there and stare

  at one another.

  We can’t seem to laugh.

  The Scribes in Their Shop

  Not every scribe

  has such a small world.

  Some books are made

  by a whole troop of hands.

  I’ve heard of a Bible, in Latin,

  taking fifty-three masters a winter

  to make it. (It was for the Queen).

  Ten illuminators

  just to draw and ink in

  the gold-covered letters

  beginning each page.

  I’m not complaining.

  I’ve come to like it this way.

  Papa and I, bent over our desks.

  We share tools, and a language,

  and one enemy: the sun going down.

  Mama can’t really read,

  but she helps.

  Scrapes parchment with stone

  so it’s supple and smooth for our ink.

  Sometimes she sets out the lines

  for our letters. Her hand never trembles.

  A quiet army of three: Papa, Mama, and me.

  Six days in a week, I love it.

  But part of me—perhaps it’s the seventh-day part—

  dreams a much different life.

  Of knights, and explorers,

  and of how in the world

  I might ever become one.

  Bookworm

  Papa doesn’t just love

  the swoop and the swerve

  of copying words.

  Each morning he’s up

  before even the birds,

  boring his eyes into books.

  He must read every page

  before it is copied.

  Once we are through, the book

  will sail back out the door—

  and our lives.

  Even ten years past the times—

  that’s what we all call the riots—

  business is not, Mama says, what it was.

  Though our days teem with words,

  we can’t afford to buy books of our own.

  None of this makes Papa bitter.

  Books are treasures, he tells me.

  But their lives are fragile—

  more fragile than wings

  of dried butterflies.

  Books have three of the deadliest foes

  on this Earth:

  fire, water, and ignorant men.

  (Worms are bad too,

  but they work more slowly.)

  Still, books are the finest treasures of all.

  You need only feast once with your eyes

  and your heart.

  And you’ll be full with their wisdom

  forever.

  Cats

  The world could ignite,

  or turn pink, or end:

  Mama and I would sleep

  through it.

  We’re like cats in the
sun.

  We won’t rise.

  Not until we can bow

  to our bowls of hot chocolate

  and creamy goat’s milk.

  Papa makes breakfast,

  then back to his books.

  He shakes his head,

  sad for us, as he goes.

  I think it’s a blessing,

  this gift for deep sleep.

  In Cordoba, churches and chapels

  dot every street.

  Ringing us round like a choker

  with infinite loops of beads

  within beads.

  Each church has a bell

  that sounds eight times a day.

  There is matins at dawn, and lauds

  sometime later, and then vespers

  deep in the pitch black of night.

  There are other names, too, that

  I always forget. Papa says they mark hours

  when the monks must say prayers.

  But I think they’re some kind of torture

  the Church has devised. Either that

  or they chime every time

  some flea-bitten monk thinks of scratching

  his head!

  Fear

  One dark dawn, I do wake.

  A man like a mountain

  is yanking the mattress

  from under my back.

  He mirrors the soldiers

  who ride through my sleeps.

  Sword at his side. On his cloak,

  the lion and castle—the sign

  of our good King and Queen.

  The sheriff, says Papa.

  Out for a thief

  who’s slipped from his grasp.

  What is so precious

  they feel they must shake

  growing boys from their beds?

  Mama is cross. She, too, has been woken.

  Then I look. She is the one

  who is shaking.

  Justice

  Days later, we hear it.

  A boy, after all.

  Much younger than me.

  He wasn’t yet ten.

  Made off with a chalice,

  plated with gold.

  Small bounty at best.

  But he hanged.

  He was starving. An orphan.

  Tried to trade it for cakes