The Mammoth Book of Alternate Histories

ESTHER M. FRIESNER Such a Deal

Hisdai ibn Ezra, noted merchant of Granada (retired), did his best to conceal his amusement when his servant entered and announced, “There — there is a vis — a visitor to see you, sidi. A — Castilian, he said to tell you.”

How you twist your face and stammer Mahmoud, the old Jew thought. You are jumpy as a flea-ridden monkey. This unexpected guest of mine has you at a loss, I see. Well, you are young yet, and it is no common thing for foreigners to frequent this house since I left the trader’s calling. I still recall what a hubbub we had when the Genoese navigator first arrived, and that was supposed to be a secret visit. Lord of Hosts, whatever has become of that one? And of Daud.

He banished the thought, dreading the despair it must bring him. Better to study Mahmoud’s confusion and hold back laughter instead of tears.

Mahmoud was obviously waiting for his master to summon guards, or send word to Sultan Muhammad’s palace of the infidel interloper’s presence. When Hisdai did neither — only turning another leaf in his Maimonides — the servant seemed to jig out of his skin.

The old Jew swallowed a chuckle. You look as if you could do with a little reading from the “Guide for the Perplexed” yourself, boy. You did not expect this, did you? One of those cause-mad Christians in the house of a Jew who lives quite comfortably under the reign of an Islamic lord? Least of all when the armies of Ferdinand and Isabella are camped before our walls, laying siege to Granada. No, you have every right to wear that astonished expression. If only it were not so comical!

He sighed and set aside his book. “Are there any refreshments in this house worthy of so exalted a caller, Mahmoud? A little spiced wine? A handful of dates not too wizened? Some other delicacies that Cook may have secreted away from happier times, may the Lord bless him for the prudent ant he so wisely emulates?”

Mahmoud knit his brows, his bewilderment mounting visibly. “Come, lad!” Hisdai said, trying to hearten his servant into action. “There is no mystery here. For me to expect Cook to have secret stores of exotic titbits despite the passage of nearly a year and a half since the Christians have come before our gates — that is just my knowing Cook’s character.”

“Oh, it is not that, sidi; it is only…” Mahmoud paused, his tongue caught in a snare set by his discretion.

“Only what?” Hisdai ibn Ezra could not restrain a mildly cynical smile. “Fear nothing; I have heard all the whispering my servants do about me for more years than you have been alive.” He stroked his silvery beard. “They call me master-merchant to my face, but behind my back I vow that more than one idle tongue wags that I have trafficked less with human clientele and more with djinn and Iblis. Is this not so?”

Very reluctantly Mahmoud nodded. Hisdai laughed. “Therefore, why stand amazed at our unheralded visitor? Give thanks that he merely comes from our enemies’ ranks and not from the fiery Pit itself!”

Mahmoud made it his business to say, “O sidi, I do not believe the tales. How can I, who behold you daily, give credence to such lies?”

Hisdai lifted one grey and shaggy brow. “Are you quite certain they are lies, Mahmoud?”

Like most new servants, Mahmoud took everything his master said at face value. “They must be lies, O sidi. For one thing, you do not even look like a wizard.”

The boy spoke truth, and Hisdai ibn Ezra knew it. If he flattered himself that he resembled the dark magicians of legend, any good mirror would disabuse him at once. He knew himself to be a small, crinkle-faced cricket-chirp of a man. White hairs — sparse beneath his turban, lush upon his chin — held constant argument with brown eyes of a youthful sparkle. Long hours of study of the driest and most petrified of scholarly subjects, which drifted off into longer hours of heavy-headed sleep, painted him old. Then he would wake and speak with such lively insight and interest of current affairs near and far that he left younger men panting to follow the lightning path of his wit and insight.

True that Paradox had long made her scruffy nest beneath the roof of the one-time merchant prince, but for a Castilian to come a-calling in these times —! That was too much for even the most seasoned of servants to bear without dashing away at once to auction off the news to his comrades’ eager ears.

Now that Mahmoud’s initial startlement had faded, Hisdai could see that he was avid to have his duty done and be whisking this tale with him to the kitchens, and so the old Jew gently urged him on his way, saying, “Go now, haste. It does not do to keep demons or Castilians waiting.”

Mahmoud departed. He returned not much later, followed by a gentleman whose decidedly simple European clothes were in startling contrast to the splendour of Hisdai ibn Ezra’s flowing Moorish robes.

“Pelayo Fernández de Santa Fe, O sidi,” Mahmoud announced, bowing. Hisdai recognized that the lad was a skilled enough servitor to lower his eyes to the very stones while still observing absolutely everything around him. This time, as others, that talent would provide Mahmoud with a most instructive spectacle.

Then Hisdai ibn Ezra gazed from the clothes before him to the face above and turned to a lump of ice as solid as any to be found on the summit of snow-capped Mulhacen. He felt the colour ebb from his face like a fleeing tide, felt for the first time the palsy of age cause his outstretched hands to tremble. The old man’s breath rushed into his lungs with an audible rasping, a sound too near the final deathbed croak for any servant who valued his pay to remain unmoved.

Yet when Mahmoud rushed forward, a wail of paid loyalty on his lips, the strength gushed back into Hisdai’s body. He stood straight as a poplar and sharply motioned Mahmoud away. “Unworthy servant, where are your manners? Our honoured guest will think himself to be still among his own barbarous people. Go, fetch scented water and soft towels! Bread and salt! My finest wine! Why are you gawking? You’ll gape less when one of King Ferdinand’s men drives a pike through your gizzard. Go, I say!”

Mahmoud did not wait for further instructions. He had more than enough meat for meditation, and the other servants would treat him royally for it. Any diversion not connected with the infernal siege was worth its weight in gold, especially to folk who lacked anything more precious than copper.

Hisdai ibn Ezra watched Mahmoud scamper off, listening until he judged his servant’s pattering footsteps had retreated a sufficient distance for his liking. Then and only then did he turn to give his visitor a proper welcome.

“You idiot!” He snatched the man’s hat from his hands and flung it out the window into the courtyard below.

The visitor flew after his hat, but wisely halted his own flight short of the abyss. Leaning over the tiled sill, he remarked, “I see that you’ve kept the false awning in place down there. I thought that since you retired, you wouldn’t need to maintain such emergency measures in case of dissatisfied royal customers.”

“I may not deal with Sultan Muhammad any more, nor need to provide for the possibility of — ahem! — expeditious departures, but only a fool dreams any peace is permanent,” Hisdai growled. “Most definitely not in these times.”

His guest was unmoved by the old man’s peevishness. He was still admiring Hisdai’s escape stratagem, with which he seemed to be disconcertingly familiar. “To be able to jump from this height and land safely —! Ah, one day I must try it, just to see how it feels. Unfortunately my hat missed the awning and the cushions under it and landed right in the fishpond. Was that necessary? I was rather attached to that hat.”

“Would that your brain were as attached to the inside of your skull. Do you realize what you risked, coming here in the teeth of the siege like this?”

“Unless I misremember,” Hisdai’s guest drawled, “it was not ten months ago that I found you entertaining a certain Genoese in this very room. When I asked you how Master Columbus had managed to breach the siege, you only smiled and said, ‘I have my ways. One key opens many gates, if that key be made of gold.’” He winked at Hisdai. “For once, I recalled your wisdom and used it well, particularly now that I have more of your precious keys than any locksmith.”

“What is this blather of keys?” Hisdai snorted. “When Mahmoud informed me that there was a Castilian come calling — all Christians are Castilians to him — I expected to greet a common seaman bringing word from the admiral. That Genoese is no fool. He has more sense than to venture his neck for nothing!”

The young man murmured into his beard, “There you speak a greater truth than you know.”

His words went unheard. As suddenly as it had erupted, Hisdai’s burst of sour temper vanished altogether. He rushed to fling the silken wings of his sleeves around the “Castilian”.

“Ah, Daud! Daud, my son, it is I who am the fool! If you are back, what else matters? My Daud — shall I call you by that abominable Castilian name you bestowed upon yourself?”

Daud pretended to take umbrage. “I thought it a very good alias, and most handy for getting past the more officious of the Catholic Monarchs’ sentries. Stop a man named for Don Pelayo, he who began the reconquest of this land from the Moors? Most ill-omened at this juncture.” He shook his head solemnly. “Now that Ferdinand and Isabella are about to retake the last Iberian foothold of our Moorish rulers, that would be most ill-omened indeed.”

Hisdai beamed over his son’s resourcefulness. “Still the clever rogue, my pride! Blessed be the lord, the God of Israel, for bringing me to this season. My heart, my child, I never thought to see your face again.”

The young man laughed out of a face that was a less-wrinkled version of his sire’s. His beard was somewhat shorter, the hair on his head summer midnight to Hisdai’s winter dawn, but the eyes held the same fire.

“Indeed, my father, there were moments in the voyage when I myself questioned whether the next face I saw would be yours or Elijah’s!” He sighed. “May Heaven witness, our valiant admiral suffered celestial visions enough for us all. There must be truth in what they say, that madness is but a divinely given spark of genius that burns with the most peculiar flame. That man has a sufficiency of such embers to burn all al-Andalus to ashes.” Laughter departed his lips as he added, “As he may yet do.”

“What is this you say, my son?” Hisdai clapped his hands to his eldest’s shoulders. “Do you mean that the voyage was — a failure? The homeland we seek, the refuge for our people once these accursed Catholic Monarchs destroy Granada, is only another of the admiral’s insane fancies?”

Daud’s travel-tattered moustache twisted itself into a wry expression. “O my father if I hear you call the admiral mad, you’ll have me thinking there’s some truth to Mother’s allegations. Why else would you commend me to a madman’s care?”

Hisdai waved off his son’s words impatiently. “Your mother, foremost of my wives, is a virtuous woman. As such, her price is above rubies, even if her love of gossip is beneath contempt. You are my heir, Daud! Would I entrust a diamond of untold price to a lunatic? But if the diamond is yet rough, I would select with utmost care the jeweller into whose hands I place it for proper cutting, polishing, setting, until the every refinement of his art had perfected it as it deserves to be.”

“In other words, you sent me to fall off the edge of the earth for my own good,” Daud concluded.

“Also to get you away from that Egyptian dancing-girl your worthless friend Barak spends all his money on,” Hisdai grumbled under his breath.

Daud heard, and did his best not to choke on laughter. “Fear not, O my father! We encountered no such temptresses in the court of the Great Khan. As is well known, the almighty monarch of Cathay surrounds himself exclusively with the fairest daughters of Israel, the flowers of Judaea, the untouched virgins of Jerusalem-in-exile, the—”

“Is it so much for an old man to want his son wed to a nice Jewish girl?” Hisdai sulked into his beard.

“Ah, Father, you would not be satisfied until I wed a veritable princess!”

“And is that such a bad ambition?” Hisdai demanded.

“Not at all, not at all.” Daud gazed at his father with real affection. “So it was my taste for forbidden delights that counted as one more rough spot for your Genoese jeweller to strike off? And here I thought it was the dream of establishing a new homeland for our people that drove you to pour my patrimony into those three rachitic ships you bought him.”

Hisdai ibn Ezra was in no joking mood. “Daud, I see that at least one of my dreams has been in vain. You return as much the mocker as you departed.”

“Oh no, my father.” Daud dropped all pretence of jest. “Believe me, I return to your house a changed man. If I banter with you now, it is only to keep my heart from crumbling beneath the full weight of what I have to tell you.”

Fear and consternation showed themselves boldly in the old Jew’s eyes. “What news, then? Tell me! Not that the voyage failed, no, or else you could not be here, solid flesh beneath my hands. What then? The Great Khan denied our petition, rejected my gifts? Once there were many Jews in Cathay, respected, honoured, permitted to dwell in peace, to follow the ways of our fathers. Did you remind the Great Khan of the prosperity we brought the land?”

Daud nodded. “I tried. Our translator did, at any rate. Moshe ibn Ahijah is a wonderful scholar. No one was more surprised than he when the Great Khan did not know Hebrew, Arabic, Aramaic, Castilian, Greek, or Latin.”

“But surely you managed to communicate? By signs? By a show of gifts? In my day, when I accompanied the caravans, I always managed to make my intents clear—”

“We, too, managed. The gifts you sent to the Great Khan,” Daud replied, “were very eloquent. Entertaining, I should say. They made him laugh.”

“Laugh! At masterpieces of the goldsmith’s art? Gems that were the finest I could call in from our people here in al-Andalus, in Castilla, in France, in Italy, even across the water in Mamlakah al-Maghribiyah—!” Hisdai began to pace the room.

“When word first reached me of this man Columbus, I thought it to be the answer to my wildest prayers. Any half-educated man knows that the ancients proved the world to be round — that much of the Genoese’s fancies needed no confirmation — but to apply that knowledge to the establishment of a westerly trade route—!” He smacked a fist into his palm. “That was the prize I desired. A way for us, for all Jews, to reach the haven of the East safely, there to live unmolested by the periodic excesses of zeal that afflict our Christian neighbours. Once there, we would prosper as never before.”

“So you said, my father.” Daud remained glum.

“So I said, and so it would be! The East has ever favoured us, and with new trade routes opened we would thrive. Oh, Daud, you will never know how fervently I thanked the Lord when those purblind Catholic Monarchs rejected Columbus’s plan and sent him packing! You cannot begin to imagine all I did, or how speedily, to bring him here so that I might finance his scheme, and our future!”

“I recall it well. I did not spend all my time mooning over Barak’s dancing-girl.”

In his distracted state Hisdai disregarded Daud’s mordant comments. “My son, the treasure I sent with you was to be the ransom of the Jews, our payment for refuge in the lands of the distant East once that vainglorious Genoese proved a safe sea route there possible. And you say the Great Khan laughed?”

In silence Daud reached into the large leather pouch at his side. His fist emerged overflowing with the glitter of pure gold and priceless jewels. Chains and pendants, adornments for ears, breast, wrist, and ankle, gorgeous enhancements for body parts beyond the old man’s imagining all spilled over the blue-and-green carpet.

While Hisdai gaped, Daud simply plunged his hand back into the pouch and followed the first handful of gold with a second, then a third, then a fourth, each scattered with the disinterested prodigality of a rich man tossing crumbs to the birds.

“You see now why he laughed? Because next to the treasure hoard the Great Khan already commands, our gifts were regarded as no better than the pinched clay figurine one of his children might make him for a present: charming, but hardly to be taken seriously. What you behold is merely my share of the first gift the Great Khan made to us. The first, mark me. It was a reward.”

“A — reward?” Hisdai managed to wrench his gaze away from the heap of wealth strewn so casually at his feet. “What for?”

“For making the admiral shut up about Christ.” Daud shrugged. “His harangues were putting the Great Khan’s priests off their stride, and they had such a lot of people to — to serve that day.” An unpleasant memory appeared to grip him. Fine sweat stood out on his forehead.

“Christ?” Hisdai echoed, overlooking his son’s discomfort. “But I thought he was over all that.”

“My father, one does not get over one’s faith as one does a fever,” Daud commented tartly.

“Bah! Christianity was never truly the admiral’s faith. It was a — a convenience, the path that seemed to him smoothest for getting on in the world, particularly as he desired royal backing for this unheard-of voyage of his.” Hisdai spoke as one who knows such things too surely to debate them.

“You may be right,” Daud admitted. “In all our time on board the Tziporah, I often thought that the admiral gave his prayers to God but his worship to himself.”

“Of course I am right!” Hisdai snapped. “Christian just for show he was, and to gain the ear of the powerful. Much good it did him! He had so many royal doors slammed in his face that he had the arms of Castilla, Leon, y Aragon impressed on his forehead.”

He began to pace the floor; kicking aside the golden baubles. “He came to me fresh from long and profitless waiting upon Ferdinand and Isabella. In my presence he no longer needed to play the pious Catholic. He told me that his own folk back in Genoa were our kindred — as if I had not already secured that knowledge before sending for him! — exiles from the Christian kingdoms of Spain. I did not have to tell him what our fate would be if Granada falls. Ah, my son, if you could have but heard how wistfully he spoke of the faith of his ancestors!”

“Was this before or after you offered him the money for his expedition?” Daud’s question was dust-dry.

“Now you say he preached Christ in the Great Khan’s court?” Hisdai ibn Ezra wrung his hands. ‘Alas, what was he thinking of?”

“Probably the same thing he is acting on even now.” Without warning, Daud seized Hisdai by the shoulders, fixing him with a terrible, burning glance. “Father; cease your wailing and pay heed. Your Genoese friend may be a visionary, but he could give the Evil One lessons in opportunism. Christopher Columbus has returned with two of your three ships intact. The Tziporah he ran aground off the coast of Cathay before we began our homeward sail. The Bat-sheba we brought safely to harbour in Tangier, where its — ah — cargo is presently being sent after me by our family connections in Mamlakah al-Maghribiyah, and as for the third—”

“Cargo?” Hisdai interrupted, the keen professional interest of a seasoned merchant lighting up his eyes.

“Listen to me, I said!” Daud came dangerously close to shaking his father soundly. “As for the third ship, the Hadassah ha-Malkah, as soon as we came within sight of Tangier, your precious admiral ordered it to veer away north. Yes — do not stare — I said north; north to the ports of the Catholic Monarchs! North with a hold filled with the later gifts of the Great Khan, beside which what you see upon the carpet here is nothing. And even now, as we speak he has gone to present himself before Ferdinand and Isabella at their battle camp at Santa Fe. Don’t you see? Now he has proof that will command the attention of royalty in a manner they cannot ignore. The paltry gold of Granada’s Jews was insufficient to buy us refuge from the Castilian troops, or safety for the last city where our Moorish masters allowed us to follow our faith in peace. The endless gold of Cathay will buy your pet Genoese what he has always hungered for — a noble title, royal patronage, and his place as the honoured favorite of our enemies!” His face was a mask of scorn as he added, “Once a snob, always a snob.”

“But we must stop him!” Hisdai grabbed his son’s arms in a grip that was the equal of the younger man’s.

“Do you think we did not try, O my father? Too late. By the time we realized what he was about, he had gained too much time. After the wreck of the Tziporah, he made certain to crew the Hadassah ha-Malkah with men who would go along with his treachery.”

“Impossible.” Hisdai shook his head like one suddenly weary. “Everyone aboard those ships was of our own people. They knew our great purpose! How could they—?”

“Present promises of a greater share in a hold full of treasure weighs more with some men than dreams of a distant Jewish homeland,” Daud said with neither pride nor shame.

Hisdai slumped in his son’s grasp. “Even so. How can I blame them? The siege has lasted almost a year and a half. Granada is all that remains to our sultan.” With faltering steps he turned from Daud and went to the window. “In the streets he is no longer called Abu Abd Allah Muhammad, but al-zogoybi, and in truth he is a poor devil. He will go down, and we shall fall with him. The taking of Granada is the death of our people’s last truly safe haven. In the dark times to come many will fancy gold a better rock to cling to than Torah.”

So rapt was Hisdai by his burden of hopelessness, he hardly noticed that when his son’s shadow crept up behind him, a second shadow — then a third, then a fourth — glided silently into the room and joined it. He only half-heard Daud say, “O my father, you are wise to have kept faith.”

“Faith?” Hisdai’s laugh was brittle and hollow. He continued to gaze up at the steel-bright sky above Granada. “Of what use is faith? I have squandered our wealth to back the vision of a renegade! We need soldiers, Daud — not scholars, not visionaries — and soldiers will not fight for faith alone.”

“Yet I hear these Catholic Monarchs call this battle for Granada a new Crusade.”

“That shows all you know of Crusades, my son. If Granada were a poor mud-hut village, these Catholic Monarchs and their minions would not care if we worshipped the birds of the air or the snakes that crawl over the face of the earth, but because we have wealth—”

“Father,” Daud cautioned. “Father, it would be wiser not to speak with mockery of snakes and birds.”

“I mean no scorn. Who am I to mock the Lord’s creation?” Hisdai leaned heavily against the side of the window. “I am just a poor man who put his faith in dreams. Dreams fly. Only death is certain.”

Then Hisdai ibn Ezra turned from the window and in that instant beheld a sight that convinced him that madness, too, is one of life’s little certainties. “Blessed Lord,” he murmured, and took one backward step that came near to toppling him out the window.

Daud sprang forward and seized Hisdai by the arm. “Have a care, O my father. It is not courtesy to leave your faithful so precipitously.”

“Faithful?” Hisdai quavered.

“Well, so he has assured me. Although officially he is a priest of Huitzilopochtli, he has confided in me that his heart” — for some reason, Daud swallowed hard — “his heart is devoted to the worship of Quetzalcoatl, the Plumed Serpent — Uh. would you mind if he touched your beard? It would be an honour, and he has promised us so much—”

Giddy with trying to make sense of the gibberish Daud was spouting, Hisdai found himself face to face with a man unlike any he had ever encountered, even in the years of his widest mercantile wanderings. Straight black hair; deep copper skin marked with tattoos and other scars, wide nose ornamented with plugs of gold and jade, the apparition regarded him with an unreadable expression.

“He wants to. touch my beard?” Hisdai could not tear his eyes away. From the gilded and gemmed sandals on this creature’s feet to the exquisite feathered mantle on his shoulders to the gorgeously plumed headdress crowning all, one thing about the new caller was certain: not even Mahmoud would mistake him or the two burly fellows accompanying him for Castilians.

As if to confirm this, Mahmoud chose that moment to enter with the refreshments, a dish that was tribute to both Cook’s frugality and his creativity. “Remember to tell ya-sidi Hisdai that the meat is for the Castilian only,” he mumbled to himself, so intent on keeping the heavy tray level that at first he did not really notice the extra people now gathered in the room. “Remember to tell him, or Cook will have my head. Master is — was — so fond of Rover.”

This apposite consumer warning now went flying out of Mahmoud’s skull as he looked up from his burden and actually saw his master’s additional guests. One wore what looked like a leopard’s pelt, the head a fanged helmet, the other was sheathed in feathered armour with an eagle’s beak overshadowing his keen eyes. Both were heavily armed with eccentric weapons that looked nonetheless mortally effective for all their strangeness.

Mahmoud screamed, dropped the canine khua-khus, and ran. The eagle-helmed warrior threw what looked like a primitive axe, which nailed the fleeing servant’s sleeve to the doorpost.

Before Mahmoud could wrench free, he was laid hold of by both bizarrely armoured men and thrust to the floor at Hisdai’s feet, as if for the older man’s approval.

Daud stepped in at once. “O my father,” he said smoothly, “may it please you to welcome the beloved nephew of the Great Khan Ahuitzotl, the Lord Moctezuma?”

Without word or hint of their intentions, the three copper-skinned strangers fell to the carpet alongside Mahmoud and assumed positions of the utmost humble submission. Hisdai opened and closed his mouth, wet his lips numerous times, nibbled the ends of his snowy moustache, and in general made every visual preamble to speech without actually managing to utter an intelligible word. He looked as if he did not know whether to object to the display of obeisance at his feet, to demand an explanation, to offer the abused Mahmoud a raise in salary, or just to go to the window, leap for the padded awning below, and make a break for it. There was also the chance that he might miss the awning, but at the moment that did not seem like such a bad alternative to the irrationality besetting him. At the end of his reason, he searched his son’s face and ultimately managed to choke out a hoarse yet eloquent plea:

“Nu?”

Daud looked sheepish. “Ah, yes, there was one small matter I forgot to mention about my new friend, O my father.”

He reached once more into his pouch and pulled out a rolled parchment on which was a meticulously copied drawing of a venerable-looking gentleman — bearded, fair-skinned — whose preferred mode of transport was obviously a raft made out of live snakes. “I made the drawing myself, copying it from one of Lord Ahuitzotl’s holiest manuscripts,” he said, showing it to Hisdai. “This is Quetzalcoatl, the Plumed Serpent, the god who departed, sailing away to the East, but whose return has been foretold. Specifically foretold. Promised, I should say, for a few years from now. Of course, as I told Lord Moctezuma, who are we to quibble if a god shows up for his appointments a trifle early?”

He tilted the page so that the light might fall on it from a better angle, and hopefully prompted his father, “You do see the resemblance?”

Hisdai’s reaction to this unsought Annunciation would remain one of Time’s unfinished mysteries. From somewhere beyond the walls a long, blood-chilling ululation shivered the air and tore all attention from every matter save itself. It was a scream beautiful in its ghastly perfection. Not even the most ignorant of hearers could command a sound that horripilating with the muezzin’s common cry; not unless the muezzin had suddenly been seized with the urge to boil himself alive slowly, in a vat of vengeance-minded lobsters.

At the fearful outcry the primal instincts of every man in that small room asserted themselves. Mahmoud tendered his resignation and bolted. Hisdai clutched his grown son protectively to him as if Daud were still a child. Moctezuma and his entourage calmly lifted their heads and smiled: quaint, nostalgic smiles such as other folk might wear on hearing a dear, old, familiar cradle-tune.

“Oh, good,” said Daud. The model of unflappability, he disengaged himself from his father’s arms and brought a stub of charcoal and a much-folded document out his shirt bosom. The blood of generations of steel-nerved merchant princes never flowed more coolly through his veins as he consulted the parchment, checked off an item, and remarked to all concerned, “I see the rest of the cargo has arrived.”

On the battleground before Granada the troops of the Catholic Monarchs knew that already.

In spite of Hisdai’s protests that he had no place on the field of combat, his son, Daud, and his newfound retainers insisted that he accompany them to the city gate to view the proceedings. Shock did little to diffuse Hisdai’s innate stubbornness, and he put teeth in his refusal by making that long-contemplated leap out the window.

To no avail. There were more of the eagle-helmed Cathayans in the patio below, the translator Moshe ibn Ahijah with them. They simply waited until he stopped bouncing, then (with ibn Ahijah’s able intervention) hailed him as Lord Quetzalcoatl, All-Powerful Sovereign, Saviour-Whose-Coming-Was-Foretold-For-A-Few-Years-Later-Than-This-But-Who’s-Counting? and hauled him off to see how well his loyal people served him.

So it was that Hisdai ibn Ezra came to witness the end of the siege of Granada and the grim finale to all the Catholic Monarch’s dreams of finishing the Reconquest. Instead the Reconquest finished them. As he stood upon the battlements of the city, Hisdai beheld a vast force of Cathayans sweep through the Christian ranks with astonishing zeal and ferocity.

“Incredible,” he remarked to Daud. “And yet they make such delicate porcelains.”

“I just hope Lord Tizoc and those jaguar knights of his find you a throne quickly,” Daud replied, not really listening. “This is going to be over sooner than I thought.”

“And why should I need a throne?” Hisdai inquired.

“Why, to receive the captives!”

“Captives?” The old Jew made a deprecating sound.

Twenty minutes later he was making it out of the other side of his mouth as he gazed down at his noble prisoners and felt distinctly uncomfortable. It was not the fault of his seat — the throne was the best Lord Tizoc’s men could transport from the great Alhambra palace on such short notice — but of Hisdai ibn Ezra’s new position. During his previous interviews with royalty, he had been firmly entrenched on the giving end of any and all obeisances, grovels, and general gestures of submission. This was different, and would take some getting used to.

Not all of the captives were making the transition any easier for the former merchant. Queen Isabella of Castilla y Leon was the only woman who could kneel in the dirt at the foot of a god’s throne and still make it look as if everyone present had come to pay homage to her. Her husband and consort, Ferdinand of Aragon, crouched beside her, eyes hermetically shut, whimpering, any pretence of royal pride long since abandoned. Unlike his mate, he had been in the thick of the last battle and seen too many sights that properly belonged in a sinner’s nightmare of hell.

Ferdinand and Isabella were not alone. Sultan Muhammad and his mother were with them, the regal quartet linked at the necks with a single rope whose end was fast in the hand of Moctezuma’s finest jaguar warrior.

Off to one side Christopher Columbus crouched within a ring of eagle knights — the “cargo” of that ship he had abandoned because he thought a shipment of gold had the greater worth than a shipment of heathen ambassadors. The error of his commercial instincts had just been proven beyond doubt on the battlefield.

Using care, so as not to upset the towering headdress his new subjects had insisted he wear, Lord Hisdai ibn Ezra y Quetzalcoatl beckoned Daud nearer. “This is wrong,” he whispered.

“Try it for a time; you may like it,” Daud suggested.

“But this is blasphemy!” Hisdai maintained, pounding on the arm of his throne. “Thou shalt have no other gods before me, says the Lord!”

“Well, you have no other gods before Him, do you, Father? And if your new subjects choose to worship a Jew, they won’t be the first. Given time, they might even convert entirely. If Judaism is good enough for your Lord Quetzalcoatl, I will tell them, it should be good enough for you! It won’t take long. Moshe ibn Ahijah only had to explain to them about horses once when we reached Tangier, and you saw how well they handled the Castilian cavalry.”

“Yes, but to eat the poor beasts afterwards—!”

“Well, they do have their little ways…”

Hisdai considered this. Unfortunately his meditations were interrupted by Queen Isabella, who decided to make her royal displeasure known by spitting at his feet and calling him a name that showed her deep ignorance of Jewish family life. Two of the jaguar warriors sprang forward to treat her sacrilege by a method whose directness would have warmed the figurative heart of the Inquisition. Only a horrified shout from Hisdai made them lower their obsidian-toothed warclubs, still sticky with assorted bits of skullbone and brain-matter collected in the course of the recent fray.

Moctezuma himself came before his chosen Lord, bowing low. “O august Lord Quetzalcoatl, mighty Plumed Serpent, bringer of the arts of peace, what is your will that we do with the graceless devils who dared attack your chosen stronghold and those who so poorly defended it until now?” His bastard blend of Hebrew, Arabic, Aramaic, Castilian, Greek, and Latin was really quite good for one who had only picked up snatches of the tongues on board a sailing vessel.

“He means the kings,” Daud whispered. “Both Catholic and Moorish. And Granada.”

“I know who and what he means,” Hisdai snapped back, sotto voce. “I still don’t know why he has to mean me, with all those barbarous names. What have I to do with the kings anyway?”

“Well, you’ll have to do something with them. Your new subjects expect — they expect. ” Daud hesitated. Having witnessed the aftermath of more than one battle while visiting the Great Khan Ahuitzotl’s court, he knew just what these people expected and how touchy they would be if they didn’t get it. On the other hand, there was no way short of a new Creation that his father would consent to what Lord Moctezuma had in mind, even in the name of religious freedom.

Daud was pondering this dilemma when he heard his father exclaim, “Stop pestering me, Moctezuma! I tell you I don’t know what I want done with them! Can’t it wait?”

“Puissant lord, it cannot. If we do not feed the sun—”

“What? Feed what? Daud, you speak this man’s tongue better than he speaks ours, see if you can understand him. What is he trying to say?”

Daud smiled as a second, figurative sun shed the lovely rays of revelation within his mind. “Never mind, Father,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything. You go ahead to the palace. You know they cannot start the banquet without you.”

Reluctant as he was to leave loose ends behind him, Hisdai was still too flummoxed to do other than comply with his son’s suggestion. Flanked by jaguar warriors and preceded by eagle knights, he allowed himself to be led up to the splendours of the Alhambra, where the promised victory feast awaited. Word of the bizarre conquest had spread rapidly through the Jewish population of Granada, and mad celebration followed. With the help of Moshe ibn Ahijah’s linguistically talented family, Jews, Cathayans, and the always pragmatic Moors had cooperated to lay on a wondrous repast in very little time. Cook was in his glory. There was not an empty goblet nor an occupied kennel left in all the city.

Hisdai had barely taken his place in the feasting hall when Daud returned and whispered something in his ear.

“A job?” Hisdai echoed. “That renegade Genoese betrays us and you give him a job?”

“Why not?” Daud made a lazy, beckoning gesture, and one of Moctezuma’s doe-eyed waiting-women hastened to fetch a tray of chilled melon slices. As part of the Great Khan’s favourite nephew’s entourage, these select highborn ladies had been definitely off limits for the course of the voyage. Now, however, they were just another gift to Lord Quetzalcoatl’s household. “You didn’t want to be bothered.”

Hisdai lowered his eyes. “I feared having my enemies in my power. Nothing reduces a man to his animal nature faster than the opportunity for exacting unlimited revenge.”

“Most admirable. Which was precisely why I sent Christopher Columbus to deliver your will to our — I mean, your new subjects.”

“My will? How, when I never stated it?”

“Not precisely, perhaps, but I assumed you wished the captives be shown mercy.”

“True.”

“You just couldn’t trust yourself to say as much with Isabella addressing you so — unwisely.”

“And shall I trust the Genoese to do as much? The Catholic Monarchs scorned him once. Has he the strength of character to resist paying them back now?”

“Perhaps not.” Daud ogled the waiting-woman, and she returned a look of most exquisite promise. “Which was why I told him Moctezuma has already been advised that the fate of one captive is the fate of all.”

Hisdai relaxed visibly. “My son, you are wise. But — you did tell him to request compassionate treatment? You are certain? Does Columbus know enough of the Cathayan tongue to make himself understood beyond doubt?”

Daud sighed. “Alas, no. Christopher Columbus is a man of vision, not linguistics. Which was why I took the precaution of having Moshe ibn Ahijah translate the exact words our once-admiral should relay to Lord Moctezuma.”

The waiting-woman knelt beside him with seductive grace, offering her tray and more besides for Daud’s inspection. Rumour had it that she and the others were ranked as princesses in their own land. Idly Daud wondered whether — the lady’s eventual conversion permitting — such a match would satisfy Hisdai. So caught up was he in these pleasant musings that he did not hear his father’s next question.

“Daud! Daud, wake up. I asked you something.”

“Hmm? And what was that, O my fondle — father?”

“What he said. What you told the Genoese to say.”

“Oh, that. I kept it simple. I told him to say—”

From somewhere outside a loud cheer from many throats assaulted heaven, loud enough certainly to cover the lesser cry of one man surprised by the religious practices of another.

“ — have a heart.”