Read Online By Fire, By Water by Mitchell James Kaplan - Free Book Online

saw’s sharp teeth .
     
    Judith laughed. “Yes, that’s how life is, isn’t it. We stretch out our tattered cloaks and peer through the holes, looking toward the stars.”

     CHAPTER THREE
     
    A S THE CHANCELLOR SAT WORKING , his aide knocked to announce a caller. A hefty fellow with short hair and a close-cropped beard, the visitor did not bow. “Your Excellency,” he said in a deep baritone, “forgive me for intruding. Abram Serero, a scribe by trade, and a teacher. I’ve come to deliver our community’s contribution.”
    “Your community?”
    “The Jewish community. A small offering, I admit. But as you know, Chancellor, we’re not as prosperous as in the time of our grandfathers.” He waved the paper in his hand. “It’s all accounted for.”
    Santángel looked up from his books. “Señor Serero, have a seat.” He turned to his aide. “Señor de Almazón, stay with us. Close the door.” If the chancellor was going to receive a Jew in his office, he wanted a witness.
    Serero reached into his satchel and produced a purse of gold coins, which he handed to Santángel along with the accounting sheet. Santángel counted the coins and noted their value. “Normally, these deliveries are not made to my office.”
    “I wanted to meet you.”
    “Why?”
    “I’m new at this.”
    Santángel nodded, glancing at the accounting sheet. “Do you read Hebrew?”
    “When I said I was a scribe,” Serero explained, “what I meant was, I am a Hebrew scribe. I copy our holy books in the holy tongue. If I did not read and understand Hebrew, I would be going through the motions without experiencing every word. And if I copied the Torah that way …” He shook his head.
    The chancellor looked up from the accounting sheet. “What would happen?”
    “There’s a traditional way of doing these things. I learned the craft from my father. He learned it from his.”
    “Your family,” asked Santángel. “You’ve lived in Zaragoza for some time?”
    “My family has lived in Zaragoza and also Valencia for as long as anyone remembers. But others make such claims.” Serero scratched his beard. “Perhaps, Señor Santángel, you’ve heard of the Zinillo family.”
    Santángel’s face registered nothing. Being a Christian, and a close collaborator of the king, he did not appreciate Serero’s reminding him of his ancestry.
    “They say my forbears have enjoyed the generosity of this land ever since the time of King Solomon,” boasted the scribe.
    “Señor Serero, please express to your community His Highness’s gratitude.”
    “Thank you.” After a moment, Serero added, “May all your endeavors, and the king’s, be crowned with righteousness.”
    On Santángel’s nod, his aide showed Serero the door. The Jew again turned to the chancellor. “If you should need anything further, please, come visit me. I live in the house next to the synagogue, one door to the left.”
    “What could I possibly need from a Jew, other than taxes, my good man?” Santángel smiled with deliberate condescension and waved the scribe away.
    Serero glanced at him once more, then shuffled out of the office.
    “The fellow has no tact,” Santángel muttered, loudly enough so that his aide could hear. Felipe de Almazón stared at the door.

     
    The judería , the Jewish quarter of Zaragoza, lay adjacent to its royal palace, not far from Santángel’s home. He almost never ventured there. Enveloped in a dark surcoat, he entered the neighborhood on a chill winter night, scarcely more noticeable than the shadow of a cloud passing under the moon.
    He rapped lightly at the door of Abram Serero’s narrow, decrepit, two-story habitation. After a pause, he knocked again. He heard loose shoes shuffling across the floorboards.
    Dressed in a long nightshirt, holding a candle, the scribe pulled the door open a crack, then all the way. “Chancellor. What an honor.”
    Santángel faced a cramped room with low beams, small windows, a dwindling