إِنَّكَ مَيِّتٌ وَإِنَّهُم مَيِّتونَ

You will indeed die, and they [too] will die indeed.

Surat az-Zumar 30

On the first of January in the year 15XX, I, Domingo el Monje, translator and scribe, was ordered to the Office of the Holy Tribunal of the Inquisition in Toledo by the Lord Inquisitor Don Francisco de Pinar, then in the second year of his office, having succeeded to it from Valencia by his fatherly reproach of the Morisco heresy in that land, to record the testimony, without error or omission, of a young man calling himself Alvaro de Luna, who came that day at the urging of his own heart, to unburden it of a secret of no small devise.

Dark-haired and milk-skinned, by his own count thirty years of age, this De Luna, though well-dressed and educated in speech, showed agitation by a certain odd motion of the hands, as one sees sometimes among those half-mad rollers who kiss the dice and caress them, knowing they will be scorned all the same.

He came from a silk-trading family, resident in the village of Albaída, a day’s ride south from Toledo. His father succumbing to the bite of a rabid dog on the road to León, the son was charged with the family’s upkeep; but though once by the grace of God enjoying considerable prosperity, for a long time now their business was troubled; the supply was never sure and the quality neither, those who dealt on behalf of the silk growers in Granada having all left for other regions or for Africa, owing to the difficulties one heard of in that city these days.

These difficulties of which he spoke, Don de Pinar wondered, what were they? With the Mohammedans, De Luna answered.

Why had these agents left? Some from declining fortune, some because they were followers of Mohammed themselves.

And of these, which were the associates of the family of De Luna? The Mohammedans. And why? At this the anguish of De Luna’s hands multiplied. Because his people too had once been members of this sect.

The people of Albaída were Mudéjar from the time of Las Navas de Tolosa; it was given them the right to maintain their ways at the surrender of La Mancha by the Almohad king. But under the terms of the Capitulation of 1502, they had accepted baptism and conversion to the Christian religion, with the payment of tithes and firstfruits in exchange for the exercise of property and residence, as well as freedom from Moorish dues.

De Luna himself was a New Christian by birth, having neither Arabic name nor Mohammedan education. The family never indulged in the old ways, neither the wearing of white for mourning nor the henna-painting of their women’s hands. They were pious and faithful in all ways. Until—

Here Alvaro de Luna cast his eyes to the ground, and one was drawn with him into the depths of his shame.

Until, he said, in default of his obligation to Church and Crown and the terms of said Capitulation, he himself had performed the Moorish ritual.

There are inquisitors who are known for the heat of their passions, but Don de Pinar is reputed for absence of excitement in all circumstances, and here it was justly reported.

Where, he asked, had the young De Luna learned such forbidden things?

Now De Luna made an astonishing confession: in Albaída, where there was an alfaqui.

Certain rumours had reached him of a stranger reading secretly from the book known as the Alcorán. He tried to ignore them, but his curiosity only grew; was not the spirit of inquiry a gift of God to all men? Only here its dangers became apparent too late. He was cast into temptation.

All this he said wringing his hands, as if he sought to wash them of the stain that was yet on his soul.

Where did this alfaqui read? From fear the location was never fixed, being set anew at each occasion.

And to whom did he read? Men and women from among the New Christians of Albaída.

Did he know these people? He did.

Then he accused them of a Complicity led by the alfaqui?

Again his eyes fell down, and he was some time in answering; but at last he avowed that it was so.

Don de Pinar commended him for his courage in confessing—but he must be warned that that alone would not suffice.

At this a terrible fright came into the young man’s eyes: the stories of the trials, what was endured, were not unknown to him.

He had indeed sinned, he knew this; he did not deserve mercy but begged Don de Pinar for it all the same. He had come of his own conscience, able to bear the burden no longer. He wished to live free of sin, and to spare his family. He was all that stood between them and penury. Should they starve for his recklessness?

Was the situation of the De Luna family so little removed from misery then?

Here his eyes wandered through darknesses, and he became maladroit in speech, the nails of one hand digging deep into the flesh of the other.

His debts—ill-timing, and the expense of entertaining, which, though ruinous, was customary in the trade. And now a note of promise considerably beyond his means was soon to come due….

Don de Pinar was silent for a time, and so unmoved and unmoving, that he might not have heard the young man at all.

De Luna spoke of conspiracy; his sin, leading back to this, proceeded from it as well, in the same way a man fallen ill from bad water might still live if he and the source be drained.

Did he, De Luna, understand? He did.

Would he identify this alfaqui? Stilling his hands, the young man agreed.

Then his contrition might be understood and reported by the Inquisition to the bailiff in Albaída, in consideration of his dues.

Here De Luna fell to his knees to kiss Don de Pinar’s feet, who allowed him but three times to do so. He was ordered to present himself to the constable at Albaída upon his arrival, and at the Office of the Inquisition in three days’ time. And having assented, he was released, and was seen departing on horseback by the southern gate.

Don de Pinar took his leave and soon I would too. But there was some discussion of De Luna’s confession by those others present, and of an imminent invasion, perhaps by the Turkish or Egyptian king, so that it was agreed to be of much concern to the Inquisition, rumor of such Complicities.

But after all, Alvaro de Luna did not appear in Toledo at the date appointed by Don de Pinar, and instead the following came to pass:

On the fourth of January, a baker and resident of Albaída, who, having cause by his profession to wake before sunrise, did, while returning home with a purchase of flour, encounter the body of a man in the water hidden by a growth of reeds.

Having dragged the body to the plaza of Albaída and called for the constable, he began asking among those present who might know the dead man; but his speculations were interrupted by a woman’s cry, darkened by melancholy: It is Alvaro, our Alvaro, oh God what has happened to him, what have they done?

She was a Morisco widow and cook, fainted on the stones. She had come to purchase food for the house of her master, Alvaro de Luna.

The family of De Luna, receiving the news, came to remove the body. But a large bruise and swelling on the back of its head had meanwhile been found, and it was already taken to the citadel.

The next day, having no news, Don de Pinar sent a messenger to Albaída to inquire, returning with a report of everything hereto recounted. Having in mind what had been told him by the deceased, he made directly for the village with a retinue of the Inquisition. I, Domingo el Monje, educated in the Arabic language, accompanied them as well.

We descended from Toledo following the river Bañuelo until its meeting with what is called by local custom that of the Moor-woman. In this confluence is Albaída. We found there a new town of wide streets and yellow stone with a large church and citadel, at which the constable Gines Vaca and the priest Ignacio Galán received us, and Don de Pinar established his temporary offices, to lead the inquiry.

Father Galán was a venerable man, small and round, and very proper in his comportment. Constable Vaca laughed often and in the manner of an overseer driving men in the field.

The constable was surprised by news of De Luna’s journey to Toledo. He had secured permission to ride south to Jaén to meet a buyer that same morning.

Had he finished his business and gone north subsequently? But it was not possible in a single day. He must have turned very soon after departing.

There is a dry tributary of the Bañuelo that, descending east from the highway to Jaén, meets a path through the mountains to pass in sight of the citadel of Albaída, re-joining the northern route after. Perhaps De Luna, desiring to hide his errand, made false report of his business in Jaén; and then by chance or malice, was seen making his change on the road.

It was said that the family was of late in some distress, and Father Galán was aware of considerable debts. But would a creditor go so far as murder?

To whom were these debts owed? The Moors did not loan at interest. Did the town harbour Jews? No, not in living memory.

There had been those who dealt, though not openly, in such things, itinerants mostly, and foreigners, but Vaca had punished them severely, and they were fled. And that it be an Old Christian the constable considered unthinkable. These were pious men and women and honest in all matters, even usury.

Then who, spying De Luna on the road to Toledo, would have conspired in his death? What was his errand there that could have been so unfavourably received?

Here Don de Pinar revealed to them De Luna’s confession: of the young man’s recidivism, and of the teacher of heresy among the Moriscos of Albaída.

The constable now saw clearly the whole thing: this teacher or one of his disciples, fearing what De Luna might tell, followed after; and, apprehending him, committed the wicked deed.

Who could have been on the road? This presented difficulties. The Moriscos could not leave Albaída without permission, nor was it simple to do so in secret, for the old town, the only settlement here since the days of the Caliphate, and in which the Moriscos were obliged by law to live, was now a closed quarter within the walls of the new.

As it was believed that the Mohammedans of Africa, in support of their countrymen, might cross the sea and march north, at the time of the Capitulation, it was agreed to fortify at Albaída, and a new walled town was founded around it, in which only Old Christians with proof of long standing were given the right to settle.

For his part, Constable Vaca had long suspected conspiracy. Certain objects had begun appearing in Albaída of late, coins in the Moorish fashion, and amulets and papers found hidden in the village bearing their unnatural script; and lately travellers with accents of he knew not where were arriving to settle among the Moriscos. They claimed to be Old Christians, and bore evidence as such: but who knew? They were only two days’ ride from Granada here….

It was not forbidden? No. The Moriscos could not live in the new town, but any man might reside in the old. But he would have to find a Morisco willing to house him, and these were a clannish, conniving sort. So how had the newcomers succeeded if not from complicity?

Father Galán did not disagree with the constable, though his feelings for the New Christians were gentler, for he counted them among his parishioners; but in the old town the streets were so narrow a man could hardly pass through on two feet, and the houses, poor in appearance outside, concealed rich and ingenious spaces within, built in congress with one another, so that a Morisco, wishing to see a relation on the far side of the district, need never set foot in the road. And although obedient, they were still sometimes afflicted by slyness and the sullenness of their race; therefore if there were conspirators come among them, one would hardly know it, and it was said that in silence, sedition blooms.

The constable was decided. They would search the Morisco quarter for the murder weapon. They had the right.

I wondered: Would the killer dare keep it? Perhaps not. But, and here it was Don de Pinar who spoke, they might still find proof of apostasy, which was of greater import still.

Should the family not be consulted? I asked. Perhaps they knew of enemies. Vaca waved his hand. Of course, inquiries would be made.

The next morning, the constable and one hundred men entered the old town on foot, ordering the residents to quit their houses. Don de Pinar and I coming afterwards were forced to dismount at the gate, for a horse could not fit between those whitewashed walls.

Every window was shuttered but coming upon a chink here or a low arcade, one sometimes caught a glimpse of what lay within: gardens of fig and jasmine and orange, smelling even when unseen, a sweetness found also in the air of Valencia, city of my fathers.

Hours passed in silence, then suddenly a commotion arose. One of Constable Vaca’s men, a fox-faced youth, pushing through the Moriscos stood quietly outside their homes, waved something in his hand: a book in what he claimed was the Arabic idiom, found in the house of a doctor, Juan de Medina. Whereupon Don de Pinar ordered it confiscated and the doctor put in chains.

Juan de Medina was a man of sixty, of medium height and with hair like a spring snow. He did not cry or beg, only sat hunched over, in the manner of a man accustomed to the whip.

How long had Juan de Medina practiced medicine in Albaída? Three years.

Where had he come from? From the town of Alfacar.

To which archdiocese did it belong? Granada.

Did he know the deceased, Alvaro de Luna? They were acquainted, but he could not claim more.

Was he a member of the Mohammedan sect? Never. His was an Old Christian family since the Visigoth kings.

Did the doctor admit to speaking the Arabic language? Castilian was the only idiom he knew.

Did he admit to serving as alfaqui to the false converts of Albaída?

Here De Medina took fright. But still he did not beg, nor did he stammer, though his voice trembled as he said that he could not, for he was no such thing.

The book was placed in front of him. It was bound in goatskin coloured black and red and green.

He waited a moment before taking it in his hands. He turned it over as a child might a precious devising. What was it, he asked?

He claimed not to know? It was found at his home. He shook his head. He had never seen it before.

Don de Pinar now asked that I translate. De Medina gave me it, afterwards placing his hands as if holding water over chin and mouth; by which angle I fancied that his lips touched his fingertips.

The pages were simple, copied in a blueish ink and unadorned. On the first were written seven lines of the Arabic language in a practiced hand.

What was it?

I answered as it appeared to me: The Poem on Medicine by that great physician Avicenna.

Did it include instructions for prayer or ritual? I said that I could not discern any such thing.

The doctor raised his head from his hands in such a way that his eyes came first to me. He was contrite; yes, he recalled now, it was given him as a gift upon the completion of his studies many years ago. He had forgotten. He was an old man, and liable to such things.

De Medina was brought back to the dungeon, and the constable informed that the book was not blasphemous but a resource of his profession, and that no more than a fine could be levied in reprimand.

Vaca was in an unusual choler: who had said so? Learning it was I, the constable looked upon me the way one does a chicken on the blanket of a fakir that opens its mouth at the same time a man’s voice speaks the Lord’s Prayer.

The next day, Don de Pinar wished to convene constable and priest, but Vaca was not in the citadel, so a messenger was sent to fetch him.

Galán meanwhile was sure of De Medina’s guilt. There was an alfaqui among the people of Albaída, and the doctor had in his possession an Arabic text. If he were not a member of the Complicity, it would be known to him, and De Luna’s killer additionally.

At which there was a strange silence, for it was a long time since we had thought of such things.

Now the constable came into the room suddenly and in great excitement. A paper had been found, this time concealed beneath a bench in the church. It was believed to be a spell of malediction taken from the Alcorán.

We rode from the citadel to the plaza of Albaída. The streets were quiet as a Sunday eve. But arriving at the church, we saw gathered a large crowd, two hundred strong at least.

The people made way for the banner of the Inquisition. Their brows were dark and their teeth showed, and all around us was an angry murmur.

We went inside, Constable Vaca pointing to the pulpit, but going no further, and Father Galán neither, so much did they avow themselves affrighted.

Don de Pinar bid me go look. I found there a sheet of paper, one edge frayed as if torn from a binding. It was the Arabic language, though written in a large, awkward manner, by an illiterate or child perhaps: devotional verse, I explained.

To whom? Don de Pinar asked.

I felt that Vaca’s eyes were on me, and I thought not so much of the chicken as the fakir.

To God, I answered.

Not our God, Galán frowned.

Impossible, Vaca scoffed, this was a language only the devil understood. Then he seized the paper from me. Clearly the Complicity sought revenge for the arrest of its leader by cursing the Old Christians.

I was hesitant; I could not confirm this; the writing was difficult and would require study at the citadel. But could we avoid the villagers?

We will have to pass through them, said Vaca. There is no other way.

As we came outside, someone called out: Is it another body in there?

Sons of a fucking whore—no pity at all! said another.

Flanked by Vaca’s men, we made our way through the crowd, which seemed to me to have doubled in number, and indeed in agitation. I had the most peculiar feeling then, as if a fox watched me from the low brush, and I noticed, or thought I did, the constable make a curious gesture, two fingers raised to the level of his hip. I wished to tell the Chief Inquisitor, but I saw that he had seen it too.

A voice, louder than the rest, shouted: Someone put the church under a Moorish curse!

And indeed, it was as if a dark cloud, lurking above for hours, had at last launched the first drop of the storm. The crowd beginning to speak, suddenly every voice was raised, until it was impossible to hear any one for all, like a swarming of bees.

Moorish sorcery!

Yes, me too, I heard it, the guards were talking—

Vaca glanced to Galán, who, clearing his throat, addressed them: It is a tense moment, but please, we should remain calm. The object is in our hands. Its magic will be studied—

He must not say that! I appealed to Don de Pinar. They are driven mad with fear—they won’t stop until blood is spilled!

Ruthless devils! Lenders at interest!

It isn’t enough to bury their own—the bastards want to kill us all!

Vaca’s men joined their shields around us, but there was already no need: though none had ordered it, the villagers were departing the square. At first they walked, but their collective movement impelled them faster, so that soon they were running in the direction of Albaída, no longer a crowd of strangers but one-minded, a mob; for they had united behind a single idea, and they would see it come to pass; and by what device I could not see, there were torches among them already ablaze.

We must stop this, I pleaded.

And die trampled underfoot? laughed Vaca. All they want is justice. Besides—

Here he turned his head, and as we stood already side by side, his eyes were upon me, and he asked: Do we not want to see justice done?

It is horrific, Father Galán mourned, but it is beyond our powers, and we cannot intervene.

The shouting and firelight receded round a bend in the road, though this was an illusion, for in truth both were growing only more aggrieved.

I looked to Don de Pinar, but a statue cut from marble could not have been more cool.

The Moors, he said, have brought this on themselves.

The following I recount as testimony, for that was how it was received, though the aftermath I myself can attest to, having seen it with my own eyes:

That any man or woman standing was cut down and their homes set ablaze; and—

That men climbed the walls with water-buckets and clubs in case fire or the Moriscos should attempt to escape; and—

That the gate, though open to the mob when it arrived, was found shut by the terrified Albaídans: by order of the king, only those with a permit should pass; and—

That the slaughter continued deep into the night, the fires only dying when there was nothing left to burn.

The next day Juan de Medina, having learned of the death of his family and neighbours and the incineration of his home, hanged himself in his cell; and it was thought by Don de Pinar that his guilt was all but assured. For it was the doctor’s own actions that had brought this tragedy to pass. Had he been the alfaqui, it was only right he confess; and if not, it was his duty to reveal who was. His silence had condemned them.

Sin was like the sea once angered: it spared no ship. Besides, a true Christian would never take the life loaned him by God.

The Inquisition, pronouncing the alfaqui dead and the heresy ended, departed Albaída on the seventh of January, 15XX.

The wall around the Morisco quarter was torn down, and the land cleared for the establishment of a new church and priestly home, as well as a school for those few children surviving the fire. Certain members of the garrison were also said to have built their houses there in the cloistered fashion of Andalusia, the land being favourable to the growing of gardens. And by petition to the king, the village was granted the name Santiago-Matamoros, for that holy man who had held Clavijo against the Arabs, putting them all and finally to the sword.

Sometime later I heard a story told that a peasant boy, drawing water for his mules from the well in the village square, had come upon a body half-drowned and beaten savagely on the face and head. From his hands he was said to have been a luckless gambler. But this was only hearsay, soon enough forgotten.

They laid Alvaro de Luna to rest beneath a wooden cross, in the dry and quiet country to the east where wait the Moriscos, for a traveller to come upon one day when all has long since been forgotten, to read their names, and to wonder.

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Lion Summerbell is a writer from Manhattan living in France. Twitter: @lionsummerbell Linktree: linktr.ee/lionsummerbell