appeared black at a distance. As a diamond farmer in India, Aben Ayesh had become rich and powerful—so formidable a man that the Turkish court had rewarded him with the title of Duke of Mytilene. His network of spies was well known throughout the Continent by monarchs who ignored his religious beliefs in order to secure his confidence and, by extension, his privied information. Even though Lopez, as the Queen’s physician, held an enviable position in England, he had none of Aben Ayesh’s religious freedom and independence.
Roderigo listened to Aben Ayesh’s prayers said in Hebrew, then repeated the words out loud. Aching, he felt all of his sixty-eight years. He sucked in his overhanging belly—his stamp of wealth—and straightened his spine. When praying to God, one should stand erect. The Almighty had been kind to him—a good wife and two living, healthy children, one of them a son. God had been good to him physically as well. The hair atop his head was still plentiful, and his skin was nearly wrinkle free, as if Father Time had aged him in leap years. His beard remained as dense as moss and youthfully colored—deep burgundy mixed with rust and wisps of silver.
Roderigo thought back to his first shiva—the official ceremony of Jewish mourning. It had been a clandestine affair in Toledo, held for a cousin burnt as a heretic. Roderigo had just turned thirteen, the age of Jewish manhood, and had been told only recently of his converso bloodline by his parents. Marry, what a revelation that had been! Despite the shock, and danger, that lay ahead, Roderigo decided to remain faithful to his forefathers. He wanted to be a healer of mankind and chose to study medicine—the learned art of the Jewish people. He entered the Universidad Literaria de Salamanca in Spain, graduating with high honors and a medical degree.
Desiring more liberty for his secret practices, Roderigo moved to England during the first years of Elizabeth’s reign, hoping to find relief from the Inquisition; the Virgin Queen was known for a tolerant monarch. As long as her subjects openly supported her and her Church, she chose not to ferret out those who worshiped differently in private. She did this to retain the support of the thousands of secret Papists who still resided in the northern region of the country. But it had a secondary beneficial effect for Roderigo as a secret Jew. As long as he went to the local church, he could practice his religion in the privacy of his own home.
When it was time to marry, Lopez stayed dutiful and chose a wife from the old country—a Portuguese conversa girl twenty years his junior, a cousin of Solomon Aben Ayesh. The doctor brought her over to England, and they settled down to daily life.
Lopez rose to prominence in his field, becoming a member of the College of Physicians and the first house physician at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. His reputation merited him the appointed physician to the Earl of Leicester. This led to the coveted position of Physician-in-Ordinary to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, seven years ago, a position he still held.
But for all his honors, Roderigo couldn’t save Raphael. Teary-eyed, he averted his gaze downward. He’d lost not only a dear friend, but a son-to-be. Such a sorrowful death.
Aben Ayesh finished the prayers and instructed the men to rip the stitching of their doublets then sit on the floor. Roderigo noticed Dunstan wincing. His nephew had been foolish enough to wear a gold-threaded doublet—vain peacock that he was. Roderigo glanced at his son, placed his hand upon his shoulder. Benjamin had just finished Oxford and was planning to go abroad to Venice when the news of Raphael’s death came tumbling upon the family. Roderigo had insisted his son stay for the funeral, but instructed him to leave afterward. Benjamin was kind and generous, thanks be to God the boy was not an ingrate, but unlike his sister, he was slow of wit. A plodder, Roderigo had told his wife Sarah. Roderigo hoped that travel would teach him more successfully than had the university.
Lopez sat on the sweet-smelling rushes next to Benjamin. Across from him were Dunstan and his brother Thomas—a smooth-faced fair man of nineteen. Thomas was built lanky, with long, thin, effeminate fingers. The boy cursed his body often and lashed out frequently at anyone who suggested he was anything less than a man. His quick temper had necessitated early in life an expertise of swordplay. Thomas was renowned for his skill of the fence—much to Dunstan’s displeasure. Thomas could easily best his older brother with a few quick strokes.
Roderigo faced his brother-in-law, Jorge Añoz—Sir George Ames outside the converso community. Jorge had married Sarah’s sister. Good women, thought Roderigo, gentle and dutiful wives. Roderigo thought of his and Jorge’s mistresses and mentally added, tolerant women as well. He said to Jorge, “Raphael needs a replacement as soon as possible.”
Dunstan twisted a braided gold chain around his first finger, then let it fall back against his chest. Surely they didn’t mean him.
Jorge said, “We must find out who told the Spanish captain that Raphael was on board.”
“What makes you think that someone told the captain?” Roderigo said. “He could have simply been found by one of the crew, hiding with the stowaways.”
“Not in a galleon,” Jorge said. “The vessel is so big, twould be an incredible bit of luck to find someone well hidden. So many hatches and compartments.”
“Well, someone found Raphael and the stowaways,” Aben Ayesh said. “Someone handed them over to the Inquisition. But that must not deter us. Too many lives depend on us, on this mission. When was the last time you communicated with the Spanish king, Ruy?”
“I’ve yet to receive word from King Philip,” answered Roderigo.
But Roderigo knew he would hear from His Majesty soon. Another payment was due.
“Do you think he knows what happened?” Jorge asked him.
“I don’t know,” Roderigo said. “But if he is aware of this mishap, we’ll have to increase the payments greatly.”
All the men groaned. They were already paying the Spanish King a fortune in bribe money.
“Can you discreetly get word to His Majesty, Ruy?” Aben Ayesh asked. “Find out what he expects from us?”
Roderigo shook his head. “Transactions such as this one may only be made under the most private of conditions. If, God forbid, our correspondence is discovered, Philip will be angered—beyond repair this time.”
Everyone knew what Roderigo meant. Four years ago, at Roderigo’s and Jorge’s prodding, Queen Elizabeth had abetted the revolt of Don Antonio against King Philip. Don Antonio was an illegitimate descendant from the royal house of Portugal. With English forces at his side, Antonio had rallied his people to revolt against the tyrannical yoke of Spain. It had been a well-placed scheme at the time, and had Don Antonio been of stabler character, it would have worked. The Queen hoped to set up Don Antonio as King of Portugal and gain a formidable ally against Spain in the Iberian peninsula. The conversos wanted Don Antonio as monarch because he was of Jewish descent. Perhaps, as king, Don Antonio would do away with the Inquisition in Portugal—if not abolish the tribunal, at least restrict its powers.
Unfortunately Her Majesty’s fleet, commanded by Sir John Norris and Sir Francis Drake, failed miserably, their attacks easily repelled by King Philip’s Armada. All were left with much to explain. To restore faith with King Philip, appease his wrath, and prevent repercussions against the Spanish conversos, Aben Ayesh paid Philip the enormous sum of fifty thousand ducats. Philip’s anger abated and he allowed their mission to progress without interference. To mollify the irate Elizabeth, Jorge opened the coffers of his lucrative spice business—chartered as the Ames Levantine Trade Company—and stuffed the royal treasury with as much gold as his purses would allow. Her Majesty was forgiving. As a token of her merciful nature, she kept Lopez on as her personal physician and knighted Jorge and his two sons.
“We
