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THE FLORENTINE EMERALD

The Secret of the Convert's Ring

BARCELONA BOOKS

Cardona, Spain April 3, 1478

"My life has been one long succession of errors and tomorrow I shall die."

It was only after many years had passed that his son grasped the full meaning of these words. The fact is the truth was too terrible for Mauricio Coloma to accept unquestioningly. Chained up in that claustrophobic and foul-smelling cell in Cardona Castle, his father was the very embodiment of defeat, bitterness, and suffering.

Torture, Mauricio supposed, was the reason his father had been reduced to such a pitiful condition. His hair had been shaved and his skull was a mass of blood-stained scabs. His broken nose forced him to breathe through his mouth and when he spoke he seemed to choke on his own words. His dislocated jaw and swollen features completely distorted his expression. Only his light-colored eyes reminded Mauricio of the man he had always known. They shone with even more intensity than usual, as if to devour all the attention of his only son in these last moments left him as he awaited death.

The previous week Pedro Coloma, his father, had gone to Cardona Castle to claim payment for a large order of fabric. During his stay in the fortress, the Count of Cardona stabbed the king's herald after a heavy meal lubricated by far too much wine. The affair would have been of no concern to a modest proprietor of textile mills in Barcelona, had he not been a witness to the murder. Chosen to be the scapegoat for this most unfortunate incident, Pedro Coloma was accused of committing the crime with the aim of encouraging a new rebellion of the serfs, whose just grievances had already provoked ten long years of civil war. In this way, by adding another death to the first, the hot-tempered Count of Cardona aimed to avoid both the royal rage and the payment of the old debt owed to his father.

"Surely there must be some way of preventing your execution!" exclaimed Mauricio, as if mere words could have the power to change the inevitable.

Devastated by a pain so deep that it seemed to pierce his soul, as if it were torn fabric, consumed by a searing fire forcing its way through his feeling of complete impotence, stunned by a torrent of emotions that clouded all understanding as if an explosion of gunpowder had shattered his brain, Mauricio could hardly bear not being able to help the person he loved so much. Mauricio's mother, the only woman his father had ever loved, died giving birth to him and in his innermost heart he felt he had never fulfilled the hope placed in him. And now, when his father most needed him, most, he was failing him yet again.

"My son, you are now twenty-one years of age. Since your childhood, I have allowed your passion for books to be a refuge from the reality you preferred to avoid. But now, the time for dreaming has come to an end."

His father's abrupt rebuke shook him to the core, dissipating a kind of haze that had always shielded him like a protective barrier from direct contact with his most painful emotions, those he did not wish to confront. It was no longer possible to escape that anguish by plunging into the mists of his imagination. His father's steady, challenging gaze prevented him from doing so.

"Once you have left this cell I shall confess to the crime I did not commit," said Pedro Coloma. "No one can bear pitiless and prolonged torture. The reason I have been able to resist without surrendering has been my stubborn insistence on seeing you in exchange for my admission of guilt. They were even denying me that last wish. Now listen to me carefully, for we have little time left. Tomorrow, at dawn, I shall be executed for high treason. They will take my life and confiscate all my possessions. You will be left penniless and forced to live like a beggar unless you do exactly as I say."

There was no room left in Mauricio's mind to worry about his uncertain future. Motherless and possessing neither brothers nor sisters, whatever he was he owed to the person who had cared for him since childhood with tenderness, patience, and love. Had it been possible, he would not have hesitated for a moment to take his father's place, for his only wish was for the salvation of the man who was still trying to guide him, even now, from the very depths of the pit of sorrow that fate had assigned as his ultimate dwelling place. However, the only choice left to him was to listen to the instructions from that paternal voice, every word laden with doom.

"You must search for a jewel of incalculable value hidden in our home in Barcelona. As you know, the entrance hall of our house is made up of tiles laid out in eight black and white rows, like a chessboard. Under the tile where you would place the white king, you will discover a ring crowned with the most beautiful emerald you could possibly imagine. Not even King Solomon at the very height of his glory could have possessed such a precious jewel."

Mauricio was completely taken aback. The textile trade was prosperous, but not to the extent of purchasing such a fabulous jewel. Hidden there, lay a great secret. The secret for which his father had been able to withstand such atrocious torture that even his captors had to admit defeat. The secret that he wanted to pass on before he died. The secret whose radiance would mark Mauricio's life. His father, by this time, was speaking slowly and haltingly, and, by dint of enormous effort, took several deep breaths before continuing.

"When you find the ring, cross the Pyrenees swiftly, with no looking back. Do not tarry or you will be incriminated for being in possession of family property that should have been confiscated with the rest of our belongings. Do not try and sell it secretly either or a moneylender will offer you a ridiculous price in exchange for not giving you away. Follow my counsel and go to Florence, the prodigious city," he urged while close by the hoarse laughter of the guards could be heard behind the door. "Lorenzo Il Magnifico, the magnanimous prince without a crown, is the governor of that city and his great passion for precious stones is well known. There you can start a new life."

"Where does this stone come from, father? Is there something else I should know?" Mauricio demanded, hearing the creaking of the door hinges.

His father coughed and breathlessly continued with his surprising utterances, ignoring the jailer's footsteps.

"I should have explained so many things to you while I still had time â&8364;¦ I am a descendant of Jews and, although you might not like this, a certain number of our family were moneylenders. It is possible that they took the ring as a guarantee against an unpaid debt, though I am not sure, as the jewel has been passed from father to son for centuries. Accustomed as they are to persecutions, Jews have always observed the habit of keeping objects of great value, which could easily be transported or concealed. In that way, should they be forced into exile, they could always rebuild their lives in another country after selling whatever valuable object they had discreetly brought with them, just as you should now do."

"Your time's up," announced the jailer.

His father broke down in tears and Mauricio clasped him to his chest, wishing to convey in that final contact all the love that he had sometimes been unable to express: a love that flowed with more strength than he had ever felt, an uncontrollable torrent of emotion sweeping aside everything in its path. Gone was the overflowing latrine, the lurking rats sensing death, the slimy contents of an earthen bowl masquerading as food, gone was the disfigured face of his father. All that remained was love. An immense love that soared up like a chant, as if the dismal cell were, in reality, a cathedral of the spirit.

"Do you know," muttered his father, "I sometimes wonder if the Grand Rabbi Abraham Abulafia might have punished me for being the first of his descendants to betray the Jewish faith. Pray for me, I beg of you."

Questions pierced Mauricio's mind like lacerating arrows but nevertheless, to save his father from more pain, he kept the anxieties rising up inside him to himself. It had never even crossed his mind that Jewish blood ran through his veins. That confession implied that his grandparents had not been true Christians, but merely marranos: false converts, who practiced their Jewish rites in secret. Mauricio felt the heavy hands of the guards grabbing him from behind and he clung to his father with all his strength.

"Do not lose heart, father. God awaits you once you have left this inferno."

When the jailers finally managed to pry them apart, Mauricio knew it would be the last time he would ever see his father. His last words echoed within him like a blessing.

"My death will be a new beginning, my son. The bad luck that has blighted our family will be forever buried with my lifeless body. Whatever sins we may have committed in the past will be forgotten. You will start a new life in Florence and good fortune will accompany you. All hopes for the future of our lineage reside in you, the last living Coloma of our household. May our past not prove to have been a voyage undertaken in vain. Remember these words, my last words, and do as I told you. Accept my dying voice as that of one who knows."

Florence, Italy April 26, 1478

On the fifth Sunday after Easter, Mauricio entered Florence early. Behind him, the enormous watchtowers and impenetrable walls protecting the city seemed to be telling him there was no going back. The past lay buried in Barcelona. Far more turbulent waters than those he had just crossed on his sea journey from the ciudad condal, the city of counts, were awaiting him in his new destination. A ring and a small amount of money, just enough to enable him to survive for a few days, were all he possessed to help him forge his future.

Hesitantly, he entered the church of Santo Spirito and, resting on one of its well-worn benches, closed his eyes and nostalgically recalled memories of his childhood when his father would recount stories from the Bible just before he went to sleep: the creation of the universe in seven days, the expulsion from the Garden of Eden, Noah's Ark, the Tower of Babel, the epic story of the child Joseph and his gift for interpreting dreams. Indeed the holy book provided the best opportunity for delving beyond the visible world. What was there before God created light, the firmament, and the stars? Were they infinite these stars that illuminated nights on earth? The young Mauricio would ponder on these and other similar questions in the darkness of his bedroom long after his father had extinguished the wick of his oil lamp. It was then that he would find consolation in the mother he had never known, who would smile down on him from heaven and encourage him to reach out and find the answers to all these hidden mysteries. His father, who was perhaps linked by some invisible bridge to the heavens, had always protected him and allowed him to escape from the workshop and immerse himself in the mass of reading matter piled up in the house of his old friend Juan, an esteemed Barcelona bookshop owner. It was there, in the tranquility of a solitary garret that he had learned to live other lives and to travel to distant lands. That world, replete in equal parts of mystery and security was now irretrievably lost.

Like an empty shell tossed around by the wind, like a grain of sand lost in the desert, like a tremulous dew drop threatened by the sun â&8364;¦ there was no metaphor that could describe the utter confusion and loss provoked in him by the unjust death of his father. His past was full of secrets and untruths and the future promised to be as unpredictable as a storm at sea. The emerald was his only hope to avoid sinking into a pit of misery and even that thought provoked bitter remorse in him.

Had it not been for the resplendent ring, his father would not have been tortured in an ordeal reserved for the worst criminals. Had it not outshone the stars, his father would not have spent the last days of his existence wracked by unbearable agony. Had it not resembled a sacred jewel, fashioned in the forge of the gods, his father would have bid farewell to life with a short sigh, just enough time for the executioner to gain a pair of boots and a few blood- spattered coins. However, the emerald was made of the same substance as heavenly bodies, his father had fought to the limits of his endurance in order to reveal its existence to his son, and he in turn, fulfilling his role in the drama, had come to Florence to sell this mysterious stone.

What was the provenance of this sublime jewel? Why had his father never spoken of it? He had deliberately concealed an important part of his family history, inexorably related to his unexpected Hebraic connections. Mauricio could understand his father's reluctance to speak about a past that Mauricio himself was ashamed of. It was very hard for his Christian pride to accept that he was descended from Jewish converts to Christianity, and in some way he felt as if a part of him was contaminated by a lie. And yet there were so many facts about his origins he was still unaware of ... What if his father's omissions were caused by some other hidden reason? Perhaps there was mortal danger in uncovering something that he had taken such trouble to hide.

Although he was invaded by incomprehension, anguish, and sadness in these dark hours, one unquenchable desire emerged through the gloom of his soul like a litany repeated a thousand times: to accomplish the mission that his father had entrusted him with in his last breath, grasping a message called hope from the jaws of death. He would not allow his sacrifice to go in vain. For the first time in his life, he told himself, he had to rise to the hopes placed in him.

"Whatever sins we may have committed in the past will be forgotten. You will start a new life in Florence and good fortune will accompany you." Those words rang in his ears and filled him with confidence. He pleaded to Jesus Christ that his father's posthumous blessing would guide his steps and then left the church.

As Mauricio crossed over the bridge of Santa Trinita, memories of the textile trade in Barcelona came back to him. On both banks of the River Arno, crowds of men were washing wool with a mixture of liquid disinfectant and horse urine, which impregnated the air with its penetrating odor, while others rinsed out the trimmed sheep wool in the river waters. Beaters struck the soaking wool stretched out on wicker frames while others finished the process on the edge of the river, combing and separating the fibers.

They were all carrying out tough, badly remunerated jobs. The carders and spinners were not well paid either. If a thief were to steal his ring, he too would be condemned to live in poverty. Afraid to lose the jewel in a stroke of ill fortune, Mauricio decided to head toward the Medici Palace without further delay.

He had dressed for the occasion in a suit of clothes his father had presented him with the year before in honor of his twentieth birthday. It was his best attire: a white linen shirt, a blue silk doublet, and elegant red hose. A velvet sash concealed the knot that connected the top of the hose to the doublet. Without a doubt, he looked like a wealthy merchant. But he was no Florentine. The gentlemen of that city were scrupulously clean shaven and wore either scarlet hats or strips of cloth resembling turbans on their heads. In contrast, his long hair flowing in the wind and bushy beard made him stand out as a foreigner. If he looked in the slightest way disoriented or hesitant, he would soon attract the attention of the ruffians that lurk in all cities in search of unsuspecting victims. Danger lay in wait for him everywhere, including at the inn where he had left his belongings. The owner, a greedy-eyed man, had filled him with deep mistrust when he described the best way to reach the Medici Palace.

With this in mind, though wandering lost in a labyrinth of narrow streets, he affected confidence and kept up a steady pace, preferring not to stop and look around at the small drapers' shops built into the old Roman walls or wander around the many shops and workshops where traders and artisans offered a wealth of captivating wares. Not even the fragrant smells of the colorful market could stop his progress, in spite of not having eaten lunch. Tender capons, juicy venison, fresh fruit, sweet honey, and cheeses swarming with flies would all have to wait until he had sold the ring.

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Excerpted from THE FLORENTINE EMERALD by Agustín B. Palatchi. Copyright © 2014 Michael Merchant & Judy Thomson. Excerpted by permission of BARCELONA BOOKS.
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