Acceptance

None of us was prepared when the Reis arrived.

We had prepared for someone harsher, perhaps with eyes so red they would drain your blood. We had imagined a burly opponent with an unclothed chest, a hairy abdomen, and perhaps a barnacle dangling from his lock.

The Reis regarded us with an almost pleading look.

“Can’t we just free them?”

I couldn’t make out what sort of accent that was. No, I knew he was speaking in Arabic, but which Arab were we talking about? The ‘a’ sounded closer to an ‘e.’

Finding no hope of figuring out where the Reis came from, I focused on his looks.

The Reis looked like he was in his early thirties. What struck me most was his beard, which—no barnacle—was full up to his ears, but cleanly oiled so it fell gracefully. He dressed in a nondescript Moorish tunic, definitely cleaner than the ordinary Mercedarian folks, with trails of perfume on the fabric. Then I remembered—it was Friday. It was a big day for them.

Umberto, the cleanest among the sworn brothers, blinked in haste. He spoke in gibberish Arabic. “That was not the deal, my Reis! You can’t just free the captives!”

Predictably, Umberto earned a collective hateful look from the captives he should’ve bargained for. Perhaps the look had drilled his spine, making him more spineless than before, because Umberto bent his back even lower.

“The captives are to be transported to Oran! We need them to exchange our own captives! I beseech you to re-read the letters!”

The last sentence was spoken in Catalan in haste, so a translator approached the Reis. From the flat gaze those green eyes cast, I would have wagered the Reis knew Catalan. The Reis whispered something to the translator.

“The Reis has declared that his king has his own generosity to be spent,” the translator boomed in fluent Catalan. “Those of you, especially women and children, who were not involved against the Reis or the one stamping his letters, may walk free with alms from our king.”

Women and children cheered. Umberto didn’t. Neither did I.

“As for you who chose to be slaves to their own kings rather than to our God,” the translator continued, “come rove the seas with us with aman—safety—up to the port your kings played you out for. We will meet our Maker before we let anybody harm you.”

Now this brightened Umberto’s sweaty face. I pictured myself strangling him to keep a flat face. Easy for him to stay on board: he was a ransom-broker, a religious official, and a man. Triple privileges that I did not have.

I needed to come up with a reason, fast, to stay on board without involving any cross-dressing tactic.

There was none except the thing that I loathed the most: truth.

“Good sirs,” I ventured, with intentionally broken Arabic. “I came along with the Mercedarians as a free person. I beseech the Reis himself to join his journey towards Oran. We wanted to free the victims of the pogrom.”

That got the Reis’ attention. He must have heard about The Call. That interest itself was a tell. He had something to do with the Jews as well. Revenge, business, or perhaps hidden lineage. That would lead me to his ‘king.’

“We don’t see how the journey ahead would be safer than travelling by land,” the Reis reasoned. He had no moustache to hide his twitching smile. “Unless you want to atone for what your people had committed by marching to your own doom.”

He had provoked me. The nerve. It was not you who had to hold back a smile chatting with those financiers, Reis.

“Your translator has your law wrong.”

Even more than speaking the truth, I loathed to reveal my tricks of the trade.

“Continue.” The Reis regarded me with listless eyes.

I blinked incredulously, but continued. “He conflated your Scripture’s law. You can’t manumit without your king’s permission. What you can grant us is what the travel letter permits.”

“I take it that you do not want the slaves to be freed as well?” The Reis regarded me with an almost bored look. The slaves, in turn, looked at me without any regard.

“What I want to say is,” I pointed to the translator, “your translator was inaccurate in declaring your law. I am an administrator myself. When a king notices his subject does not conduct the religion properly, he’d not be very happy. I might offer help on your journey before your translator spells out your doom.”

The translator did not look so happy. He was the best thing happening today, because despite his linguistic prowess, he had no training in Muslim scholarship. There was no shortage of truth about what I said: sail upon the seas that were once Murcia’s, and any overzealous scholar would want to hang the Reis by his own mizzenmast for apostasy.

“You wanted to know which king I serve.”

My blood froze. The Reis could not hold back his smile now. Perhaps my wit was refreshing to his endless dimwitted harem. Oh, woe to me. This beautiful face would soon be subjugated.

“Take her onboard, Qudamah,” the Reis said. “Don’t get offended. She has read more than you, that’s all. We sail to Oran once we distribute the alms. You are coming as well, my Mercedarian brothers in humanity.”

When the Reis turned away, I saw Umberto spit. Very typical of the merciful brothers.

I ran to Qudamah, the translator. It did not take Arabic to translate the contempt on his face.

“You gave aman to mudejares,” I teased, more to my own annoyance for failing to get under the Reis’ skin. “Not for a travel permit. Can I see your travel permit instead?”

“Girl, who are you to order me?”

“Someone better than you.” Ah, the joy of one-upping him! “At least, tell me the Reis’ name. We will be travelling together, right, Qudamah?”

Qudamah rolled his eyes.

“We call him Kashif Reis.”

Kashif. Hmm. None of the princes that I could recall. But his name in Arabic means… oh, the irony. I was so tempted to ask the Reis if we could switch names.

“We are off to a good start, then, Kashif Reis.”

That smooth Arabic earned a head-turn from the Reis. His green eyes twinkled.