Chapter One - Diaspora

The Bloodless Surrender of Granada

"This beautiful palace. The people of Granada. All the blessings that can be obtained from this fertile land. All of these shall belong to the Catholic Monarchs. As proof thereof, I shall hand over the keys to this palace."

Early January, fourteen ninety-two. In front of the majestic Alhambra Palace, Boabdil, the Moorish king, makes this declaration. This is the moment of Granada's bloodless surrender. Boabdil hands the castle keys to Isabella and lightly kisses her hand. Isabella nods slightly and responds. Her white skin is flushed red like a winter cherry, and her lips tremble slightly.

"Moorish King. I express sincere respect for your generous and courageous decision. We shall henceforth govern this land. And we shall swear upon that proud spirit to protect the contract we have made with you. The witnesses to this oath are all those present here."

Thunderous applause and cheers arise. In the formation behind them are three retainers. One is Luis de Santángel. Another is Isabella's confessor, Hernando de Talavera. And the Grand Inquisitor, Tomás de Torquemada. After basking in the cheers for a while, Isabella continues.

"I pledge to the Moorish King. We recognize that the Moors of this land may continue to maintain their own faith. They shall not be driven from their peaceful homes. Their property shall not be seized. The Moors need only observe Moorish law. And King Boabdil. Through your decision, this magnificent miraculous palace is spared from destruction, and I pledge that your brave resolve shall be conveyed to the people for a thousand years hence."

The people's cheers resound like thunder, shaking the palace. Boabdil nods slightly, quietly turns his horse, and departs with his few remaining retainers. Once again thunderous voices ring out. At this moment, the Reconquista spanning over eight hundred years has been completed. The banners of the Catholic Monarchs flutter on the palace terrace. The eagle of San Juan depicted on the flags soars through the azure sky.

And at this time. There was one man looking up at that eagle dancing wildly in the sky from among the crowds packed in the castle town below. His eyes are wide open, as if about to burst from his skull. His fists are clenched tight, his nails digging into his palms like wedges. A passing acquaintance who notices his condition calls out to him.

"Oh! If it isn't Don Cristóbal Colón. You appear to be in high spirits! How go the preparations for your splendid voyage plan? I pray that this great victory brings some favorable winds for His Excellency Colón as well!"

Contrary to the courteous words, what floats on that face is obvious mockery and contempt. However, the man called Colón shows no sign of taking offense. He is devoting his entire soul to contemplating what he should do next. The final war with the Moors has ended in the best possible form. The Catholic Monarchs must have greatly economized on war expenses. From now on, they should no longer need to trouble their heads and purses over conflicts with the Moors. Colón immediately decided to go meet one man. Luis de Santángel. He would meet that man once more and negotiate for the realization of the voyage. That man is the only one who can persuade the Catholic Monarchs.