by Jana Petken
There was a hushed stillness, yet the inquisitor, inebriated by power, raised his hand as though he were the pope himself, silencing the masses.
“Children, by the grace of God, the Holy Office, and Their Majesties King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, I extend a solemn invitation to you the faithful to hear the edict of grace,” his voice rang out. “This is your one opportunity to confess all that which blackens your soul.
“Heresy, that most terrible crime, is not only a sin against God. It is also a grave offence against Rome and Spain. A priest cannot give you absolution,” he continued, giving his first warning. “Your confessors can, however, refer to me any penitents who have denounced themselves for sins against the faith. I urge you all to think well on this! By self-accusing yourselves, you will avoid the most severe penalty for heresy, which is death!” De Amo paused and allowed the soft rumbling of shocked voices to settle. The people would not be filled with fear were they not shocked at his words, he always reminded himself at this point in the edict. And fear was exactly what he wanted from them.
“Let me remind you that self-denunciation is not enough. You must also denounce your relatives, friends, and acquaintances who have taken part in your reprehensible practices. Those who witness a heretic act and do not denounce the sinner are just as guilty, and the punishment will be just as severe, as though you too have sinned!” Watching confusion and disapproval spread throughout the congregation, he wondered why it was not obvious to the people that their duty to the church far outweighed any loyalty they might feel towards friends or family members.
“Amongst these heretic crimes are any and all ceremonies or meetings where Jewish prayers have been recited or a circumcision has been performed,” he continued. “All Judaizers must be reported, for I repeat, if you do not accuse those heretics, you will be excommunicated and charged by the Inquisition.
“Even those already in the grave should be denounced if it is clear to you that they were Judaizers. They shall not rest in peace … Their bodies will be exhumed and burnt, and all remaining possessions will be confiscated!” Again De Amo paused for effect. The church was as silent as a tomb. Only a sea of terrified eyes spoke of the fear he was inflicting.
“You must look for signs. People who refuse to recite the ‘Gloria Patri’ at the end of a psalm are to be denounced as heretics, as are those who slaughter animals in an unchristian way, abstain from eating Christian foods such as pork, and do not work on Saturdays.
“All who attend funerals must also be vigilant. Judaizers must be denounced if they attend to a dead person whose body is washed in warm water and its armpits and beards shaved when it is wrapped in a new winding sheet, with its head propped up by a pillow filled with virgin earth! If you see that a pearl or coin has been placed in the dead person’s mouth, or that the house has been sprinkled with water, then in all probability, you will be in the presence of Judaizers!
“Hear me well, my children. You have been warned! By the grace of God, you are given a period of one month’s grace to come forward and …”
A piercing scream coming from the town square filtered into the church and echoed up into the wooden rafters. Seconds later, the sound of men’s raised voices, cries of terror, and a chaotic congregation in the square, running towards one of its side streets, managed to halt the inquisitor’s edict.
Wagging an index finger at Luis and throwing him a contemptuous look, De Amo shouted, “What is this, Your Grace? What new calamity has befallen your inflicted sin-ridden town!”
Luis rose from his seat, ignored the inquisitor, and was halfway down the aisle before De Amo had stopped shouting. Barging past people blocking his path, he headed towards the church’s doors, screaming with rage at those in his way.
“Murder! There’s been another murder!” a man’s voice boomed at the church’s doors.
Women’s screams vibrated through the church. People blessed themselves and cried out to God. Some knelt in prayer, but the majority clambered towards the doors, climbing over pews, which toppled onto the floor. Effigies vibrated, and some fell off the altar. The invalids lying in the centre aisle screeched with horror as the able-bodied ran over their bodies. And in a frantic effort to get outside, they knocked down Inquisition men-at-arms, trying to block their paths.
The inquisitor’s mouth opened and then snapped shut after deciding that he wouldn’t be heard. Making his way down the spiral stairs, he stumbled and fell to his knees just as he cleared the last narrow step. Kneeling, he attempted to untangle legs from the folds of his robes and inadvertently cursed. “A plague on them all!”
His chamberlain tried to pick him up off the floor. “Get your hands off me, you fool!” De Amo shouted. “Make a path for me! Move this spawn of the devil out of my way!” When he’d steadied himself, he strode onto the dais. “Sit down, all of you!” he screamed.
Having no effect on the people, he left the pulpit and angrily pushed aside worshippers blocking his path to the doors. His rage, increasing further at the sight of his flock following the duke, who had already left the church, caused him to stop in his tracks. If he lost control of the people today, he would never have their obedience, he thought. They would not confess to him if they were not afraid of him.
“Halt!” he screamed again. “You cannot disobey your inquisitor! Remain in your seats. I have not finished! You will be reported to the Holy Office. This is heresy!”
Finally, the people took notice of him. A few returned to their seats and got on their knees to pray, as though their very lives depended on the words they would speak. But most, stunned by the growing chaos outside, seemed determined to find out what was happening and, more importantly, who had been murdered.
“Go back to your seats! I demand your obedience! You will go to hell. I give you my word that you will all see the devil and burn for eternity!” Although de Amo tried again, only a few listened to him.
Sitting down in an empty pew, he covered his face with his hands. This was a catastrophe, he thought. Never had he been so humiliated. Sagrat was a cursed town. The evil one and his legions lurked in every corner of every street. Peráto had caused the flock to scatter, and the opportunity to rein in the heretics had been lost. They would not come back inside the church, not today. “Damn you to hell, Peráto,” he cursed under his breath. “You’ll pay dearly for this!”
Chapter Forty-Three
A crowd of people blocked a narrow side street between the municipal palace and the monastery walls. Luis, weighed down by ceremonial robes and cloak, strode into the crowd, which parted at the sight of him and the handful of militiamen behind him. When he got to the street opening, he pushed aside the remaining few people standing in his way and approached the dead body, which was half hidden underneath a cart.
For a moment, he stared at it, unable to comprehend the carnage that met his eyes and who he was looking at. His breath came in sharp gasps. He felt as though he were being punched in the chest. It isn’t possible! his mind screamed. How can this be true?
The acrid stench made him feel light-headed. The sharp metallic odour of blood seemed to hover above the body. Bending over, he wretched violently and clutched his stomach. Wiping the bile from his mouth, he stared dazedly at Tur. “Monstrous,” was all he could say.
Standing next to Luis and as pale as a white sheet, Captain Tur said, “The body looks as though it’s been here all night, Your Grace. Worms are already feeding on it.”
Luis shuddered. “Move the cart away from the remains.”
When the cart had been pushed away, Luis covered his mouth and nose with a linen cloth and then took a closer look. Garcia’s face, streaked red with blood coming from a deep wound to the head, seemed much less grisly than the lower part of his body, which was ripped open from his chest to his genitals like a gutted goat. His entrails were spread around the body as though they had been placed in a pattern. They had been cut into pieces, and they mingled with excrement, blood, and bodily fluids. A dagger pinned a
ripped piece of parchment to Garcia’s throat, and written on it was a single word: Abomination.
Luis wanted to run from the putrid smell and the revolting sight. He suddenly felt vulnerable, afraid of the people surrounding him and powerless against a would-be assassin who had not been afraid to butcher the treasurer’s body.
Forcing himself to look objectively at the scene, Luis noticed two things in particular. Garcia’s sword and belt were missing. The killer must have taken them, he thought, for Garcia never left his chambers without being fully armed. His sword, a gift, bore the Peráto crest. The second thing that struck him was the ferociousness of the slaughter. The killer’s hatred was palpable. This hadn’t been a random or frenzied attack. Whoever did it had taken the time to disembowel and display the treasurer’s guts and, in doing so, had publicly marked Garcia as a coward.
Still staring at what was left of Garcia, Luis noticed the glint of a key and chain. He picked it up in his gloved hand and shuddered with revulsion when blood stained it. It was the municipal palace’s key to the treasury.
Turning from the body, Luis saw a sea of terrified people. Looking at their faces, his eyes widened with shock. Their blatant insolent stares were directed at him. Why? Were they blaming him for not keeping the town safe? If that were the case, he would lose their respect, maybe even their loyalty. The town was descending into hell! This murder would strike the fear of God into every citizen in Sagrat, and who knew what madness would erupt.
“Go back to the church, all of you!” he shouted harshly over his shoulder. Looking at Tur, he said, “Get rid of this crowd. I don’t want anyone else to look at this gruesome sight.” Whilst Tur ordered his men to control the crowd, Luis focused on the parchment. Grimacing at the sight of the blood running through the letters, he wondered why anyone would call Garcia an abomination. When he had Tur’s attention, he asked him, “What Christian soul could do such a thing? What did Garcia do to warrant such a title?”
“I can’t imagine. The lord treasurer was not a soldier. He fought no battles. Maybe he had enemies,” Tur suggested, looking as mystified as Luis.
“Get a coffin here at once. Remove him, every last bit of flesh and scum.”
“Where shall we take it?” Tur asked.
“To the church, of course! Tell Father Bernardo to say a prayer and then bury Garcia immediately. See to this and then report to me. We have a monster in our midst, Tur, and by God, we shall find him.”
Unable to breathe in the putrid stench any longer, Luis staggered numbly out of the side street and back into the square. Repeating the word abomination to himself, he was chilled by fear. Did someone know about Garcia’s part in the murders and about the infant and little girl? Was this revenge? Looking about him at the scared townspeople following him, he wondered if someone might be planning to strike him down, as they had the treasurer. Was the murderer in the square stalking and planning his attack? Who could possibly detest Garcia enough to do that? Luis kept asking himself. Not the marauders. No, why would they kill their paymaster? Not David Sanz? Garcia hated Sanz, but why should Sanz hate Garcia? Did Garcia try to kill Sanz, and Sanz got the upper hand? No, Luis thought, the order to assassinate the militiaman hadn’t been issued. But then again, Sanz could have done it. It was a possibility.
Overcome by panic, he halted in the middle of the square. Horrifying thoughts were tumbling into his mind one after the other. He couldn’t stop them. Had Sanz told someone about the murders? If he had, would he, Luis, be arrested, tortured, and burned by a pack of rabid townspeople? No, he then consoled himself. He was a duke. No commoner would dare accuse a powerful nobleman of wrongdoing.
Thinking again about Sanz, he looked at every man in militia uniform. Sanz wasn’t there, but he was a plague on the mind … The militiaman should have been killed weeks ago. But who would dispose of him now that Garcia was gone?
Coming out of the church and being followed by his familiars and entourage, Gaspar de Amo’s face wore a thunderous scowl. He began to stride towards Luis but then halted mid-step and gestured Luis to go to him.
Luis cringed with trepidation. He’d all but forgotten the inquisitor, his edict, and his glorious mission to terrify Sagrat’s people. Walking reluctantly towards him, Luis braced himself for De Amo’s torrent of insults, and he couldn’t help but blame Garcia for causing this entire mess … Garcia, the man who’d been entrusted to run Sagrat’s affairs and finances, and who’d controlled some very dangerous marauders, had been cut into pieces like a carcass. He’d been careless letting himself be killed like that! Luis thought. And now he, Luis, was left staring at a frightening and uncertain future with no one but God to turn to. This was probably the worst day of his life!
Sitting in a pew next to Isa, Juan felt waves of relief wash over him. The information which had filtered through the crowd in the square had horrified and shocked everyone around him, yet his heart had soared with gladness. Garcia was dead, and there was now a real possibility that David would have a future after all.
Upon hearing the shouts of murder, Juan had sat stunned and afraid to leave amidst the inquisitor’s threats of death and imprisonment for anyone who dared to move. But his words had been no match for Isa’s wretched tears and sobbing voice, saying, “Not David. Not David!” He would have defied God himself to get to his son, he’d thought at the time.
He stood and looked towards the back of the church. There were still about a hundred people standing around. The place was a mess. Some overturned pews had been wrecked, and pieces of wood were strewn on the floor. People were crying with sheer terror. Children clung to their mothers, not fully understanding what was going on but swept up with the adults’ emotional reactions.
Voices buzzing like a thick hornet’s nest died abruptly when soldiers carried in a wooden coffin. Juan and Isa watched as it was taken to the altar. When it was set down, four of the soldiers left, leaving two behind. Isa held Juan’s hand. “What are we to do?” she asked him. “I don’t want to stay here with that dead body. The inquisitor has left with the bishop, Father Bernardo’s nowhere to be seen, and I doubt the duke will come back. Do we just sit here until someone tells us to go home?”
Juan shook his head. Sinfa, the Jew girl David had brought home the previous night, was alone in the house and very sick. The damage here had been done. Father Bernardo would return any minute to deal with the coffin and remains, and the mighty Inquisition would probably punish Sagrat’s people, whether they remained or not. But he would not think about The Holy Office today, he thought defiantly. He was far too relieved. God had finally smiled on the Sanz family.
“Let’s go home,” he said. “We’ve been forgotten.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Isa stopped what she was doing, looked up, and smiled at David. “You can come in when she’s finished eating,” she said. “Sinfa has been eager to speak with you. She has questions.”
Nodding, David looked at Sinfa, who was sitting up in the bed and taking another spoonful of broth. “I have time. I’ll wait, Mama,” he answered.
He’d been desperate to get there, but circumstances had made it impossible for him to come home any earlier. Reluctant to cross the threshold until there was no more food in the bowl, he leaned against the sleeping room’s door frame and felt his heart melt, just as it always did whenever he saw Sinfa.
According to his mother, Sinfa had slept for three days and nights. But she had also been awakened sporadically by nightmares which had left her drenched in sweat and crying uncontrollably. David could only imagine how wonderful a warm soft bed, hot food, and his mother’s loving care must have felt to Sinfa after weeks in captivity, sleeping on a cold dirt floor. Garcia’s order that she be fed nothing but pig’s meat had been carried out. His statement that she would probably starve to death might well have borne truth, for she had refused to touch the meat. David believed that had it not been for the bread and vegetables he’d smuggled into the prison, she would not have survived.
Bathed and dressed in a white linen nightdress, she was already looking better, he thought. There were tinges of pink on her pale cheeks, although one side of her face was marred by bruising that sat underneath her left eye and crept down her cheek. He’d done that to her, but he prayed that she understood why and forgave him.
Sinfa ate very slowly, he noticed. It probably pained her to part her chapped, swollen lips. His eyes wandered to her recently shorn head. It saddened him to see her scabby and reddened scalp covered with a scattering of black bristles. According to his mother, Sinfa’s head had been so flea-ridden that there had been no other option than to cut off all her hair, which had once fallen in lustrous waves to her waist.
“It will grow back. I’m glad to be rid of the insects that were nesting in it,” Sinfa said matter-of-factly.
Mortified at being caught gawking, David looked to his mother for permission to enter. When she gestured him to go closer to the bed, he asked Sinfa, “Do you feel a bit better?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, but her voice was hoarse and weak. “I don’t remember much about escaping from the prison … I don’t know how I can thank you.”
“No need,” David said awkwardly.
“What’s to become of me? Are the soldiers looking for me?”
There was no easy way to tell her that she was dead to the world, David thought. But tell her he must. “Sinfa, you’re going to find my words hard to grasp, but I want you to know that I did what I did to save your life. You would have died in that cell … You did die – or at least the world thinks you did.”
Furrowing her brow, Sinfa stared at Isa and then back to David. “But I’m not dead,” she said. “Can I go home to the Jewry?”
“No, you can never go back there,” David told her emphatically. “The authorities have been informed that you died in the prison. I registered your death in the office of Jewish affairs in the municipal palace. We, my friend and I, took a coffin filled with dirt to the Jewry. We saw your rabbi …”