by David Liss
I wanted nothing but to kill the priest and be rid of this country, but I could not refuse to help Settwell, and, if I am to be honest, I liked the idea of assisting him with so involved and daring a scheme. More than that, it felt right. He had been harmed, and who was I to deny that he should have revenge? Better than revenge, in fact. Justice.
“How much do you hope to take of them?” I asked.
“Perhaps no more than five thousand pounds. Perhaps as much as twenty. I should prefer twenty, but five will do if it must.”
I snorted. “I should think you might hope to live well upon even so meager a sum as five thousand.”
“Well enough, I suppose,” Settwell answered with a sad smile. “I know it sounds like a great deal of money, but, believe me, they had far more than that of me.”
“This is a complicated plan, involving a number of deceptions,” I said. “With a fortune such as that in the balance, there will be many dangers.”
“Did you expect otherwise here?”
“Certainly not,” I agreed. Since learning of Gabriela’s death, I had felt nothing but the dull ache of resentment and loss. Now here was something about which I might actually feel enthusiasm.
I stood and took Settwell’s hand. “I came here to set matters right,” I said. “That is what I shall do. You need only tell me how we are to begin.”
Chapter 9
Two days later, Enéas entered my rooms just before noon and set a letter, sealed in wax, on the table. The boy appeared shaken. The color had drained from his face and his hand shook noticeably.
“I was returning from your morning errands, and this was placed in my hand,” he explained. “By an Inquisitor.” This last word was whispered, the way a Portuguese might speak the name of the devil himself. He then crossed himself and muttered a prayer.
I held the heavy paper and ran my finger along the blotchy red wax. I could not decide how I ought to feel—I was neither afraid nor, despite having orchestrated this contact, gratified. I had set things in motion, and, to whatever extent I could, wished to control how events unfolded. This letter was equal parts promise and threat. I broke the seal and read.
The message was short and imperious. You are summoned to the Palace of the Inquisition at three of the clock this afternoon. It bore no signature.
“Is it ill tidings?” Enéas asked, crossing himself again.
“It is growing difficult for me to tell the difference between ill tidings and good.”
At the appointed hour, I approached the most dreaded structure in Lisbon. At the north end of the Rossio stood the great Palace, with its four towers and red roof, indistinguishable in many ways from any other large and splendid building in the city. In my mind I had seen myself standing before the Palace, gazing upon it, neck strained. In reality, I chose not to pause. It was, I decided, but another building.
I strode through the great twin doors, surrounded by priests of all orders, though mostly Jesuits, as they hurried about on their thieving and murdering errands. I moved purposefully, as if I belonged—another skill learned from Mr. Weaver—and made my way across the marble floors, past the great oil paintings and gilt statues and altars. So much wealth, bought with New Christian gold, acquired with New Christian blood. I pushed past it all, making note of doors and hallways and means of escape, into the open courtyard of the interior. The note had not said whom I was to meet or where in the Palace to go, but I was an Englishman arriving at the appointed time. I had no doubt the man who invited me would find me without difficulty.
I passed through a quiet garden with a fountain and several statues of saints. Birds sang and fluttered about. I sat on a marble bench, crossed my legs, and placed my hands in my lap. My wig, my velvet coat, my stockings, my silver buckles and buttons, and the lace on my sleeves all seemed so absurd in contrast with the stark Jesuitical black everywhere. No one stared, however. They presumed I had business. Who would enter the Palace if he did not?
So many of my people, my family, had been dragged into this place, put to the question, imprisoned, tortured, murdered. This place was the very heart of Lisbon’s evil, the machine that fed upon human flesh and churned out ruined husks. If only, like Samson, I could tear it down. I would gladly suffer torment and blinding and destruction if I could take it all with me. But I had not that choice, and I would have to settle for the next best thing: blood.
I sat for no more than a few torturous minutes before a man in his midforties sat down next to me. He was well preserved, with a youthful face and a disarming smile. His eyes were large and brown and almost feminine. It was Pedro Azinheiro.
The priest had hardly aged since I had seen him last. I remembered Azinheiro walking about the streets of the New Christian neighborhoods, handing out sweets to children while he peered in windows and doorways. We had known many Inquisitors by sight, but this one was particularly notable because of his vanity. Azinheiro greeted the pretty young women with special interest, and he was known to delay or refrain from arrests in exchange for amorous favors. I recalled seeing him, years before, emerging from a neighbor’s house. The husband stood outside, his face pale and marked with tears. Azinheiro stepped out, bowed to the husband, his face a parody of seriousness, and then strode off, his posture straight, his head high.
These conquests made him an object of mockery, if only in whispers, but Pedro Azinheiro was not a clown. He was relentless in his pursuit of alleged Judaizers. I wondered what a man like this truly believed. Did he think Portugal remained forever on the brink of a Jewish precipice? Did he fear that New Christian men posed a brewing danger to his church and his nation? Or was he simply a functionary, a man who sought the arrest of New Christians because the Inquisition thrived off their confiscated wealth?
Perhaps if I had not agreed to aid Settwell, I might have struck now. I could have reached out, grabbed the Jesuit’s throat, and snapped it within seconds. I had never killed anyone, and yet I knew I could do it. My hands seemed to hold the memory. The Inquisitor would have no chance to respond. The priests all around him would notice nothing until I was already on my feet, running toward the doors. Before the gasps even began, I would be upon the Rossio and vanishing in the crowd.
From there, escape would be easy. I would lose my wig and my English clothes. Buying or stealing plain garb, I would blend into the streets and make my way north to the countryside. It would be foolish to try to leave by ship in Lisbon, but I would be content to walk for days, for weeks if need be, before I could find a place to safely flee.
I had imagined it so many times that my hands itched to carry out the plan, but I had forsworn it. For now. I had sought the Inquisitor, and now I had found him. My task would be to keep the man visible and harmless until I had fulfilled my obligation to Settwell.
“You are Sebastian Foxx?” the priest said in good English.
“I am.”
The man bowed his head unctuously. Perhaps he had aged after all. There were more lines about his eyes. His skin appeared drier and veined. He was not, then, a devil. He was flesh and blood, and could die as easily as any other man. I looked forward to seeing it happen.
“I am told,” Azinheiro said, “you are prepared to be of some use to us.”
I slowed my breathing. I concentrated on the pretense, on the performance. I would need to lose myself, my real self, if I were to make it through this conversation without spilling blood.
“It is not what I have chosen, but it is what I am told I must do,” I replied. Easy. Calm. Controlled.
“Having a man who is well situated in the Factory would be of much use to me.”
“I am not well situated,” I said. The more I played the role, I knew, the easier it would be. Perhaps after a few minutes I would no longer have to will my hands to remain still. “You see, that is the difficulty. I am newly arrived. I hardly know anyone. I don’t think I can help you.”
Azinheiro pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. He appeared bored, like a man who had spo
ken these words, or similar ones, so many times before that the effort now made him languid. “You will be as much help as I desire. I do not need you to tell me what you know now, Mr. Foxx. I need you to tell me what you know in six months, in a year, in five years—for whatever amount of time we wish you to remain in Lisbon.”
This was good news. He wanted an ongoing relationship. That meant he would expect little from me initially. Because it was precisely what I wanted, I thought it best to object. “I am willing to speak a word here or there if it will be helpful, but I do not think I am prepared to continue this arrangement indefinitely. And the notion that you might choose the duration of my stay here, well, I think it preposterous.”
The priest sighed. “Your thoughts are of no consequence. You will do as you are told because you are to help me accomplish what has always been off-limits to me. You are to help me uncover the most dangerous men of your nation here in Lisbon.”
“My nation? You think the English a threat?” The Inquisition would, in particular cases, arrest and prosecute Englishmen, but usually these victims had been bold and public in their actions. What did this priest have in mind?
“The English are more dangerous than many allow,” the priest said. “The fact that the crown depends upon them for their trade has made the prosecution of heresy among them challenging, but I believe there are dangerous men in the Factory—Protestant proselytizers and, yes, even Judaizers.”
To this I said nothing.
“You are a man of the Church, and you lived your life in England. You know how these men are.”
I nodded, though I had little idea what the priest meant.
Azinheiro appeared somewhat mollified by my agreement, silent and minimal though it was. “Please understand me, Mr. Foxx. I do not hate all Englishmen. Some are good men, like you, no doubt. But there is a particularly vile spirit of greed and wretchedness that is unique to the English character, and it is a threat to the true faith. It is that which must be stamped out like you would stamp out rats, lest their putrid ways and beliefs spread and destroy all they touch.”
In a stage play, the priest would have looked wild during this speech. His eyes would have gone wide. He would have torn at his hair and beat upon his breast. Azinheiro delivered no such performance. He might have been speaking of his plans to retile a roof for all the passion in his voice, and yet I understood that he meant these things. There was passion enough, but it was not meant for display.
“I did not know the Inquisition concerned itself with English activities,” I said.
The priest waved a hand dismissively. “You need not trouble yourself with our concerns. Only obedience. If you, Mr. Foxx, are useful to the Inquisition, then I cannot see why you may not find the means to prosper, to advance when our enemies stumble. For a man in your position, the path to success may be open and easy.”
I made every effort to appear uncomfortable. “I do not love the idea of profiting from the misery of others.”
“There is nothing unsavory when a righteous man profits and a corrupt man falls.”
I opened my mouth to speak, and then hesitated, only to begin again. I wished to look uncertain, but I feared I looked more like a fish upon a dock. “The crimes you speak of are the English religion. These men come here because they are told they will not be persecuted for their beliefs so long as they follow this nation’s laws. I have no interest in deceiving them into breaking those laws. You must remember that I lived as a member of a hated religion in England, and I would not have wanted to be hunted for invented crimes.”
The priest shook his head. “You do not understand me, sir. I am not out to invent crimes. That is a lie spread by the English to defame the Inquisition. However, there are men of that nation who do unspeakable things upon our soil. Unspeakable things, sir, I promise you. Those men must be punished. Do you not think so?”
“If they truly commit crimes, then yes, of course.”
“And they do. The truth is, Mr. Foxx, the men of some nations are born of baser stuff than those of others. That Jews and Negroes and Gypsies are debased is common knowledge, but I believe the English have the devil’s own blood in their veins.”
“Sir,” I said. “I remind you that I am English.”
“Then you must overcome what you are,” the priest told me. “I have done so.”
“You?” I asked. “You are English?” This was something interesting.
“I am not here to discuss what I am,” said Azinheiro. “It is your disposition that concerns us.”
“And what is my disposition?”
“You are now my creature,” the priest said. “Know this, sir. I have eyes everywhere, and I shall know where you go and what you do. I shall know with whom you speak. Nothing is hidden from me.”
“Well,” I said with a nervous cough. “Then I imagine we shan’t have to speak often.”
“Do not mock me, sir. For now, you are to go about your business and make such connections as you can. When you can be of use to me, I shall let you know.”
This was, of course, what I had hoped for, but again I pretended resistance. Mr. Weaver always said that in all matters but friendship and love, never to trust anyone who was too agreeable.
“I must be plain with you,” I said. “I do not wish to be your creature, no matter the potential rewards.”
“And the dangers of refusing do not frighten you?” the priest asked.
“I shall risk them.”
Father Pedro barked out a laugh. “The men of your nation, you freeborn Englishmen”—he said it with a sneer—“think you must always have a choice. I anticipated as much, and so I shall give it to you.” He waved his hand in the air and a trio of soldiers in Inquisition livery appeared before us.
“Are you going to threaten me with arrest?” I asked.
“Of course not. You are of no use to me in prison. I merely wish to show you something.”
The priest led me and the soldiers out of the Palace and across the Rossio. The square was crowded with tradesmen and fidalgos and foreigners and beggars. The priest gestured toward one corner, where a man worked a small stall selling pastries of some sort. He was a short man, stocky, with thick forearms and a round face that created the appearance—real or illusory—of simplicity. His eyes were narrowed as he handed a customer a pastry and took her coins. Once the exchange was complete, the man bowed as though the woman had been a princess.
“That man,” the priest said, “has been of interest to me for some time. He sells bola de carne, meat pies. Traditionally they contain pork, but many of his customers are New Christians.”
“New Christians eat pork, do they not?” I said. “They are no longer Jews.” I had certainly grown up eating pork, knowing it had been forbidden by my ancestors, but that meant little to us. If anything, it encouraged us to eat it all the more.
“If they have nothing to hide, why make a show of eating pork? And why buy their pork from this man in particular?”
“Perhaps he makes tasty pies,” I speculated.
“An unusual number of foreigners, particularly Scotsmen, have also been seen to buy from this vendor. The Scots, as is well known, are but a species of Jew. This is more than enough to have him arrested for Judaizing.”
“I understand you,” I said. “You wish to show me that if I do not cooperate, you will make this man suffer.”
“You do not understand at all,” the priest said. He turned to the soldiers. “Take him to the Palace,” he told them in Portuguese.
I watched in horror as two of the soldiers grabbed the man and began walking him toward the Palace. The third began to collect the food and coins from the stall. Customers and passersby who had been nearby now hurried away, not daring to look back, lest they be tainted by the vendor’s crimes.
I had seen men taken away by the Inquisition before. My childhood had been full of such scenes, and that this one unfolded according to the ancient script made it no less dreadful to witness. The man struggled an
d cried out for help. He twisted his neck to one side and then the other, as if looking for something that would rescue him. No one looked at him, their morbid curiosity crushed by their will to not appear too interested.
The man shouted that he was innocent, that he had done nothing, that he was a good Christian, but the soldiers did not react. He might have been a barking dog for all that they seemed to understand him. Then, as he was halfway across the Rossio, the Palace looming before him, the pastry man seemed to accept that it was not a misunderstanding. No one had made a mistake. No doubt he had little enough in his life—his meager business, his creature comforts—and they were all gone. He had seen this happen to other men, and he knew what was in store for him: imprisonment and torture, implication of his friends and relatives, the public humiliation of the auto-da-fé, and, finally, poverty. In a matter of seconds, everything he had had been stripped from him, and there was nothing in his future but torment and isolation and want. He stopped shouting his innocence and instead began to wail, helplessly and hopelessly, as he grieved for all he had known.
I looked at the priest, whose face was apathetic. He appeared to take no pleasure in what he had done, but he demonstrated no sympathy either. He looked like a surgeon inspecting a wound.
It occurred to me that if I had acted upon my first impulse and killed Azinheiro back at the Palace, the pastry vendor would still be plying his trade, worrying about customers and rent, oblivious to the danger that had passed him by. An Inquisitor dead and an innocent saved. Multiply this by days and weeks and perhaps months, however long it would take me to help Settwell. I hated that I had to wait, but I knew now the cost of hesitation. When the time came, and I was free to act, I would not want for resolve.
I turned to the priest. “You wished to show me your power.”
“You are not that much of a fool,” Azinheiro said casually. “You already know my power.”