The Day of Atonement

by David Liss

  “A truce in love?” she asked, smiling again.

  I nodded. “Yes. A truce.”

  She put a hand to my face. “My dear God, I do love you, Sebastian Foxx. I wish I did not, but I do. I will not torture you, but tell me you love me. If I am to be kept apart from you, I must hear it. Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you, Roberta, with all my heart.” The lie came out more easily than I would have anticipated.

  * * *

  Three days later I received a note from her husband. Their goods had cleared customs. Their gold would be in the vault in two days at the most. It was time for me to let my Jew know I needed the money.

  I sat down as I read. Now I would take Roberta’s wealth, and I hoped that I would not destroy her.

  Chapter 19

  The next day was Sunday, and I met the Nobrezas outside the Igreja de São Domingos as agreed. It was an old church, its construction having begun in the thirteenth century, but it had only been completed after I had left Lisbon, and its style reflected more of the previous century than the Gothic style. The façade was white and unadorned, but its lines were baroque and pleasing to the eye. Its loveliness belied the fact that it had witnessed the deaths and forced conversion of thousands of Jews.

  I felt a wave of uneasiness wash over me. I did not wish to be inside a church, let alone the church of the Inquisition. Yet it was not the crimes of the building that troubled me—it was how familiar it all felt. I had never before been in this church, but I had worshipped in others much like it. I knew the liturgy, all the things I was supposed to do and say, though, of course, I could not reveal as much. I had spent the first half of my life participating in a religion that was not mine, one that would not accept me. I had done it for thirteen years, and my father and my grandfathers and their fathers had done it for their lifetimes. Going inside felt like a capitulation, but I would do it because the web of lies I had created demanded it of me—and because Gabriela had asked me to.

  Both Luis and Eusebio shook hands with me outside the church. They were eager to show off their English friend, and I was determined to give them a good show. I would act befuddled and fascinated. I would ask questions and make polite remarks. I knew the role I was to play and I would play it. Behind the two men, Gabriela nodded at me, but she said not a word. I removed my hat and bowed.

  As we walked in, Eusebio stood next to me with Gabriela and Luis behind us. “I understand,” Eusebio said, “that it was my wife who asked you to come with us.”

  “She did,” I agreed. “And I saw no reason to refuse. It is a small thing for me. I sense it is a greater thing for you.”

  “The English are proud,” Eusebio said. “They do not like to be seen showing any more respect for the true faith than they must. For a man like you to come to a foreign church when you do not even speak our language—I know it cannot be easy.”

  “I am not overly nice in matters of religion. And as I have come to Lisbon to make money, I do not see why I must stand upon ceremony in matters of so little import.”

  “The Factory men may not like that you come,” Eusebio said. “This may cost you in their esteem. Efforts to conform to our ways are not condoned.”

  I hardly cared, as I had no intention of dealing with Factory men for long. “I am here to be my own man, not to bow to the Factory,” I blustered.

  Once inside, Eusebio led me to their pew, and I took my seat. I felt a kind of numbness wash over me. The candles, stained glass windows, statues, singing of the choir, cool of the stone—they all brought me back to my boyhood. The air was thick with incense and the odor of unwashed bodies. I could imagine standing in a church not unlike this one, holding my father’s or my mother’s hand, feeling protected and loved, if unaware of the danger all round us.

  I settled into the service. Gabriela sat on the opposite side of Eusebio, and so was difficult to see, which was for the best. Occasionally Luis would whisper a word of explanation or clarification, but otherwise all proceeded much as I expected. Of course I did not take the communion wafer, but as I was dressed as an Englishman, that surprised no one. I began to think my time in the church would pass without event.

  Then, as the priest rose to deliver his sermon, he nodded toward another priest in the audience. I recognized him instantly. The dark robes. The handsome face and slightly graying hair. It was Pedro Azinheiro, gazing out at the worshippers with his mouth puckered into something like a smile. I had the distinct impression I was precisely where the Jesuit wanted me.

  I tapped Luis and gestured with nothing more than a tilt of my head. “It is the Inquisitor from the taberna. Strange he should be here.”

  “Not so very strange,” Luis said. “This is his church. Indeed, he is the one who suggested that it would be a useful thing for us to invite an Englishman to join us.”

  I nodded as though this answer satisfied me, but I felt the bristling of the hair on the back of my neck. Something very dark was coming together. It was the way I felt when violence brewed on the streets in London. A man would fall in behind me and another would look across the street and I would know it was about to begin. Every shaft of light and flickering candle caught my attention. I noticed every cough and rustle of clothes. There was nothing to do but wait for Azinheiro to make his move.

  It did not take long. I soon understood the nod between the two priests. The sermon was upon a subject clearly chosen by Azinheiro.

  “For centuries now, this country has fought a tireless war against the nefarious influence of Jews,” the priest began. “Though we have offered these interlopers every opportunity to embrace the true church, still they plot against us, against our faith, and against our souls. They remain in our midst, willfully resistant to the blessings of our Savior.”

  All around us, parishioners leaned forward to look at the New Christians in their midst. The presence of an Englishman made the Nobrezas a particular target. Some people were subtle, but others began to stare in open hostility. As the priest droned on about the Jews killing Christ, poisoning wells, spreading plague, and murdering Christian children, the mood in the church became increasingly restless. A woman sitting directly behind me hissed. When I turned to look at her, her gaunt, pockmarked face blanched in horror and she crossed herself.

  “The Jew made the evil eye at me!” she whispered to her husband.

  “I think it is time to leave,” I said quietly to Eusebio.

  He shook his head. “If we leave, we will look guilty.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of being Jews,” he snapped back.

  “If you don’t leave, these people will be whipped into a mob against you.”

  He looked straight ahead and set his jaw. “That is a chance we must take.”

  “The devil take your chance,” I said, now growing angry at Eusebio’s stubbornness. “Your first duty is to protect your wife.”

  The same woman who had hissed at me now cried out, “The Jews are uttering curses! Spells. I heard them speak in English, calling upon the devil.”

  There was general murmuring in the crowd. So many people were whispering and rustling upon their benches that it was difficult to hear the priest, who was speaking with great energy on the subject of circumcision.

  The woman behind me jumped up. “Something bit me! The Jews called upon the devil to send a creature to bite me.”

  I stood up and faced her. “That would be rather indirect, would it not?” I asked her in Portuguese. “If I wanted you bit, I would do it myself and circumvent the intermediaries. Though now that I look upon you, I think it would indeed be preferable to conjure a devil for the task.”

  I knew well that the best way to defuse the anger of a crowd was to replace their rage with amusement. I would willingly play the clown if it would soothe the mob.

  “My friends,” I cried out. “Do not think I wielded the power of the devil to transform this woman’s face into the likeness of a rat. It is how I found her!”

  Our accuser was no
w crimson with rage. Her husband, also red-faced, stood and jabbed a finger at me. “You owe my wife an apology!”

  “If you married her,” I rejoined, “you owe an apology to yourself.”

  The congregation was howling with laughter. I knew I was far from securing a victory, however. I had to find a way to transition from chaos to order. I waved to attract the crowd’s attention. When they at last settled down, I said, “Let us be calm. I believe the good priest was trying to tell us something. I beg you continue, Father. I have quieted the disruptions.”

  I held out a hand as though inviting the priest to resume speaking. His face was almost as red as that of the woman I had insulted. I had manipulated the crowd so that resuming the sermon would incite laughter. The priest would have no choice but to move quickly toward ending his sermon with, perhaps, an unremarkable passage of the Bible.

  The priest cleared his throat and began to flip through his Bible, setting aside his prepared remarks. Then I noticed Azinheiro toward the front of the church, whispering to a young man who sat next to him.

  The priest was just readying himself to speak when the young man leapt to his feet and pointed upward. “Look! Our Savior weeps! He weeps at the sight of Jews in his presence!”

  I glanced where he pointed and saw a stained glass window depicting Jesus on the cross. A dark tear of liquid trailed down the figure’s cheek. I looked up and saw an accumulation of water on one of the rafters above the window. A slow but steady trickle of water had been falling from the rafter, making its way down the wall, and pooling in the vicinity of the crown of thorns.

  The Portuguese were a superstitious people, and a weeping Jesus could prove a very dangerous thing. Had Azinheiro arranged for the dripping water or merely noticed it previously and kept the fact in reserve? It hardly mattered. Quickly, over the bubbling excitement of the congregation, I said, “It is but dripping water.”

  I knew at once that I had made a mistake.

  “The foreigner denies the miracle!” one man cried out.

  “He will not believe in the tears of our Lord!” another called.

  Throughout the church, people glared at the Nobrezas, shouted at them, pushed against one another to get closer. I could feel the violence brewing in the air, like the moments before a rain fell. It was coming, and nothing could stop it now. The only option was to run for shelter.

  “We dare not stay!” I cried to Eusebio.

  This time, to my relief, Eusebio agreed. He took Gabriela by the hand and kept behind Luis, himself directly behind me. I pushed as gently as I could through the angry congregants who were now in the aisles, hurling insults. For now it was nothing worse than words, but I knew it would be a near thing to escape even once we were outside the church. If the rumor spread quickly enough, a crowd could materialize almost out of nowhere, and we might be overwhelmed by numbers. No amount of physical strength could protect us if fifty assailants came for us at once.

  At last we reached the doors. A few men tried to block our passage, but I shouldered through. From the corner of my eye, I saw one of the men I had just shoved aside place a hand upon Gabriela’s breast. He turned to his friend to say something, a leering expression upon his face. I lashed out. I grabbed the man by the wrist and, using my other hand, bent it back quickly and brutally. The bone gave a satisfying snap, and the man cried out in pain.

  Gabriela looked on in amazement, but Eusebio had already moved ahead. I did not wait to see if the man’s friends wished to challenge me. I herded the Nobreza clan out.

  No one on the square was yet aware of the mayhem in the church. I believed I might be able to usher the Nobrezas quietly back to their home. In the absence of scapegoats, the anger of the crowd would soon abate.

  Then the crowd began to emerge. They were led by the upset husband. He pointed a finger at me and, so everyone upon the street might hear him, yelled, “They are Jews, and they deny a miracle.”

  Gabriela turned suddenly. “What do you want from us?” she cried. “Have we ever hurt you? No, but the minute someone whispers poison in your ear, you lust for our blood. You are the devils.”

  I looked at her, regal and proud and angry. What she said was as true as it was foolish. I admired her courage, but as my goal was to get her away from these people alive, I wished she would keep her bravery to herself.

  The man’s wife put her hands to her ears. “She curses me!” she screamed. “She has sent devils into my mind!”

  I turned to Luis, whom I trusted more than Eusebio. “I am going to create a distraction. Use the opportunity to get your family home.”

  Luis nodded. He did not question or offer protest. He was a New Christian of Lisbon, and he knew that it would be madness to refuse an opportunity when one was offered.

  I strode toward the man who made the accusation and said, “I am an Englishman, and I do business with the Factory. Who dares accuse me of being a Jew?”

  “Then you admit you are an unbeliever!” the man crowed in triumph.

  “Yes, but a Protestant one.” I risked a peek quickly behind me and saw the Nobreza clan making a safe escape.

  “And you keep company with Jews,” the man began, beginning to raise his hand to point again.

  I had heard enough. I lunged forward and delivered a blow to the man’s stomach. He was gaunt, and there was almost nothing between his belly and his spine. I felt my fist connect with something hard. The man yelped and doubled over. His wife shrieked. The crowd began to surround me now, and I suspected further fighting would go hard for me. There were dozens of them, moving closer, angry and wide-eyed with religious frenzy. In all likelihood, none of them would be particularly skillful fighters, but numbers would more than compensate. I could see how it would be. They would drag me down, and I would be immobilized, possibly killed, as they trampled and kicked me.

  I was ready. I had saved Gabriela. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe it was the best thing that could happen to me. I had forgotten about Settwell and his daughter; I only felt tired, weary of my quest for revenge and the endless tasks that sprouted from it like hydra heads. I was tired of lying to everyone, to Roberta Carver most of all. I wanted it to be finished.

  Then I saw a familiar face emerge from the crowd. Pedro Azinheiro approached, smiling smugly. He pointed at me. “Back away, my friends,” he said. “That man is to be taken to the Palace of the Inquisition. He is under arrest.”

  Chapter 20

  I did not resist. My moment of surrender had passed, and I realized that being arrested was likely the best thing that might happen to me under these circumstances. The fact that it was Azinheiro who arrested me almost certainly meant I was safe. If the priest wanted to harm me, he surely could have done so without going to all this trouble. The question, then, was what the Inquisitor intended.

  I was flanked by a soldier on either side, and Azinheiro walked before us. These were not unreasonable odds by any means. I considered killing all three of them and making my escape, but, as always, that would mean failure elsewhere.

  I wondered what would happen when we reached the Palace. I had vowed I would not be brought inside, that I would kill and be killed first. Could I enter willingly now, hoping that I might eventually be released?

  The breaking point would be chains, I decided. If they attempted to constrain me, I would fight. My greatest advantage would be surprise. I offered no resistance now, and perhaps if I caught enough of them unprepared, I could make my way out.

  I remained silent as Azinheiro led me the brief distance along the Rossio to the Palace. We passed through the doorway of the great building, and through an open courtyard. Azinheiro brought me down a set of narrow stairs, and then down another. Finally I found myself in a large basement room, at the center of which was a rectangular table, scratched and covered in wax and ink stains, with chairs alongside. Sconces lined the wall, but only a few were lit, and the room was full of flickering shadows. It smelled of old smoke and sweat and rat droppings.

  With
a sweep of his arm, Azinheiro invited me to sit, which was very polite. Good manners are important before torture.

  “You created quite a stir in that church,” Azinheiro said. His eyes were wide and bright, and his face seemed to glow. This was pure pleasure for him. He lived for moments such as these and, I vowed, he would die because of them.

  “Certainly one of us did,” I answered.

  I was in the Palace. I was even possibly in the very room to which my father had been brought, where he spent too many moments of his last weeks on earth. None of it mattered. The building did not matter, and the man did not matter. This was only a place, the Inquisitor only an enemy; I had been in worse places and defeated worthier opponents.

  Azinheiro made a clucking noise. “You are forgetting your place, Mr. Foxx.”

  “What is this about?” I demanded, pretending to the arrogance of a freeborn Englishman. I imagined the liberties that were my birthright formed a sort of armor, strong enough to protect me from whips and pincers and red-hot irons! “You ask me to gather information on the Nobrezas, and then you nearly have them murdered in a riot of your own creation. Had I not been there—” I stopped talking.

  Azinheiro smiled. “You are not so clever as you think, but not so dull as I feared.”

  “You wanted me to intervene on their behalf. You wanted me to save them so they would better trust me.”

  Azinheiro shrugged and said, “You’ve proven your willingness to assert yourself before. I was very impressed at the taberna.”

  “What if I had not done so?” I demanded. “What if I had been too frightened and ran away? What if I had been hurt or killed?”

  “Those things did not happen,” Azinheiro said.