The Day of Atonement

by David Liss

  I knelt beside her. “Roberta, what happened? Where is your husband?”

  “Dead,” she said. She did not look up. Her body heaved with crying, but no tears fell down her cheeks. She had none left.

  “What happened to you was before the tremors. What was it?”

  “Tremors?” she asked vacantly.

  “What happened to Rutherford?”

  “He was murdered,” she said. “He was killed.”

  I felt my pulse quickening. I scanned the room as though whoever had hurt Rutherford might still be present. “Who killed him?”

  For the first time, she met my eyes. Her gaze was dark and terrible. “You did,” she said.

  That was when I noticed what was in her hand. It was a dagger with a familiar silver handle, laced with gold, encrusted with jewels.

  She told me about it, her voice flat and empty. She awoke the night before to find her husband in her bedroom. Another man stood behind him, pressing a blade to Rutherford’s throat. The stranger was large, with a scarred face. He had a shaved head and long mustaches. He grinned with unrestrained pleasure.

  Rutherford’s eyes were wide with horror and disbelief. He wore no wig, and his close-cut hair was damp with sweat.

  “My name is Inácio Arouca,” the man with the jeweled blade said. “I do not care if you know it, because you will not survive to see the morning.”

  Rutherford whimpered when he heard this. Frightened though she was, Roberta did not allow herself to make a sound. She sat up. A single candle burned in a wall sconce—lit by this beast of a man, perhaps—and from her bed she searched for something she could use against him.

  It did not have to be a deadly weapon. She did not have to kill him. She just had to stagger him long enough that she could escape—she could elude him. She was sure of it. She was swift and he was large. She knew this house and he did not. She only needed a moment, a weapon, an opportunity, and if she could make it to her neighbor’s house, she would be safe.

  “What do you want?” Roberta asked, trying to keep the terror out of her voice. It was foolish, she knew. A man like this would expect her, want her, to be frightened, and defiance and pride would only make him angry. But defiance and pride were all the power she had right now.

  “I want to discuss your friend, Mr. Foxx,” the man said.

  “Foxx,” snapped Rutherford. “What of him? He’s no one to us.”

  The man laughed. “Is that what you think? He is not no one to your wife, I promise you.”

  Roberta blinked away her tears. She was shaking her head without realizing it. Rutherford could die, they could both die, and the last thing her husband would hear was that she had nearly betrayed him with another man.

  Inácio shook Rutherford a little, as if to wake him. “You are not seeing things as they are, Englishman. Your wife was bedding Foxx. But that is not the worst of it. It is not the worst of it that he is a liar and a scoundrel, a Jew who escaped the justice of the Inquisition and has now returned to stir up trouble. No, for you the worst of it is that he stole your money. Yes, it was he who broke open your vault and took your gold. He schemed with another Englishman called Settwell, and then carried away all your wealth. You have nothing now because of him. I am doing you a favor by killing you.”

  Could it be true, Roberta wondered, but even as she thought the words, she knew the answer. Of course. Everything made sense now. They had thought they were cultivating Foxx, but he had been cultivating them. She had shown him their vault, and he had noted every lock and door. She had thrown herself at him, and he had pushed her away because he did not care for her … and because he was a Jew, as she would have quickly discovered. Too late, she understood.

  “I never betrayed my husband with him,” Roberta said, looking away from Rutherford, not wanting to see his eyes. “You are mistaken.”

  He grinned. “Maybe yes, maybe no. Perhaps you did not care that he was a Jew. Perhaps he could not have you, for his secret nature would have been revealed. But you wanted to, I’ll wager. Perhaps you threw yourself at him, and he scorned you. Ah, I can see by your face it is true. What lies, I wonder, did he tell you to make you believe a man would choose not to take such a beauty? They must have been convincing.”

  She hated herself for being so transparent. She made her face a mask. She would reveal nothing else. She would give up not an inch of ground. No matter what happened, he would have no more easy victories.

  She had to think. They had been ruined and betrayed and now they were going to be murdered, and it was all Sebastian Foxx’s fault. But there must be a way out.

  “He is clearly your enemy,” Roberta said. “He is our enemy as well, so why have you come here?”

  “Because I want to hurt him,” the man said, “and if he knows he caused your deaths, that will bring him much pain. This is what must happen, because he needs to see that everything he touches will come to ruin. I am the hand of God in all this. I am here for justice. Do you understand me?”

  Roberta nodded, wanting only to placate him.

  “Good,” he said. “Now, remove your gown and fuck me. If you make certain I enjoy it, I will let you and your husband live. If you resist, I will kill him and continue, giving you one more chance to convince me.”

  “Please,” she said. “I don’t want this.”

  The man pressed the blade to Rutherford’s neck.

  “Just do what he says,” Rutherford said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Your husband is a sensible man,” Inácio told her. “I suggest you be sensible too.”

  This could not be happening, she thought. She would not let it happen. She needed some way to change this, to undo it, to remake it.

  “Please,” she said. “If you let us be, I will pay you. We have money—gold our creditors don’t know about. It is yours if you simply go.”

  “What gold?” His eyes widened. “How much?”

  “One hundred and twenty reaís,” she said. “In a bag. You can take it and run.”

  She could see that Inácio was interested. Likely he would want both the money and to hurt Foxx, but she was distracting him, changing things.

  “Very well,” he said, not even trying to keep the deception from his voice. “I accept your bargain. Get me this money, and I’ll enjoy a Portuguese whore instead of an English one.”

  She nodded quickly, but she wasn’t ready. Not yet. The Portuguese were religious and superstitious. Even the depraved ones, perhaps especially the depraved ones, took their oaths seriously. He wanted the money, so Roberta was determined to make him earn it. “Swear upon Christ and all the saints that you will let us go if I give you the money.”

  Inácio appeared to struggle with this demand for a moment, and then, at last, he nodded.

  Roberta slowly drew back her covers and crossed the room, feeling Inácio’s eyes upon her as he hunted for her shape in her formless gown. She trembled from cold and fear. She came to a dresser, and with a shaking hand began to pull open a drawer. This was her moment.

  With a comb in hand she lunged. There was a flash of silver in the dim light and Inácio’s eyes went wide as she plunged the sharp teeth into his forearm, the one holding the dagger. Inácio dropped the blade and staggered backward. The comb had gone deep into his flesh, maybe two inches, and he was howling with pain.

  Rutherford dropped to the floor, and was probing his skin for signs that his throat had been cut—as if he would have any doubt about it.

  “Get up!” she screamed. She should have fled, she knew, but Rutherford wasn’t moving, and she was still waiting for him, even as Inácio pulled the comb out of his arm and strode forward, his face a skeletal icon of fury.

  “Are you mad?” Rutherford barked at her. “You have to do as he says!”

  She saw now that he wasn’t going to escape. He had put his faith in this man rather than her, rather than himself. He didn’t rise even as Inácio picked up his fallen dagger. He didn’t resist even as Inácio pulled back Rutherford’
s neck and raised the blade.

  That was when Roberta ran to the stairs and hurled herself down. The house was dark. That was her advantage. That was what would save her. She would not think about what would happen if she failed. She would not think about the wet sound she’d heard, the noise of metal on flesh, the horrible, horrible gurgling. Rutherford was dead, but all she would think about was the door, getting there first. Finding it first. She would increase the gap between herself and Inácio because the house was dark and he could not see her, and she knew where she was going.

  But it was the darkness that undid her. Inácio had already killed Isabela, their one remaining servant. Roberta knew it was her when one foot caught something heavy and soft just as the other slipped in a hot, sticky liquid. Even as she began to fall, Roberta knew she could not recover. She would go down, and he would be on top of her, and she would not get up.

  She hit the floor hard. Pain shot through her elbow. And then a rough hand grabbed her hair, pulling her back so forcefully she blacked out for an instant. She felt nothing but sickening confusion and nausea. She was on her back now, her hair wet with Isabela’s blood. Or was it her own? Or was it her vomit? Had she voided her stomach without noticing?

  Inácio had her down, pinning her arms to the floor and breathing his fishy breath on her. He smelled of sweat and tobacco. Blood from his arm, the wound she had made, dripped in her eye and stung.

  Inácio grabbed the collar of her gown and ripped. Her breasts were exposed, and she felt his hands on her, wet with sweat and her husband’s blood.

  He didn’t have his dagger.

  She lay very still, willing herself not to feel his rough pawing, while her hands gently searched the floor, feeling through the stickiness, probing around Isabela’s body. And then something hard and cool. Metal. The handle of the dagger.

  She sliced through the air. She should have gone for his neck or his face, but she was too afraid. Instead she went for what was closest, the arm she’d already stabbed.

  Inácio screamed and fell away from her. Somehow she rose. Her hair was wet with blood. Her breasts were still exposed. Her mouth opened as she screamed and lunged at him again, and she knew she looked like a demon of hell. Even as her mind closed, as reality fell away, she knew she had to win, and she cried out to him that she was a demon of hell, that he had betrayed his oath to Christ, and that Satan was coming for him.

  She stabbed at the air, hoping to cut him again, but he jumped back. And then he ran. He found the door, and flung it open, and disappeared into the night.

  Roberta slammed the door shut, but she did not move from the front hall. She held the knife, ready for him to come back. She would wait, for he would return, she knew it, and she would kill him, and that would be so much better than going upstairs and finding her husband’s body and facing everything that was to come.

  I listened to the story, my emotions ranging from maddening anger to admiration. She had fought off a man who possessed twice her strength. In the direst of situations, she had remained cunning and resourceful. She was a marvel, and I had destroyed everything she held dear.

  She was very still after she’d told me what had happened. We remained in that house full of corpses, in a city full of even greater death, and neither of us said a word for I know not how long. Then she spoke again.

  “You cheated us.” Her voice was frighteningly controlled. “You stole our money, and you ruined us. I offered myself to you. I gave you my heart, and you trampled upon it.”

  “I did. I was deceived into thinking you a villain.”

  She pushed herself back, scrambling like a crab in her haste to move away from me. She ignored the pieces of broken glass and brick that cut into her palms. “You make excuses for being a monster?”

  “It is what happened. I wish to God it had not, but it did. I can’t change that, but I can help you now.”

  “Help me with what?” she demanded. “Burying my husband?”

  “I shall help you survive in this ruined city,” I said.

  “What do you mean? What ruined city?”

  She didn’t know. She had been sitting here for hours, and she hadn’t noticed the quake.

  “Roberta, open your eyes. Inácio didn’t make the windows break and the plaster fall from the walls. Look outside. The city has been destroyed by an earthquake.”

  She looked around, seeing her surroundings for the first time. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The world had become what she most feared, I realized. It was a place of chaos and disorder, where even the most meticulous care and carefully crafted plans would never provide a safe harbor. Above all else, Roberta wanted stability and safety, and now every last shred of those things had been taken from her. She was lost.

  Except that I would not let her be lost. I would save her. She had nothing, and both of us—indeed every person in Lisbon—were now vulnerable in a city that would, over the coming hours, descend into bestial madness. What did Inácio matter when soon this city would be ruled by the desperate and violent, men who would make Inácio seem tame by comparison? I would let him go. I would let Azinheiro go. I would save the people who mattered.

  “There are things more important than revenge,” I said aloud.

  I rose and walked through the ruins of the house until I found the maid’s room. Two or three plain dresses hung upon her wall. One of them smelled fairly clean, and I brought it to Roberta. “Put this on.”

  “Why? What does it matter what I wear?”

  I took her by the shoulders and tried to make her look at me. “It matters that you live.”

  She laughed bitterly. “You ruin me, then try to save me. You are mad.”

  “I have wronged you, and you have come to harm. I cannot undo that, but I can do everything in my power to protect you now.”

  She tried to push herself away, but I dug my fingers into her shoulders. She leveled her gaze at me. “What do you care what happens to me now?”

  I nearly told her I loved her, for I was now certain I did. What had stood in my way before? I had loved what was best about her, but I could not love the wily and deceptive Roberta Carver. That woman was a scoundrel, as broken as I was, caring for nothing but money. Now I knew that the Roberta Carver I had pushed away was a fiction. She had broken faith with her husband, certainly, but she had not been a trickster or a thief. I had been drawn to the woman as she was. The things that had repelled me were lies fabricated by Charles Settwell.

  Someday, when she was safe, I would tell her this. I did not think she could forgive me, but maybe she would understand. “I was deceived. I hurt you,” I repeated. “Now I pledge my life to see you safe. That will have to be enough.”

  I did not intend to go anywhere. I needed Roberta dressed so we could react quickly should we need to, but the streets were the last place I wanted to be. People would be frightened and their actions would be difficult to predict. While she put on the gown, I went to the kitchens, where I found food, water, wine, and ale. These supplies would keep us alive. Unfortunately, we were wealthy in the only way that now mattered in Lisbon. There would be people who would do anything to obtain what we possessed.

  I went back to Roberta, who had returned to the floor, her arms wrapped about her knees. I sat beside her. She said, “You are all I have now, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I must accept your help, though I hate you, mustn’t I?”

  “You must.”

  “What will happen to us?”

  “We will survive,” I told her.

  She looked out the window, though still seeming not to see any details. “There are so many dead already.”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “Did they not believe they would survive?”

  “They behaved foolishly,” I said. “They made poor choices. They stood when they should have run or ran when they should have stood. We will do none of those things.”

  “I suppose I must be grateful, but how can I not hate you?” she aske
d.

  “You may hate me if you like,” I told her. “You may swear to take revenge upon me, and I’ll not resent it nor resist it. I will help you plunge a dagger into my heart if you like, but you must promise not to harm me until you are safe. Once this disaster is past us, then you may do what you like. But not before. Do you promise?”

  She nodded.

  “Then we shall be well for now.”

  The moment I spoke the words, I regretted them, for once more the earth began to shake. The groans of people and buildings and the earth itself echoed throughout the city. Roberta reached for me, but I broke away. I grabbed her wrist and yanked her up, tugging her out of the house and toward the street, which was wide and so the safest place.

  Roberta was like a woman asleep. I had to pull her every step of the way. Her glassy eyes turned this way and that and saw nothing. We had hardly crossed the threshold and stumbled out into the street when her house swayed slowly to the left, then violently to the right. It shuddered and then folded in on itself, collapsing in an orderly pile, like a closed book. Only a cough of dust and debris betrayed any sense of violence.

  All around us, houses were falling. They vomited stones and tiles and timber. Those buildings that had survived the first quake had been weakened, and now the second quake ripped them apart at their cracks and fissures. I wanted to flee, but there was nowhere to go, and so I stood in the middle of the street, surrounded by the terrified, the wailing, the desperate and the dead-eyed, holding Roberta, who pressed her face to my chest, while everywhere the buildings of Lisbon came undone like soap bubbles popping in a basin.

  The sound was incredible, all of it reverberating across the newly empty spaces. The church at the end of the block buckled. In the distance, another church began to heave back and forth like a pendulum, and then it was gone, as though the earth underneath it had vanished. And far off, the Palace of the Inquisition swayed and began to crack. Under the pressure of its movement, it ejected bricks like a fighter spitting out teeth. The massive structure rocked as though picking up momentum, and the walls began to bend in an almost beautiful rolling motion. Then the Palace, the seat and symbol of the Inquisition’s power in Lisbon, began to fall in upon itself. And Gabriela was within.