God's Fires

by Patricia Anthony

  A comet. Perhaps oddly colored lightning. It was a hill, and lightning had a way of striking high places. Just an ordinary occurrence made extraordinary by his exhaustion. He would not worry anyone else about it.

  Mindful to keep his head down, Pessoa sneaked home.

  A shout awakened Afonso. Just the one shout, and the camp went midnight-quiet again. Rubbing his eyes, Afonso rose and left, stepping over the blanketed mound that was the sleeping Jandira.

  The soldiers had emerged from their tents. As one, they knelt in the hush of the torch-guttering night, all facing east. Father de Melo was on his knees, arms outstretched, his face running tears.

  Afonso had witnessed such a scene only once before, and that at a deathwatch. He looked east, too, expecting the ghost of his father.

  He saw an odd star.

  The thing did not wear a tail like a comet; and it was not orange and quick like a meteor. This star was radiant, blinding white, and it moved as if it were a ball that God had sent rolling across the darkened firmament.

  High and higher it rose, drifting north. Soldiers and priest clambered to their feet to keep it in view.

  The gathering of men stood, bound together by wonder: captain beside cook, cook by waggoner, scribe by pikesmen. The encampment was so still that Afonso could hear the torpid flap of royal velvet banners in the breeze.

  The star grew distant and faint. Afonso watched it disappear into the ordinary stars that twinkled in the spaces between clouds. When it was gone, a buzz of conversation sprang up, some soldiers vowing that the star had gone into a hole God had made in the heavens, others insisting that they spied it still. “There! There!” They pointed eagerly. “Can’t you see it moving? It travels through Cygnus.”

  Afonso stared until his eyes watered and he had to wipe them dry.

  Then, where the star had disappeared, a bolt of emerald light connected heaven to earth. Afonso cried out with fear; but he was not ashamed, because the soldiers and Father de Melo cried out as well. And the captain of the guard dropped once more to his knees, and the cooks began crossing themselves.

  The pillar of green vanished. Terrified babble arose. Father de Melo said in a reedy voice: “Ecce Agnus Dei; ecce, qui tollit peccati mundi!” And he began to pray.

  Afonso noticed Jandira standing at his left side. “We go there,” he whispered.

  “Sire…”

  “It was a sign. We must go to where the star pointed.”

  Soldiers were turning around now, to see who spoke.

  Jandira shook her head. “I do not think…”

  He raised his voice so Jandira would listen. He didn’t intend to make the soldiers start nor did he intend to interrupt the father. “Please, Jandira. We must, don’t you see?” Afonso said. “We must travel north, and we must do so at once. For God Himself is calling.”

  A knock resounded on his door like thunder. Bernardo peeled the blanket back and, shivering, fumbled through the gloom of his cell.

  A Cistercian friar stood in the corridor. In the dim glow of the man’s lantern, Bernardo could see that his eyes were white-rimmed with alarm. “Another message.”

  The cheap whale oil in the lantern smoked, filling the air with a fishy reek. The air was cold, the hour late, Bernardo hugged himself to trap the dissipating bed warmth. Nothing stirred in the monastery, not even Filipe Camara, who for sins acquired as a soldier, walked a nightly penance. The corridor to either side of the lamp glow was black void. The floor was icy, the air so damp that the friar’s breath fogged.

  “For Monsignor Gomes again.” The friar shoved a cream-colored envelope at him. “And with the king’s seal. The rider arrived in a rush, with his horse sweated and blowing hard. Please, father? Seeing as how the message cannot wait, and since Monsignor is most assuredly asleep…”

  “A moment,” Bernardo muttered. He turned and fumbled along the table for flint and candle.

  Behind him: “Please, father? Can you?”

  “Yes, yes.” His groping fingers touched flint. With a snap and a spark, the wick began to smolder. Gently, he breathed life into the flame then, teeth chattering, he shrugged into his habit. His boots were where he always placed them: aligned with the edge of his cot. He sat and, in the clement light of the candle, pulled them on.

  A shy voice came from the doorway. “Two king’s messages in one day.” The Cistercian poked his head into Bernardo’s cell. “It must be a great matter.”

  Bernardo rose, straightened his robes, and brushed stray dust from his black wool sleeve.

  The Cistercian asked, “What matter do you think?”

  Bernardo dipped his fingertips into his washbasin, and combed water through his hair.

  “Are … are you not going to take the message?”

  One final habit adjustment, then Bernardo held his hand out. The Cistercian, with a relieved sigh, put the thick envelope in Bernardo’s palm.

  “Bless you, father.” He left so hurriedly that the last word was an echo.

  Shielding the flame, Bernardo picked up the rude pottery holder by one edge and walked out. A draft plucked at the candle. Impish shadows cavorted in its hectic glow.

  “Kyrie eleison,” Bernardo prayed, keeping his eyes lowered so that demon could not tempt nor fright; so that God would not think him proud.

  Around a corner. Impenetrable Limbo lay ahead but for a remote nebulous glow. Another step, another, his eyes downcast, his pace slow but steady. That was the way to salvation. Bernardo strove, but what if, years ago, he had committed some forgotten but unforgivable sin, and all his labors were naught?

  “Christe eleison.”

  Without raising his head, he peeked down the length of the hall. The glow was merely a small bank of candles which the choir had placed at St. Cecilia’s feet. Her face was rosy. She wore a complacent smile. Were saints sure? Bernardo wondered. In their minds, was Heaven to be a certainty? Or did they dread night, too?

  Rounding another corner, his own tormented shadow lunged, magnified in suffering. Bernardo imagined that he could feel the wild flurry of its passing.

  “Kyrie eleison.”

  Did Monsignor never doubt—doubt not God so much as himself? The path to heaven was so narrow. So twisting. A wrong footfall, and…

  He stopped before the carved oak door. Bernardo knocked. “Monsignor?”

  Outside the ornate Manueline window a melon slice of moon peered behind clouds, casting paltry light over the gardens. Across the way was another window and a niche where St. Dominic stood, wrapped in a holocaust of candles.

  Bernardo bent to the door, put his ear to it. “Monsignor?”

  From beyond came a faint sound. Bernardo unfastened the latch and, holding his candle high, entered Monsignor’s room. The inquisitor-general was still abed, but floundering about in the covers.

  “Light.” His voice was thick. “Make more light.”

  Bernardo lit the twelve candles in the silver candelabra. When he looked again, the monsignor was sitting up, yawning and scrubbing his hands over his sleep-rumpled face.

  “Robe.”

  Bernardo took it from its place on the bedpost and settled it about Monsignor’s shoulders.

  Monsignor gave a phlegmy cough. “What?”

  “Another message.” Bernardo took the heavy envelope from the depths of his pocket and handed it over.

  Monsignor sniffed, grunted. He hiked a hip. His brow furrowed in concentration and he passed descending-minor-key gas. With a fingernail, he pried the sealing wax loose. His eyes scanned the page. He sat back against his pillows and scanned the page again.

  “Bring the candelabra.”

  As he had with the earlier message, Monsignor set the edge of the paper aflame, put it in the pewter dish he used for such things, and watched until it was ash.

  Monsignor shrugged the robe from his shoulders. It fell to the floor. Bernardo picked it up, hung it on the bedpost, and straightened its folds. Taking up his candle, he started from the room.

  “
Bernardo?”

  Hand on the latch, he looked back. Monsignor had dug himself under blanket and goosedown comforter until nothing could be seen but the soaring Alp of his belly.

  “Yes, Monsignor?”

  From the lump in the bed came a muffled whimper of a fart. “If it were not for my efforts, this country would be riding to Hell astride a governmental ass.”

  DAY 4

  Castelo Melhor’s city villa perched on the banks of the Tejo and cascaded down the hill, its walls and patios brightened with flowers. Bernardo, careful to stay one pace behind Monsignor, walked through its brick-and-ivy courtyard, past the pots of geraniums, and to the massive mahogany doors. Monsignor lifted the knocker in a brass fighting cock’s clutches and gave the plate three raps.

  A footman answered. His eyes traveled from Monsignor, to Bernardo, and back to Monsignor. He said, “O.”

  “The count.”

  “Yes, Monsignor. Just…” A lifted hand. A nervous call into the depths of the house. “Senhor Farias!”

  An answering mutter came from the quiet affluent world beyond. Through the clack of approaching footsteps, Bernardo could hear a lecture whose beginnings were swallowed in echo. “…must you tell, Sergio, tedious piece of dog shit that you are, that it is your duty to answer…”

  Then, in the crack of the doorway, a surprised face appeared. “Ah.” The mordomo regained enough composure to bow.

  “The count,” Monsignor said.

  “Yes. Ah. Unfortunately, he is quite…”

  “Home?”

  “Well. One might say… Yes. I believe he … although perhaps not entirely prepared to receive—”

  Monsignor pushed aside mordomo and footman. He strode into the house. Bernardo at his heels. The entry was done in the Moorish style, with twisting white marble columns and arches and so many windows that the glitter made Bernardo’s eyes tear.

  The mordomo wrung his hands. His face was luminous with panic. “Breakfast! We must set out a glorious breakfast for Monsignor. A cozy fire in the study. The best Brazilian or African coffee, whichever Monsignor would prefer. Pastries that will crumble in your fingers. Cream tans that will melt on your tongue. Strawberries, apricots, plums in wine. All the best: the count employs a French cook.”

  Lowering his head discreetly. Bernardo sneaked a look out of the sides of his eyes. Monsignor was studying a rose alabaster statue of a nude couple who were far too intimately entwined.

  “Sergio!” the mordomo snapped. “Inform our illustrious count that his excellency, the monsignor, is here. And as you do so. I will lead our two visitors—”

  The footman started off across the gleaming tile. Monsignor right behind.

  A panicked shout of: “Sergio! No!”

  The footman halted too late. Bernardo had already spied which room he had been heading for: and Monsignor was on his way there, his huge head lowered like a bull’s.

  The mordomo trotted alongside, plucking at Monsignor’s sleeve. “Sausages? Guava paste with an assortment of white cheeses?”

  The huge room beyond was filled with sun. Behind a maze of couches, a fire blazed. On a nearby settee, a naked woman snored, an empty bridle in her hand. In the crack of her buttocks lay an orderly row of bonbons. Two nude boys sat at a card table, sipping coffee. When Monsignor stopped in the doorway, the pair looked up, bleary-eyed and squinting. Their jaws dropped. Even under the rouge and the rice powder and the kohl, Bernardo could see their faces lose color. They scampered behind a nearby couch, quick as squirrels.

  “Fried bread and honey!’* the mordomo cried. “Brandied peaches! Currant-and-almond loaf!”

  A man popped up from behind a chair, then dived so quickly that all Bernardo could be certain of was that he had been wearing a steel breastplate.

  The mordomo asked a dispirited question: “Would Monsignor care for lunch?”

  On the other side of the couch a hand groped, and pulled down a fringed, embroidered tablecloth. From the same direction came Castelo Melhor’s voice. “Farias? Perhaps you might show the most excellent Monsignor Inquisitor-General Gomes into the study and offer him a little something.”

  The mordomo sighed.

  Bernardo peered through his eyelashes at the naked woman again. The bonbons had not shifted. He might have thought her dead but for the steady rise and fall of her back.

  Castelo Melhor poked his head above the top of the couch. Under his breath he uttered an irritated. “Puh.” He stood, wrapping the tablecloth about his waist. “Well. What can I do for you?” Chin up, he walked toward them, tripping over fringe. One leg was bare from the side of his buttocks down. Through the hair above his knee was a long angry scar, a memory of the Spanish wars. When Castelo Melhor reached the end of the settee, he halted.

  With a gasp, the mordomo snapped up a nearby Persian rug and threw it over the woman and her chocolates. Bernardo wondered if she would die smothered, and move from dream into endless dream.

  “I had a question,” Monsignor said.

  The count raised an eyebrow. “Really.”

  “Have you heard news of English soldiers marching near Lisbon?”

  The count patted a mustache. He cocked his head to the side as if waiting for the remainder of the jest. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “English.”

  “Unexpected, isn’t it? Marching toward the sea. In the company of Prince Pedro. I received the information from a very reliable source, and so naturally I was wondering if you had received some announcement or declaration or…” He gave a languid wave of his hand. “Whatever.”

  The count shifted his weight again. Bernardo wondered if he was in need of a chamber pot. “Soldiers.” One small, disbelieving smile, then his eyes grew troubled, and his cheeks grew ashen. In a dead voice, he whispered: “Pedro.”

  Castanheda’s maid answered Pessoa’s knock and wordlessly ushered him in. She took his hat, hung it on the rack, then vanished into the gloom, leaving neither footfall nor echo in her wake.

  Pessoa clasped his hands behind his back and paced. Reaching the mouth of the hall, he stopped to listen, but heard only a torpid hush—the peculiar silence of a house plunged into mourning.

  He wandered the foyer, studied Castanheda’s gaudy El Cid—a painting only a Moor could savor. Below El Cid was a fine rosewood table, upon it a Bible and a silver box whose top was a map of Brazil.

  A man’s voice spoke from the hall doorway: “Thieving, father?” Castanheda’s muscular bulk loomed out of the shadows. His jacket was unfastened; his shirt hung out his pantaloons; at the knee his hose were soot-smudged. “Just ask. I would gladly give it to you. I would give you anything.”

  Pessoa set the silver box down. “I need to talk with your daughter.”

  “She is not here.”

  Pessoa forced relief from his face. “Fled, then?”

  “Gone to see Maria Elena.”

  Easier to restrain the joy than the disappointment. “Ah, Guilherme. You must make an effort to control her.”

  “When you have children, you will gain the right of instruction. Come. I wish to show you something.”

  Castanheda left so abruptly that Pessoa had no time to demur. He followed through the shuttered darkness until they were deep in the lamplit bowels of the house.

  Their destination was a musty study. On the desk stood a pewter holder with four candles. On the wall, pikestaffs and a halberd; a battered shield with a red fighting cock; and a faded green sash emblazoned with a golden medal rayed like the sun. Castanheda closed the door and, with a clang, shot the bolt.

  Pessoa’s pulse quickened. He inched to the desk and rested his hand near a filigree letter opener.

  “Is stealing a habit with you, father?”

  “Why have you called me here?”

  In a soldier’s deadly fluid move, Castanheda plucked down his shield. Pessoa snatched up the letter opener, and only then saw the hidden wall niche.

  Castanheda said over his shoulder, “You put your faith in God, I see. You
may have that. It’s pure Moroccan gold. Or you may put the point between my ribs, if that sets your mind at ease.”

  Pessoa put the letter opener back, but let his hand linger.

  From the depths of the niche, Castanheda brought out a teakwood chest. “What sort of father are you?” He slammed the chest down stunningly close to Pessoa’s thumb. He twisted the lock. Inside sat a glittering pile of Spanish reales and gold ducats, so much wealth that Pessoa, incredulous, stepped away. Castanheda’s dark look pursued him. “When have you cleaned milk puke from your clothes?”

  Never. And never would. Pessoa’s stillborn seed. “Put the money away.”

  “How many hours have you spent teaching someone the names of colors? Take the money,” Castanheda said.

  “I cannot.”

  “Buy yourself a decent horse, Manoel Pessoa. A saddle. A little comfort.”

  “I cannot take this from you.”

  “Pôrra! Am I not worthy? I have been damned by sniveling Dominicans and ass-licking Cistercians; and yet before each battle Jesuits petitioned God for me. What sort of father are you, who would turn his back on a son who disobeyed Rome for you, who slaughtered Spaniards when you asked? Damn you Jesuits to Hell for serving the Holy Office. For leading this country from one war to another. Take the money.”

  “Please, Guilherme. It is too late.”

  Pessoa saw a spark of rage that, had it caught, would have killed. Then the flame sputtered. Castanheda dropped his eyes. The room smelled of sweat, of long-dead fires. No, Pessoa was wrong. The house was shuttered not in preparation of grief; Castanheda had created a fortress.

  “Tomorrow, two o’clock,” Pessoa said. “I will send Cândido Torres. Marta is to—”

  He whispered, “If not money, what? Tell me what you want.”

  Pessoa spoke to the candles, to the cold glittering coins.