For an instant a woman lifted her head and her arms jerked forward as if she was reaching out to him, then they dropped back by her side, and she turned away. The familiaries grabbed the child and led him back to his own group. I thought he would cry, but he didn’t. He didn’t even look at the woman again. He hung between the two men like a frayed rag, as if the last spark of life in him had suddenly been snuffed out.
The crowd fell silent once more as the Inquisitor-General donned his bishop’s mitre and climbed up to the altar. He was a thin, lean man with a long, straight nose, made longer and sharper by the upward tilt of his chin.
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.
When the High Mass was ended the Inquisitor-General took up his staff of office and, descending the altar steps, solemnly strode across the square towards the diminutive figure of the king, closely followed by a young altar boy staggering under the weight of a huge leather-bound and jewel-encrusted copy of the Holy Gospels.
As the Inquisitor-General approached, little Sebastian edged so far back into his throne I half-expected him to crawl out of the back of it. The Inquisitor-General took the massive book and held it out towards the king. At the urging of the two Jesuits behind the throne, the boy placed his right hand on the book and in a shrill, quavering voice, promised to ‘support the faith and the Inquisition and do all in my power to extirpate heresy’. He stumbled over this last phrase and it took three attempts to get it right. Sebastian glanced fearfully up at his great-uncle, Cardinal Henry, but he received only a stern frown by way of reassurance.
Dona Ofelia produced a finely embroidered handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. ‘Ah, bless him, the little lamb. Such a pure, innocent child, he has no notion what wickedness there is in this world.’
One by one those penitents to be spared death were dragged forward to have the name of their sin proclaimed to the crowd. As each crime was announced, Dona Ofelia, fervently clutching at the silver and ebony rosary that hung about her neck, gave an exaggerated gasp of horror as though she was about to swoon at the wickedness of it all. Some of the penitents had confessed to being Lutherans, witches or adulterers, or had broken the law by neglecting to display an image of the Virgin Mary on the walls of their houses. But Dona Ofelia reserved her greatest shrieks of outrage for those who were accused of Judaizing – relapsing back into the Jewish faith.
‘I knew it,’ she said, as each was dragged forward. ‘You can tell he’s a Jew just by looking at him.’
If Mother had been with us, her horror would have been even greater than Dona Ofelia’s, for according to my mother and our parish priest, Judaizing was the most unforgivable crime you could ever commit against Christ. Father Tomàs reminded us of the list of thirty-seven signs of Judaizing almost every Sunday at Mass. He said that if you saw a friend or neighbour showing any one of these signs it was your duty as a faithful Christian to report it at once. Did your neighbour wear a clean shirt on a Saturday? Was he seen giving fruit to a friend in September near the time of the festival the Jews called the Feast of the Tabernacles? Was there no smell of pork fat in the smoke from his cooking fire? Had the fishmonger remembered that they had never bought eels from him? Did you see a mother wash her infant too soon after it had been christened? Even a person cutting their fingernails on a Friday might be a sign that they were practising their Jewish faith in secret.
Father Tomàs assured us that the accused would never learn who had reported them, so no one need fear retaliation from the accused’s family or have cause to worry about being cursed by these heretics. On the contrary, whoever denounced their masters or their servants, their neighbours or even their own parents, would be blessed by the Church and God for their piety and devotion in helping to rid Portugal of this evil. My mother would nod emphatically in agreement each time Father Tomàs reminded us of this. For our family could trace our Catholic lineage back almost to St Peter himself, even counting abbesses and bishops among our forebears, so she was constantly vigilant for any suspicious signs among our neighbours, proud and eager to play her part in purifying Portugal.
It was late in the afternoon now, my mouth was dry and my stomach was growling with hunger. Sitting in the full glare of the merciless sun, the penitents must have been crazed with thirst, but they were herded to kneel before the great altar to repeat after the Inquisitor-General phrase by painful phrase the lengthy public abjuration of their sin.
The sentence for most was to be seated upon a donkey, the women bare-breasted, and flogged with two hundred lashes through the town. The shame, they called it. Children were taken from their parents to be re-educated in the Catholic faith. Then, after the shame, most of the penitents would be taken to the secular prison, there to remain for the rest of their lives. Those lucky few who, after their ride of shame, were set at liberty would have to appear in public in the sanbenito for the rest of their lives, so that all decent Christians would know what they were and shun them.
‘What a pity your mother could not attend today,’ Dona Ofelia said suddenly.
She vigorously fanned her deep puckered cleavage, down which rivulets of sweat ran from the great mounds of her breasts like melting snow from mountain peaks.
‘She’s ill,’ I told her. It was the excuse Father and I had agreed upon.
‘But witnessing the auto-da-fé is a pious act. Why, I have known people brought here on their deathbed to witness the procession who have leapt up and walked home on their two feet, cured by God for their faith.’
‘She has a contagion.’
Dona Ofelia looked at me suspiciously as if I was one of her maids she had caught out in a lie. ‘Do convey my sympathies to her. She must suffer a good deal from poor health. I seem to recall your father saying she was unwell on the last occasion too. But perhaps she does not understand how important it is to witness the auto-da-fé, for you seem to know so little of what occurs. Has your father not shared with his family the mercy of the Inquisition? Perhaps he does not altogether approve?’
‘Of course he does,’ I protested hotly. ‘My father doesn’t talk much, but there is no one who is more loyal to the Inquisition than he is, and my mother is constantly –’
She reached across and patted my hand. ‘Don’t get upset, child. I’m sure you’re right. It is just that there has been some talk. You know how gossip spreads through the Court, not that I ever listen to it myself, naturally.’
‘What have they been saying?’ I demanded, furious that anyone should question the loyalty of my parents. We came from one of the oldest Catholic families in Portugal, probably a great deal older than hers. How dare she?
Dona Ofelia’s eyes flashed. She was not accustomed to being addressed in such a tone. I knew it was dangerous to offend a woman with her husband’s influence.
I tried to swallow my temper. ‘Forgive me, Dona Ofelia, I was worried that people were saying things that were untrue.’
‘I’m sure I must have misheard and they were talking of someone else. It is nothing for you to worry about, child. Forget I even mentioned it.’
She smiled soothingly, but I knew I had ruined any chance I had of finding out more. She turned her head firmly in the direction of the altar as if she was riveted by the stumbling words of the penitents. But I couldn’t forget. She knew they had been talking about my father, but what could a man as quiet and self-effacing as he ever have done to provoke gossip? I glanced uneasily over at him, but his gaze too was fixed on the Inquisitor-General.
The public abjuration had at last drawn to a close and thick shadows stretched out their dark fingers towards the centre of the square where the penitents knelt. Over the rooftops, the sky blazed gold and purple and blood-red as the fierce sun sank from view. The notes of the choir rose into the evening air. The castrati’s high-pitched voices rang out like angel song over the square and stilled the restless crowd, sending shivers of awe up my spine. Even a few of the penitents raised their haggard faces as if they thought the light of heaven was desc
ending upon the town.
A priest stepped forward to light the candles in the penitents’ hands as a token that they had been brought back to the light of Christ. The penitents gazed in wonder at the tiny, fragile flames which sprang up in their hands. The Inquisitor-General raised his arms, his deep voice booming out in exaltation and triumph through the unearthly soaring of the castrati’s song as he pronounced the Absolution.
Then, with a conjuror’s flourish, the Inquisitor-General swept away the black cloth, which all this while had covered the altar, to reveal the rugged green cross of the Holy Order of the Inquisition, the sign of God’s mercy, love and forgiveness. The Church had triumphed over heresy and God once more would turn the smile of His countenance upon Portugal. The crowd roared and cheered and stamped their feet as if a vision of Christ himself had appeared over the altar.
Dona Ofelia hugged me, beaming through her tears. ‘I swear even a stone would be moved by that dear man’s mercy. Isn’t he magnificent?’ she said, reaching out a trembling hand towards the Inquisitor-General as if she longed to caress his face. Then she suddenly blushed like a love-sick girl.
But the day was not yet over. There was still the little group of condemned prisoners to deal with. The king, the Regent, the Inquisitor-General and all the monks and priests processed out of the square and eventually, when the royal procession was far enough ahead, the rest of us were permitted by the soldiers to follow them in solemn procession to the huge square of Terreiro do Paço, in front of the royal palace. Dona Ofelia clung tightly to my hand lest she should lose me in the crush.
A second dais had been erected for the king and his great-uncle, but in front of it was no altar. Instead, on the far side of the square, furthest away from the palace walls, was a huge platform made from dried faggots of wood with a dozen or more posts rising up out of them.
It was dark now. Only the blazing torches on the palace walls illuminated the scene, sending snakes of red and orange flame writhing up into the indigo sky. Midges swarmed around the flames in great misty clouds and over our heads bats, drunk on moth blood, lurched in and out of the pools of light.
A twisting rope of candle flames wound down the street towards us. The candles were held in the hands of monks and the castrati who were singing a Miserere. The voices of these beautiful beardless men rose and wheeled like the flight of a merlin climbing higher into the heavens, until the very stars themselves seemed to vibrate with notes.
The crowd, restless and hungry after the interminable day, were prowling around like caged animals, and when they saw the condemned enter the square, they surged forward in a great wave, howling and shrieking in anger and disgust. It was all the soldiers could do to beat them back and stop them tearing the heretics limb from limb before they could even reach the pyre.
The condemned were hauled up one by one on top of the faggots of wood and dragged to a post, where they were chained facing the screaming mob. One of the black-hooded familiaries held up a flaming torch beside each man and woman so that those binding them could see clearly enough to fasten the locks. The Judaizers were still gagged for fear that they might cry out that they were innocent, or worse still, shout some desperate prayer to their Hebrew God.
Next to them on the pyre, the friars positioned the effigies of those who had fled rather than face capture. The wooden statues would help to burn the relatives and friends they had left behind. It was an irony not lost on the crowd, who repeated the joke loudly to one another.
Finally the boxes of bones were placed into the hands of some of the penitents spared the flames, who were driven forward to the edge of the pyre. Most carried the boxes without giving any sign that they knew what they held, either numb to any emotion now or so relieved to have escaped death they would gladly have kissed the feet of their jailers.
But one young girl began to sob so hard the sound rose even above the chattering people. Tears streamed down her face, and she clutched the box in her stick-thin arms so fiercely that the friars had to strike her with canes several times before she would set it down on top of the unlit pyre. Even then it seemed she could not pull her hands away from the box, as if her fingers were frozen to it. She clutched at it until she was dragged away.
‘That’ll be the bones of her lover or one of her family in that box,’ Dona Ofelia said with glee. ‘Now she’ll watch them burned to ashes so there can be no hope of resurrection for them, which is what all heretics deserve, don’t you agree, child?’
I smiled and nodded as vigorously as I could. Trying to look as if I couldn’t wait to see them blazing.
When all was prepared the crowd fell silent. A hush of expectation fell across the darkened square. Slowly and solemnly the Inquisitor-General stalked across the square towards his sovereign, his footsteps suddenly echoing hollowly in the darkness. The torches flickered, lengthening his shadow and sending it slithering towards the gaping crowd. As it crept close to them people stepped back, as if the mere touch of his black ghost would send the chill of death through their bones.
He bowed before King Sebastian, handing him a scroll of parchment on which were written the names of the prisoners, now released by the Inquisition into the hands of the king. For the Church could not execute anyone. The ultimate sentence of justice must be carried out by the State. The boy-king gingerly took the parchment in his hands, holding it as if he thought it would burst into flames.
A Moor with a chest as broad as an ox took up his place behind a condemned woman chained to the first post on the pyre. His features, like those of the familiaries, were concealed beneath a black hood. He was stripped to the waist and the thick corded muscles of his ebony arms gleamed with a sheen of sweat in the torchlight.
The prisoner cringed away as far as her chains would allow. She was a small, hollow-cheeked woman with long grey hair that hung in tattered shreds from beneath her hat. One of the familiaries loosened her leather gag. As soon as the gag was removed, she began to sob and scream. She was crying so hard that her words could hardly be distinguished, only the odd phrase torn from her parched throat filtered through her tears – repent … abjure … abjure … I abjure.
It was enough. Before I even realized what he was doing, the Moor had placed an iron chain around her fragile neck. Fear contorted the woman’s face as he pulled the chain tight in his great fists. She struggled desperately for breath as the chain bit deeper and deeper into her throat, then finally her head lolled sideways and her body sagged limply from the wooden post, a look of abject terror frozen for ever in her bulging eyes.
The crowd screamed and howled, half-excited by the death, but at the same time frustrated that in repenting she had cheated them of the spectacle of her writhing in the flames. The executioner removed the iron chain and moved to stand behind the next prisoner. And so they worked down the line of the condemned. As one by one their gags were removed, a few shouted their repentance so there could be no mistake they wanted the mercy of the garrotte. But through fear or pain or raging thirst, most could do no more than whisper their confessions to the friars, who declaimed them theatrically to the square. As the garrotte crept agonizingly slowly down the line towards them, the waiting prisoners trembled and tried desperately to pull themselves out of their chains. One lad pissed himself in fear, and the crowd jeered and whooped with delight.
When they came to the sixth man, they once more untied the leather gag. He was old, his hair white, his cheeks caved in as if all his teeth had gone, eyes sunk so deep into their sockets they looked like two black holes in his skull. The soldier lifted the blazing torch higher over his head, ready for the executioner to do his work. Up to then I hadn’t seen the old man’s face clearly because of the gag. But as the light fell full upon him, I realized with a jolt there was something familiar about the way he held his head, something about the mouth … the eyes … but why? Why did I think I’d seen him before? Then horror shuddered through my frame as I finally realized who the old man was.
‘Senhor Jorge! No, n
ot him!’ The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Dona Ofelia turned a startled face to me. ‘Did you say something, child?’
I tried to smile, even though I was trembling so much I was certain I was going to vomit.
‘I thought … I … I saw a friend in the crowd.’
She smiled. ‘I expect you did, dear, half of Lisbon is here. But you said, “No, not him.” ’
‘Did I?’
Mercifully, before I was forced to think of an explanation, Dona Ofelia’s attention was captured once again by what was happening on the pyre. Unlike the other prisoners, Senhor Jorge had said nothing when his gag was removed. The familiaries and friars jostled around him, urging him even now to recant and be spared the agony of the flames. But as if he’d heard me cry out, he ignored them and, turning his head, stared directly at the spot where I stood. He opened his mouth and in a hoarse, cracked voice, proclaimed, ‘You Christians are all idolaters; you bow down before idols and worship a man instead of God … Shema Yisrael …’
It was all he could get out before they forced the gag back into his mouth. With a single bellow of fury, the enraged mob rushed towards the pyre, determined to tear him apart with their bare hands, and the soldiers had to beat them back. Several people fell to the ground, bleeding and senseless, before the soldiers could regain control of the crowd.
When they were satisfied that the gag was tied so tightly around his mouth again that not a single word could escape, the friars and the executioner moved on down the line. But Senhor Jorge stood quite still with his chin lifted, his eyes staring up at the starry sky above, as if he was back in his own flower-filled courtyard in Sintra. And just for a moment I was sitting there with him again, crouching on a stool at his feet, a wide-eyed little five-year-old, listening entranced to his stories, stories his Spanish grandmother had once told him when he was a small boy long, long ago. Jorge would sip his wine and lean back in his battered old chair, peacefully contemplating the heavens.
The Falcons of Fire and Ice Page 4