The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  Listening intently, I nodded.

  “You see, signorina, enlightenment must come from within a man or woman. When we look for God and giftedness in ourselves, we invariably find it. Jesus himself said, ‘Seek, and you shall find. Knock, and it shall be opened to you. You have not because you ask not, because you seek not.’”

  The words sounded familiar, so I nodded again. “I’m sure you’re right,” I murmured, looking at my hands as a wave of guilt flooded my cheeks. “I ought to know more about these things, but I stopped going to church when I was eleven or twelve. I remember so little of what I learned as a child.”

  “That’s the beauty of Holy Scripture—it remains with us, like a treasure in our hearts. And if you will look within, Claudia, you will find the beauty, the strength, and the peace you will need to survive in this hectic world. You will find God if you take the time to meditate on his love and unity. Think about him. Think about men like Santos Justus, who are leading mankind to a new world of harmony and peace. Think about the day when not even a child will be afraid to walk down the street at midnight because all will know the power of peace and goodness.”

  He tilted his head in an expression of pleading, and I was surprised to see a trace of unguarded tenderness in his eyes. He had never spoken to me with such affection. His words warmed my heart and gave me the courage to ask a more pointed question.

  “Do you believe in miracles?” I asked, thinking of Asher’s resemblance to the marble bust.

  “I see miracles every day.” Synn leaned back in his chair, his eyes misty and wistful. “When I go down to the cafeteria and see Englishmen and Italians and Danes eating together, that’s a miracle. When I hear Rico announce the birth of so many new international chapters of Unione Globale, I know I am witnessing a miracle. And when I see the growth of love between a man and a woman . . . that is perhaps the greatest miracle of all.”

  My fingers tensed in my lap. Was he referring to something specific?

  Synn noted my expression and laughed. “Don’t look so frightened, signorina. Love is not shameful. But we have all noticed how you seek out Signor Genzano’s company. Signora Casale told me just the other day that you and your fiancé have called off the wedding, and now I understand why.”

  My brittle laugh sounded more like a yelp. “Oh no, Il Direttore, Asher had nothing to do with my engagement. We are only friends.”

  “Of course, I could be wrong,” Synn said, but with a significant lifting of his brows. “So it’s ti voglio bene and not ti amo?”

  “Um . . . I think so.”

  My confusion must have shown on my face, for Synn laughed. “Ti voglio bene means I care about you, and the expression is used for friends and family. Ti amo, of course, is reserved for romance.”

  “Well, then, it’s ti voglio bene.” I grinned in relief. “And don’t worry—I would not allow my personal feelings to interfere with my work.”

  “We never thought you would. You have done a fine job, and I’m delighted you’ll be remaining with us a few more weeks.”

  His last statement felt like a dismissal, so I slid to the end of my chair. “Thank you for your time, Reverend. I will try to explain these things to the employee in question. I’m sure he’s just confused.”

  “Do you really understand, signorina? Happiness is not to be found in following a creed or clinging to an outdated book of rules. Peace and contentment are found through the simplicity of truth—in living authentically, simply, peacefully. Seek the peaceful life, and you will find it.”

  I smiled as an inexplicable feeling of contentment rose inside me. “I think I understand, Il Direttore. Thank you for explaining.”

  He stood and came from behind the desk, taking my hand as he helped me to my feet. “If you seek, you will find,” he repeated, his dark eyes jumping in their quick, electric way. “I promise you this and more, if you will follow my guidance.”

  After leaving Synn’s office, I decided my task was clear—I would find Asher, present him with what I’d learned at the library, and explain how he had probably latched onto the legend as a child. With patience and compassion, I would tell him he didn’t need to be ashamed of his insignificant background. Lots of people invented personal histories; Hollywood starlets and politicians embellished their biographies all the time. Faced with facts presented with love and concern, perhaps I could weaken his delusion.

  Feeling more resolute than I had in weeks, I visited the small cubicle Asher used for an office but saw that he had already left for the day. Brimming with determination, I left the building and hailed a cab, directing the driver to the Sole al Pantheon. If Asher had decided to walk home, I would certainly arrive first, but I didn’t care. I could use the time alone to gather my thoughts.

  After paying the taxi driver, I walked through the lobby of the ornate hotel, uncomfortably aware of my wooden heels clacking on the marble floor. The desk clerk, a full-figured woman with piercing eyes, lifted her brows as I walked past, but I lifted my chin and obeyed one of the most basic laws of body language—walk confidently and act like you know what you’re doing, and most people will leave you alone.

  I turned the corner into the darkened hallway, then made my way over the worn carpet to Asher’s door. On the off chance that he had arrived first, I knocked, then stared in surprise when a uniformed maid opened the door.

  “S-scusi,” I stuttered, wondering if I had inadvertently interrupted something I’d rather not know about. “I am looking for Signor Genzano.”

  The maid gave me a knowing smile, then pulled a vacuum cleaner through the doorway, babbling in Italian so fluent I couldn’t catch a word. She conveyed her meaning, though, in a sly wink, then she practically pushed me through the doorway and into the foyer. When she closed the door behind me, I pressed my hands to my sides and looked around, amused by the hotel gossips’ assumptions. I had obviously been noticed in the building before, and apparently some people were eager for me to spend some time with the bachelor hotel owner.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, several people at Global Union had painted us as a pair.

  I checked my necklace watch, then sighed and moved into the front room. A cool breeze came through the half-opened window and fluttered the linen curtain, casting shadows around the book-lined space. With nothing else to do, I scanned the shelves of leather volumes, expecting to see titles printed in gold leaf like the aged books I’d explored in the library. Cracked spines and faded leather I saw, in various sizes and colors, but not a single book was marked on the outside. Curious, I drew a volume from the shelf and opened to the flyleaf.

  Journal 1155, Asher’s bold hand had written, in the year of our Lord 1203. My journeys in England.I riffled through the book and saw that every page had been filled in.

  Amazed, I lowered that book to the writing desk and tugged on the one next to it. The second book was journal 1154, dated 1202. My journeys in Normandy. The pages that followed were written in French.

  Ripples of shock were spreading from an epicenter in my stomach, making the tips of my fingers tingle. I reached for another book on a high shelf and saw that the inscription on the flyleaf was written in Latin and Roman numerals.

  “No.”

  I shoved all three books back to the shelves and hastily stepped away. Asher’s delusion could not have progressed this far. Why, there were hundreds of books on these shelves, and through the doorway I could see more in the bedroom beyond.

  Two thousand years . . . two thousand books?

  Impossible. I ran my hand through my hair and drew a deep breath, then moved to the window and lifted the curtain, hoping for a glimpse of Asher on the street. He would explain this when he came home. I couldn’t wait to hear how he had written stories in all these journals, and how he managed to make some of them look positively ancient . . .

  I sank onto the settee and clasped my hands together, then found myself at eye level with another row of books lined up like planks in a solid fence. What if
he hadn’t written in all the journals? Or what if they all contained the same story?

  A scene from an American horror movie flashed across my brain— Jack the would-be author typing “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” over and over and over again as he slowly sank into madness.

  I reached out and pulled another volume from the shelf, a single black binding among so many in red and blue and brown leather, then lifted the cover and smoothed the first page. The binding cracked as I read Journal 1615, in the year of our Lord 1690. My Journeys in Madrid.

  I quickly scanned through the pages and saw that they were written in English. Well—Asher had once told me he liked the language.

  I shifted my position until the gray window light fell across the faded pages, then began to read.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  IHAD NEVER IMAGINEDIWOULD OPPOSE THEHOLYINQUISITIONin Spain, nor dared to think I might run afoul of it. But I am writing this in chains. The book itself was furnished by a faithful servant from my house in Madrid. I am writing in the language of the English so my fellow prisoners cannot read this book—though I doubt many of the poor fellows can read at all.

  I do not understand all the reasons for my presence in this prison, but despite the official papers served upon my arrest, I know the matter stems from a speech I gave in an inn not far from here. For years now the Holy Church has sought to settle the problem of Jewish converts to Christianity—to test their souls, as it were. The matter seemed fair to me when I first considered it. At the time Columbus sailed for the New World, Their Majesties Ferdinand and Isabella gave the Jewish population of Spain four months to leave the country. Many of Abraham’s children departed during that time of grace, leaving their homes and belongings and paying dearly for safe passage away from Spain. The Jews who remained professed to convert. They married into all classes and races, and many of them eventually obtained considerable wealth, status, and power—power that Spanish officials now seem determined to test.

  The Council of the Inquisition—known here as the Supreme— has sworn to stamp out heresy in all its forms. I applauded their efforts at first—what Christian could not stand against heresy?— but soon the Supreme was denouncing people for such innocent offenses as smiling at the mention of the Virgin Mary, eating meat on Friday, and urinating against the walls of a church. One man privately confided to his wife that he did not believe fornication was a sin; she denounced him, and now he sits beside me in this cell. If you will recall, in 1622 the entire Enrique family was tossed into prison and chained for two years because secret witnesses claimed their father, the Duke of Alva, had been buried according to Jewish rites. No one could prove he had been buried in such a manner, but neither could anyone prove he had not.

  If you will recall—I frowned, uncertain whom the you referred to. Had Asher written this journal for himself? Or had he intended to give it to a friend? I rechecked the date on the front page, then did the math. Sixty-eight years had passed since the supposed writing of this journal and the imprisonment of the Enrique family, so Asher was either writing to a very old friend or he persisted in his delusion even here . . .

  I glanced at the doorway as voices sounded outside in the hallway, then relaxed as they faded. Interested in spite of my fears for Asher’s mental health, I kept reading.

  I am here because I defended my neighbor, Señora Melendez. She was arrested after someone accused her of not eating pork and not changing her linens on Saturdays; these innocent activities resulted in a charge of Jewishness. I went to the trial to protest that Señora Melendez had not changed her linens or eaten pork since I have known her; she is too poor to buy a pig and too lazy for cleanliness. But before I could speak, I learned that Señora Melendez had already signed a confession. Placed upon the rack, she confessed to her alleged crimes, confessed to being a Jew, confessed to anything they repeated to her. The Supreme sentenced her to a hundred lashes, to be bestowed while she made her way through the streets on foot.

  The sight of tears in that helpless woman’s eyes roused my passion. Her eyes were not like those of Christ, who bore my blow without self-pity, but I knew she was innocent of any crime. Like the Nazarene, she did not deserve to suffer. Filled with the wrath of holy indignation, I stood and proclaimed that the inquisitor, the local bishop, and the attending doctor were false and evil fellows.

  Had I been a mortal man, I would have turned and hurried from the place, for in the first shock of my words the authorities did not move. Had I been a wiser man, I would have held my peace and kept my thoughts to myself. But being neither mortal nor wise, I spoke out, and within a moment I was surrounded by a number of the king’s men. Grinning like the thoughtless fools they are, they grasped my arms and led me to stand before the offended bishop.

  He asked my name; I gave it truthfully.

  He asked my occupation; I told him I was a wanderer.

  He declared me a heathen and infidel; I told him I loved God and followed the faith, but nonetheless I was taken to the dungeon, where I waited in darkness for many days and nights. Listening to the soughing of the wind through the prison casements, I considered that confinement might be the only sentence my immortal body could not bear. Others had tried to kill me, and always, within hours after death, my heart resumed its rhythm and my chest rose and fell with breath. Threats hold no fear for me, for I have been drowned, speared, and starved. But never has my spirit been allowed to take its place in the silent halls of Death. Always I am returned to my weary body, which heals in time and resumes its course over the earth.

  Yesterday they came for me. In the presence of a public executioner, a representative of the local bishop, a doctor, and an official notary, I was told that I would be examined in the light of God’s laws. Oh, if they only knew how I had already been judged and found wanting!

  After being roughly thrust into the room, I was stripped to the skin and brought to the rack, as cruel an instrument as mankind ever invented. The executioner bade me mount it—using his sword to encourage me onward—and there I was hung by the bare shoulders with two small cords, which went under both my arms and ran on two iron rings fixed in the wall above my head. After being hoisted to the appointed height, the executioner moved to my legs. Tying a cord about each of my ankles, he placed one of the rack’s planks over my knees, then stood upon the plank and pulled upon the cords, drawing my ankles upward at an unnatural angle. The sinews of my hams burst asunder, the lids of my knees shattered, and the cords remained taut. There I hung in agony for more than an hour.

  Then the executioner, laying my right arm above my left, did wind a cord over both arms seven times. Then lying down upon his back, he set both his feet on my stretched belly. He charged and drew violently with his hands, making my womb suffer the force of his feet, until the seven cords combined in one place of my arm, cutting the crown, sinews, and flesh to the bare bones. He did pull my fingers in close to the palm of my hands, leaving the left hand limp and numb so that I felt nothing for hours.

  Then, by command of the Justice, my trembling body was laid upon the face of the rack, with my head downward and enclosed within a circled hole; my belly upmost, and my heels upward toward the top of the rack. My legs and arms, being drawn apart, were fastened with pins and cords to both sides of the outward planks, for now I was to receive my main torments.

  What good does it to do to record these horrors? You shall not want to relive them when you awaken next in the dawn of a new day, and every man forgets what he has lived. Yet herein is a lesson you must not forget: Do not forget the water device through which water was poured in your belly until you strangled on the taste of it. Do not forget the injustice of being declared guilty at the moment of your arrest and being tortured only to gain a confession. Do not forget that you were held without precise charge and no possible defense. Do not forget that many were required to confess to crimes they struggled desperately to imagine, though you knew full well how you erred. You spoke the truth, and for that they will decre
e that you must die.

  Go then to the stake as steadily and with as great a determination as the Nazarene whom you injured. If by dying you command the time and attention of the Inquisitors, you may prevent them from harassing one of the others whom Jesus loved. If so, you have not borne the agony in vain.

  A wide blank space followed the last paragraph, and when the story resumed on the next page, the handwriting seemed to waver with weakness. Caught up in the story, I pressed on.

  The execution took place within the auto-de-fé, a spectacular occasion held in the elegant Plaza Mayor, a square in the center of Madrid. The king and his court assembled for the spectacle, each man and lady dressed in full regalia. How well I remember it! While I knelt upon the slave-wagon, my skin grimed in filth and crusty with vermin, a gentle breeze blew over the gathering, fluttering the ribbons on the ladies’ headdresses and ruffling the men’s wigs. I remember one lovely girl—she leaned over the railing that sheltered her from the place of execution and waved at me in a small token of pity. I can still see the white lace at her wrist fluttering in the breeze . . .

  But to continue my recital of events—before us marched the officers of the Inquisition, preceded by trumpets, kettledrums, and the royal banner. In the center of the square a high scaffold loomed, and thither, from seven in the morning until sunset, were brought criminals of both sexes; all the Inquisitions in the kingdom sending their prisoners to Madrid. Twenty men and women out of these prisoners were ordered to be burned, myself among them. Fifty Jews and Jewesses, having never been imprisoned, were sentenced to long confinement and to wear always a yellow cap. Ten others, indicted for bigamy, witchcraft, and other crimes, were sentenced to be whipped, then to serve in the king’s galleys. These last wore large pasteboard caps and halters around their necks as befitted those who would serve in the yoke of bondage.