On this solemn occasion the entire court of Spain had gathered. The grand inquisitor’s chair rose above that of the king, resting in a sort of tribunal to which we were led like sheep to the slaughter. A thick cord was bound about my neck, by this I was yanked off the wagon and led to stand before the king, the inquisitor, and the curious host.
At the place of execution there were many stakes set about— one for each prisoner to be burned. A large quantity of dry furze had been piled about the stakes. The stakes of the Protestants, or, as the inquisitors call us, the professed, rise about four yards into the air, and each has a small board where the prisoner is seated within half a yard of the top. Each of us was prodded up a ladder between two priests, and when we came to the board, we were com- manded to turn and face the people. The priests then spent nearly a quarter of an hour exhorting us to be reconciled to the Holy See of Rome, but though I knew of Peter and respected him, I had decided I could not ever again be a party to the death and destruction of innocents. The observers nearby mimicked our stalwart courage, and upon our refusal to submit, the priests came down and the executioner ascended, one by one turning us off the ladder and chaining our bodies close to the stakes. The priests then came up the ladder a second time, renewing their obnoxious exhortations. The man three stakes down from my position did yield to this last entreaty, and for his piety and devotion the executioner granted mercy. In the sight of God and the assembled company, the executioner climbed the ladder with a noose of thin cord, looped it around the penitent’s neck, and strangled him.
Is that mercy?
Finding their last exhortations ineffectual, the priests proclaimed that they would leave us to the devil, who was standing at our elbows, ready to receive our souls and carry us to flames of hell fire. A general shout arose as they descended the ladders, and the universal cry echoed from the observation stands: “Let the dogs’ beards be made!”
My intentions were resolute, but I did not relish the thought of what came next. If Jesus could pray “Let this cup pass from me,” could I not cringe from the torture of the fire? While the crowds jeered, the executioners lit torches upon poles, then pressed them in to touch the beards that grew upon every man’s face. The barbarity was repeated for each prisoner in the line, and my flesh recoiled at the knowledge of what I would soon endure.
But even as I saw the torch approaching, I wondered at the sight that met my eyes. In the flames blossoming to my right, I saw daunt- less men and women thrusting their hands and feet into the flames with courageous fortitude, yielding to their fate with such resolution that many of the spectators lamented that such heroic souls had not been more enlightened. Just before the flames licked at my own beard, I saw the face of the Spanish king, who sat with dull eyes and doubtless a heavy heart. I did not doubt that he yearned to be elsewhere, but his presence was required to sanction that mockery of a tribunal.
On June 30, 1690, my body was burnt to bone and ashes. I do not know—or do not remember, I know not which—what they did with the charred remains, but I awoke three days later on the banks of the Tajo River. My skin felt tender and fragile; the gentle rays of the sun seemed to blister and scorch my very soul. I found solace and comfort by coating my flesh with mud from the riverbank, then remained hidden under a bridge for nearly a week, eating small insects and drinking from the flowing river.
Today I shall hail a passing boat and beg assistance. And tomorrow night I shall return to my house, gather whatever remains of my belongings, and begin the journey back to Rome. I am tired and sick in body and soul.
Would that God had collected my soul while my body fell into ashes and embers! I would not have gone willingly to the devil no matter how earnestly the inquisitor wished me to do so, but I would have given ten lifetimes to remain in the oblivion of peace.
I am jealous of my fellows at the stake. They resisted to the end, they stood for truth, and today they are with God. Jealousy is an ugly sin, yet I am often consumed with it. I am jealous of the hundreds who died in the Naples earthquake nearly sixty years ago. In prison I heard that plague, war, and famine stalk the land of Germany; more than eight million souls have died there in this generation alone.
Perhaps I should save Rome for another journey—indeed, I think I shall. Tomorrow, I will set my feet upon the road westward and not stop until I reach the land where death dwells.
Another wide blank space followed this entry. I pressed my hand over the page as the wind blew in from the window and whipped the curtains toward me. Asher’s story—real or fiction—had shattered my soul. As I read, I could almost smell the scent of burning wood and hear the agonized screams as the flames devoured the condemned prisoners’ faces. Delusional or not, the man was a talented storyteller.
I supposed any good writer could create that story if he had researched the Spanish Inquisition. I did not want to believe a man could survive burning at the stake and numerous other executions, but wouldn’t that kind of trial account for the resignation I sometimes heard in Asher’s voice and the world-weariness in his eyes?
I shivered as a shadow fell across the room. I lifted my face toward the window, seeking the light, and saw Asher standing outside, his gaze mystified and somber—
My breath caught in my lungs. He had seen me with the book.
Before I could speak, Asher turned and walked away. Mortified, I closed the journal and with trembling fingers set it back in its place. I stood and paced before the bookshelf, wondering whether I should leave or remain here to face him—
The sound of a key in the lock settled the question. As I stood there, as embarrassed as a judge caught in a lie, Asher came through the door, his eyes downcast, his shoulders hunched. Not looking at me, he shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a hook, then slipped his hands into his pockets and looked up, his gentle brown eyes sparking with some emotion I couldn’t read.
“Asher, I’m sorry—”
“Did you find what you were looking for?” He spoke softly, and I could read no trace of condemnation or anger in his eyes.
I pressed my fingertips to my lips, not certain how to respond. I had come here to make Asher face the truth, yet what I had just read convinced me he was either telling the truth or far more involved in his delusion than I had supposed. If it was the latter, he needed serious professional help.
“Asher”—my smile wavered—“I don’t know what you want me to do. You tell me things, and everything you say sounds accurate, but your stories cannot be true. It’s impossible. Nobody lives two thousand years, and nobody dies and wakes up again a few days later.”
He walked past me toward the kitchen, then opened a small refrigerator tucked under the counter. “Would you like a soft drink?”
I shook my head in exasperation. “No. What I want is answers, Asher. You’ve convinced me you’re either telling the truth or you’re”— I gulped—“in need of psychological help. So unless you want me to call a shrink, you’d better explain some things.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile as he popped the ring on a can of soda. “You think I’m crazy?” He leaned back against the counter, then lifted the soda can in an informal toast. “You wouldn’t be the first to think so, signorina.”
“Asher, please.” I walked to him and caught his free hand, cradling it between my palms. “I want to understand. I want to help you, but you’ve got to see that these things just can’t happen. Even God is logical, and Reverend Synn says—”
His brows rose, graceful wings of scorn. “Reverend Synn knows nothing about faith. But I will tell you everything, and you can make your own decision about my sanity. But whether you believe or not, nothing will change.”
His hand caught mine then, and with surprising tenderness he led me to the antique settee. We sat together like two nervous teenagers on a first date, then he turned slightly and looked at me, his eyes filled with a curious deep longing. “What do you want to know?”
I took a deep breath, grateful that we were fina
lly being honest with one another. If I could fully understand the foundation of his fantasy, perhaps I could gently chip away at that delusional underpinning, leading him step by step toward reality . . .
I smiled in the calm strength of compassion. “All right. You’ve told me what happened in the beginning. But tell me why God would want to punish you.”
“Why shouldn’t he punish me? I struck God’s only Son in his hour of weakness.”
“Others struck him too. And the Romans crucified him. So why aren’t they wandering the earth like you?”
His gaze dropped like a stone. “I asked myself the same question many times, and then I found the answer in Scripture. As the Roman guards injured him, Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.’”
“So—he forgave the Roman soldiers, but not you?”
“I was not at the cross. He was not speaking of me.”
I bit my lip, wishing I’d paid more attention to my Sunday school teacher. “So you think,” I began, “that the man who taught his followers to forgive and love and turn the other cheek has borne a grudge against you for two thousand years.”
An inexplicable smile swept over Asher’s face. “You’re looking at things from the wrong perspective, Claudia. I used to think God was angry with me. For two or three hundred years I railed against his injustice, then I began to realize that what I saw as a curse could be a blessing. In the tradition of Jesus, who died so that others may live, I was cursed so others could be blessed.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to find the meaning in his riddle. “I can’t see God cursing anybody. After all, don’t they say God is love?”
“God is also a judge. Jesus cursed a fig tree for not bearing fruit. God cursed creation after man’s disobedience. He is a righteous judge, and he cannot tolerate sin.” Sensing my confusion, Asher spread his hands in a gesture of openness. “You must understand God’s eternal plan, Claudia. The Scriptures plainly say that God allows the world to continue because every new day brings another opportunity for men to come to Christ. The Lord isn’t being slow about his promise to return, but he is being patient with mankind. He does not want anyone to perish, so he is allowing more time for people to repent. But soon his patience will end, Jesus will call the church to heaven, and those who remain will endure severe tribulation. The evil one, the Antichrist, will step to the center of the world’s stage, and all who remain on earth will be forced to submit to him or pay the consequences.”
I pressed my hand to my forehead and struggled to still my spinning thoughts. It was hard to remain coherent when seated so close to Asher’s persuasive eyes.
“So,” I said, speaking slowly, measuring each word, “you think God has left you here . . . to preach?” I forced a smile. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Asher, but you’re not exactly what I think of when I think preacher.”
“I’m not a preacher.” His eyes brimmed with tenderness and regret. “Not in the usual sense, at least. The gospel of Jesus Christ is preached in every nation today; God doesn’t need me to evangelize the world. My purpose, as I have come to understand it, is to bear witness to one individual in each generation.”
“Just one person?”
“One particular person. The one who would be Antichrist. The one who would rise to world dominion if Jesus were to call the church away.”
With a shiver of vivid recollection, I remembered the passion in Asher’s eyes when he told me he wanted to lead Santos Justus to the Lord—and he wanted me to help him.
“Oh, no.” I threw up my hands in a defensive posture. “We’re not going back to that topic. I’m not going to let you share all this with Justus. He—well, he won’t be as understanding as I’ve been. In fact, if I hadn’t been engaged to a psychologist who thinks you can be cured, I don’t think I’d have listened to this much of your story.”
His chin lifted. “You think I need to be cured?”
“Yes—and no.” I was babbling to cover my confusion, and I didn’t like feeling out of control. I stopped, gripped the edge of the settee, and looked him directly in the eye. “I think you will do yourself real harm if you persist in this idea of confronting Justus.”
“Will you have me dismissed if I persist?”
“Probably.” I nodded with a taut jerk of my head. “Definitely, yes. I don’t know why you’re working, anyway. You obviously don’t need the extra income.”
“No, I don’t.” He squinted in embarrassment. “You know about the money?”
“I know you own this hotel. Signora Casale told me.”
He looked away, a betraying blush brightening his face. “I bought it shortly after it was built, mainly because I wanted a place to call home. A place to store my life’s work.” He gestured to the books surrounding us. “A man needs roots, no matter how often he wanders.” He shrugged. “A little money, invested over several lifetimes, can easily grow into a fortune. I have never lacked for worldly wealth.”
I crossed my arms, a little stunned at how easily he could cross the boundary between reality and fantasy. “And I suppose the employees think you are the great-great-great-grandson of the original owner.”
Featherlike laugh lines crinkled around his eyes. “Something like that.”
Silence overtook us. A light rain had begun to fall, and tires hissed on the wet asphalt outside the window. Some women walked by in the hotel hallway, leaving a trail of laughter that seeped in under the door. In the kitchen, a faucet dripped in a slow, rhythmic patter.
Asher must have been gathering his thoughts because he shifted on the settee and suddenly filled the silence with a stream of words. “I began this work in the medieval age, you see. Churchmen of that time divided the world into two realms, the kingdom of God and the kingdom of Satan. For every light there was a corresponding darkness. There were two sides to every issue: good and evil. And I began to consider a theory: Since Satan would prepare a man to do his bidding in each generation, why shouldn’t God prepare a man as well?”
Feeling unqualified to theorize about spiritual matters, I said nothing. Asher must have interpreted my silence as understanding or agreement, for he continued. “Thomas Aquinas and Albertus Magnus, two of the greatest medieval theologians, declared that the Antichrist would be born in Babylon, he would proceed to Jerusalem, and there persuade the people that he was a Messiah. This son of Satan would rule the earth, then Enoch and Elijah would be sent to confront him. This belief dominated the medieval age, continuing into the Protestant Reformation in the sixteenth century. The theology changed somewhat with the tenor of the times—the Protestants called the pope Antichrist; the pope returned the favor and identified the Antichrist as Martin Luther. But then something remarkable happened—a German tract, printed after 1550, announced that the Antichrist had been born in Babylon. According to this tract, the newborn child was abnormally large, had cat’s teeth, spoke after eight days, and possessed the power to make manna fall from heaven.”
I winced. “Surely you didn’t—you don’t—believe that.”
Asher lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Men believed strange things in those days. By the time the story reached me it had been embroidered, so I did not know what was true and what was not. But I became convinced of one thing: The Antichrist was neither a figment of men’s imagination nor a spiritual symbol. The Scriptures speak of him as a living man, so as a living man he will come. Since the devil cannot know when the Father will remove the believers, he must have a candidate waiting in each generation.”
My mind vibrated with a million thoughts. “And so you set out to confront these men?”
“I tried. In the beginning it was difficult. The world was a bigger place, and communication slow and unreliable. I had no way of knowing what forces were stirring in the kingdoms beyond my own, so I traveled a great deal, listened to people, and visited the courts of learned men. I entertained kings with my tales of travel and history. I shared the true story of my past with anyone who would
listen.”
From out of nowhere, like a careening vehicle, came a name. “Paul von Eitzen, Bishop of Schleswig,” I whispered, recalling the words I had read only a few days earlier. “You visited him in . . . Hapsburg.”
“Hamburg,” Asher corrected, glancing at me with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “I believe it was around . . . the mid–sixteenth century. My memory is as faulty as any man’s; that’s why I began keeping my journals.”
I waved a hand at the shelves lining the walls. “You wrote all these.”
“Yes.”
“Every word is true?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Every word is a true testimony of how I remembered the events. There were periods of dark days . . . when my memory clouded.”
“After your executions.”
His pupils dilated, his eyes going dark with hope and wonder. “You read quite a bit.”
“I read enough.”
“Then you understand.”
“Not much, I’m afraid.” I rubbed my hand hard through my hair, half hoping a scalp massage might stimulate my sluggish brain. “Asher, I’m confused. What are you hoping to accomplish by confronting these men?”
He rubbed a hand over his face, and I heard the faint rasp of his evening stubble. “Two things—first, I hope to save their immortal souls. If they turn from evil to Christ, I have helped keep them from hell. And if they choose God”—two deep lines appeared between his brows—“I hope I will have gained time for all mankind. If there is no Antichrist to rise after the departure of the church, the timing will not be right, so—”
“The Scriptures cannot be fulfilled.” I finished the sentence for him, understanding his logic but not his rationale. “Let me see if I understand— you want to turn the Antichrist from his appointed path—”
“I’m not sure it is appointed,” he interrupted. “All men have free will, so until he submits his soul to Satan, he will be free to choose God and reject evil.”
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