The procession closed with another column of chanting monks and a detachment of soldiers. Then, from the cathedral, emerged the dignitaries of Church and town: the Bishop in purple, the canons and lesser clergy in their finest laces and berettas, the Alcalde and Alguazil Mayor with their badges of office, the leading noblemen of Jaen and officers of the Miliz Christi. Silks and velvets, gold and jewels. The crowd gaped. The peasants from the country had something to talk about for the rest of the summer. There was the Marquis de Carvajal, his beard uptilted above the Cross of Santiago on his chest, his eyes heavy with self-importance. There (Pedro's lips tightened) was Diego de Silva in black and gold. A red plume curled from the jeweled brooch of his velvet cap. Pedro knew all of them; but, concealed by the shoulders of the trooper and by the coating of dust on his face, they would hardly have recognized him. For the fraction of a moment, he expected to see his father among them.
They were only a background, however. In fact, it seemed to him that the whole concourse in the square, spectators and actors alike, was merely a setting for the white-robed figure of Ignacio de Lora. Every eye focused on the Inquisitor, as he headed the glittering procession onto the platform and took his raised seat opposite the condemned. Except for his glowing black eyes, he looked more than ever like a granite statue.
Unnecessarily the criers proclaimed silence, for everyone was now intent enough. A mass was said at an improvised altar on the platform, and then de Lora rose to preach the day's sermon. He spoke in a business-like, penetrating voice that reached everywhere and had an effect on the mind like the probing of a lancet. He discussed heresy, God's wrath, and hell-fire. He extolled the mercy of the Church, who, by bringing souls to a state of grace and by imposing a brief and corporal penance, saved them from the eternal flames.
The voice ran on. Pedro's dangling legs felt heavier, his arms more numb. Sweat streaked his face. He tried to escape from the insistent
voice by gazing up at the gothic front of the cathedral, at the roof line of houses hemming in the square.
But at one point his glance happened to fall on a man in the crowd next to the pikemen. Something familiar about him fixed Pedro's attention. Then suddenly he recognized him. It was Garcia. Although now disguised in the steel helmet and cuirass of a soldier, the broad nose, bull neck, and bulk of the man were unmistakable.
What was he doing here? Wasn't this the morning when—? Pedro stiffened. Wasn't Garcia's mother to have been discharged from prison this morning? Then why—?
From where he gazed, Pedro could see only Garcia's profile, but he observed that the man was not looking at de Lora. He stood with a fixed stare turned on the benches of the penitents. Following it, Pedro noticed the old woman who had been carried to the platform, and who was being held upright by the arm of one of the Jews. Looking more intently, he recognized, in spite of the skeleton features and sparse white hair, Dorotea Romero.
She looked more like a clay-colored mummy than a woman. Her face had been contorted by pain into a mask; but some dim resemblance to her former self lingered on. Glancing back at Garcia, Pedro saw that he did not move or take his eyes from her. Only now and then he ran his tongue between his lips as if to moisten them.
Well, this was de Lora's way. After all, perhaps he could not be expected to release the woman secretly. When it came her turn to receive judgment, he would declare her free.
Meanwhile, Pedro, forgetting his own situation, shared Garcia's suspense. He wondered what the latter would do when his mother had been discharged. His military disguise was a clever stroke. Probably he would present himself as a soldier out of service, who had been paid by the woman's brother to take charge of her. It remained to be seen whether he could get away with it.
The sermon ended, and the crowd stirred with suppressed excitement. Even the human derelicts on the benches stirred. The supreme moment of the day had arrived.
In a booming voice, an ecclesiastic of the Inquisitorial Court summoned the penitents one by one to hear their imposed penance.
Francisco Cadena stumbled forward and lurched to his knees in front of the Inquisitor's high seat. He was shaking in every limb. Pedro knew him as a prosperous owner of olive groves in the vicinity of Jaen. He had a young wife whom he was proud of and liked to dress in the newest style. Of course, whatever penance he received, all that was now
over, because everything he possessed had already been confiscated by the Holy Office. The same held true for the other penitents. They had nothing left to lose but their skin and bones.
The deep-voiced clerk reviewed Cadena's crimes. His maternal grandparents had been proved to be Jews. He had confessed to ma-rrania, a lapse into Jewishness from the Catholic faith. For this deadly sin, he now felt true repentance. The Church, ever merciful, decreed the following penance, upon the performing of which she would reconcile him to herself.
The clerk paused. Cadena groveled and rubbed his hands feverishly.
"Three hundred stripes on horseback and ten years in the galleys."
Cadena still groveled. It meant only protracted death. First, the slow parade through town, half-naked, bound to a horse's back, while the executioners plied their whips. Then the rower's bench and the scourge of the overseers. Ten years.
He raised his clasped hands toward the Inquisitor.
"Your Reverence, Your Reverence," he babbled, "think ... in the prison . . . three times the garrucha, three times the trampazo . . . Have mercy!"
De Lora made a motion with his hand. Francisco Cadena now belonged to the secular arm. One of the hangman's lackeys took charge of him, haled him back to his bench, where he sat mumbling and staring. He would never reach the galleys, Pedro reckoned.
"Panchito Marin."
An apostatay a backslider of Moorish blood. He was "reconciled" at the price of two hundred lashes and eight years at the oars.
Dolores Marin, his wife. "Reconciled" for two hundred stripes and eight years of prison.
The toughs in the crowd licked their chops; the whipping of heretics made good entertainment. Pedro closed his mind to the possibility of another day several months later. . . . No, it was absurd. He wouldn't think of it. Looking at Garcia, he saw a bead of sweat roll down the man's cheeks and drip to the ground.
"The Church, ever merciful . . . perpetual prison . . . the sanbe-nito for life . . . lago Hasta . . . two hundred stripes . . . blasphemer . . . the galleys . . ."
The clerk's unctuous voice rolled along like an innkeeper's announcing his bill of fare. The penitents' benches were now filling up with those who had heard their sentence. Some looked unmoved, as if the capacity for suffering had been exhausted; others wept feebly; others sat shrunken and trembling. The mind of one man snapped; he
threshed his arms about, making faces at the crowd. And meanwhile those who had not yet heard were on tenterhooks, for the sentences ol-death came last. If a church painter had sought models for a "Lasi Judgment," the choice would have been rich. The platform exhibited a corner of hell.
"Henriquez Guzman . . . the Church, ever merciful . . . 'reconciled' ... to burn presently at the stake."
A higher wave of excitement swept the crowd. There were eight left. This meant that eight, not six, would burn. An unexpected bonus of two. No wonder that there was an unusual supply of faggots! The executioner began laying out his instruments, the "agony-pears," which, being thrust into the mouths of those condemned to burn, stopped their screams and thus spared the ears of too sensitive spectators.
Whether it was by chance or design, Dorotea Romero's name was read last. It occurred to Pedro that probably de Lora wished to end the proceedings with one act of complete mercy, which would redound to his reputation for saintliness. After all, the crowd would never hear of the eight hundred ducats. But the suspense was hard on Garcia. His face had grown white; it looked as if his nerve was on the point of cracking.
At last—"Dorotea Romero." Two guards bundled the old woman forward, thrust her on her knees. The clerk detailed her
crimes. She had confessed to a pact with Satan; she had attended the Black Mass; she had compassed the death of sundry people by her spells. She now repented of these unspeakable sins, and the Church, ever merciful, admitted her to penance.
"Wherefore she is now remanded to the secular arm to be burned presently at the stake."
For a moment Pedro stared incredulously at the granite figure of the Inquisitor. Surely even now he would intervene. He had taken the bribe, he had given his word. But de Lora's features looked as stony as ever. Then, in a devastating flash, Pedro understood the cheat. Was not Dorotea Romero being delivered from prison on the day assigned? A casuist, like de Lora, could maintain that the promise had been kept. And at that moment something perished in Pedro de Vargas, perished utterly, something which had given to life one of its best illusions.
But he had no time to realize that now. Dorotea, exhausted as she was, had understood the meaning of her sentence and burst into a wail of entreaty. Not the stake! If what she had already suffered could but be taken into account! She didn't beg to live, but if His Blessed Reverence would grant her a quick death—
De Lora shook his head. Then Pedro saw Garcia step forward.
"By your leave, comrade," he said, thrusting past one of the pikemen.
His uniform and casual manner made way for him. The soldier gaped, but did not try to hold him back. He strode forward, one hand on his sword, to the platform.
"A boon!" he called up to the Inquisitor. "A boon, Your Reverence!"
De Lora raised his eyebrows. "What boon, my son?"
"I am Juan Gomez, in the service of Captain de Lora in Seville. I had leave to come to Jaen for this occasion."
"Well?"
"This woman, Dorotea Romero, caused the death of my wife, Ines, by poison. She was hired to it by an enemv. I crave the boon of carrying her myself to the stake and of thrusting the 'pear' between her jaws. Grant me this, Your Reverence, for the love of God. It is a vow I have taken."
The heavy rumble of his voice filled the square. In the silence people craned their necks for a glimpse of him. Pedro's heart stood still.
Perhaps de Lora was pleased to have this unexpected testimonial to the justice of his sentence; perhaps, too, understanding mass psychology, he perceived that the crowd sided with this bluff soldier and bereaved husband. In any case, he nodded.
"So be it, Juan Gomez. But I counsel you to beware of hatred. Cleanse your heart of rancor. The woman has repented of her sins, and in her death she will be reconciled with the Church."
He had hardly spoken before Garcia was on the platform and had caught up the shrinking woman in his arms. Then, carrying her as if she had been a child, he stepped down to the level of the square and set off toward one of the posts half concealed by faggots. A hangman's assistant joined him.
"Pray you, brother, stand back. I need no help. It is part of my vow."
All of what happened then, Pedro could not see, for Garcia's back was towards him. But the woman's cries suddenly stopped. Garcia walked more slowly. To the crowd's amazement, the victim's thin arms circled his neck. Those facing him on the other side of the square, however, had seen more.
"Look out!" yelled a voice, half joking, half in earnest. "The witch is putting a spell on him. Have a care!"
De Lora, at once alert, gave an order; but so intent was everyone that not a man stirred.
Garcia had now reached the faggots. He paused a long moment; then, bending a little, as if to shift the burden, he did something with
his hands. When he straightened up, a Ump form lay outstretched on the bed of firewood surrounding the stake. He stood looking down, his huge fingers still curved to the shape of the woman's throat.
Suddenly he raised his clenched fists toward the platform and roared: "Now she's safe enough, you bastards! Now you can have her!"
Making the most of the crowd's stupefaction, he hurled himself, like a mad bull, against the wall of people, and broke through it. Pedro saw a brief eddy, heard shouts and a scuffling of feet; but Garcia had already disappeared.
XwII
At that period, the Inquisition had not yet, to the same extent as later, acquired its own special prisons, so that the Castle of Jaen was used for offenders of all classes. It afforded thieves or heretics the same accommodations.
Jaded by the events of the past night and shaken by the last scenes of horror in the public square, Pedro found it a relief at first to be alone in a cell under one of the corner towers. Sitting head in hand on the edge of a bunk filled with moldy straw, he tried to shut out the memory of Garcia and of the execution of the condemned wretches that ended the auto-da-fe. It had all become personal with him now, so personal as to nauseate him. Not until several hours later did the immediacy of the recent sights and smells fade out into an increasing awareness of his own present and future.
Through a fifteen-foot wall, a slanting funnel, ending in a crack, allowed the passage of a ray of light intense at first but gradually dimmer as the sun moved westward. The cell had the damp atmosphere of a cr)'pt tainted with the stench of excrements. It swarmed with vermin. As Pedro emerged from his sick apathy, the sight of a sleek rat, uplifted motionless on its haunches in the beam of light, did more than anything else to remind him of his situation. Soon it would be night, and the creatures would come scuttling out to people the darkness. Still worse, perhaps, was the complete silence of the place—no whisper of any human sound. And yet he knew that this was one of the better cells. It had light for a part of the day at least, whereas some were completely black at all times.
Uncertainty and imagination soon began working. Getting up, he started to pace the twelve-foot length back and forth. Where were his
lOI
father, mother, and sister? When would he be brought before the tribunal? Of what would he be accused? How would he stand the Question? Fear of the torture grew momently like a nightmare which he could not shake off. On the other hand, he had heard of people who had been locked in to die of starvation or thirst. Perhaps that would be the way with him—for lack of evidence.
Back and forth.
The beam of light, having crossed the floor, now slanted up against the wall and fell on a line of rough scratches above the bed. "Miserere mei, Domine." Then, as if this were its farewell, it withdrew and left the place in darkness.
Back and forth. He must tire himself out in order to sleep. He lost the notion of time, how many hours he had been here. Now and then unconnected snatches of the past few days rose to the surface of his mind. . . . His pursuit of de Silva's Indian servant. How little he had dreamed then that the boot would soon be on the other foot! He wondered whether Coatl had got away, and winced at the thought of the scruples he had felt about helping him. The best deed of his life! . . . His resentment at Garcia's impertinence in even suggesting the possibility that Doiia Maria de Vargas might ever be in a like case with Dorotea Romero. Nothing to resent now. . . . His cloud castles last night after leaving the Carvajal garden. This was his castle, this hole of shame and heartbreak. Would Luisa know what had happened? Would she still pray for him? Every thought seemed ironic, bitter as gall. What was that Italian verse his mother quoted—about remembering lost happiness—Dante's verse?
All at once, as if it had been a thunder crash, he started at the sudden grinding of the key in the lock. The door banged open, and its aperture with the space behind it was blocked by the figures of several men, one of whom carried a lantern.
"You, there," said a squat, bare-armed fellow in a leather jerkin— "ready for the first chat?" He had a clanking contraption of chains in his hands, which he now deftly attached to Pedro's wrists and ankles. They were heavy and crisscrossed so as to hamper any movement. "Feel talkative, eh? Want to cough up your sins? Adelante!''
Grasping Pedro's arm, he half-led, half-shoved him out to the others in the corridor. They were men of the same type, square, bull-necked, crop-headed. With their hairy, naked arms and blunt faces, they looked like butchers or what
they were—hangman's lackeys.
Flanked by two of them, Pedro shuffled and stumbled along the passage, which multiplied the sounds of footsteps and chains. They went
down some twenty feet of steps to a lower level and followed another passageway, the lantern hovering vaguely on blank doors and sweating walls. It was more like a tunnel, narrow, low, and stifling, than a corridor. They continued on to a dead end and to an open door on the right.
"The prisoner, Pedro de Vargas," announced a soldier on guard there, stepping to one side.
"Let him enter," came a voice from within, "and leave me alone with him."
Pedro found himself in a large, vaulted room, dimly lighted by cressets. It was probably an ancient guardroom, for a fireplace occupied one end, and empty weapon racks stood along the walls. At the other end, opposite the hearth, rose a dais, such as judges used, with three chairs now empty. In front of this on the floor stood a small wTiting table. But these details made only a half-impression. As the door closed upon the withdrawing soldier, it was the commanding, white-gowned figure of Ignacio de Lora standing in the center of the room that held Pedro's attention.
The monk's high forehead caught the light, which fell also on his silver crucifix. He stood with his head thrust forward a little and his eyes hidden under their dark brows. Then, turning, he walked ovet to a high-backed chair against the wall and seated himself.
"Come here, my son," he directed. "I want a word with you."
But when Pedro, carrying his chains, stopped in front of him, de Lora said nothing for a while, merely eying the prisoner from head to foot and fingering his beard.
At last he remarked, "You look changed since the other night. It occurred to me then that we would be meeting soon. In your case, the wages of sin have not been delayed."
Until then fear had been uppermost in Pedro's mind; now it was submerged by a rising smother of hatred. He found it easy to return de Lora's stare with interest.
"Sin?" he repeated, and de Lora expertly noticed that his voice had grown older since the last time they had met. "I hope Your Reverence doesn't mean that I've taken a bribe or broken a promise. That would be unjust."
Captain from Castile Page 13