Chapter One
As I see the first hint of sunlight, the death march
begins. We advance toward the Terriero do Paco -- the
great city square adjacent to the Royal Palace on the
seafront.
Leading the processional is Don Henrique -- the Inquisitor
General of Portugal by appointment of his older brother,
His Royal Highness John the Third. Don Henrique is an ugly
man -- lean, with an avian nose, and black eyes set so
deeply that the sockets appear hollow. His thick beard --
a weave of bronze, copper, and iron -- is meticulously
shaped to a dagger point. His dress is appropriately
august -- official: floor-length black robe and cape,
white clerical collar, and black trapezoidal hat. Dangling
from his neck is his scallop-edged crucifix of gold, inset
with topaz, lapis, aquamarine, sapphire, and topped with a
finial of diamonds. A haughty man, Don Henrique always
wears jeweled crosses. Gilt bible clutched to his breast,
eyes fixed straight ahead, he presses on slowly but
inexorably, prepared to carry out the work of his God.
Following the Inquisitor are four rows of black-garbed
monks. Around their necks are unadorned crucifixes
fashioned from the heavier base metals. Rigid and stone-
faced, they carry black-covered bibles and hold aloft
crosses and banners. They chant low-pitched dirges as they
trudge forward on sandaled feet.
Behind the clergy are the royal officials and the
blackhooded executioners -- the secular arm of the law.
Their ranks advance in taut, military fashion -- arms
swinging with pendular precision, not a boot out of step.
We are at the rear of theretinue. The victims -- the
wretches. We are heavily guarded and hold lighted tapers
that spit fire into the early morning. sky. Some of us
endure the ordeal with stoicism -- posture erect, gait
sure-footed and strong. That is how I walk. Others about
me seem stuporous, stumbling off-balance, as if being
yanked forward by an invisible harness. The weakest weep
openly.
The auto-da-fé -- act of faith -- is the day of reckoning
for us. We've been convicted of violations of the Church.
We walk forward, clearly identified for the onlookers; we
wear the dreaded sambenito -- the two-sided apron of shame
imprinted with symbols corresponding to our infractions.
Serious sinners like myself wear corazas -- conical
miters -- as well.
Some are considered penitent and deemed reconcilable to
the Church. They will gratefully accept the penalties
meted out to them. The pettiest among them will be
punished with fines, terms of forced servitude, or
imprisonment. More serious transgressors will merit
whipping or public shaming -- being stripped to the waist
and paraded around town to the derision and jeers of their
countrymen. Wretches who committed grave infractions will
be plunged into poverty, have all their worldly
possessions confiscated by the Holy Office. These
offenders will be stigmatized for generations, their
descendants barred forever from entering the Holy Office,
from becoming physicians, tutors, apothecaries, advocates,
scriveners, or farmers for revenue. They will be forbidden
to dress in cloth woven from gold or silver thread, wear
jewelry, or ride on horseback.
But they are fortunate.
I, and others like me, are deemed impenitent. We hapless
souls are guilty of the most odious heresies. My specific
crime is Judaizing -- practicing and professing the
ancient laws of Moses rendered obsolete by their Jesus
Christ. Once, Spain called me a converso -- a Christian of
Jewish bloodline. I was an overt Catholic, but secretly I
practiced the old ways. My transgressions were discovered
by a wanton woman. Now I am doomed.
Distinguished from the fortunates by our green tapers and
dress, we -- the relapsos -- wear special fiery miters and
the sambenito of death imprinted with the likeness of the
Devil himself. Around his horned visage and pronged fork
are leaping flames: the Hell that is to await us.
I spit on their stinking Christian ground. That's what I
think of their Hell.
This morning will be my last. Before the night is over, I
will be sentenced to die without effusion of blood, their
castigation derived from John 15:6 -- from the teachings
of their Savior Himself: If a man abide not in me, he is
cast forth as a branch and is withered and men gather them
and cast them into the fire, and they are burned.
The dank ocean fog begins to melt, yielding to an opaline
sky dotted with tufts of woolly cloud. At six in the
morning the city bells ring out the signal and I shudder
with dread. The cobblestone walkways begin to fill with
austere gentlemen somberly wrapped in dark capes. They
step with much haste, their servants at their heels. Ten
minutes later the veiled women of the households emerge --
wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters. Some of the women
hold babies and toddlers, others drag older children,
chiding them for slowness. The streets soon become a
throng of bodies. In the center is this murderous
tribunal -- as poisonous as an asp. It undulates its way
to the city square.
By the time the officials arrive at the Terreiro, most of
the spectators have been positioned, either standing, or
seated in the gallery benches that form a semicircle
around the dais, the garrotes, and the stakes. In the
foreground are the whitecapped swells of the ocean. In the
background stands the great palace, casting a deep shadow
over the galleries.
We are ordered to stand up straight. A guard hits the
woman next to me. She is eight months pregnant, younger
than I, I think. Around seventeen. Her back is stooped
from the weight of her fruit. I smile at her. Wet-eyed,
she smiles back at me. Our eyes have told each to be
strong.
As Don Henrique ascends to the black-draped podium, the
noise of idle conversation softens, then finally quiets to
silence. The Inquisitor stands immobile, his head bowed in
meditation. The sun, now higher in the advanced morning
sky, projects a metallic sheen onto the ground, gilding
the Inquisitor. Tides yawn rhythmic...