The Errant Flock

by Jana Petken

  As he gasped in short, sharp breaths, Juan was led by a man swathed in black from head to foot and wearing a mask to a wooden device which looked like a long mattress resting on four wooden legs. “Welcome to the toca,” the torturer said.

  Juan’s chains were removed but quickly replaced by rope. Lying flat on his back bare-chested, hands tied by his sides and feet dangling over the edge of the mattress, he was forced to swallow a long length of cloth. When no more cloth could fit in his throat, water was poured into his mouth, triggering his swallowing reflex. His eyes widened with terror and pain as he swallowed more and more of the material, until he felt it entering his stomach.

  The rack was tilted towards the floor, at the top end. Juan stared at the ceiling. For a brief second his feverish eyes saw a bucket, and then he felt splashes of water pouring onto his face.

  He was suffocating, drowning, and in agony as the cloth expanded and moved in his belly. He tried desperately to move his head and evade the water that was being poured into his mouth, but his cheeks were locked in someone’s hands. He was going to die! He couldn’t breathe. His life was ebbing away, and he didn’t care. He wanted this pain to stop!

  Jolted, he felt the cloth being wrenched from his mouth. What torture was this? What hellish suffering was he enduring? His mind screamed.

  They untied him. He sat up, tried to catch his breath whilst enduring sharp pains in his throat. He vomited, and then looked dazedly about him.

  “It’s all over, Juan,” De Amo said, as though he were a friend.

  Juan, still gasping for air, looked at the inquisitor. His comforting voice sounded strangely sincere, he thought. But it was the devil speaking.

  “No more, please,” Juan croaked.

  “Are you ready now to confess to your sin? Will you admit to being a Judaist and heretic? Will you allow God to forgive you?

  “Forgive … what?” Juan stuttered hoarsely.

  The inquisitor’s eyes went to the door. Juan followed the gaze and saw Isa being held at the top of the steps, where the entrance to the chamber stood. “No, no, no!” he tried to shout, but he could only manage a hoarse whisper. Not his beautiful wife. They couldn’t torture her. She would not be able to endure what they had just done to him!

  Her eyes found his. She cried out his name. “Husband, what have they done to you?”

  Juan’s eyes darted to the inquisitor. “Please don’t touch my wife,” he said.

  “If only you would tell the truth, she might be able to avoid your fate.”

  Juan looked again at Isa. Yes, he thought. If he confessed to everything they had said he’d done, they would spare Isa. He’d do anything, say whatever they wanted, not to see her suffer. He nodded at the inquisitor. “I confess. I did it,” he said. “I refused the boar… I still have a Jewish soul. I wouldn’t eat it … My wife had nothing to do with it. She was not at home.” He wanted to say more, but he felt bilious and every word tore his throat.

  The inquisitor called for the scribe. When he appeared, De Amo said, “Juan Sanz, do you confess to Judaism, in that you refused to eat pig meat because of your Jewish beliefs?”

  “Yes … I confess. But you must allow my wife to go home. She’s innocent.”

  “And do you also confess to blasphemy against God and his Catholic Church.”

  “Yes. I said yes.”

  “I don’t know which of your sins is the gravest, being a Judaist or calling pig meat the devil’s poison. Both are grave, Juan Sanz,” De Amo said, and then he nodded to the torturer. “Untie him. When you have finished, take Isabella Sanz to the stocks and apply the pig’s fat to her feet.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The cart raced across the plain towards the sea, shaking from side to side with speed, on old unsteady wheels. The mule’s heavy hooves, continuing to hammer against the ground, had made enough noise to awaken an entire neighbourhood. But David had chosen a fast pace over a soft and furtive departure from the town, in the hope that they could outrun any militiamen that might be patrolling the streets in the dead of night.

  Their destination was a dilapidated old house that sat in the middle of an overgrown field. Diego had suggested it. He had sheltered there for a night after he’d taken the little girl to the convent near Valencia.

  Leaving Sagrat with Sinfa and Diego had been an impulsive decision but the right one, David thought. Sinfa had been sleeping like a dormouse when he’d woken her with a rough shake. Staggering with sleep, she’d not even bothered to ask questions but had simply nodded at his order to get up, and then, at his request, she’d hidden under the sheeting in the back of the cart. Diego, saying very little since leaving the dead body on the plateau, seemed to be badly affected by Moniño’s death. David, on the other hand, didn’t care one whit that the thief was dead.

  Isabella and Juan Sanz – two people so full of life, benevolent, tolerant, and placid to the extreme – faced charges of heresy because of a stinking cow tic who had stolen and then lied, all to fill his belly with meat.

  David halted the cart at the river that ran next to the ruins of his father’s farm. “Do you want to visit Juanjo’s grave before leaving the area?” he asked Diego.

  “No, we’d better keep moving.”

  “David, where are we going?” Sinfa asked him.

  “I’m not going anywhere. You and Diego must travel on without me,” David replied, and then he jumped down to the ground

  Diego nodded with approval. “Help them,” he said.

  Sinfa was not so easily convinced. Jumping down from the back of the cart, she raced to David’s side. Her eyes boring into his were like black liquid pools. David could already feel the void in his heart. Long talks, a touching of hands, and her loving gaze had been his only comfort in the past week. He wasn’t sure how she felt about him, but he knew without a shadow of doubt that love had crept up on him like a long shadow at dusk.

  “Will I ever see you again?” she asked him tearfully.

  “You will. I will come for you in a few days. Diego will look after you.” Turning to Diego, he said. “Wait at the place you told me about for as long as possible. The auto-de-fé will take place in two days, and then, with God’s grace, I will find out what is to become of our parents. Take these,” he said, handing Diego the reals he’d found on Moniño’s person. “You and Sinfa should be able to purchase enough food to last you a few days, if you eat frugally. If I don’t appear within four days, leave the refuge and head south.”

  After smiling tenderly at Sinfa, he turned from her and began his long walk back to Sagrat.

  The lumpy straw-filled mattress was not particularly comfortable, but after sleeping on a pallet on the floor for weeks, David had slept like a marmot. Waking with a start at the sound of loud knocking at the door, he rose, winched at a pain shooting through his head, and stumbled to the door.

  Nodding with gratitude, David accepted Paco’s freshly baked bread. “Paco, you’re a welcome sight for my tired eyes,” he said, biting into the loaf. The sleeping room door was open. He watched Paco cock his head to the side as he stared into the empty space.

  “Where is she?” Paco asked, right on cue.

  “She’s gone. Diego too. They left Sagrat last night after the curfew was lifted.” Filling his mouth with more bread, he waited for more questions. This time he wouldn’t tell Paco anything. Sometimes knowing little was much better than knowing too much.

  “Gone where?” Paco asked.

  “North on foot or on a boat … Perhaps south or west or across the mountains. I don’t know. They’ve left, and they won’t be coming back.”

  “It’s a fine fix you and your family are in. You’re mired in shit, David, and it’s the duke’s stink that covers you. The militia sympathises with your plight.”

  David raised a questioning eyebrow and then grunted with sarcasm, “What would any of them know about my family’s suffering? Not one man was bold enough to speak up for me.”

  “Tur’s got the face of a ragi
ng bull. He told me himself that you were a good soldier.”

  Waving his hand, David dismissed Paco’s pity and soothing words. “So apart from feeding me, why are you here?”

  “Tomorrow is the auto-de-fé. You know what that means?”

  I do. It means I might see my parents being burnt at the stake because of a pig! David wanted to shout. “No, I don’t. Enlighten me,” he said instead.

  “They’ve started building a high scaffold in the Roman theatre, and there are wooden benches in front of it,” Paco said. “Heretics are being publicly sentenced. Your parents might be there. It could be the last time you see them.”

  “Why is it taking place in the Roman theatre?” David asked.

  Pago grunted. “Only our duke knows the answer to that question. He and Tur had a clash of opinions within earshot of the men. Tur suggested that the theatre was too big and too open to control a crowd, saying that it was vulnerable to thieves and troublemakers. He also asked the duke to reconsider leaving most of the men inside the castle’s walls during the auto-de-fé. They looked like two goats butting heads.

  “The town is filling up with visitors and prisoners from all over Aragon, and beyond. Builders are erecting pyres and stakes at the edge of town. There’s a rumour that the viceroy will attend …”

  “None of this is my concern anymore. I only care about two prisoners. The rest of them can go to hell for all I care.”

  Sighing, Paco said, “I served with you in the prison. You’re not a hard man, Sanz, or an uncaring one. Look at you. You’re unshaven. You look as though you might have a bird’s nest in that hair of yours. And a splash of water on your face wouldn’t go amiss. Look for employment. Go to the blacksmith. He might need the help, and you need money. You can’t sit here all day burying your head in the dirt.”

  “I’ve already been to see the blacksmith. He doesn’t want me near his place,” David snapped. “You would think I was carrying a hundred plagues. No one in this town wants to employ me. Do you think I haven’t tried to find work?”

  For a moment, there was a pause in the conversation, and then David said, “I’m going to speak to the duke. I will demand that he use his influence to get my parents released. I will threaten the bastard if I have to.”

  Paco looked horrified at the mere suggestion. “You’ll never get within twenty paces of the castle gates,” he said. “Wait until you see what happens at the auto-de-fé. With a bit of good fortune, your parents will receive a light sentence.”

  “There’s no such thing as a light sentence. Anyway, you seem cocksure that my mother and father have committed a crime. As far as I know, they haven’t even been charged!” he lied, not wanting to mention his conversation with Raul. “I’m still hopeful for their release, even if you’re not!”

  “You might be right, but you need to forget about seeking an audience with the duke. Go to the Roman theatre. Support your parents if they are being sentenced. And don’t do anything foolish.”

  David nodded. Paco was right. He wouldn’t get near Peráto, and he’d be of no use to anyone if he was arrested for trespassing on the castle grounds. “My apologies. I’m in a stinking mood.”

  After giving David a friendly slap on the back, Paco changed the subject. “We found a dead body on the plateau near La Taverna de Javali. He was no one of consequence, just a drunk who probably couldn’t hold his wine, but still, another dead body...”

  “How did he die?” David asked, hiding his interest by filling his mouth with the remainder of the bread.

  “He fell and smashed his head on a rock, at least that’s what it looked like to me.”

  Chewing some more bread, David felt his body relax. Paco hadn’t mentioned the word murder, and the question of Moniño’s missing cart and mule hadn’t been brought up either. At least there was good news.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The sky was cloudless, but it was bitterly cold on this first Sunday of the year. After Mass had been celebrated, all 186 prisoners, flanked by Inquisition men-at-arms, Dominican monks, and the clergy marched in procession from the church of San Agustin to the Roman theatre.

  The men, grouped together and carrying unlit candles, were bareheaded and unshod. Because it was winter, they had been told to wear soles under their feet; however, not all prisoners were in possession of such comforts. The women, also carrying unlit candles, followed behind the men with their heads uncovered and their faces bare. Most of them shivered with cold, for they had neither shawls nor cloaks to cover their scant rags.

  David’s eyes, darting from one prisoner to the next, were emblazoned with a mixture of hope and dread. He was desperate to see his parents, yet he dreaded hearing a sentence that might see them suffering in prison for years.

  When the last prisoner had passed, he ran towards the Roman theatre, which was still some way away from the procession. He would have to look at all the prisoners’ faces again as they approached, he thought. There had been too many of them obscured by men-at-arms and spectators jumping up and down to get a decent view.

  Every condemned man and woman wore a tunic made with two lengths of cloth, one at the front of the body and one at the back, in the form of a scapular. They were not all wearing identical tunics, David noted, for the colour and cut seemed to vary from person to person.

  When the procession approached, a somewhat zealous, pious man standing next to David, clutching rosary beads and muttering prayers, took it upon himself to enlighten the people around him about his experiences as an ardent supporter of the Inquisition.

  Introducing himself as Mariano but intentionally leaving out his father’s name, he pointed out that he had attended an auto-de-fé in Toledo six years previously. That one had been the first to take place in Spain, and it had involved a procession with over seven hundred heretics.

  Paying attention again to the approaching prisoners, Mariano informed the people nearest to him that the tunics worn by the heretics were called sambenitos. Those wearing black sambenitos bearing embroidered snakes on the front and with red caps adorning their heads were the heretics who would be executed by fire, either when still alive or after being garrotted. Other prisoners, wearing yellow tunics marked by two red crosses of Saint Andrew and painted with upside-down flames, were to be sentenced to some other punishment which didn’t involve death at the end of it.

  “What are the effigies for?” David asked. Some were covered in black and others in yellow. Parchments were pinned to the effigies with names written on them.

  “They represent heretics who have died in prison, and cowards who ran away.” They will burn the ones covered with a black sambonito.

  Searching the prisoners’ faces and listening to Mariano speak at the same time, David’s eyes were drawn to men and women with rope tied around their necks and twisted into knots. “Those are the filthy bigamists and imposters,” he heard Mariano say. “They wear as many knots as the lashes they are to receive.”

  Some of the prisoners were howling loudly and tearing their hair out as they walked. David wondered if their suffering was due to the biting cold weather, their humiliation, or the fear of being given a harsh sentence … He didn’t think they were weeping because of their so-called offences against God.

  Finally, David saw his father. Juan, walking with his head bowed, was wearing the yellow sambenito. A surge of hope lifted David’s spirits. His father had not been sentenced to death. Not death! “Papa, I’m here!” he shouted to him, but his voice was drowned by the beat of a drum and the thick humming of the crowd.

  Mariano, nudging David, seemed surprised. “Your father is a reconciled? Then he has confessed. Only heretics who have admitted to their sins are being sentenced today.”

  Ignoring Mariano’s smug observation, David focused his eyes on the women, just coming into view behind the last of the men. His mother, near the front of the line, hobbled like an old woman, and every step she took seemed to cause her great pain. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she searched the
faces in the crowd. “Mama, I’m with you!” David shouted, but again his voice was lost.

  A few rows behind his mother, a woman cried out in distress. For a brief second, David saw her eyes, which were so wild, feverish, and filled with so much terror that he felt it too. Still watching her as she passed, he saw her trying to rip off her black sambenito. When her hands were slapped away by a man-at-arms, she threw her red cap to the ground. The same man-at-arms picked it up and placed it back on her head … and then David lost sight of her.

  God was not responsible for this, he thought. He would not want to see his children suffering in this way. This fanatical insanity had been instigated by a man-made church, for want of power and dominance over its worshipers. Religion could go to hell, for it seemed more suited to the devil’s work than God’s. He was finished with prayers and penitence.

  Fixing his eyes on the Dominican monks and priests following behind the prisoners, he inadvertently sniggered with scorn. Did these so-called pious servants of God think that they would see the gates of heaven when they died? Did they believe that God would welcome the Catholic Church’s clergy, guilty of burning and torturing its flock? His little pinky God would!

  “Is this what you travelled so far to see? Good people, like my mother and father, humiliated and disgraced for the rest of their lives?” he hissed at Mariano.

  “It is God’s will that heretics be punished,” Mariano answered, looking astounded that he should be asked such a thing. “How can you even question the Holy Office? They are doing glorious work for God, and it is our honour to witness it …”

  Chapter Fifty-Four