‘We are drowning! We are drowning!’
Below me, as the Turkish ship tried to pull away from us, it was causing the prow of our galley to settle. The sea was making ready to claim her.
I looked to our rescuers.
The Spaniards were too busy with the fight to see or care what was happening below them. No one would come to the aid of the chained men.
‘Mercy! Mercy!’ The pleas of the slaves were both desperate and pitiful.
The shoulders of one of the Arab slaves, a short stocky fellow, were already under water.
I hesitated; the prow dipped again.
The man’s neck and face submerged. His voice gurgled as the water seeped into his mouth.
The rest shouted louder. The dying cries of the drowning men proved too much for me. I slid back down the netting to meet Panipat on his way up.
‘Give me the key,’ I said.
Panipat shook his head. ‘They can drown like rats on a sinking ship. It was they who brought us to this state. We would’ve got clear had they not rowed sluggishly and refused to obey my orders.’
It was partly true. If the Arab oarsmen hadn’t worked against us then we might have pulled away earlier; but in the main, it was bad luck and Captain Cosimo with his poor eyesight that had led us to disaster.
‘They don’t deserve to drown,’ I began. ‘If the captain—’
Panipat drew back his fist and sent me sprawling with a punch in the mouth. ‘They will die where they sit,’ he declared. ‘Every one of them.’
A yowling came from the throats of the chained men. The two remaining Arab slaves were tearing frantically at their shackles as the water rose up. One had contorted his body and was trying to bite through his own ankle. Of the four slaves on the port side, three were up to their necks in water, and although the last one, the tallest man, Sebastien, tried to support them, the weight of the shackles and chains was dragging them down. The boat settled again, and one of them went under. It was Jean-Luc. I saw bubbles breaking from his mouth and the terrified look on the faces of the remaining three.
I turned to Panipat. ‘Give me the key!’
‘You will never have it,’ Panipat declared. ‘Never!’
And saying this, he snatched the key from the cord at his wrist. Then he opened his mouth wide and put the key inside.
Chapter Twenty-one
Zarita
BARTOLOMÉ WAS LED out in procession with the other prisoners.
There was a gasp as they appeared. The one to be burned wore a long conical hat and a tabard depicting images of devils and flames in lurid colours of orange, scarlet and red.
We’d heard of such things happening elsewhere in Spain. Being a port meant that traders came and went through Las Conchas – sailors, merchants, packmen, muleteers and the like. The stories they told in the dockside taverns spread via the marketplace and became part of the social currency of the town. But while we’d repeated these stories and wondered about the truth of them, I’d assumed they were mostly wild exaggerations.
The reality was worse; more abominable than all those dramatic accounts gathered together.
The minor transgressors were to be punished first. They were to be flogged, apart from the youngest, a boy of about eleven or twelve – who, it was decided, would be beaten with a stick. He’d confessed to stealing fruit from a farmer by climbing over his wall and plundering his orchard.
In the crowd a woman moaned. ‘He’s so young to be punished in this way.’
An old woman with a sour face commented, ‘Sin must be punished – better in this world than in the next. He took that which wasn’t his. That makes him a thief. It’s against the law of man and of God.’
‘Isn’t it what boys do when they are that age?’ a man remarked.
‘Hush, hush.’ A young woman tried to silence him. ‘Don’t speak out like that.’
Garci turned and glared at her. ‘May your mother’s milk curdle in your breasts,’ he said, ‘that you should deny the normal nature of a child.’
Under his fierce gaze she shrank away. I looked at Garci and gave my head a shake. He shouldn’t be so hard on her. Two children clutched at her dress, both of them boys. She wasn’t denying the truth of Garci’s words. She was simply in dread of any attention being drawn to this part of the crowd where she was trying to shield her sons among her skirts.
Now my father appeared, looking older and more careworn than I had seen him since the day of my mother’s death. And I began to comprehend the gravity of his situation. As the local magistrate, he was responsible for carrying out any recommended sentence imposed by the tribunal of the Inquisition on these poor unfortunates. The officers of the Inquisition had no jurisdiction over our corporeal bodies. The guilty must be handed over to state officials to carry out sentence. It had been Papa’s responsibility to have the town square cleared, to summon the townspeople as ordered by Father Besian and to arrange for an area to be sectioned off with the appropriate equipment to perform these grisly deeds.
The boy to be beaten.
The other sinners, including Bartolomé, to be scourged.
The heretic to be burned.
A raised dais had been erected, and on this sat my father and the officers of the tribunal. As his family and household members, we had been accorded a place of importance with an unimpeded view, and we stood at the front of the crowd to one side. When we arrived, Lorena beckoned to Ramón Salazar and he came to stand beside us.
The boy was brought forward and tied to a post and his shirt was removed.
It was at least brief.
He was struck rapidly across the back six times, one blow for each piece of fruit he’d stolen. The boy’s howls set off every child in the crowd, already sensing the tension in the watching adults.
Garci, who was a devout man, said in my ear, ‘It is not the work of God that is being carried out here today.’
Now it was Bartolomé’s turn to be led to the punishment block. It required two men to drag him there, for although he was weak of mind, he had done manual labour all his life and was physically very strong. His normal beatific smile had been replaced by an expression of confusion and fear. His eyes were starting from his head and he glanced around desperately, letting out squeals and making frightened mewling noises.
I was too scared to turn my head away. Father Besian had made it clear that the townspeople were there to bear witness. Anyone who did not attend – unless seriously ill – anyone who looked away when punishment was being administered would be suspected of being a sympathizer. Ardelia and Serafina clung to each other, while Garci tried to encircle the three of us with his arms.
At the last moment, just before he reached the post, Bartolomé caught sight of us in the crowd. His face changed in recognition. He struggled and tried to break free and called out Serafina’s name pathetically.
‘Auntie Serafina! Help me! Help me please!’
He was grabbed roughly and hustled to his place of punishment. There he was scourged with a metal-tipped whip until his skin split apart and his back bled.
I closed my eyes as they led forward two women found guilty of prostitution. Had it been my denouncement, my repeating to Father Besian the rumours I’d heard of immoral acts taking place in certain houses near the docks that had caused this? Their hair was cut off and their dresses pulled down so that they were stripped to the waist before being laid on the scourging block. Their screams echoed in my head.
Finally the sins of the heretic were read out. His neighbours had verified that he was a converso, an old Jew who, years ago, had converted to Christianity. He’d been spied upon and it had been proven that he was secretly practising his Jewish faith, and under questioning he’d admitted this. He shambled along as he walked to the stake. I thought at first that it was because his legs were fettered, but then I saw it was because he’d been tortured. His limbs no longer obeyed his will. They bound him to the stake and then heaped kindling about his feet.
I heard Lorena whisper to
Ramón, ‘Is it true that sometimes they dampen the wood so that it causes them to roast more slowly?’ She said this in such a pretend piteous voice that it made me want to gag.
‘I’ve heard it shortens the ordeal as the victims are overcome by the smoke before they burn,’ Ramón said in a comforting way. He bent his head to her ear to reply. She used this to insinuate herself nearer to him.
‘Oh, it’s too terrible to watch.’ She ran her tongue over her lips. She was clearly horrified, yet at the same time excited in a disturbing way. She pressed herself even closer and appeared to semi-swoon. Ramón put his arm out to steady her.
A flint was struck to light a long brand, one end soaked in pitch. This flaming torch was set to the pile of wood. There was a crackling as the kindling caught, and then slowly the flames spread through the remainder of the wood. The crowd sighed as one, swayed, and moved back. The flames rose higher, bright red fire eating at the edge of the old man’s garments. He began to cry out – first to Father Besian for mercy and then to God. His voice became a stretched screaming babble.
A vision came to me as though it were I amidst the fire. I could feel heat on the soles of my own feet. The flames all about me . . .
I twist my body to avoid them and a moan escapes my lips. The hot searing redness glows among the bundles of sticks. Around me bright spots of fire . . . like eyes piercing and tearing my body in the intense heat. Then a flame, a true flame, leaps up. It has the hem of my dress. It is a grey dress of rough cloth that I wear. This flame runs up my outer skirts like an animal intent on devouring me. Across my breast.
I am transfixed. It is surging over my head. Already the hot singeing smell of burning hair is in my nostrils, the pungent odour of scorching clothes, and a nauseating smell of flesh being devoured by fire.
I cannot move. The smoke rises. My vision is impeded.
I cannot see. I cannot breathe. I try to put my hand to my throat.
I am unable to stir. My arms are fastened by my sides. My breath is coming in short gasps. I make a little miaou of grief . . .
Father Besian turned his head slowly, as if loath to remove his sight from the spectacle of the man being roasted alive. His eyes bore down on me, drilling into my brain through to the back of my skull.
I swayed and would have fallen had not Garci tightened his arm around me.
Father Besian’s gaze came upon me and went past. His head stopped, his eyes swivelled back to my face.
Papa too moved his head to see what the disturbance was. A frown furrowed his brow, and he gave me a look of such intensity that I did not recognize.
Father Besian’s eyes flickered over me once more, and were gone. He made a gesture with his right hand. This was to show mercy. The executioner went behind the stake and quickly throttled the man. The cries of the heretic were cut off.
But the suffocating smoke rose up and enveloped me.
Chapter Twenty-two
Saulo
A WAIL WENT up from the drowning men as Panipat closed his mouth to swallow the key.
My hand went to the waistband of my breeches and the knife was in my grasp. I sprang at him.
Throwing my whole weight behind the blow, I stabbed the oarsmaster in the eyeball. He screamed and flung up his hands to protect himself. My fingers tore at his mouth. He tried to clamp it shut but I put my hand over his nose and squeezed as hard as I could until he opened his mouth, screaming curses at me.
I had the key! I had the key!
I turned towards the prow. In one moving mass the remaining slaves strained against their chains as they tried to surge forward. The boat rocked violently.
I stepped back. I saw that if I went close to them they would pull me to pieces.
‘I have the shackle key!’ I shouted above the tumult. ‘But I will only unlock the man who sits still!’ I held the key high above my head. ‘If anyone rushes me or tries to get this key I’ll throw it overboard!’
They stopped then.
‘Sit down!’ I shouted. ‘Sit down!’
This they would not do. But they bent their knees a little to show that they were paying attention. Muttering and moving restlessly, they watched me.
I approached them warily. In keeping my attention fixed on them I forgot about Panipat behind me. I didn’t see him reach for the long harpoon we used to catch fish.
It was one of the slaves, Sebastien, who shouted a warning and pointed behind me.
I turned. Panipat towered over me. His arm was already drawn back and now he launched the harpoon like a javelin straight into my face. I jerked my head sideways and the vicious tip of the point sliced open my cheek before thudding into the wood of the mast behind me. Ducking down, I ran at Panipat to head-butt him in the groin.
He laughed at my feebleness, and grasping a good handful of my hair, he yanked my head up and back. My throat was exposed. He laughed again as he reached for the long knife he kept tucked in his belt.
But I hadn’t been so stupid as to run at Panipat thinking to overcome him with brute strength. I had already pulled his long knife from his belt. I slashed at him wildly and managed to cut open his arm.
He grunted and began to swing me further away from him that he might aim a blow. I held the long knife out in front of me and pointed it at him. Above our heads, we heard a straining shuddering and the sound of breaking wood. The impact of the harpoon, embedding itself in the mast of our boat, had been the last assault it could take. With an explosive crack it split in two and came down upon us both.
Panipat staggered back. The key went scuttering along the deck.
A great moan of despair came from the mouths of the slaves. Two more on the port side went under, and now the last one was in peril. It was Sebastien. The water lapped around his neck.
Panipat sat down heavily. Blood was pouring from his chest. His long knife was buried deep in his ribs, close to his heart. Driven forward by the force of the falling mast upon me I had killed the oarsmaster with his own knife. In a daze I crawled along the deck and picked up the key. I lowered myself into the forward rowing space on the port side. No bubbles came from the place where the other two had gone under. The water was now so high that I had to plunge my head underneath the surface to see the place where the key fitted.
The dead face of Jean-Luc, eyes wide open, bumped against my own. I screamed and stood up, spluttering water. The remaining slave, Sebastien, stared at me, all hope gone. He leaned back wearily into the water, as if longing for respite and the peace of death. I took an enormous gulp of air and plunged back underneath. I turned the key in the lock of Sebastien’s ankle-cuff. When he felt the weight drop away from him, he kicked it free and rose up, water streaming from his hair, tears coursing down his cheeks.
He hugged me, and then we both turned without hesitation to the two Arabs who might be rescued on the other side. Hands clawing in the air, they were sinking quickly. Sebastien came under the water beside me and bore them up as I fumbled the key into the locks. As soon as their chains were loosened, we laid them on the boardwalk and pummelled their backs and chests until they spewed water from their lungs.
We half dragged them past the body of Panipat and hauled them with us up the netting. These two, who had called on the Turks to rescue them, now copied Sebastien: he was shouting as loudly as he could, ‘By the rules of combat at sea I am a free man!
‘I declare for Spain!’
‘For Spain! For Spain!’
‘Long live Queen Isabella of Castile!’
‘Long live King Ferdinand!’
And, as I clambered aboard, I too declared myself a Spanish freeman.
Chapter Twenty-three
Zarita
LORENA WAS SMIRKING in a way I didn’t understand.
‘Zarita . . .’ Papa spoke to me gently – so gently, in fact, that I raised my head to look at him. It seemed an age since he’d addressed me in such a tender way. Our household was still recovering after the departure of Father Besian and his officers of the Inqu
isition a few weeks earlier.
‘This gentleman has come to call at our house.’ Papa was introducing me to a man I’d never seen before, Don Piero Alvarez. ‘Perhaps you would like to stroll in the garden together?’
Don Piero inclined his head to me. ‘That would be most pleasant,’ he said.
I smiled my assent.
Don Piero was very nervous. He wiped his brow with his hand and offered me his arm. He was of my father’s age and I assumed him to be a business acquaintance, for I had never heard his name mentioned as a friend of the family.
Lorena was standing next to the long windows that led into the garden. She placed her hand on Don Piero’s sleeve as we passed. She looked up into his face and laughed, and made some trite remark while twirling a lock of her hair in her fingers.
He didn’t respond as most men did, by gazing at her with interest. Instead he moved a step away and bowed formally to her.
I found myself warming to this older man. At last, I thought, a man wise enough to see through her silly ways and foolish talk.
‘Perhaps you would like to show Don Piero your mama’s garden,’ Papa suggested. ‘You may walk there with him. I have some papers to look over and sign but I’ll be within call at all times.’
I glanced at him. Such a strange thing to say! It wasn’t as though I was being escorted by some young man like Ramón Salazar. In my ignorance and stupidity I didn’t see what was being contrived without my knowledge.
Lorena ran the tip of her tongue around her lips and laughed again, a knowing laugh.
My father frowned at her and she cast her eyes down, but as she did so she gave me an odd look. Her eyes usually betrayed her dislike, but this time they flashed triumphantly.
I showed Don Piero the rose bushes that Mama had cultivated. Now that summer was here they were blooming. He admired their colour and beauty. Inhaling their heavy scent brought her presence back to me in sweet aching sadness. It was almost August: soon it would be a whole year since Mama’s death. To my surprise I found I was able to chat with this stranger about my mother the way I might have done had I an older uncle or even a grandparent to converse with. Don Piero was kind and courteous and listened attentively. Eventually he said, ‘May we rest for a short while, Zarita?’
Prisoner of the Inquisition Page 10
