“There is an army,” I said. “They’re wearing the royal Castilian colors. And my father’s guards are surrounding this house. I’m going to ask Gabriel what’s going on.”
“Ah, no!” Máriam called after me, grimacing. “Not him!”
It was too late; I was out the door and almost collided with young Blanca in the loggia. She was dressed and smiling, unfazed by the soldiers and weapons outside our walls.
“Good morning, doña Marisol,” she said cheerfully, with an awkward curtsy. “Don Gabriel sent me to tell you to stay inside today. He’s going downtown.”
“Did he say why? What are all the soldiers doing outside?”
“I believe it has to do with the Inquisition. They’re making an announcement in the public square,” Blanca replied.
Half an hour later, I watched from my window as Gabriel rode off in his carriage, surrounded by an escort of several mounted men-at-arms. I tried to obey his command to stay inside, but my curiosity was too great. And the tolling of the bell meant that tens of thousands would hurry to the square; my chance of being detected in such a huge crowd was slim. For my father’s sake, and my own, I wanted to hear what the Inquisition had to tell us—and I didn’t trust Gabriel to tell me the whole truth when he was clearly holding back some of the reasons he’d married me.
Lauro, it turned out, was easily bribed into harnessing horses to a wagon for us. Both Máriam and I covered ourselves in black shawls, hiding our faces; fortunately, she knew how to drive, and together we set out for the square.
At the bell’s summons, hundreds were swarming out of houses, churches, and shops into the street. The constant stream of pedestrians caused other carriages and wagons on the broad avenue to slow; before long, our way was blocked by a stalled mass of bodies and vehicles with cursing drivers, and our wheels creaked to a stop.
A good quarter hour passed before our carriage lurched and began to move again. At last we made it to the intersection of San Pablo Street and the broad thoroughfare leading to the great Plaza de San Francisco. With each creak of the carriage wheel, my dread increased, but I forced away all thoughts of the Inquisition and looked out at the city.
The day was cloudless, and the low risen sun was already casting off the chill and gilding the buildings, including the variegated clay brick walls and the tall crenellated watchtowers surrounding the Franciscans’ compound, larger than a city block and almost as sprawling as the magnificent royal residence, the Real Alcázar, which lay farther southeast. By the time we finally rolled into the monstrous brick plaza in front of the western entrance to the compound, at least ten thousand citizens had already gathered.
We navigated past monochrome flocks of Benedictine friars all in black, Carthusians in all white, Franciscans in gray or brown, and townsfolk in the full spectrum of color. Eventually we made our way close enough so that, standing on the wagon bed, we could see the front platform pressed against the compound wall, where public announcements were made. That day, a black-and-white Dominican banner—a fleur-de-lis cross above the motto Laudare, Benedicere, Praedicare (“Praise, Bless, Preach”)—hung behind the dais.
City soldiers with pikes ringed the platform two men deep in a large half circle, within whose guarded perimeter stood scores of black-clad priests and of Dominican friars sporting the white habits, black capes, and broad-brimmed black hats of their order. Their gazes kept returning to a spot near the base of the platform, where two other monks and an elderly judge stood talking.
After another quarter hour, the bell finally stopped tolling. A hush fell over the great plaza as several armed local police, swords unsheathed, mounted the stairs leading up to the platform. Behind them, two Dominican friars ascended. The first was a short, slight, elderly man wearing an engaging smile; his partner was a full head taller and too well fed. The smaller of the two set a large sheaf of papers down on the podium and gripped its wooden edges with the confidence of a practiced orator as he surveyed his audience. The taller friar, his clasped hands hidden from the chill by his long sleeves, waited motionless behind the speaker.
The podium faced east, so that the speaker squinted almost directly into the rays of the rising sun; he shaded his eyes with one hand and with the other gestured at the glare and quipped over his shoulder to his partner: “The light of God.”
He chuckled and the other monk laughed politely.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” the speaker intoned. Despite his small size, his ringing tenor filled the air. His manner was relaxed, even jovial, as if half the crowd listening to him were not conversos waiting to react angrily.
“Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “My name is Fray Miguel de Morillo; I am the vicar of the Dominican Order in Spain. I address you today at the behest of the monarchs, Her Royal Majesty Queen Isabel of Castile and León and His Royal Majesty King Fernando of Aragón. May God keep and bless them both. I will read to you first a letter from the monarchs appointing myself and my good brother in the faith here, Fray Juan de San Martín, prior of the Dominican monastery in Burgos”—he acknowledged the taller man with a quick smile—“as Inquisitors for the Holy Office in Castile. This letter will be posted on the plaza wall for those who are able to read it for themselves. I will also read a papal bull from His Most Blessed Holy Father, Pope Sixtus, as well as two edicts—one from the Inquisition and one from our royal monarchs. Afterward, the town magistrate, The Most Honorable Judge Diego de Merlo, will read a third edict dealing with civil matters.”
Fray Morillo checked to be certain the papers before him were in order and reached into his cloak to retrieve a pair of spectacles; the light glinted dazzlingly off the lenses as he put them on his face. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, it was with a stern authority that negated his earlier display of goodwill.
“From the hand of the Monarchs,” he said, glancing down at the pages on the podium, “Her Most Esteemed Royal Majesty Queen Isabel and His Most Exalted Majesty King Fernando, published this second day of January in the year of Our Lord Fourteen Hundred and Eighty-one. To the people of Castile and the city of Seville in particular.
“In order to stamp out the heresy that has been growing unchecked in Castile and León, and most noticeably in Seville, we, the Monarchs, being zealous for the faith, do hereby appoint the venerable fathers Fray Miguel de Morillo, Vicar of the Dominican Order in Spain, and Fray Juan de San Martín, Prior of the Dominican Cloister of San Pablo in the town of Burgos, as Inquisitors. We commend to them the task of combating a peculiar heresy promulgated by certain persons who are Christian in name and outward appearance only, but who, after being baptized of their own volition, chose to turn away from the true faith and cling to the Jewish superstition and its rituals.
“We have instructed the venerable fathers to proceed with an Inquisition against these infidels, and have full faith that Fray Miguel and Fray Juan will carry out their duties diligently until the heresy is banished.
“However”—Fray Morillo’s tone went dark—“should these men fail in their duty, we Monarchs have obtained permission from His Holiness Pope Sixtus to dismiss them and appoint others in their stead.”
At this, a rumble traveled through the crowd, from the front of the plaza to the back. Near us, an Old Christian peasant cried out: “Fuck you, marrano swine; your days are numbered!”
From a safe distance, another voice called back: “Fuck you, Dominican liars! May God send you straight to hell, where you belong!”
Stray shouts followed; the guards surrounding the dais lifted their pikes, ready to fend off attackers in case of a riot. In front of them, battalions of city soldiers had stationed themselves in case the crowd became unruly.
Fray Morillo miraculously raised his voice above the noise.
“Please!” he exhorted. “Anyone here today who raises his hand in violence against anyone else for any cause will be struck down by Christ Himself! Did not Jesus say, ‘Pray for your enemies, and bless those who persecute you�
�?”
What Fray Morillo did not address was the terror that had been born in the heart of every converso listening; no ruler in Christendom had ever been given the right to direct an Inquisition. That power had always rested in the hands of the pope, because of the obvious danger that a king might be swayed more by domestic politics than church law.
Fray Morillo finished reading the letter, which ended in a prayer that God would keep the Inquisitors of Spain steadfast and guide them in their holy task. Afterward, he set the letter at the bottom of his sheaf of papers and began to read a papal bull—one that had been signed by Pope Sixtus more than two years earlier.
The bull was in Latin. I knew enough Latin to follow the gist: In recognition of the Spanish monarchs’ sincere devotion to the faith, Pope Sixtus had granted Isabel and Fernando the power to appoint Inquisitors to quash the “Judaic deviation” that had infected Seville and other areas of Spain. Again, he reiterated that Seville was filled with so-called Christian converts who remained “practitioners of Hebrew traditions” and “emulators of Jewish ritual.”
Until that moment, the bull had been only a rumor and easily dismissed. The pope had always been our ally, as church law had specified for more than a millennium that every Christian—recent convert or not—was the same in the eyes of God. My father hadn’t taken fright when the Inquisition first arrived in Seville, because any Inquisitor was bound to report directly to His Holiness in Rome, who was obliged to uphold canon law to the letter. Sixtus had shown himself to be highly tolerant of Jews and befuddled by the distinction made in Spain between Old Christian and New. And we had counted on the pope’s support.
Now it had just been withdrawn from us.
To all accounts, Isabel was not only extremely intelligent but a devout, compassionate ruler. It was said that she and her husband loved each other dearly. True, she was not saying all conversos were guilty of Judaistic heresy—but by allowing secret denunciations, she had taken away our strongest legal protection.
Morillo began to summarize the text in Castilian, which brought fresh reaction from those who had not understood the Latin.
“There is much more,” he said sternly, to quiet the Old Christians’ jubilation, as he retired the bull to the bottom of the stack of papers on the podium. “Hear now, city of Seville, the edict concerning those suspects who fled the Holy Office of the Inquisition and those who harbor them.”
Frowning at the sun’s glare, he began again to read: By order of the Spanish monarchs, the crypto-Jewish sympathizers the Duke of Medina Sidonia and the Marquis of Cádiz, rulers of Andalusian territories to our south—both of whom had provided refuge to “scores of thousands of heretics fleeing the Inquisition in Seville”—were hereby commanded to immediately eject these refugees from their lands and use all means to assist the Crown in returning them to the city. These conversos had confessed their guilt by leaving and were therefore subject to arrest and trial.
Should either the duke or the marquis fail to assist the Inquisition in this regard, they would themselves be subject to arrest, immediate excommunication, and seizure of their domains.
Old Christians greeted the announcement with cheers; this time, the converso faction was too stunned to respond. Never before had the queen threatened a noble in this way, nor had any large group of conversos been publicly denounced as heretics.
“Next,” Fray Morillo announced, straightening his round spectacles as he studied his audience, “let me speak of the Edict of Grace. Along with God’s judgment comes grace. In that spirit, we extend an invitation for the next thirty days: Those who come to us admitting freely that they have been guilty of such heresy are guaranteed that they will not face excommunication and execution for their crimes, but will be forgiven and, after a period of repentance, accepted back into the church.
“Those who confess their deviation from the faith must be prepared to testify against all other heretics of whom they are aware, as proof of their genuine repentance. Also, we exhort all true Christians who have any reason to suspect others of practicing Judaic rituals in secret to denounce them. Do not shirk this duty, as it is better to denounce your neighbor than to let him practice his heresy in secret and lose his soul to the Devil.
“But we also recognize that the threat of retribution might deter you from reporting what you have seen to the Inquisitors. The Holy Office has therefore decided to guarantee all witnesses complete and total anonymity. You will not be required to testify in person against the accused, nor will your name ever be made public. You are free to speak the truth without fear.”
Uneasy murmurs rippled through the crowd. Before now, the accused always had the right to confront his accuser face-to-face. It was simple common sense, intended to discourage a man’s enemies from lying against him. Suddenly this protection was gone, and there was nothing to stop bigots from accusing every converso they knew of crypto-Judaism.
“With that,” Fray Morillo said, turning his head and nodding to the old magistrate who had made his way up the stairs and now waited, parchment in hand, for his turn to speak, “I shall say God bless you and keep you, and make His light to shine upon you in these difficult times. These documents shall be published upon the plaza walls for all those who wish to read them for themselves. I now welcome Judge Diego de Merlo, who has an announcement.”
He made the sign of the cross over the assembly, gathered up his papers, and with his fellow Inquisitor, hurried off the platform and down the stairs to disappear into a Dominican sea of black and white.
Judge Merlo was white-haired and gaunt, a man whose age had conferred on him a dulled awareness of his surroundings and a complete lack of self-consciousness. For a moment he stared blankly out at the massive crowd and then he started and squinted at the parchment, as if surprised to see it in his hand, and began to read without preamble. His voice was wavering and much weaker than Fray Morillo’s.
“By order of the Monarchs Queen Isabel of Castile and León and King Fernando of Aragón,” he said without emotion, “all Jews remaining in the city of Seville and her surrounding territories are expelled until further notice, so that their wicked influence over those Christians weak in the faith is removed and the Inquisition may do its work without impediment. They must be gone no later than three days hence, and may take with them neither silver nor gold, but only such items as are required to keep body and soul together.
“Nor are they to sell their properties. They are to leave them in the capable hands of the Inquisition’s receivers, who will make an accurate record of such property and protect it until such time as the Monarchs give the owners leave to return.”
He let go a phlegm-filled cough, and after several seconds of sniffling, added, “Her Majesty says to the Jews: ‘I give you my protection as you leave. No one is to harm or obstruct you, or they shall answer to my wrath. The evacuation is to be peaceful and orderly.’” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “This is the edict of the Monarchs. It will be upheld by the police, the local militia, and Her Majesty’s army, and will be posted on the plaza wall shortly.”
He rolled up the parchment and shuffled away from the podium without a word of farewell. The square filled with noise as thousands of onlookers began to speak impassionedly to each other; at the same time, the Dominicans at the foot of the platform, including their head, Fray Morillo, headed swiftly inside the heavily guarded watchtowers of the Franciscan complex. Gabriel was no doubt among them. As they hurried to safety, Máriam and I retook our seats in the wagon and began—at a frustratingly slow pace, given the crowd—to make our way out of the plaza.
We were in motion when I spotted Antonio. He was in the group of Dominicans leaving the area in front of the podium and had turned to look at the crowd behind him. Something had prompted him to remove his broad-brimmed black hat, similar to those of the monks, but he wore a layperson’s garb; the morning sun made his bright hair incandescent.
I had convinced myself by then that I had seen him the nig
ht of my wedding only because I had wanted to see him so badly—just as I had “seen” my dead mother for the past fortnight in the faces of passersby who matched her height and build enough to make my heart skip a beat. But the sight of him today brought me no joy: All of his natural cheerfulness was gone, and the face that looked past the scores of milling bodies separating us was paler and sadder than I remembered. His lips had parted in surprise on seeing me, but they soon closed, and he turned away without any gesture of acknowledgment.
Shaking, I put my head into my hands. Every person with power over my life was infected by the madness that had overtaken the Dominican Order. And my dearest friend, whom I had loved my entire life, had now joined the Inquisitors against me.
Nine
When I returned home that day, I was desperate to see my father—so much so that I slipped from the Hojeda house and crossed the street. I entered the gate and, for the first time, knocked on my father’s door as if I were a stranger.
My father’s valet answered the door. Don Diego hadn’t responded to the city bell but had remained home. I waited on the threshold while the valet went back to fetch my father and was mortified when the valet returned to say that don Diego was indisposed and could not see me.
I told the valet about the Edict of Grace, the Jews’ supposedly temporary expulsion from the city, and the pope’s surrender of his power over the Inquisition to Isabel and her husband. I explained my concern over the Inquisition’s willingness to accept secret denunciations, and I urged the valet to explain all of this to my father and tell him that I wanted badly to see him.
Crushed again by rejection, I went home, but not without pausing to stare at the Vargases’ house. Antonio had probably been sleeping there for some time without my being aware.
I kept myself up most of the night wondering why Antonio had never contacted me, even after arriving back in Seville. He had been watching silently in the Chapel of the Fifth Anguish as I was married off to Gabriel, and he hadn’t uttered a sound. The thought gnawed at me until I rose from bed, careful not to wake Máriam, who slept as soundlessly as the dead.
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