“For I say unto you that those who turn against the true faith have been revealed this day; those who have repented and turned back to Mother Church will be saved, but those who scorn and reject Her will find themselves in the Devil’s grip and suffer the eternal torments of hell.
“Rejoice, Christians! For today we witness the judgment of a just and faithful God!
“And now, I take my sermon today from the book of Ezekiel: ‘Yet if thou warn the wicked, and he turn not from his wickedness, nor from his wicked way, he shall die in his iniquity.…’”
A matron in a black sambenito fainted and was prodded back to consciousness and onto her feet by a guard.
Hojeda did not pause. But the all-night vigil had exhausted him; he began to lean more heavily on the podium as he spoke.
At last, the friar ceased preaching and offered up a prayer, that God’s will might be done; and I thought that surely God’s will could never be so cruel or so evil as that of these men.
After the prayer, Hojeda announced that the time had come for the prisoners’ sentences to be handed down. Old Judge de Merlo rose, white-haired in his official robes, and shuffled up to the podium. Despite his frailty, he managed to look imposing, even threatening.
A pair of guards led the first prisoner, a quivering black-haired young man dressed in one of the yellow tunics with red crosses, to stand in the space immediately below the judge and his podium.
“Miguel de Madrid,” the judge thundered. I knew the man; he was an architect who had worked with my father on the design of many public buildings—a pleasant, handsome fellow who had yet to marry. “You stand accused by anonymous witnesses of heresy against the church, of practicing the filth known as Judaism secretly in your house; of abstaining from the eating of pork; of celebrating Passover and the Jewish Sabbath secretly; of uttering prayers to the Jewish God Jehovah in the Hebrew tongue, blaspheming our true Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. What say you to these charges?”
Don Miguel’s voice was too weak to carry.
Judge de Merlo repeated his words for the edification of the crowd. “The prisoner confesses freely to his crimes and begs for forgiveness and mercy from this tribunal, from the church, and from God Almighty.” He frowned down at his victim.
“Do you swear before God and this assembly never to repeat these crimes, but to hold steadfast in the Christian faith for the rest of your life?”
A short pause followed in which don Miguel undoubtedly answered in the affirmative.
The judge seemed mollified. “Hear now the sentence handed down by the Holy Office of the Inquisition: Your possessions remain forfeit to the church and Crown. For a period of no less than two years, you are not to leave your house without wearing the sambenito to Mass and in public, so that all Christians will be reminded of your heresy and take warning, lest they fall into the same error. You shall also be given penance, which you are to perform daily, by your priest. In this manner, you are reconciled to Mother Church.”
At this pronouncement, one of the monks sitting on the platform rose and removed the black cloth draping the great green cross.
Don Miguel fell to his knees, sobbing; too overwhelmed to walk, he was gripped by his guards and dragged back to his place among the prisoners, where he was compelled to stand, bowed by emotion.
Another prisoner—this one a young woman, also dressed in yellow—was brought before Judge Merlo. Again, the prisoner confessed to all charges of Judaizing, and again was accepted back into the church, the major penalty being loss of wealth and the wearing of the sambenito. Yet a third prisoner—the last one wearing yellow—came before the judge with the same result.
And then came my father, in his black tunic adorned with flames and serpents, to stand before the judge. It served my father nothing that he had known de Merlo all of his life and had consulted with him on the city council and had broken bread with the man. De Merlo stared down at him as if he were an alien creature, one that he had never set eyes on before.
“Diego García,” de Merlo intoned. “You stand accused by anonymous witnesses of heresy against the church: of practicing the filth known as Judaism secretly in your house and of encouraging your wife to do the same; of celebrating Passover and the Jewish Sabbath secretly; of uttering prayers to the Jewish God Jehovah in the Hebrew tongue, blaspheming our true Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. You are also brought before me upon the civil charge of fomenting rebellion against Her Most Christian Majesty Isabel of Castile. What say you to these charges?”
My father managed to straighten himself a bit, but his voice was an unintelligible whisper.
De Merlo scowled. I looked quickly to Gabriel, who sat upon the podium next to his gloating brother. And he—having spotted me earlier in the crowd when he ascended the platform—looked to me as well, then coldly, resolutely, turned his gaze away.
I found myself unable to draw a breath.
The judge summarized my father’s words. “The prisoner refuses to admit to his crimes, despite testimony to the contrary. He clings to his error and refuses the forgiveness and penance offered by the church. Nor will he admit or beg forgiveness for his rebellious acts against our queen.
“Hear now the sentence handed down by the Holy Office of the Inquisition and by this court: You are remanded this day to the civil authorities, to be taken outside the city walls and burned at the stake until you are dead, with your body refused Christian burial.”
My father did not fall to his knees nor cry out nor speak a word. Unashamed, he stared directly at the judge until the guards led him back to his place.
I began to weep. Máriam called down to our driver to take me home, but he could not leave until we crawled down from the roof and into the carriage. I refused—and though it was considered a gross lapse of propriety for a servant to touch her mistress uninvited, Máriam put her hands on me and tried to pull me.
I would not go. I struck her full in the face, and she drew back, her expression grief stricken and perplexed.
I shouted for the driver to remain and clambered down from the carriage, propelling myself into the crowd, pushing through the press of perspiring bodies and shrieking for them to make way, until I arrived at the line of guards that separated the accused from the onlookers. I tried to reach past them toward my father. One of them drew his sword to block me.
“Damn you to hell!” I screamed at Gabriel. “And damn your father’s soul to eternal hell!”
Gabriel looked down coldly from his lofty seat. He had deceived me intentionally, knowing that this moment would come.
Had the guards realized I was screaming at the Inquisitors and not a prisoner, they would have arrested me. My father, several arms’ lengths away, heard and recognized my voice and understood. He half turned, unnoticed by his distracted guards, and looked at me.
I quieted at once, and we two stood staring at each other for an instant. He was still strong enough not to let his own grief and torment overshadow the moment; instead, his courage spurred him to consider only my good.
And so he directed at me a warning scowl, one that held not the slightest hint of sorrow or affection, with a face slack with weary resignation. With the same intent, he had disowned me. I knew what he wanted: for me to fall silent and return to the carriage, lest I be arrested myself.
For love of him, I obeyed. I fell silent and let my flailing arms drop. Still, I would not return to the carriage but remained near him, as if my presence could somehow mitigate his suffering.
Five more prisoners in black were escorted before Judge de Merlo—two women and three men, one of whom had sat on the council with my father. And after the last guilty sentence was proclaimed, the head Inquisitor, Fray Morillo of the spectacles, took the judge’s place and questioned those prisoners who were to be spared on the tenets of the Christian faith: whether Christ had died for our sins and ascended into heaven; whether He, along with the Father and the Holy Ghost constituted three, yet were still one God; whether baptism and confession were
sufficient to save one’s soul, and the like.
And the so-called innocents answered in unison to each question “Yes, I believe”; and each individually publicly renounced his or her crimes at length and swore never to repeat them. Fray Morillo led the crowd in singing a psalm: Miserere mei, Deus, “Have mercy on me, O Lord.” This was followed by the hymn “Veni Creator Spiritus.” Through it all, my father remained silent, until Morillo granted absolution to those spared, and then Judge de Merlo reappeared to order that those sentenced to die be immediately taken outside the walls for execution.
Those reconciled to the church stood aside as the guards began to march the condemned out of the great square; the magistrate and Inquisitors slowly rose and descended down a set of back stairs to a secure place hidden from the public. The crowds, eager for the final act of the grisly circus, came alive, chattering gaily as they slowly moved out of the square. The guards made a protective wall around the prisoners, reinforced by drawn swords.
I began to follow them. Soon I spied Máriam, who had abandoned the carriage, jostling her way through the mob until she reached me and caught hold of my elbow.
“Don’t go,” she said, her voice raised so it could be heard over the noise. “It won’t help, it will only make it harder for you and for him.” She lowered her voice. “Doña, we must leave now, please! Antonio will be taking the wagon with the statue—it is our best chance to escape.”
I pulled free of her grip and began to follow the guards escorting my father as closely as I could. Máriam paused only a second before following me.
* * *
The sun was high, and the sky blue and cloudless; the air had warmed since dawn, and the presence of thousands of bodies added to the closeness and heat. The procession through town to the northwestern city wall took three-quarters of an hour, given the condemned’s slow pace and the size of the crowd. It slowed matters that two of the prisoners fainted. One—the woman who had earlier fallen during the auto-de-fé—could not be revived and had to be carried by her captors, like my father.
We made our way under the watchtowers outside the city, surrounded by grandparents and parents with their children, who laughed with excitement. The mood had grown festive, even though the black carriages of the Inquisitors—including that of Gabriel and his brother—had appeared to watch the final outcome of their work.
Our destination was a berm of heaped-up earth, dry and dusty given the absence of recent rains. Atop it were six wooden stakes as wide and tall as a man, set in the ground at equal distances. At each stake were a set of black iron chains, kindling sticks, and piles of straw. Off to one side a small fire already burned, tended by one of the executioners, a heavyset older man; the other executioner—none other than the young auburn-haired man who had tormented my father at the rack—moved from stake to stake, pouring oil over the kindling and straw. A solitary priest waited, a small vial in his hands.
The guards and prisoners neared the berm. Nearby, a pair of Franciscan monks, their brown hoods pulled up to hide their faces, led a trio of horses pulling a flat wagon covered by a tarp: a death wagon, to carry off the bodies of those executed. One of them bore a lit torch even though it was only late afternoon, as if he expected to keep vigil through the night.
Shouts came from the more virulent Old Christians: “Die, Jew! Now the Jewish pigs shall roast! Death to marranos!”
Máriam clung to my arm, comforted as much as comforting. We followed on the soldiers’ heels until they reached the berm. Before they began their ascent, the majority of them encircled the rise, swords drawn so that none could pass. The remainder prodded the prisoners, each to his own place in front of a stake.
But before the prisoners had taken their places, a shrill, deafening whistle blasted my ears. Startled, I looked to its source—the wagon led by the Franciscans. A loud boom followed, and a light flashed overhead, a beautiful starburst of red and white. The two monks held on to two of the rearing horses, which somehow had come unhitched, but the third horse ran terrified toward the center of the berm, scattering pedestrians and guards as the wagon careened dangerously behind it.
A second ear-shattering whistle came, and a third, followed by two consecutive booms, as flares of blue and white light splashed dizzyingly across the afternoon sky.
Fireworks. The poor mad horse dragged a wagon full of exploding fireworks behind it, onto the berm and across, desperate to escape its burden while painting the sky green and gold, in bright globes that expanded quickly, then faded to nothingness.
Everyone was screaming except the two Franciscans, who held calmly on to the bridles of their astonished steeds, then mounted them quickly. I watched with heart-pounding gratitude as they galloped up onto the berm. One of the monks wielded a sword, fighting off the confused guards on foot, while the other rode, his brown habit flapping, directly for my father and tried to pull him up onto the horse.
Caught by surprise, the guards nonetheless soon rallied and enclosed the berm once more. The armed horseman managed to fight his way free, actually running down a trio of guards. But the second man lacked the strength to pull my heavily shackled father up onto the saddle in time. Within seconds, guards surrounded them and took hold of the rider’s bridle. The horse reared, and my father slipped and fell to the ground. By that time, the horseman drew a sword, but it was too late; one of the soldiers seized his arm and pulled him from the horse.
My father lay helpless beneath his chains while a guard struck the Franciscan with the flat of his sword, causing him to drop to his knees. One of them pulled back his brown hood.
It was no monk, but Antonio.
A soldier kicked Antonio in the head; he fell onto his side and was dragged back onto his knees again. They bound his hands behind him. One of them took his horse and chased down the renegade wagon.
The soldiers laid claim again to the berm, swearing at the crowd until the screaming stopped and a form of calm descended. The majority of the guards once again encircled the rise, their swords drawn so no one could pass.
The remainder prodded the prisoners, each to his own place in front of a stake. There my father was made to strip off his black tunic, leaving him naked. The same was required of each prisoner, at which point all were forced to kneel in the kindling—this so that death would come faster, either from the smoke or the roasting of the internal organs. The auburn-haired executioner lifted the heavy iron chains and forced my father to put his hands behind him, an act that evoked a cry of pain from him. The executioner bound the chains around my father’s wrists and oddly dangling arms, binding him fast to the stake.
But one of the victims cried out before the chains could be applied: “I confess! I abjure my sins! I admit to all and beg the forgiveness of the church! Please, not the fire!”
This caused a stir among the guards and executioners. The auburn-haired one hurried over to the fearful victim, as did the priest. And after the male victim—wild-eyed, his dark hair disheveled, his shoulders visibly dislocated so that his arms dangled in peculiar fashion—was allowed to stand and answered several questions posed by the priest, the latter anointed his sweating forehead with holy oil and administered extreme unction.
After the priest had finished his prayers and benediction, he nodded to the executioner. The auburn-haired man produced a narrow rope from his belt, and the other, heavier executioner fastened the chains around the prisoner’s arms, binding him fast.
In a thrice, the younger man slipped the rope around the vainly struggling victim’s neck. As the crowd watched, entranced, he strangled him. The prisoner struggled mightily against his chains for several seconds, turning crimson faced, until his eyes and tongue protruded. After a great shudder, he sagged against the chains and fell still.
A man in the crowd let go a great cheer, echoed thoughtlessly by the children. But as soon as their cheers died, one of the victims—a woman—cried out feebly:
“Aleinu l’shabeach l’Adon hakol, latet gedulah l’yotzer b’reishit.”
“The martyr’s prayer,” Máriam whispered in my ear.
The woman’s cry broke off abruptly as one of the executioners struck her full in the face, but it was soon echoed by one of the doomed men:
“Aleinu l’shabeach l’Adon…”
He too was struck silent. The executioners then finished fastening each prisoner to a stake. When this was done, and no one else cried out for forgiveness, the priest departed while the other two men finished their grim business. Each fetched a pole, at the end of which was tied an oil-soaked rag; these they lit in the small fire. And when each rag had caught sufficiently, they began to walk to each prisoner, lighting the kindling.
Máriam and I held each other as my father’s kindling was lit.
For a time, it smoked, covering his face with dark billows. They eased, revealing soot covering his cheeks and brow as his pale eyes streamed. He began to groan uncontrollably as the fire caught in earnest, searing the flesh of his knees and shins. Soon, the cries of the suffering muted the sounds of the onlookers, who stood entranced by the spectacle.
The executioners went from stake to stake, adding more kindling and dousing each fire with oil; the flames around my kneeling father leapt up, singeing away the hair on his chest. His eyebrows melted away, and the skin of his face turned red, as if it had been boiled.
When at last the hair on his head caught and flared brightly, he seemed a living candle, and all those on the pyre looked like flaming tapers on a gruesome candelabrum.
Most called out the name of God, but my father’s only words were: “Magdalena! Magdalena!”
I do not know how long I watched, how much time passed since the fires were lit. I only felt that my heart, like the skin on my father’s bones, was bubbling and darkening and sloughing away, poisoned by smells that should not have been: that of roasting human flesh, of burning hair. But in time, when my father ceased crying out and slumped, bald and blackened, against the stake, Máriam tugged at my arm.
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