The Falcons of Fire and Ice

by Karen Maitland

  ‘That is Lilith’s star, Isabela. You watch, over the next few nights she will grow dim and then bright again, like a great eye winking in the sky. Lilith … now, did I ever tell you of her? She was the most beautiful creature who ever lived and she used to boast that she could make any man in the world fall so hopelessly in love with her that he’d give all he owned for one night in her arms. But the angels said there is one man on earth who is too wise ever to fall in love with you, and that is the great King Solomon.

  ‘Lilith was determined to prove them wrong. So she disguised herself as the queen of Sheba and went to visit the wise old king. And he did find himself falling in love with her, just as she said he would, but he decided to test that she really was who she claimed to be. So he built for himself a floor of glass, sat down on the other side of it, and sent for Lilith to come to him. When she drew near, she saw the glass shining in the sun and thought it was a pool of water, so she raised her skirts to wade through it and then King Solomon saw to his horror that instead of human legs she had the hairy legs of a goat. And he knew then that she was no mortal woman at all, but a wicked demon sent to tempt him.’

  Seeing my mouth open wide with amazement, Jorge popped a sugared almond into it and laughed.

  Gentle, wise old Jorge, how could he be here in this vile place, chained on that pyre? All his life he had been a physician and had done nothing but help and heal both neighbour and stranger alike. What had he done to make the Inquisitors think he was a Judaizer? Who could have reported him? Which of our neighbours would have done that? I wanted to scream out they had arrested an innocent man. But he wasn’t. Those words he shouted out before they gagged him again meant he wasn’t innocent at all. He was a heretic. But even though I knew that, I still couldn’t bear to see him punished. I tried to look somewhere else as my father had warned me to do, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. I felt as long as I kept looking at him, I could keep him alive. I could will him to live.

  By the time the Moor reached the end of the line of prisoners, three of them remained alive – Jorge, a woman and a young lad. All had refused to confess their guilt and renounce the faith of Abraham. The friars were still standing beside them, urging them to repent in the hope that their courage would fail them and in their terror of the flames they would finally throw themselves on the mercy of the Church and its swift garrotte. The Church wanted no martyrs for another faith.

  All heads now turned to the royal dais. The two Jesuits standing behind the king’s throne prodded little Sebastian to rise. The crowd drew in their breath as he descended the steps. They watched the slow progress of their tiny king as he marched alone across the dark square, his cape trailing after him in the breeze. The gold coronet about his brow turned to blood-red in the light of the torches.

  When Sebastian drew level with the Inquisitor-General, the commander of the soldiers stepped forward and with a low bow handed him a blazing torch almost as long as the boy was high. The officer respectfully pointed to the place on the edge of the pyre where Sebastian must light the pyre. The sticks at that spot glistened in the dancing flames. They had been coated with tar so that they would catch fire at once. The Inquisitor-General stood to one side, his head bowed. It was up to the king, not the Church, to light the fire that would burn the living and dead to ashes.

  The child held the burning torch awkwardly, recoiling from the heat of it. He stared wide-eyed at the flames, holding the torch as far away from himself as he could, as if he feared that the flames would set light to his hair. But he was not tall enough to balance the heavy weight at arm’s length. He advanced a couple of steps, then he lifted his head and looked up at the figures above him on the pyre. His gaze seemed to rest upon the young lad, who stared directly into the little king’s face. The leather gag masked his mouth, but his eyes were as large and liquid as those of a fawn.

  For a moment the boy-king and the young prisoner just stared at each other. Then the officer, perhaps fearing that Sebastian had forgotten where he was to light the pyre, bent down to whisper to him. Sebastian whipped round, his chin jerking up defiantly, his brow creased in anger. Then he turned and hurled the torch as far away from the pyre as his strength would allow. It crashed on to the flagstones and continued to burn there, as Sebastian stalked back to the dais.

  The crowd gasped. For a moment no one moved. Finally the officer retrieved the torch and looked helplessly at the Inquisitor-General, plainly uncertain what to do next. The Inquisitor’s face was a portrait of undisguised rage. For a moment he looked as if he was going to wrench the torch out of the officer’s hands and light the pyre himself. You could see he was itching to burn these heretics, but that was the one thing he did not have the power to do.

  The crowd started up a rhythmic mocking chant – Burn them! Burn them! – stamping their feet and clapping their hands. The king’s great-uncle rose from his throne and almost leapt from the royal dais. His red robes flying out behind him, he strode rapidly across the square. He seized the torch with one hand, whilst with the other he struck such a blow with his leather-gloved fist that he lifted the officer off his feet and sent him sprawling on the ground a yard or more away. The Regent lifted the torch high above his head, then thrust it into the tarred sticks, as viciously as if he was thrusting a dagger into a man’s body. The wood caught at once, and flames clawed up into the black sky. The crowd roared and cheered.

  The fire surrounded the box of bones that the young girl had placed on the pyre. For several minutes the box sat in the centre of the blaze, unscathed, like a phoenix in its nest, then it burst into flames and was consumed.

  It seemed a lifetime before the flames reached the back of the pyre, where the living prisoners were tied. They writhed in the scorching heat, watching the flames creep closer to them, waiting for the orange tongues to dart out towards the hems of their robes and lick up around their bodies.

  I had never in my life prayed for someone’s death, but I did so now. I prayed that Jorge and the woman and the young man would be suffocated by the smoke before the flames touched them. Was it blasphemy to pray that heretics should be spared pain? I never knew if my prayers were answered, for by then the flames at the front were too high, the smoke too dense for me to see when they died. If they could have screamed through the leather gags, no one would have heard them for the cheering and insane bellows of laughter from the crowd.

  I pretended it was smoke that made the tears run down my face, but I don’t think Dona Ofelia believed me.

  Belém, Portugal Ricardo

  Lure – a piece of padded wood, to which meat and feathers have been bound, which is swung on a line to attract the hawk to the falconer.

  ‘Senhor Ricardo da Moniz, at your service,’ I announced.

  I swept off my green feathered cap and bowed low, kissing Dona Lúcia’s plump jewelled hand. Pio, my diminutive pet monkey, standing on my shoulder, doffed his miniature cap and bowed in imitation of me. Dona Lúcia simpered at us both.

  Sweet Jesu, that ruby in her ring was the size of a pigeon’s egg! I could hardly bear to tear my lips away from it. All right, so maybe it was not quite that large, but where’s the harm in embellishing a little? The point is that it was as plain as a nipple on a whore that Dona Lúcia was elderly, wealthy and best of all a widow, with no one to lavish her money on except herself and her overstuffed lapdog.

  ‘Won’t you sit with me, Senhor Ricardo?’ she cooed, patting the silk cushion next to her on her seat under the arbour.

  Ricardo – it has a debonair ring to it, don’t you think? I’m quite proud of that one. The name came to me on the spur of the moment in the fish market when I first encountered Dona Lúcia’s adorable little maid, with breasts like a couple of soft ripe peaches and such a fetching little dimple in her right cheek. Senhor Ricardo, she repeated when I told her, and the syllables purred delightfully in her slim white throat.

  Anyway, it’s a damn sight better than Cruz, which my benighted parents thrust upon me. What on e
arth possessed them to name their youngest son after the Holy Cross? If they hoped that it would turn me into a priest, they were sadly mistaken. Now, if they had christened me with an elegant saint’s name like Teodósio or Valerio, who knows, I might have tried to live up to that, but not Cruz. It’s the kind of name that’s bound to bring out the Devil in you from the very first time your mother sets you on your infant feet and says, ‘Now, be a good boy, Cruz.’ I ask you – wouldn’t that make you determined to rebel?

  At Dona Lúcia’s invitation I settled myself on the long bench beside her under the canopy of ancient twisted vines in the small courtyard. It was the most delightful spot; enclosed by the high walls of her house, the floor of the courtyard was tiled with an intricate Moorish design of twisted blue and yellow flowers. The scents of jasmine, orange and lemon hung in the air, and from a small fountain in the centre jets of water tinkled into a marble pool, making the air feel cool and refreshingly moist after the scorching heat and dust of the narrow streets beyond.

  Dona Lúcia’s black slave boy brought us glasses of hot mint tea. I produced a tiny cup for Pio, my little monkey. He crouched between us on the bench, sipping like a gentleman and graciously accepting fragments of almond cake from Dona Lúcia’s own fingers, much to the insane jealousy of her own yapping lapdog. Pio ignored it. Even a monkey could see the dog was so plump it could do little except sit there panting. It so much resembled a frying sausage I had an urge to prick its rump, sure that if I did so, it would burst wide open.

  There is nothing like an animal to attract the ladies of any age. I used to have a little lapdog myself, but I realized women only really have affection for their own dog which, however revolting it is, they believe far outshines any other dog in intelligence, affection and cuteness. The monkey proved far more effective. I had dressed him in a miniature version of my own clothes, a cream doublet with gold trim and padded breeches slashed with scarlet. Together we looked quite striking.

  Once the slave had withdrawn to the far side of the courtyard and Dona Lúcia’s interest in feeding Pio was beginning to wane, I worked the conversation round to the reason for my visit. I told her I needed funds to equip a ship to sail to Goa, and I launched into a glowing description of all the riches she might garner for herself if she were to invest a modest amount in such a venture, which, I assured her, could not possibly fail.

  ‘Unless you have seen this wondrous isle with your own eyes as I have, Dona Lúcia, you would never believe the half of its treasures. It is with good reason that it is called Golden Goa. All the riches of the world are traded there – costly spices, precious stones from Burma, jewels from the crowns of princes, the finest silks, delicate plates from China, the very best glass from Venice, horses from Arabia, elephants from India. All of it just waiting to be loaded on to ships and brought back to Portugal to be sold here for four, five, even ten times what was paid for them. That is, of course, anything you did not want to keep for yourself.’

  ‘Do you really think I should keep an elephant?’ Dona Lúcia asked.

  She gazed round the courtyard as if contemplating whether such a beast might be installed in here to frolic in the fountain and nibble at the clipped balls of orange trees in their tall, elegant urns. I tried not to let my exasperation show on my face. Why do women have to latch on to your most inconsequential remarks and ignore the important things?

  ‘I was merely explaining the variety of goods that are traded on this isle, Dona Lúcia. Naturally I would not be bringing back elephants. I would purchase rare spices, fine silks, delicate ornaments from China and beautiful jewels. The kinds of things that any wealthy Portuguese man would want to adorn his home and his charming wife.’

  Her large bug eyes grew misty with tears. She looked down at the numerous rings glittering on her wrinkled fingers. ‘My late husband, God rest his sweet soul, often brought me jewels. He was such a fine man, Senhor Ricardo.’ She glanced up at me from under her heavy lids outlined with black kohl. ‘He looked just as handsome as you when we were first courting. But then, I was considered a great beauty in my time.’

  ‘Was, Dona Lúcia? No, no, you must never say was. You are a beauty. Why, there isn’t a jewel in all the royal palaces in India that wouldn’t be eclipsed by the diamonds that sparkle in your eyes.’

  She frowned. For a moment I thought I had gone too far and she thought I was mocking her. But then she favoured me with the kind of coquettish glance that must once have had men throwing themselves in front of charging bulls for her.

  ‘Do you really think so, Senhor Ricardo?’

  We talked on about the venture, the length of the voyage, the equipping of such an expedition. I told her about the sturdy ship I had found, the Santa Dorothea – such a pious and blessed name – and described with fulsome praise the vast experience of her captain. Then finally I drew the conversation to its purpose – the considerable sum of money I would need to embark on such a voyage. Money that I assured her she could not invest in any venture more secure or profitable.

  ‘Why, on the last occasion I returned from Goa I made six times what I had put into the expedition and my only regret is that I was unable to invest more at that time, but now …’

  Dona Lúcia frowned until the two strips of black mouse skin that she had stuck on over her own shaved eyebrows bumped noses in the middle of her forehead.

  ‘But what I don’t understand, Senhor Ricardo, is if you made such a good profit on your last expedition, why could you not use that money to fund another voyage?’

  I hung my head in shame. ‘I regret it is almost all gone. My friends said I was a fool, but alas, it is too late.’

  I glanced fleetingly up at Dona Lúcia and saw her bridle.

  ‘Your friends would appear to have more sense than you do. A young man who wantonly squanders his fortune is certainly a fool. I wager that women, drinking and gambling were your ruin. That’s usually how a man and his money are parted.’

  I let her scold. The more harshly she judged me now, the more guilty she would feel later. And when a man or woman feels guilty they always assuage their conscience by giving far more money than they would otherwise do.

  ‘What, no fine words, Senhor Ricardo?’ she said. ‘You were eloquent enough just now. Are you ashamed to admit the truth?’

  ‘I confess that I am, Dona Lúcia. You see before you an abject wretch who has failed his duty as a son. For the truth of it is, my poor dear father became sick. I took him to all the best physicians and bought whatever treatments they prescribed in a desperate attempt to save his life – rare herbs, pearls crushed in wine, tonics and purges. One physician recommended pure cold air, so I paid porters to carry my father into the mountains. Then another physician said the mountain air was harmful, instead we should bathe him in sea water, so I rented the best rooms I could find at the sea, but it was all to no avail. He sadly died. He was relying on me and I failed to find the cure for him in time.’

  I bowed my head to hide my tears and it was several moments before I was able to continue.

  ‘My sweet, gentle mother was heartbroken and terrified for the future, for I had five unwed sisters all needing dowries so that they might catch respectable husbands. I could not let the poor woman fret over such a burden. So all the money I had left from paying for my father’s treatments I gave to my mother to provide for her and my little sisters. I am a fool, as my friends so rightly say, for I left myself almost penniless, but what else could I do?’

  I sighed heavily, and Pio, who has been well trained, reached out his tiny paw and stroked my cheek, laying his little head on my shoulder in a most affecting manner.

  Dona Lúcia sighed almost as deeply as I had and, taking her cue from Pio, stroked my hand. ‘That such a thing should happen is tragic, tragic! But you mustn’t blame yourself. You did everything you could. You have been a jewel of a son to your parents and your sisters. A saint! No mother on earth could ask for better.’

  I almost wished my mother had been there t
o hear me called a saint. Then she would realize that there are some people in this world who do appreciate my talents. But it was just as well she wasn’t for she might have disputed a few of the trivial details of my story. It was entirely true that I was half an orphan. You didn’t think I’d lie about something like that, did you? But my mother would tell you it was shame over my wicked and dissolute behaviour that killed the old man. Rather an unfair accusation, if you ask me. But then she had thought me a sad disappointment ever since I said my first word, which apparently was a word no mother would ever want to hear her son utter. She could be a harsh woman at times.

  Dona Lúcia, on the other hand, was a charming if blessedly gullible creature, who was perfectly content that I was whatever a mother could wish for in a son. And that kind of touching faith is bound to bring out the best in any fellow. I swear by the time I left that perfumed courtyard she was almost on the verge of adopting me as her own kin.

  I was to return in five days’ time when she would have my money … her money … ready for me to collect. She had originally proposed two weeks to gather the finances, but I had persuaded her that the ship needed to sail within the week in order to catch the trade winds. A few days, I told her, could make all the difference between a journey lasting mere weeks and a voyage of many months, as I knew from my own experience, having seen ships becalmed for days on end.

  I explained to her that men grew so sick from lack of food and water as their supplies dwindled that by the time they found the wind again, the crew were too weak to man the sails. I told her how I’d seen innocent young boys plunge to their deaths from the rigging, too faint to hold on, and men, driven mad by thirst, leaping into the waves thinking the water was a meadow and they could see their own wives and children running across it. She dabbed her eyes most touchingly at that.