The Day of Atonement (46 page)

Inácio’s gaze was unfocused, but he looked up, grinning with bloodstained teeth. “You should be thanking me. I killed the Englishwoman’s husband. I have all but given her to you.”

I felt the rage blossom afresh. Inácio must have seen it, because he managed to raise a hand in protest.

“Wait!” he cried. “I see I have been wrong. You and I are not to be enemies. We must be allies. We are alike. You know it is true. Think of what we could accomplish together. The old friendship!” His words were rapid and wheezing.

I hardly understood what he said. The anger was like a storm roaring in my ears. Even the priest had been less despicable than this man. Azinheiro, at least, operated within the rules of an institution, corrupt though it was. Inácio had killed Enéas, had betrayed me, had murdered Rutherford Carver and his servants. He had hurt Roberta. He had done it all for the pleasure of cruelty.

I saw Inácio’s lips moving, and knew he was speaking, but I could not understand the words. I reached out once more and took his head in both my hands. “I found the priest,” I said, “and I showed him mercy. You get none.”

For a fleeting moment, looking into his face, I saw the boy as I’d first seen him, at the bottom of a staircase. Then, with a single, hard gesture, I twisted Inácio’s neck sharply and heard the crack of his neck breaking. It was over. Quick and clean and without joy or flourish.

Before the dead man could begin to slump, I shoved him into the water, where he floated facedown, the waves lapping over his still form. I walked away, and looked out through the open door to the Tagus. There, in the distance, I saw the boat, farther away than I could have imagined. The tides or the winds were casting it away so swiftly. Perhaps if I ran, I might be able to signal them to return to shore and I could join them. I could sit with Franklin and Roberta and I could talk with Mariana. Even the thought of bickering with Eusebio seemed sweet to me.

It was foolishness. I could never catch them, and perhaps that was for the best. I would not have to face them every day. I would have given my life to save any one of those people—yes, even Eusebio—but each one of them was a scathing reminder of all my mistakes, all my broken vows.

I went back down the hallways and stepped outside the building and smelled the sooty air that stank of death and rot and a broken and burning city. I lowered myself upon the wet dirt of the road. Alone in this least broken quarter of a once-great capital, I opened the letter Luis Nobreza had given me. As I read, tears ran down my cheeks. I did not know I was weeping until I saw the drops of water plashing against the paper.

I put the letter away. There was still so much for which I had to atone.

London, five months later

I lost track of how many weeks it took to cross into Spain. I traveled east, staying off the main roads, foraging and hunting, finding work along the way. The temperature dropped, and the snow began to fall, but I still walked, every day, as far as I could drag my legs, numb from fatigue and cold. There were incidents along the road, encounters with men who took me for an easy target, but those meetings were best forgotten.

Once in Spain, between my Portuguese, English, and a smattering of French, I was able to make myself understood. When I reached a town large enough to have an inn, I took the first in a series of long carriage rides. I hated them. I would rather have walked than sit all day, but I rode just the same. Eventually I made my way, perhaps ironically, to San Sebastian, where I remained until the spring. I found a small boardinghouse where no one asked me questions, and I lived off what back-breaking labor I
could find and, from time to time, stealing from men who were themselves thieves.

When the weather warmed and the seas calmed, I took the first ship to England. I had hoped I might sail directly into London, but it was not to be. I traveled, instead, to Falmouth, but I would not allow myself to consider it symmetry. It was a port, and ports took ships. It was nothing more than that.

I remained in Falmouth until I could gather together enough funds, by fair means and foul, for a carriage to London. I had nothing but the clothes I wore. All the money I had saved in my life I had used for the venture in Lisbon, and the wealth I had taken from the Palace of the Inquisition had remained with my friends. When I was a boy of thirteen, I had come to England with little. Now I was a man of four-and-twenty, my birthday having come and gone on the long walk to Spain, and I had even less.

There had been time, so much time, to think about everything that I had done, and I was ashamed of having stolen out of London like a thief, saying goodbye to no one. Even so, I had been right to go, I decided, and all that had happened, all the harm I had done, was done with good intention and based upon sound choices. I regretted that people had been hurt, but I did not regret entering into the fray.

More than anything, I regretted leaving without speaking of my plans to Mr. Weaver.

I had begun my journey out of Lisbon determined never to see him again. It would be too painful for me to face what I had done. Somewhere on that long road, however, as I lay on cold dirt by weak fires, I decided that the pain meant nothing. What did humiliation amount to? Mr. Weaver had always been good to me. That was more important than my pride and hurt feelings.

So in April of 1756, having been gone for the better part of a year, I arrived in London. I was determined to set out at once to Dukes Place and Mr. Weaver’s house. I was prepared to endure the shame.

I was not, however, prepared to see my foster father waiting for
me as I disembarked from the coach. I felt like I had been gone so long, like I had endured so much, that I expected to find Mr. Weaver a decrepit old man. I soon realized that the time had not been as hard for my mentor as it had been for me. He was the same man, tall and muscular, imposing and composed, dignified in his advanced years without being defeated by time.

He smiled at me. “You did not think your whereabouts would be unknown to me.”

I stood there in my ragged coat, my hair unkempt, stubble upon my face, and shook like a child. “You have been following my movements since Falmouth, I suppose.”

“Since San Sebastian.”

Caring nothing for the people who stared, I fell to my knees. “I beg your forgiveness for how I treated you.”

Mr. Weaver raised me up by my elbow. “It is given,” he said. “I understand why you did what you did. I can only hope you found what you were looking for.”

“I saw the city of Lisbon destroyed,” I said. “I saw the Palace of the Inquisition reduced to rubble. I killed priests, and I took their stolen money.”

Mr. Weaver nodded. “That sounds like time well spent.”

Back in his house, I realized Mr. Weaver already had heard a great deal of the story. “Your friends have been to see me. They told me most of what happened. I believe there were things left unsaid, but the accounting gave me much to be proud of.”

“I made many mistakes.”

“You cannot always be accountable for believing the lies of your friends,” Mr. Weaver said.

Evidently, he had heard the truth about Settwell and Roberta. I did not know if I should be relieved or ashamed.

“Your friends set up an account for you at a local goldsmith’s,”
Mr. Weaver explained. “Your share of the spoils of war. You’ll not be wanting money for some time.”

It did not occur to me to ask how much. I didn’t care. “Do you know where they are settled? Are they all in London?”

“Not all,” Mr. Weaver said. “Eusebio Nobreza and his wife have already departed for Rotterdam. I have given them a letter of introduction to my brother, and I have no doubt they shall do well there.”

I said nothing. Was I saddened to hear she was gone? Was I disappointed? I did not think so. “And Luis Nobreza?”

“He remains here in London. He seemed eager to wait for you, but also apprehensive. Can you tell me why?”

I let out a long breath. “He destroyed my father.”

The letter Luis left me had confessed everything. It was he, and not Kingsley Franklin, who had given my father to the Inquisition. He had done it not out of self-preservation, but because my father had given him several thousand pounds in negotiable notes, which he needed converted into gold. My father had set up a series of contacts, all of whom needed to be bribed for him to get himself, his family, and Gabriela and her father out of Lisbon.

“I had betrayed men before,” Luis had written. “I had been inside the Palace of the Inquisition and made to call my friends and neighbors Judaizers, to swear by our Savior that I had witnessed crimes that had, in truth, never taken place. I had done this to save myself and my family. It excuses nothing, but perhaps it explains why betraying your father was not so difficult. Betrayal is a part of life in this city, and why should a man not betray for money as well as preservation? That your father stood poised to flee all of this angered me. It angered me that he could do what I could not.

“I told myself he would be caught with or without me, and better the money should be in my hands than the Inquisition’s. Of course I was deceiving myself. Then, when I sensed you sought the truth of
those events, I blamed a crass Englishman, already ruined. By that time, I had begun to suspect your true identity—you look so much like your father—that I thought it best to put you off my scent. I am embarrassed, but what truly shames me is that I clung to my lie, even to the point of asking you to abandon Mr. Franklin lest you discover my treachery. After you refused me, I decided you must know the truth. I was sick of the lies.

“On my behalf, I can only say that I am a product of this nation, this city which lies in ruins about me as I write these words. Lisbon has suffered as it deserves, and I will too.”

“Where, precisely, can I find Luis Nobreza?”

Mr. Weaver’s expression was impossible to read. “He has taken rooms not far from my house. He asked that I send word when you reached town, which I have done. And he has requested that you call upon him immediately.”

I said nothing.

“What will you do?” Mr. Weaver asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “He set in motion events that resulted in the destruction of my family, but it was ten years ago, and he is an old man. You must tell me what is the right thing.”

Mr. Weaver shook his head. “You do me too much credit if you think I can answer a question such as that. But I have trained you for a long time, and I think you can read the signs as well as I can. What do you make of his decision to wait here for you?”

I considered this. “It is an impossible situation he puts me in, and he knows it. I think he has already decided what he will do. He wants only that I might witness his choice.”

Weaver nodded. “I think so too.”

“What of my other friends from Lisbon?” I asked after a moment.

Weaver smiled. “Mrs. Carver has set herself up with a fine townhouse
near Grosvenor Square. She has become quite the talk of the town, you know. A beautiful and rich widow never wants for friends.”

“Did she ask me to call on her too?”

“Not with words,” Mr. Weaver said. “But I know she hopes to see you. As does your friend Franklin and his wife.”

“His wife?”

“Yes. Apparently he met a Frenchwoman on the road, much younger than himself, and they took to each other.”

For the first time in weeks, I laughed. Somehow, amid all the bodies and ashes, something good had managed to unfold.

I delayed for several days before revealing to any acquaintance that I had returned. I spent that time mostly sleeping and eating, but also inspecting the money left for me and using to it to obtain new clothes. I had my hair tended to, and I took pleasure in receiving a proper shave for the first time since—well, since Enéas had shaved me months before. Since then it had been all stubble and my own clumsy efforts with a dagger and cold water.

Mr. Weaver had made it clear that I might stay in his house as long as I wished. Soon I would find a place of my own, but I was not ready. Not quite yet. Once more I had come to London, a refugee of Lisbon by way of Falmouth. Once again, I stayed with Benjamin Weaver, a man as kind as he was intimidating. The last time I had been too frightened, too devastated, to appreciate the friendship offered me. This time I wanted it for its own sake. I wanted to savor such goodness as there was in the world, because I knew that goodness was real, and I knew it was rare.

On the morning of my fourth day in London, I wrote to Luis Nobreza and told him I would call on him at noon. I received a reply, but noon came and went. I had no intention of going. Luis needed to do what he thought best, but I did not want to witness it. I had no wish
to gaze upon my friend with his throat cut or hanging from a rope or with a bullet to his head. I knew with absolute certainty that he intended self-murder. Perhaps I might have found the words to save him, but I had not the energy to look. Sometimes the transgressions between human beings cannot be forgiven. They can only fade with time.

Instead of waiting for the news of Luis’s death to reach me, I hired a hackney coach and ordered it to take me to Grosvenor Square. I had already found Mrs. Carver’s address in The London Magazine—she was indeed a most popular lady, and many men had made it clear that they would gratefully accept her hand in marriage. Thus far she had refused them all.