Torquemada (14 page)

Even as Mendoza was speaking threads of smoke trickled under the door and into the synagogue, filling the old building with harsh smell and crackling noise. The old beadle ran to the door of the synagogue and tried to open it. It opened outward, but now it would not respond to his efforts.

“Help me! Help me!” he cried. Men from the congregation rushed to help him. Catherine sat unmoving. Mendoza, pitching his voice high, read.

“Holy is the Lord. All the praises of Israel make a tent for you. Our fathers trusted in you. They trusted and you delivered them from evil. They cried out to you and you heard them and they were delivered. They trusted in you and their trust was not confounded—”

The crackling sound had become a roar now. Strangely as if the information of her own senses was coming from a great distance, Catherine realized that men outside were burning the synagogue. The people in the synagogue were trapped there. The whole Jewish quarter had become a Place of the Act of Faith, and in the midst of it the old building burned like tinder.

14

THE ROOM IN WHICH TORQUEMADA LIVED HIS LIFE
at this time was not much larger than the cell in which Alvero lay. The room had a floor of black tile and walls of white plaster. Its only ornamentation – if one can consider it such – was a crucifix which hung from one wall. In addition to this there was a chair in the room and a bed and a small chest of drawers. In front of the crucifix there was a hempen mat and it was on this mat that Torquemada was kneeling when a monk knocked at his door.

“Come in,” Torquemada said.

The monk entered. Torquemada remained where he was, unmoving. The only illumination in the room was a bar of light that fell upon Torquemada from a high window in the wall of the cell. The monk stood inside the door and waited. Finally Torquemada finished with his devotions and rose and turned to face the monk, the broad band of light falling between them.

“Well, Brother?” Torquemada asked.

“They burned the synagogue,” the monk replied.

Torquemada's face tightened and he nodded. “I saw the smoke. I smelled the smoke. Who burned the synagogue, Brother?”

“People – good people—”

“Good people? Or thieves and cut-throats?”

“Good Christians,” the monk said defensively.

“Good Christians.” Torquemada nodded. “Were there people in the synagogue when it burned? Were the Jews at their prayers?”

“It was the time of their prayers,” the monk said.

“Were any saved?”

“No. They all died. The wood was very old. You know how old the wood was, Prior. You know how old the synagogue was.”

“I know.” Torquemada nodded.

“As old as time,” the monk went on. “I have heard it said that the devil built the building before there were any human beings in Spain and then he gave it to the Jews—”

“Don't talk like a fool!” Torquemada interrupted him. “Did the whole building burn?”

“It went up like a torch.”

“Who was there?”

“About forty Jews,” the monk said, “and the Rabbi Mendoza.”

“No others?”

“And a woman.”

“A woman?” Torquemada came close to the monk now so that their faces were only inches apart. “What do you mean – a woman? Few of the Jewish women go to the synagogue – except on the Sabbath.”

“This was not a Jewish woman,” the monk said defensively.

“How do you know?” Torquemada demanded.

“By the way she was dressed. She wore the clothes of a Spanish lady of wealth. She was covered with a cloak but when it fell away from her I saw the jewels she wore.”

“Did you recognize her?”

“I am not sure, Prior.” The monk was defensive, almost pleading. He wanted to move in a safe direction but he could not for the life of him anticipate what direction Torquemada desired him to move in. “She was a Christian woman,” he insisted.

“Old? Young? Of middle years? Think, you fool! What was she like? What was her appearance?”

“She was very young, I think. She put me in mind of the daughter of Don Alvero.”

“Why didn't you stop her?” Torquemada cried, his voice shrill and fierce.

The monk cowered away from him, demanding, “Was it my place to stop her, Prior? She was a heretic the moment she set foot in there. Tell me – how is it my duty to stop her? It was only my duty to watch her and denounce her. God himself consumed her.”

Suddenly Torquemada grasped the monk's robe in his clenched fists, drew him close and whispered, “How dare you?”

“What have I done?” the monk begged, panic-stricken.

Torquemada let go of the man and thrust him away. “What have you done! Do penance until you know what you have done. A hundred days on bread and water will sharpen your knowledge of sin! A hundred nights naked on your bed will sharpen your sodden sensitivity!”

The monk dropped to his knees now, stammering, “Please – please, Prior – how have I sinned? Tell me how I have sinned.”

“Get out of here!” Torquemada roared. “Leave me!”

The monk climbed to his feet and fled from the room. Torquemada stood there alone, his eyes closed, his fists clenched and finally he whispered, “God – pity me—”

15

AFTER THE MONK HAD LEFT
,
TORQUEMADA SAT FOR
almost an hour in the darkness of his room. The fires of hell closed in upon him but he endured – and he did not question God or God's reasons. Once, aloud, he said.

“I am your instrument.”

This did not comfort Torquemada. It was simply an acknowledgment of himself to himself. At last he rose and went out of the room and walked through the corridors of the priory. There was no one in the priory who had the courage to face him in his anger and the word had gone about that he was filled with anger. The passageways were deserted. He went down the wet stone stairs to the place where the Inquisition cells were and he came into the circle of radiance cast by a pitch torch. Taking this torch from its bracket he continued along the passageway until he come to Alvero's cell. He opened the door and went in. Alvero lay on his bed asleep.

Torquemada stood over Alvero watching him as he slept. Alvero slept peacefully, breathing long and deeply; his sleep was innocent and untroubled. Torquemada felt a fierce wave of envy, and an even fiercer sense of hatred, but this hatred came and went; and suddenly Alvero opened his eyes and sat up, covering his eyes at first from the glare of the torch and then opening them wide to see Torquemada.

“I had no dreams,” Alvero said. “The dreams are here. Have you ever thought, Thomas, that with all our tales of hell we may be closer to the truth of it than we ever imagine? Have you ever thought that perhaps this whole world of ours is simply the hell of another existence?”

“More blasphemy?” Torquemada asked woodenly.

“How many times will you kill me?” Alvero shrugged. “How many times will you burn me?”

Alvero stared at his hands for a moment or two and then he asked softly, “Is it time, Thomas?”

“Time for what?”

“For me to die.”

“It is not time for you to die,” Torquemada replied.

“Then why have you come? You intrude on me, Thomas. All I have left is the privilege of being alone with myself, but you stand in front of me like an accusing angel. Or is it an accusing devil? What do you want, Thomas? Are you here for my soul's sake? You have always been most profoundly concerned with the health of my immortal soul. Shall I confess myself, Thomas?”

“For my own soul's sake, I think,” Torquemada replied.

Alvero found that amusing. He began to laugh. The laugher took hold of him and he found that his whole body was shaking with it. He could not stop himself. He doubled over with the laughter until Torquemada cried out.

“Stop it! Stop it!”

“Your soul's sake, Thomas! Thomas, Thomas, I never thought to live to see the day when you would doubt your soul – and undertake something for your soul's sake. Have you ever seen your soul, Thomas? Your soul is black, Thomas – black as pitch, but shrouded in gold. Festooned with a million pieces of gold all of them robbed from all the poor devils you burn in your Act of Faith. Thomas – Thomas, you are a bitter accusation against mankind. The Good Lord is an idiot – or he never would have let the waters of the flood recede. But why should I doubt you, Thomas? If you should ever step over the edge of eternity and plunge into the pit of hell all the angels will come singing to catch you, to rescue you and to welcome your stinking immortal soul. To heaven, I hope – believe me, Thomas, that is a most fervent hope. I pray that hope every night to three gods. The God of the Jews, the God of the Christians and the God of the Muslims; to all three of them. I pray that they will open their arms and welcome your stinking, shining soul to heaven. Do you know why? Can you think of a good reason why, Thomas?” Alvero waited, smiling up at Torquemada's face; and in spite of himself Torquemada was moved to ask.

“Why?”

“The answer is obvious” – Alvero smiled – “and simple and direct – an assurance to me that if I spend an eternity in hell I will never have to see your face.”

“You have courage, Alvero,” Torquemada admitted.

“Courage!” Alvero cried, rising to his feet. “To hell with courage! What is courage? When you reach the end there is no more distance to go. If you fall off a cliff there is no way back. I have nothing to lose, Thomas. Will you burn me twice? Three times? Ten times?”

“Not even once,” Torquemada said tonelessly. “I am going to release you.”

Alvero went close to Torquemada now, face to face, and whispered to him, “What is this, Thomas? Have you had a bellyful of the rack and the thumbscrews? Is this some new method of torture, more refined, more delicate?”

“I am telling you the truth. I am going to release you.”

“No,” Alvero said. “No, not at all.” He turned back to his bed and sat down, staring at the floor of his cell, and he muttered, “No one has ever come alive from the presence of Torquemada. I know you like a book, Thomas – like a book of death. Death is the only friend Torquemada has – death and the torture room. How many hundreds have you condemned to death, Thomas?”

“But you knew this,” Torquemada reminded him. “You knew this and you remained my friend. You remained my friend because you were secure in my faith—”

“I am paying my price!” Alvero interrupted him. “Don't talk to me about your faith. We don't share a faith. We share nothing.”

Torquemada nodded and said, almost with detachment and utterly without emotion, “Nevertheless you will be released, Alvero. All your possessions are subject to seizure and they become the property of the Holy Inquisition. I would counsel you to go away. Go empty-handed – for this is the way we come into the world, and for you, Alvero de Rafel, it is a departure as profound, I think, as the departure that comes with death. So I say to you, go away. Your possessions are forfeit but you may take a single horse and a saddle and sidearms. You will leave here, and you will do this tonight. If you are in Segovia tomorrow I shall issue orders for your arrest.”

Staring unbelievingly at Torquemada, Alvero stood up again. Torquemada went to the door of the cell and swung it open and pointed and said.

“Go now, Alvero. I will light your way out and through the passage.”

Alvero went to him, and as he walked he asked the Prior in a whisper, “Do you mean this? God help me, in all truth, Thomas, are you lying to me? Are you playing games with me? You were my friend once – understand that I can endure very little more—”

“I mean it!” Torquemada said savagely.

Alvero stared at him. “I cannot thank you – I will not thank you. God damn you, I would almost rather die than have a kindness from you! I will not owe my life to you!”

Torquemada walked through the door and Alvero followed him, followed the circle of radiance that meant life or death, truth or falsehood, all the world or no world whatsoever. Raging and doubting Alvero followed him, and Torquemada answered thoughtfully.