ONE:
A CAUSE TO DIE FOR
A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee. Psalm 91:7
SPAIN, 1497
IT WAS THE FIRST TIME I SAW A MAN DIE.
The crowd throbbed around him, a pulsing arena of jeering flesh. In vanity, the doomed man struggled as he was dragged forward by my master’s acolytes. Standing beside my master, I watched from a safe distance with clinical fascination as the acolytes lashed the doomed man to a stake. He was ungraceful in defeat, and I winced as his blasphemies assailed my ears.
As the Acolyte’s finished mounting the heretic, I gazed around. This village was just like the others before it. Small wooden, occasionally brick residences. It was like me, nothing special, least to deserve such drastic action as a public burning. But such is the policy of the Spanish Inquisition; such is the fate of the unrepentant.
His cries suddenly took an earthly, adversely satisfying note. The flames brought light to the darkest corners of his mind and body. What says it of man that his body cannot stand such intensity?
My master bowed his head and crossed himself, first two fingers and thumb pushed together as they traced the sign of the crucifix, starting at his forehead, then breast, then right and left shoulder. He murmured, “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen."
I shadowed his actions and words, perhaps too hastily lifting my head to again observe the pandemonium at and around the pyre. I asked, “What do we do now, master?”
His grizzled face, like the cliff face of an ancient mountain, and cast in shadow by a low-drawn black hat, swung down to bore cold eyes into my own in an unbreakable gaze. No matter to how many more years I was to spend with him, his eyes would always unsettle me. Nothing escaped those two black orbs; they laid bare the very essence of a man, his feints and masquerades swept aside, dust under a broom. His merest glance could make me feel unclean, my routine penance all the more brutal. Not that Inquisitor Hernando would ever glance; such casual mannerisms were mere foothills to his lofty peaks.
“We shall repeat to the townsfolk the Edicts of Grace, least they make to follow the example of this depraved heretic.”
Back as straight as his sword and stride as pointed, he swept forward, robes flapping like cream-coloured bats’ wings in the ember-speckled breeze. Red silk ribbons that matched my own danced downwind from his waist.
Silent and head again bowed, I reflected upon the heresies.
Impurities of body or mind. I thought nothing, nothing at all. My mind had gone blank at its very mention. Starting, I hastened to check myself for any faltering in virtue. Heedless of my inner reprimand, my master carried on.
Judaism, deviance from Catholicism. I shuddered. The very thought… almost enough to make me reach for the Discipline, the chain whip of penitence, hung presently across my shoulders. Not only for self-flagellation, it was also my weapon… To be, might I add, for open conflict was not something I threw myself into, nor a thing thrown upon me.
Disobedience, failing to aid the Inquisition. As an adept of the inquisition, this heresy was amongst the utmost. Even if in itself being an apprentice of Hernando was not easy, this edict was one I found easy to abide to day-to-day. It was with pride I carried my sacred burden. I tightened the red linen belt around my ceremonial white robes, veiling further my everyday attire of black underneath.
Sacrilege, failure to honour Him. My daily prayers went straight to Him, my every thought laid bear for His decree. Maybe one day I would be blessed with a sign, an acknowledgment… But such a vain goal was not what fuelled me. Hernando was more a father to me than the one with whose blood I shared. A physical instrument of enforcing His will was Hernando, I his aide in any way possible since his uplifting me from the orphanage of some probably now non-existent decrepit village. I remain eternally in his debt for seeing in me a higher purpose when none other could.
In my scrutiny, I found a cold nothingness, like a hallow tree in the dead of winter. A man was dead. His family – what of them? At my orphanage we had learnt all were equal before god, yet what equality had this men to those who had stood by? To them, his death had been but something to spectate, now merely a topic of gossip.
I bowed my head respectfully before my approaching master’s, the gesture thankfully allowing me to tactfully break contact with those oh-so imposing eyes. Several of the darkly robed acolytes regarded me coldly, and as if from a distance such that I would not notice their sneers. Hernando had chosen me as his personal apprentice, I had been relieved of such tasks as mad-handling dissenters. I knew I was a source of jealousy, being amongst the youngest of Hernando’s retinue.
I only knew only a few of their names, those whose feelings towards me were the most intense, positive or negative. All were at least a half-dozen summers older than I, with the unforgettable exception of Vito, whose age matched my own. He caught my eye and smiled briefly. In their entirety, Hernando’s aides stood there, clad in dark robes of violet, black and crimson, some of their glares sufficient to freeze over the Mediterranean.. They formed a rough semi-circle around Hernando and me.
One of them stepped forward. For reasons unfortunate I recognized him. Leocadio, eyes like ice and black robes stained with dirt, nodded his head to Hernando in a bow disgraceful. “It is done.”
Hernando replied with more grace than the acolyte deserved. “My congratulations. God have mercy upon this most misguided of souls…”
Despite his pious optimism, we echoed his words. “God have mercy.”
Nodding to himself, Hernando motioned for us to follow him, dispatching several acolytes to deal to the pyre. Leocadio quickly latched himself to the Inquisitor’s side.
“Sir, we must discuss…” He looked around, glaring when his gaze crossed mine as swords do in duelling. “We must discuss the heretic’s lasts words. In private, if you allow.”
“Be it troubling?” Leocadio almost winced under the cold stare, like a sinner before the gates of heaven. Hernando’s tone wasn’t hostile, but it was always one that required little baiting to become so. Actually, most disturbing was how sincere his tone sounded.
“Most,” He managed to choke.
Marrano, I thought, silently cursing the Acolyte.
The insult, even in thought, shocked me. Hate was a sin, regardless of the obvious reciprocation mine faced. I didn’t often rise to the acolyte’s bitter bait, but Leocadio was one for whom my hate – there really is no other word for it – was almost given leave. But no, not this time. I give myself an inch and think it, and I’ll end up taking a mile and punching his smug face in…
Maybe my veil was lacking in subtlety, for Vito had suddenly shuffled to my side.
That's all for now, I'm trying to keep it as real to history as possible so please let me know if any details strike you as completly wrong. I have a rough idea where the story line is suppose to go, sorta just started this on a whim after some research on wikipedia. Comments and criticism welcome...
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