The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman

Henrique continues, “assuming they have souls, so beastly and dung-riddled are their filthy, ghastly undertakings …”

      The crowd nods in agreement. A baby lets out a sudden shriek.

      “Yea,” Henrique exclaims. “Yea … even an innocent babe cries out at the sight of the Devil himself, beseeching the Lord, ‘Most holy Savior! Protect my baptized soul!’”

      The Inquisitor’s voice rings out. “Protect me against the disgusting, putrid pollution that has entered the most holy religion of God, subverting the good into evil.”

      Don Henrique points to us—those sentenced to death.

      “Damned ye be! Damnable are your crimes against man and against God. Ye are to consider the stake a most gentle taste of what awaits you once ye are in the grasp of the Devil. Ye shall drink boiling lead and eat molten brimstone for ale and food. Daily ye shall be skinned and burned, steamed in cauldrons of liquid fire. Your livers shall be fodder for the vulture, your hearts sustenance for the crow. Your entrails shall ye eat, the filth of your bowels shall ye breathe. Your eyes will be plucked out with glowing pokers as the Devil and his servants laugh at your wretched miseries.”

      The Inquisitor holds his breath until his face is flushed, then lets out a chilling scream directed at the crowd.

      “Ye think you are safe from the wiles of the Devil? Think again lest in your airs ye drop your shields and give space for the Devil to come and do his bidding.”

      He returns his attention to us. I listen, but his words do not affect me. I’ve heard them many times before. Don Henrique clutches his heart and says,

      “Satan—cursed be his name—has entered these filthy souls. But Jesus Christ, in His martyrdom, died for you. Died for your souls—all souls, the filthy with the pure. There remains hope for your souls in the life hereafter. Your earthly life is over. By your own stinking hand ye were sentenced, as God and the Church had tried to enter in life and failed. Perhaps ye shall see His wisdom now that death is upon your wretched bodies.

      “Ye still have a chance! Ye still can make restitution to the cross by publicly confessing your errors and admitting them before man as well as God.”

      Don Henrique lights a torch and hoists it into the air.

      “Let the proceedings begin,” he says.

      The ordeal will last all day. The lightest offenders are dealt with first. One by one they are summoned before the Inquisitor, insulted and cursed, then assigned their punishment by the secular arm. Maria Gomez is fined for appearing unveiled in public against the wishes of her husband. Joao Dias is whipped for theft. Salvador Guterrias is imprisoned for life for unnatural fornication with his wife. They should know the real truth. In the dungeon he told me that he had fornicated with animals, that they were more satisfying to him than his fat, stinking wife. Had that bit of knowledge come to the attention of the Inquisition, he would have been sentenced to die.

      Name after name is called. We are forced to stand rigid during the proceedings. I worry about the girl next to me. I fear she will faint and then the guards will beat her. But she proves stronger than I had first thought. Yes, she sways on her feet, but her spine remains upright.

      The tribunal continues past the noon hour and chews up the afternoon until dusk spreads over the square. No conversation in the audience is permitted. Children who violate the rule are immediately silenced—first verbally, then with a sharp slap. Roving guards maintain decorum with stern demeanors and, for those who have succumbed to dozing, a rap on the head with a stout staff.

      Nightfall begins to darken the landscape, but the Inquisitor shows no signs of tiring. Do murderers ever tire of their lust for blood? As the torches are lit around the edges of the stage, Don Henrique points an accusing finger at the first of us condemned to death.

      “Fernando Lopes!” he cries out. “Come forward.”

      Lopes is an emaciated, hirsute man of thirty. His pale skin stretches over a large bony frame that once had been thick and muscular. I had known him before he was caught. He has degenerated very badly. His eyes, dulled by years of incarceration, seem mad now. They dart about aimlessly. His beard, once dark and handsome, is a gray nest of brambles, caked with spittle and blood. His hands are bound with leather straps, but his feet are untethered and bare. He is pulled forward by two guards.

      “Thou miserable, filthy wretch of dung!” the Inquisitor says. “Thou hast been accused of relapsing!”

      “No,” Lopes protests.

      It is useless to deny, but Lopes will do it anyway. He is that kind of man.

      “Quiet, sinner!” shouts the Inquisitor. “Thou knowest this to be truth! Thine own daughter confessed thy sins. Because her confessions were made under oath to the Holy Office, her life shall be mercifully spared. But thee … thou who wast warned in good faith—”

      “But I have done nothing, Most Holy—”

      “Still thou deniest what has been observed and verified by thine own daughter!” the Inquisitor screams. “Thou art to be eternally damned if thy confessions are not made before thy death. Make thy confessions, sinner!”

      “But I have done nothing—”

      Don Henrique addresses the audience, his expression incredulous. “What is to be done with this mongrel to save his soul? Must we show him the Devil’s way?”

      Turning to one of the sentries, he orders, “Shave this New Christian!”

      As two warders restrain Lopes, a third takes his torch and brings it to the struggling man’s beard. The whiskers catch fire and Lopes screams. I cannot watch anymore.

      Henrique says, “Confess thy sins, wretched soul, and allow the Savior to take pity on you!”

      “I confess! I confess!”

      “Thou will confess in earnest?”

      “Yes, yes, only please! …”

      I force myself to glance at the wretched man. Lopes is on fire—a human torch. His shrieks curdle my blood.

      “Douse the fire,” Don Henrique suddenly commands.

      A bucket of water is splashed into Lopes’s face. He gasps for air, his face a grotesque melting candle of dripping water, burnt hair, and charred skin.

      The Inquisitor accuses, “Thou changest linens on Friday. And thou concealest the treacherous act from thy servants by placing the dirty linens atop the clean, only to remove them before sunset on Friday. Admit it!”

      Lopes says nothing.

      “Still thou wadest in defiance!”

      “No, Your Holiness,” Lopes squeaks.

      “Speak up, Fernando Lopes!” the Inquisitor thunders. “Did thou change linens on Friday?”

      Lopes nods.

      “Dost thou admit to thy sin?’

      “Yes, Your—” Lopes swallows. “Yes, Your Holiness.”

      “And to thy sin of refraining from the consumption of pork?”

      “But Your Holiness,” Lopes protests feebly, “pork makes me ill—”

      “Still thou retainest the Devil’s obstinence?”

      “Truly my stomach is ill-bred for its consumption.”

      Don Henrique turns to the galleries.

      “Must we continue listening to the lies of this filthy Jew? Must we prove our intent to save his soul once again? Light the beard.”

      “No!” Lopes screams. “Yes, I confess. I did abstain from the consumption of pork.”

      “Thou art a Judaizer. Admit it, Jew!”

      “Yes, yes, it is true!”

      “And