IHAD NEVER IMAGINEDIWOULD OPPOSE THEHOLYINQUISITIONin Spain, nor dared to think I might run afoul of it. But I am writing this in chains. The book itself was furnished by a faithful servant from my house in Madrid. I am writing in the language of the English so my fellow prisoners cannot read this book—though I doubt many of the poor fellows can read at all.
I do not understand all the reasons for my presence in this prison, but despite the official papers served upon my arrest, I know the matter stems from a speech I gave in an inn not far from here. For years now the Holy Church has sought to settle the problem of Jewish converts to Christianity—to test their souls, as it were. The matter seemed fair to me when I first considered it. At the time Columbus sailed for the New World, Their Majesties Ferdinand and Isabella gave the Jewish population of Spain four months to leave the country. Many of Abraham’s children departed during that time of grace, leaving their homes and belongings and paying dearly for safe passage away from Spain. The Jews who remained professed to convert. They married into all classes and races, and many of them eventually obtained considerable wealth, status, and power—power that Spanish officials now seem determined to test.
The Council of the Inquisition—known here as the Supreme— has sworn to stamp out heresy in all its forms. I applauded their efforts at first—what Christian could not stand against heresy?— but soon the Supreme was denouncing people for such innocent offenses as smiling at the mention of the Virgin Mary, eating meat on Friday, and urinating against the walls of a church. One man privately confided to his wife that he did not believe fornication was a sin; she denounced him, and now he sits beside me in this cell. If you will recall, in 1622 the entire Enrique family was tossed into prison and chained for two years because secret witnesses claimed their father, the Duke of Alva, had been buried according to Jewish rites. No one could prove he had been buried in such a manner, but neither could anyone prove he had not.
If you will recall—I frowned, uncertain whom the you referred to. Had Asher written this journal for himself? Or had he intended to give it to a friend? I rechecked the date on the front page, then did the math. Sixty-eight years had passed since the supposed writing of this journal and the imprisonment of the Enrique family, so Asher was either writing to a very old friend or he persisted in his delusion even here . . .
I glanced at the doorway as voices sounded outside in the hallway, then relaxed as they faded. Interested in spite of my fears for Asher’s mental health, I kept reading.
I am here because I defended my neighbor, Señora Melendez. She was arrested after someone accused her of not eating pork and not changing her linens on Saturdays; these innocent activities resulted in a charge of Jewishness. I went to the trial to protest that Señora Melendez had not changed her linens or eaten pork since I have known her; she is too poor to buy a pig and too lazy for cleanliness. But before I could speak, I learned that Señora Melendez had already signed a confession. Placed upon the rack, she confessed to her alleged crimes, confessed to being a Jew, confessed to anything they repeated to her. The Supreme sentenced her to a hundred lashes, to be bestowed while she made her way through the streets on foot.
The sight of tears in that helpless woman’s eyes roused my passion. Her eyes were not like those of Christ, who bore my blow without self-pity, but I knew she was innocent of any crime. Like the Nazarene, she did not deserve to suffer. Filled with the wrath of holy indignation, I stood and proclaimed that the inquisitor, the local bishop, and the attending doctor were false and evil fellows.
Had I been a mortal man, I would have turned and hurried from the place, for in the first shock of my words the authorities did not move. Had I been a wiser man, I would have held my peace and kept my thoughts to myself. But being neither mortal nor wise, I spoke out, and within a moment I was surrounded by a number of the king’s men. Grinning like the thoughtless fools they are, they grasped my arms and led me to stand before the offended bishop.
He asked my name; I gave it truthfully.
He asked my occupation; I told him I was a wanderer.
He declared me a heathen and infidel; I told him I loved God and followed the faith, but nonetheless I was taken to the dungeon, where I waited in darkness for many days and nights. Listening to the soughing of the wind through the prison casements, I considered that confinement might be the only sentence my immortal body could not bear. Others had tried to kill me, and always, within hours after death, my heart resumed its rhythm and my chest rose and fell with breath. Threats hold no fear for me, for I have been drowned, speared, and starved. But never has my spirit been allowed to take its place in the silent halls of Death. Always I am returned to my weary body, which heals in time and resumes its course over the earth.
Yesterday they came for me. In the presence of a public executioner, a representative of the local bishop, a doctor, and an official notary, I was told that I would be examined in the light of God’s laws. Oh, if they only knew how I had already been judged and found wanting!
After being roughly thrust into the room, I was stripped to the skin and brought to the rack, as cruel an instrument as mankind ever invented. The executioner bade me mount it—using his sword to encourage me onward—and there I was hung by the bare shoulders with two small cords, which went under both my arms and ran on two iron rings fixed in the wall above my head. After being hoisted to the appointed height, the executioner moved to my legs. Tying a cord about each of my ankles, he placed one of the rack’s planks over my knees, then stood upon the plank and pulled upon the cords, drawing my ankles upward at an unnatural angle. The sinews of my hams burst asunder, the lids of my knees shattered, and the cords remained taut. There I hung in agony for more than an hour.
Then the executioner, laying my right arm above my left, did wind a cord over both arms seven times. Then lying down upon his back, he set both his feet on my stretched belly. He charged and drew violently with his hands, making my womb suffer the force of his feet, until the seven cords combined in one place of my arm, cutting the crown, sinews, and flesh to the bare bones. He did pull my fingers in close to the palm of my hands, leaving the left hand limp and numb so that I felt nothing for hours.
Then, by command of the Justice, my trembling body was laid upon the face of the rack, with my head downward and enclosed within a circled hole; my belly upmost, and my heels upward toward the top of the rack. My legs and arms, being drawn apart, were fastened with pins and cords to both sides of the outward planks, for now I was to receive my main torments.
What good does it to do to record these horrors? You shall not want to relive them when you awaken next in the dawn of a new day, and every man forgets what he has lived. Yet herein is a lesson you must not forget: Do not forget the water device through which water was poured in your belly until you strangled on the taste of it. Do not forget the injustice of being declared guilty at the moment of your arrest and being tortured only to gain a confession. Do not forget that you were held without precise charge and no possible defense. Do not forget that many were required to confess to crimes they struggled desperately to imagine, though you knew full well how you erred. You spoke the truth, and for that they will decree that you must die.
Go then to the stake as steadily and with as great a determination as the Nazarene whom you injured. If by dying you command the time and attention of the Inquisitors, you may prevent them from harassing one of the others whom Jesus loved. If so, you have not borne the agony in vain.
A wide blank space followed the last paragraph, and when the story resumed on the next page, the handwriting seemed to waver with weakness. Caught up in the story, I pressed on.
The execution took place within the auto-de-fé, a spectacular occasion held in the elegant Plaza Mayor, a square in the center of Madrid. The king and his court assembled for the spectacle, each man and lady dressed in full regalia. How well I remember it! While I knelt upon the slave-wagon, my skin grimed in filth and crusty with vermin, a gentle breeze blew over the gathering, fluttering the ribbons on the ladies’ headdresses and ruffling the men’s wigs. I remember one lovely girl—she leaned over the railing that sheltered her from the place of execution and waved at me in a small token of pity. I can still see the white lace at her wrist fluttering in the breeze . . .
But to continue my recital of events—before us marched the officers of the Inquisition, preceded by trumpets, kettledrums, and the royal banner. In the center of the square a high scaffold loomed, and thither, from seven in the morning until sunset, were brought criminals of both sexes; all the Inquisitions in the kingdom sending their prisoners to Madrid. Twenty men and women out of these prisoners were ordered to be burned, myself among them. Fifty Jews and Jewesses, having never been imprisoned, were sentenced to long confinement and to wear always a yellow cap. Ten others, indicted for bigamy, witchcraft, and other crimes, were sentenced to be whipped, then to serve in the king’s galleys. These last wore large pasteboard caps and halters around their necks as befitted those who would serve in the yoke of bondage.
On this solemn occasion the entire court of Spain had gathered. The grand inquisitor’s chair rose above that of the king, resting in a sort of tribunal to which we were led like sheep to the slaughter. A thick cord was bound about my neck, by this I was yanked off the wagon and led to stand before the king, the inquisitor, and the curious host.
At the place of execution there were many stakes set about— one for each prisoner to be burned. A large quantity of dry furze had been piled about the stakes. The stakes of the Protestants, or, as the inquisitors call us, the professed, rise about four yards into the air, and each has a small board where the prisoner is seated within half a yard of the top. Each of us was prodded up a ladder between two priests, and when we came to the board, we were com- manded to turn and face the people. The priests then spent nearly a quarter of an hour exhorting us to be reconciled to the Holy See of Rome, but though I knew of Peter and respected him, I had decided I could not ever again be a party to the death and destruction of innocents. The observers nearby mimicked our stalwart courage, and upon our refusal to submit, the priests came down and the executioner ascended, one by one turning us off the ladder and chaining our bodies close to the stakes. The priests then came up the ladder a second time, renewing their obnoxious exhortations. The man three stakes down from my position did yield to this last entreaty, and for his piety and devotion the executioner granted mercy. In the sight of God and the assembled company, the executioner climbed the ladder with a noose of thin cord, looped it around the penitent’s neck, and strangled him.
Is that mercy?
Finding their last exhortations ineffectual, the priests proclaimed that they would leave us to the devil, who was standing at our elbows, ready to receive our souls and carry us to flames of hell fire. A general shout arose as they descended the ladders, and the universal cry echoed from the observation stands: “Let the dogs’ beards be made!”
My intentions were resolute, but I did not relish the thought of what came next. If Jesus could pray “Let this cup pass from me,” could I not cringe from the torture of the fire? While the crowds jeered, the executioners lit torches upon poles, then pressed them in to touch the beards that grew upon every man’s face. The barbarity was repeated for each prisoner in the line, and my flesh recoiled at the knowledge of what I would soon endure.
But even as I saw the torch approaching, I wondered at the sight that met my eyes. In the flames blossoming to my right, I saw daunt- less men and women thrusting their hands and feet into the flames with courageous fortitude, yielding to their fate with such resolution that many of the spectators lamented that such heroic souls had not been more enlightened. Just before the flames licked at my own beard, I saw the face of the Spanish king, who sat with dull eyes and doubtless a heavy heart. I did not doubt that he yearned to be elsewhere, but his presence was required to sanction that mockery of a tribunal.
On June 30, 1690, my body was burnt to bone and ashes. I do not know—or do not remember, I know not which—what they did with the charred remains, but I awoke three days later on the banks of the Tajo River. My skin felt tender and fragile; the gentle rays of the sun seemed to blister and scorch my very soul. I found solace and comfort by coating my flesh with mud from the riverbank, then remained hidden under a bridge for nearly a week, eating small insects and drinking from the flowing river.
Today I shall hail a passing boat and beg assistance. And tomorrow night I shall return to my house, gather whatever remains of my belongings, and begin the journey back to Rome. I am tired and sick in body and soul.
Would that God had collected my soul while my body fell into ashes and embers! I would not have gone willingly to the devil no matter how earnestly the inquisitor wished me to do so, but I would have given ten lifetimes to remain in the oblivion of peace.
I am jealous of my fellows at the stake. They resisted to the end, they stood for truth, and today they are with God. Jealousy is an ugly sin, yet I am often consumed with it. I am jealous of the hundreds who died in the Naples earthquake nearly sixty years ago. In prison I heard that plague, war, and famine stalk the land of Germany; more than eight million souls have died there in this generation alone.
Perhaps I should save Rome for another journey—indeed, I think I shall. Tomorrow, I will set my feet upon the road westward and not stop until I reach the land where death dwells.
Another wide blank space followed this entry. I pressed my hand over the page as the wind blew in from the window and whipped the curtains toward me. Asher’s story—real or fiction—had shattered my soul. As I read, I could almost smell the scent of burning wood and hear the agonized screams as the flames devoured the condemned prisoners’ faces. Delusional or not, the man was a talented storyteller.
I supposed any good writer could create that story if he had researched the Spanish Inquisition. I did not want to believe a man could survive burning at the stake and numerous other executions, but wouldn’t that kind of trial account for the resignation I sometimes heard in Asher’s voice and the world-weariness in his eyes?
I shivered as a shadow fell across the room. I lifted my face toward the window, seeking the light, and saw Asher standing outside, his gaze mystified and somber—
My breath caught in my lungs. He had seen me with the book.
Before I could speak, Asher turned and walked away. Mortified, I closed the journal and with trembling fingers set it back in its place. I stood and paced before the bookshelf, wondering whether I should leave or remain here to face him—
The sound of a key in the lock settled the question. As I stood there, as embarrassed as a judge caught in a lie, Asher came through the door, his eyes downcast, his shoulders hunched. Not looking at me, he shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a hook, then slipped his hands into his pockets and looked up, his gentle brown eyes sparking with some emotion I couldn’t read.
“Asher, I’m sorry—”
“Did you find what you were looking for?” He spoke softly, and I could read no trace of condemnation or anger in his eyes.
I pressed my fingertips to my lips, not certain how to respond. I had come here to make Asher face the truth, yet what I had just read convinced me he was either telling the truth or far more involved in his delusion than I had supposed. If it was the latter, he needed serious professional help.
“Asher”—my smile wavered—“I don’t know what you want me to do. You tell me things, and everything you say sounds accurate, but your stories cannot be true. It’s impossible. Nobody lives two thousand years, and nobody dies and wakes up again a few days later.”
He walked past me toward the kitchen, then opened a small refrigerator tucked under the counter. “Would you like a soft drink?”
I shook my head in exasperation. “No. What I want is answers, Asher. You’ve convinced me you’re either telling the truth or you’re”— I gulped—“in need of psychological help. So unless you want me to call a shrink, you’d better explain some things.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile as he popped the ring on a can of soda. “You think I’m crazy?” He leaned back against the counter, then lifted the soda can in an informal toast. “You wouldn’t be the first to think so, signorina.”
“Asher, please.” I walked to him and caught his free hand, cradling it between my palms. “I want to understand. I want to help you, but you’ve got to see that these things just can’t happen. Even God is logical, and Reverend Synn says—”
His brows rose, graceful wings of scorn. “Reverend Synn knows nothing about faith. But I will tell you everything, and you can make your own decision about my sanity. But whether you believe or not, nothing will change.”
His hand caught mine then, and with surprising tenderness he led me to the antique settee. We sat together like two nervous teenagers on a first date, then he turned slightly and looked at me, his eyes filled with a curious deep longing. “What do you want to know?”
I took a deep breath, grateful that we were finally being honest with one another. If I could fully understand the foundation of his fantasy, perhaps I could gently chip away at that delusional underpinning, leading him step by step toward reality . . .
I smiled in the calm strength of compassion. “All right. You’ve told me what happened in the beginning. But tell me why God would want to punish you.”
“Why shouldn’t he punish me? I struck God’s only Son in his hour of weakness.”
“Others struck him too. And the Romans crucified him. So why aren’t they wandering the earth like you?”
His gaze dropped like a stone. “I asked myself the same question many times, and then I found the answer in Scripture. As the Roman guards injured him, Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.’”
“So—he forgave the Roman soldiers, but not you?”
“I was not at the cross. He was not speaking of me.”
I bit my lip, wishing I’d paid more attention to my Sunday school teacher. “So you think,” I began, “that the man who taught his followers to forgive and love and turn the other cheek has borne a grudge against you for two thousand years.”
An inexplicable smile swept over Asher’s face. “You’re looking at things from the wrong perspective, Claudia. I used to think God was angry with me. For two or three hundred years I railed against his injustice, then I began to realize that what I saw as a curse could be a blessing. In the tradition of Jesus, who died so that others may live, I was cursed so others could be blessed.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to find the meaning in his riddle. “I can’t see God cursing anybody. After all, don’t they say God is love?”
“God is also a judge. Jesus cursed a fig tree for not bearing fruit. God cursed creation after man’s disobedience. He is a righteous judge, and he cannot tolerate sin.” Sensing my confusion, Asher spread his hands in a gesture of openness. “You must understand God’s eternal plan, Claudia. The Scriptures plainly say that God allows the world to continue because every new day brings another opportunity for men to come to Christ. The Lord isn’t being slow about his promise to return, but he is being patient with mankind. He does not want anyone to perish, so he is allowing more time for people to repent. But soon his patience will end, Jesus will call the church to heaven, and those who remain will endure severe tribulation. The evil one, the Antichrist, will step to the center of the world’s stage, and all who remain on earth will be forced to submit to him or pay the consequences.”
I pressed my hand to my forehead and struggled to still my spinning thoughts. It was hard to remain coherent when seated so close to Asher’s persuasive eyes.
“So,” I said, speaking slowly, measuring each word, “you think God has left you here . . . to preach?” I forced a smile. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Asher, but you’re not exactly what I think of when I think preacher.”
“I’m not a preacher.” His eyes brimmed with tenderness and regret. “Not in the usual sense, at least. The gospel of Jesus Christ is preached in every nation today; God doesn’t need me to evangelize the world. My purpose, as I have come to understand it, is to bear witness to one individual in each generation.”
“Just one person?”
“One particular person. The one who would be Antichrist. The one who would rise to world dominion if Jesus were to call the church away.”
With a shiver of vivid recollection, I remembered the passion in Asher’s eyes when he told me he wanted to lead Santos Justus to the Lord—and he wanted me to help him.
“Oh, no.” I threw up my hands in a defensive posture. “We’re not going back to that topic. I’m not going to let you share all this with Justus. He—well, he won’t be as understanding as I’ve been. In fact, if I hadn’t been engaged to a psychologist who thinks you can be cured, I don’t think I’d have listened to this much of your story.”
His chin lifted. “You think I need to be cured?”
“Yes—and no.” I was babbling to cover my confusion, and I didn’t like feeling out of control. I stopped, gripped the edge of the settee, and looked him directly in the eye. “I think you will do yourself real harm if you persist in this idea of confronting Justus.”
“Will you have me dismissed if I persist?”
“Probably.” I nodded with a taut jerk of my head. “Definitely, yes. I don’t know why you’re working, anyway. You obviously don’t need the extra income.”
“No, I don’t.” He squinted in embarrassment. “You know about the money?”
“I know you own this hotel. Signora Casale told me.”
He looked away, a betraying blush brightening his face. “I bought it shortly after it was built, mainly because I wanted a place to call home. A place to store my life’s work.” He gestured to the books surrounding us. “A man needs roots, no matter how often he wanders.” He shrugged. “A little money, invested over several lifetimes, can easily grow into a fortune. I have never lacked for worldly wealth.”
I crossed my arms, a little stunned at how easily he could cross the boundary between reality and fantasy. “And I suppose the employees think you are the great-great-great-grandson of the original owner.”
Featherlike laugh lines crinkled around his eyes. “Something like that.”
Silence overtook us. A light rain had begun to fall, and tires hissed on the wet asphalt outside the window. Some women walked by in the hotel hallway, leaving a trail of laughter that seeped in under the door. In the kitchen, a faucet dripped in a slow, rhythmic patter.
Asher must have been gathering his thoughts because he shifted on the settee and suddenly filled the silence with a stream of words. “I began this work in the medieval age, you see. Churchmen of that time divided the world into two realms, the kingdom of God and the kingdom of Satan. For every light there was a corresponding darkness. There were two sides to every issue: good and evil. And I began to consider a theory: Since Satan would prepare a man to do his bidding in each generation, why shouldn’t God prepare a man as well?”
Feeling unqualified to theorize about spiritual matters, I said nothing. Asher must have interpreted my silence as understanding or agreement, for he continued. “Thomas Aquinas and Albertus Magnus, two of the greatest medieval theologians, declared that the Antichrist would be born in Babylon, he would proceed to Jerusalem, and there persuade the people that he was a Messiah. This son of Satan would rule the earth, then Enoch and Elijah would be sent to confront him. This belief dominated the medieval age, continuing into the Protestant Reformation in the sixteenth century. The theology changed somewhat with the tenor of the times—the Protestants called the pope Antichrist; the pope returned the favor and identified the Antichrist as Martin Luther. But then something remarkable happened—a German tract, printed after 1550, announced that the Antichrist had been born in Babylon. According to this tract, the newborn child was abnormally large, had cat’s teeth, spoke after eight days, and possessed the power to make manna fall from heaven.”
I winced. “Surely you didn’t—you don’t—believe that.”
Asher lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Men believed strange things in those days. By the time the story reached me it had been embroidered, so I did not know what was true and what was not. But I became convinced of one thing: The Antichrist was neither a figment of men’s imagination nor a spiritual symbol. The Scriptures speak of him as a living man, so as a living man he will come. Since the devil cannot know when the Father will remove the believers, he must have a candidate waiting in each generation.”
My mind vibrated with a million thoughts. “And so you set out to confront these men?”
“I tried. In the beginning it was difficult. The world was a bigger place, and communication slow and unreliable. I had no way of knowing what forces were stirring in the kingdoms beyond my own, so I traveled a great deal, listened to people, and visited the courts of learned men. I entertained kings with my tales of travel and history. I shared the true story of my past with anyone who would listen.”
From out of nowhere, like a careening vehicle, came a name. “Paul von Eitzen, Bishop of Schleswig,” I whispered, recalling the words I had read only a few days earlier. “You visited him in . . . Hapsburg.”
“Hamburg,” Asher corrected, glancing at me with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “I believe it was around . . . the mid–sixteenth century. My memory is as faulty as any man’s; that’s why I began keeping my journals.”
I waved a hand at the shelves lining the walls. “You wrote all these.”
“Yes.”
“Every word is true?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Every word is a true testimony of how I remembered the events. There were periods of dark days . . . when my memory clouded.”
“After your executions.”
His pupils dilated, his eyes going dark with hope and wonder. “You read quite a bit.”
“I read enough.”
“Then you understand.”
“Not much, I’m afraid.” I rubbed my hand hard through my hair, half hoping a scalp massage might stimulate my sluggish brain. “Asher, I’m confused. What are you hoping to accomplish by confronting these men?”
He rubbed a hand over his face, and I heard the faint rasp of his evening stubble. “Two things—first, I hope to save their immortal souls. If they turn from evil to Christ, I have helped keep them from hell. And if they choose God”—two deep lines appeared between his brows—“I hope I will have gained time for all mankind. If there is no Antichrist to rise after the departure of the church, the timing will not be right, so—”
“The Scriptures cannot be fulfilled.” I finished the sentence for him, understanding his logic but not his rationale. “Let me see if I understand— you want to turn the Antichrist from his appointed path—”
“I’m not sure it is appointed,” he interrupted. “All men have free will, so until he submits his soul to Satan, he will be free to choose God and reject evil.”
I sat back, momentarily confused by the mismatch between what I had read of the Wandering Jew and what Asher was saying. “If you really believe this, why don’t you just sit back and let the prophecies unfold? After all, won’t your curse be broken when Christ returns?”
The corners of Asher’s mouth went tight with distress as he looked away. “Only a truly selfish man would seek to end his suffering when he could bring God’s mercy to others.” A tremor passed over his face. “This is the price I must pay for my sin it is my penance. I will wander the earth, and I will seek the one who will be Satan’s pawn. And if I can turn him toward the Savior, my suffering will extend God’s patient mercy to another generation.”
The room swelled with silence as I tried to make sense of what he was saying. “Do you have any proof that your theory is true?” I finally asked, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “You’re so fond of quoting Scripture—is there a verse that mentions your role? Your purpose?”
He shook his head. “But I know the man who walks by faith is blessed. So I try to live a righteous life, and I keep my eyes and ears tuned to world events, always looking for the one man who best fits the description found in Scripture.” He turned to look at me again. “The man for this generation is Santos Justus, and that’s why I need you to get me an appointment. I must share the gospel with him before it is too late, but I am only a translator. He would never see me without your recommendation.”
I leaned back and propped my arm on the settee, confused and more worried than ever. None of this made any practical sense, but I was no theology expert. One thing, though, was clear: Asher was prepared to give his life for others, and he would do almost anything, including humiliating me, to meet with Justus. My career and reputation probably counted for very little in Asher’s view of past, present, and future.
If Asher was suffering from a delusional disorder, perhaps a few practical questions would point out the incongruities in his story.
“Asher,” I began, my voice calm, my gaze steady. “I want to help you, but I’m not sure I can believe your story yet—there are too many unanswered questions. For instance, how could you live in a town and have no one notice that you never aged?”
“I traveled a great deal.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, and for a fleeting moment I caught the impression that he intended to walk out the door and start yet another journey. “And people did not live so long in generations past. A man who lived fifty years was counted as an elder. I kept moving, I used different names in different places, and no one was the wiser.”
“What about your family?” Several times I had wanted to ask this question but had never felt comfortable enough to approach the topic from within his fantasy. “Did you never remarry?”
His face twisted into an expression of utter wretchedness. “I could not. I learned my lesson with Claudia. We should have grown old together, but when she aged and I did not—” He clasped his hands together and stared at them. “I am willing to do penance for my sin. I am not willing to put a woman through that kind of exquisite torture.”
“It just doesn’t seem fair,” I insisted. “And if God is anything, he should be fair.”
“God is not fair.” His voice took on a bitter edge. “He is just. There is a difference.”
“I don’t see a difference.”
“You won’t . . . as long as you look with earthly eyes.”
I bit down hard on my lower lip, resisting the urge to smack his shoulder. Why did he always have to speak in riddles? “Tell me,” I said, leaning forward to look into his eyes, “did you say you met Michelangelo?”
His gaze shifted and thawed slightly. I followed his eyes and saw that he looked at a lower shelf laden with dusty journals. “Twice. I met him in Rome and watched him paint the Sistine Chapel. And in Florence, while he was sculpting his David.”
“Did he—” The words caught in my throat, but I pushed them out. “Did he ever sculpt a bust of you?”
The heavy lashes that shadowed his cheeks flew up. “Not that I know of. Why would he?”
Was it possible he didn’t know? Could Michelangelo have sculpted a bust of Asher at the same time he worked on David? I closed my eyes, visualizing two young men enjoying dinner in a piazza, then the artist going off to sculpt a bust of his fascinating friend, while the scholar returned to his books and journals. Clearly, Asher had no idea how deep an impression he made upon the people he met . . . including me.
I leaned back, blinking hard to stop the sudden rush of tears that flooded my eyes.
“You believe me.” He smiled, and I knew his comment was not a question.
“I’m not sure.”
“You do. Something has convinced you my story is true.” He waved his hand and lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Whatever it was, I thank God for it.”
I sighed, resigned to the fact that my research only reinforced Asher’s story. “Asher, you said it yourself. My belief doesn’t change anything. But as things stand, I either have to believe you or have you committed.”
Surprise siphoned the blood from his face. “You would never do that . . . would you?”
I laughed. “Believe me, I’ve thought about it. You’re just crazy enough to get me into real trouble.”
His dark brown eyes softened, then he reached out to push a stray strand of hair away from my forehead. His warm palm cupped my cheek for a moment as something that looked like affection glowed strong in his eyes, then his hand fell to my elbow and urged me upward. “Come,” he said, leading me toward his bedroom. “I have something to show you.”
Something—modesty or fear or simple nervousness—caused me to hang back, but Asher caught my hand and pulled me along. My apprehensions faded when he stopped before a wooden chest by the side of his bed. The dark wooden box gleamed in the light, as if a loving hand polished it every day.
Almost reverently, Asher knelt before the chest, pulling me down with him. He released my hand after I sank to the tiled floor, then he leaned forward and lifted the lid. As I breathed in the scents of age and dust and wood, Asher lowered his arms into the depths of the box and pulled out an object I had never imagined I would see.
A crown of thorns.
I held my breath as Asher gingerly lifted it between his fingertips, then turned and lowered it to the quilt covering his bed. When it rested there, he leaned back and dropped his hands to his knees, his gaze intent upon the relic.
“I have never shown it to anyone else,” he said, his voice a low rumble at once powerful and gentle. “No one else seemed to require visual proof. But you . . . look at it, Claudia, and tell me what you see.”
What did I see? I saw a vine, covered in spiky thorns and the white dust of age, curled into a circular shape the size of a man’s head. Several of the thorns were dark, and parts of the thin vine seemed hollow, as though decay and corruption had begun to destroy the woody stem from within.
“I have kept it safe,” Asher said. “Shielded it from light and humidity and prying eyes. If I had surrendered it to the church, it would have been venerated as a holy relic or destroyed by those who would tear it apart in a quest for authenticity.”
“If it hasn’t been examined or dated,” I said, my mind congesting with doubts, “how do I know it is genuine?”
“You don’t know.” Asher looked at me with an invitation in the smoldering depths of his eyes. “I can tell you that this is the crown Jesus was wearing when I struck him in Pilate’s hall. My blow knocked the thing from his head, and when the guards pushed him forward, the crown was left behind. I picked it up, and I have kept it all these years.” His words came out hoarse, as if forced through a tight throat. “Believe me or not, the choice is yours.”
He rose to his feet then and walked away, leaving me alone with the fragile crown of thorns and a decision I could not make. I sat silently on the floor, weighing what I had heard in the last hour with what I had believed my entire adult life, comparing faith in Asher with faith in the man who had supposedly worn this wicked circlet of pain.
Never had my senses and abilities seemed so inadequate to the task. Everything I knew of Asher and every physical sign I read in his tone and posture and expression assured me he spoke the truth, so why couldn’t I believe? Why was it easier to believe in a two-thousand-year-old Roman than to believe Jesus Christ truly lived and died for all mankind . . . and for me?
I bowed my head. Tears ran down my cheeks, as warm and soothing as summer rain, but I was not really crying, they sprang from a simple overflow of feeling. Asher had shown me this treasure because he wanted me to believe . . . not in him, but in Christ. How long had it been since someone cared so much for me? None of my close friends gave a flying fig about where I stood with God, probably because they didn’t think about spiritual things at all. Kurt had proved unfaithful. Elaine Dawson plotted against me. Even Kirsten was distracted by her family and the coming baby. Rory had occasionally talked about God, but the boundaries between employer and employee restrained any really personal questions.
Asher, my only true friend in Italy, was probably as nutty as a peanut bar, but he cared enough to want me to believe in his Jesus. I read his concern in his eyes and in his actions. He had supported me when I learned of Kurt’s defection; he had been my steady right hand when we traveled to Brussels. And during all the weeks I had known him, he had asked only one thing of me—trust. He had shared his incredible story, trusting me to believe and help him accomplish his goal.
Well. I swallowed hard and thumbed the wetness from my face. I would help him, if I could. But first I wanted to be sure I was doing the right thing.
I rose and walked slowly into the front room. Asher sat at his desk, an open journal spread before him, an ink pen in his hand. He looked up as I came in, a question in his eyes.
“I’m going now, Asher,” I said, reaching for my purse on the settee. “I want to make a couple of inquiries. And then, perhaps tomorrow, I’ll let you know what I think about your meeting with Justus.”
“Thank you.” He eased into a slow smile. “I will pray that God will guide your footsteps.”
“You do that.” I tried to smile in return, but the corners of my mouth only wobbled precariously. Averting my eyes, I hurried to the door and left him alone.