BARTOLOMÉ WAS LED out in procession with the other prisoners.
There was a gasp as they appeared. The one to be burned wore a long conical hat and a tabard depicting images of devils and flames in lurid colours of orange, scarlet and red.
We’d heard of such things happening elsewhere in Spain. Being a port meant that traders came and went through Las Conchas – sailors, merchants, packmen, muleteers and the like. The stories they told in the dockside taverns spread via the marketplace and became part of the social currency of the town. But while we’d repeated these stories and wondered about the truth of them, I’d assumed they were mostly wild exaggerations.
The reality was worse; more abominable than all those dramatic accounts gathered together.
The minor transgressors were to be punished first. They were to be flogged, apart from the youngest, a boy of about eleven or twelve – who, it was decided, would be beaten with a stick. He’d confessed to stealing fruit from a farmer by climbing over his wall and plundering his orchard.
In the crowd a woman moaned. ‘He’s so young to be punished in this way.’
An old woman with a sour face commented, ‘Sin must be punished – better in this world than in the next. He took that which wasn’t his. That makes him a thief. It’s against the law of man and of God.’
‘Isn’t it what boys do when they are that age?’ a man remarked.
‘Hush, hush.’ A young woman tried to silence him. ‘Don’t speak out like that.’
Garci turned and glared at her. ‘May your mother’s milk curdle in your breasts,’ he said, ‘that you should deny the normal nature of a child.’
Under his fierce gaze she shrank away. I looked at Garci and gave my head a shake. He shouldn’t be so hard on her. Two children clutched at her dress, both of them boys. She wasn’t denying the truth of Garci’s words. She was simply in dread of any attention being drawn to this part of the crowd where she was trying to shield her sons among her skirts.
Now my father appeared, looking older and more careworn than I had seen him since the day of my mother’s death. And I began to comprehend the gravity of his situation. As the local magistrate, he was responsible for carrying out any recommended sentence imposed by the tribunal of the Inquisition on these poor unfortunates. The officers of the Inquisition had no jurisdiction over our corporeal bodies. The guilty must be handed over to state officials to carry out sentence. It had been Papa’s responsibility to have the town square cleared, to summon the townspeople as ordered by Father Besian and to arrange for an area to be sectioned off with the appropriate equipment to perform these grisly deeds.
The boy to be beaten.
The other sinners, including Bartolomé, to be scourged.
The heretic to be burned.
A raised dais had been erected, and on this sat my father and the officers of the tribunal. As his family and household members, we had been accorded a place of importance with an unimpeded view, and we stood at the front of the crowd to one side. When we arrived, Lorena beckoned to Ramón Salazar and he came to stand beside us.
The boy was brought forward and tied to a post and his shirt was removed.
It was at least brief.
He was struck rapidly across the back six times, one blow for each piece of fruit he’d stolen. The boy’s howls set off every child in the crowd, already sensing the tension in the watching adults.
Garci, who was a devout man, said in my ear, ‘It is not the work of God that is being carried out here today.’
Now it was Bartolomé’s turn to be led to the punishment block. It required two men to drag him there, for although he was weak of mind, he had done manual labour all his life and was physically very strong. His normal beatific smile had been replaced by an expression of confusion and fear. His eyes were starting from his head and he glanced around desperately, letting out squeals and making frightened mewling noises.
I was too scared to turn my head away. Father Besian had made it clear that the townspeople were there to bear witness. Anyone who did not attend – unless seriously ill – anyone who looked away when punishment was being administered would be suspected of being a sympathizer. Ardelia and Serafina clung to each other, while Garci tried to encircle the three of us with his arms.
At the last moment, just before he reached the post, Bartolomé caught sight of us in the crowd. His face changed in recognition. He struggled and tried to break free and called out Serafina’s name pathetically.
‘Auntie Serafina! Help me! Help me please!’
He was grabbed roughly and hustled to his place of punishment. There he was scourged with a metal-tipped whip until his skin split apart and his back bled.
I closed my eyes as they led forward two women found guilty of prostitution. Had it been my denouncement, my repeating to Father Besian the rumours I’d heard of immoral acts taking place in certain houses near the docks that had caused this? Their hair was cut off and their dresses pulled down so that they were stripped to the waist before being laid on the scourging block. Their screams echoed in my head.
Finally the sins of the heretic were read out. His neighbours had verified that he was a converso, an old Jew who, years ago, had converted to Christianity. He’d been spied upon and it had been proven that he was secretly practising his Jewish faith, and under questioning he’d admitted this. He shambled along as he walked to the stake. I thought at first that it was because his legs were fettered, but then I saw it was because he’d been tortured. His limbs no longer obeyed his will. They bound him to the stake and then heaped kindling about his feet.
I heard Lorena whisper to Ramón, ‘Is it true that sometimes they dampen the wood so that it causes them to roast more slowly?’ She said this in such a pretend piteous voice that it made me want to gag.
‘I’ve heard it shortens the ordeal as the victims are overcome by the smoke before they burn,’ Ramón said in a comforting way. He bent his head to her ear to reply. She used this to insinuate herself nearer to him.
‘Oh, it’s too terrible to watch.’ She ran her tongue over her lips. She was clearly horrified, yet at the same time excited in a disturbing way. She pressed herself even closer and appeared to semi-swoon. Ramón put his arm out to steady her.
A flint was struck to light a long brand, one end soaked in pitch. This flaming torch was set to the pile of wood. There was a crackling as the kindling caught, and then slowly the flames spread through the remainder of the wood. The crowd sighed as one, swayed, and moved back. The flames rose higher, bright red fire eating at the edge of the old man’s garments. He began to cry out – first to Father Besian for mercy and then to God. His voice became a stretched screaming babble.
A vision came to me as though it were I amidst the fire. I could feel heat on the soles of my own feet. The flames all about me . . .
I twist my body to avoid them and a moan escapes my lips. The hot searing redness glows among the bundles of sticks. Around me bright spots of fire . . . like eyes piercing and tearing my body in the intense heat. Then a flame, a true flame, leaps up. It has the hem of my dress. It is a grey dress of rough cloth that I wear. This flame runs up my outer skirts like an animal intent on devouring me. Across my breast.
I am transfixed. It is surging over my head. Already the hot singeing smell of burning hair is in my nostrils, the pungent odour of scorching clothes, and a nauseating smell of flesh being devoured by fire.
I cannot move. The smoke rises. My vision is impeded.
I cannot see. I cannot breathe. I try to put my hand to my throat.
I am unable to stir. My arms are fastened by my sides. My breath is coming in short gasps. I make a little miaou of grief . . .
Father Besian turned his head slowly, as if loath to remove his sight from the spectacle of the man being roasted alive. His eyes bore down on me, drilling into my brain through to the back of my skull.
I swayed and would have fallen had not Garci tightened his arm around me.
Father Besian’s gaze came upon me and went past. His head stopped, his eyes swivelled back to my face.
Papa too moved his head to see what the disturbance was. A frown furrowed his brow, and he gave me a look of such intensity that I did not recognize.
Father Besian’s eyes flickered over me once more, and were gone. He made a gesture with his right hand. This was to show mercy. The executioner went behind the stake and quickly throttled the man. The cries of the heretic were cut off.
But the suffocating smoke rose up and enveloped me.