Later I dreamed that I hadn't died.

And I was terrified by the certainty that I was going to wake up.

V. IN G.o.d'S NAME

I awakened suddenly, hurting all over, in the darkness of a moving coach with drawn curtains. I felt a strange weight around my wrists, and when I moved, heard a metallic clicking that filled me with dread. My wrists were secured with iron cuffs, and they in turn were fastened by a chain to the floor of the coach. Through c.h.i.n.ks in the curtains I glimpsed light, and learned that it was well past dawn. Whatever the actual time, I had no idea how long it had been since I was captured. The carriage was moving at a normal pace, and at times, on a hill, I would hear the crack of a whip and shouts of the coachman as he laid into the mules. I also heard the sound of horses' hooves, dropping back and then catching up. I was being driven, then, out of the city, chained, and with an escort. And according to what I had heard when taken prisoner, I had fallen into the clutches of the Inquisition. I did not have to stretch my imagination to conclude the obvious: If anyone had a black future ahead of him, it was I.

I wept. I burst into disconsolate tears in the dark pitching of the carriage. No one could see me there. I cried until I had no tears left, and then, snuffling, I pushed back into a corner to wait, rigid with fright. Like every Spaniard of the time, I had heard enough about the practices of the Inquisition-that sinister shadow that had loomed over our lives for years and years and years-to know my destination: the dreaded secret dungeons of the Holy Office, in Toledo.

I am sure, Your Mercies, that I have spoken of the Inquisition. One thing I know: it was no worse here than in other countries of Europe, although the Dutch, English, French, and Lutherans, who were our natural enemies, proclaimed it part of the infamous Black Legend they called upon to justify the sacking of the Spanish empire in the hour of her decline. True it is that the Holy Office, which was created to guard the orthodoxy of the Faith, was more rigorous in Spain than in Italy and Portugal, for example, and worse yet in the Antilles. But the Inquisition also existed other places. And furthermore, with that excuse or without it, the Germans, French, and English sent more nonbelievers, witches, and wretched poor up in smoke than all the victims burned at the stake in Spain.

Here, thanks to the punctilious bureaucracy of the Austrian monarchy, each and every human they turned to cracklings-many, but not all that many-was duly recorded under history of trial, name, and surname. Something that cannot be claimed by the vile frogs of the most Christian King of France, the accursed heretics farther north, or an eternally treacherous, vile, and piratical England. For when they they got their fires going, they did it joyfully and wholeheartedly, with no order or harmony, and according to whim and self-interest-d.a.m.ned, hypocritical swine. Added to that, secular justice was as cruel as its ecclesiastical counterpart, and the general public equally so, owing to a lack of culture and the ma.s.ses' fondness for seeing neighbors drawn and quartered. got their fires going, they did it joyfully and wholeheartedly, with no order or harmony, and according to whim and self-interest-d.a.m.ned, hypocritical swine. Added to that, secular justice was as cruel as its ecclesiastical counterpart, and the general public equally so, owing to a lack of culture and the ma.s.ses' fondness for seeing neighbors drawn and quartered.

It is also the fact that the Inquisition often acted as an arm of the government under such kings as our fourth Philip, who left in its hands the oversight of new Christians and Jewish sympathizers, the persecution of witches, bigamists, and sodomites, even the authority to censor books and combat the smuggling of weapons, horses, and legal and counterfeit currency. The latter responsibility was due to the argument that smugglers and counterfeiters greatly harmed the interests of the monarchy, and he who was enemy of the monarchy-the defender of the Faith-was also, to keep it short and simple, the enemy of G.o.d.

Nevertheless, despite the slander of foreigners, and even though not all trials were resolved at the stake and one might find examples of piety and justice, the Inquisition, like any excessive power placed in the hands of man, was ominous. And the decadence we Spanish were suffering across the world-seeds that produced, and will continue to produce, fields of thistles and nettles-can be explained, primarily, by suppression of liberty, cultural isolation, loss of confidence, and the religious obscurantism created by the Holy Office. So great was the fear it spread that even collaborating agents of the Inquisition, its so-called "family"-a post that could be bought-enjoyed complete immunity. To say the words "a familiar familiar of the Holy Office" was the same as saying spy or informer, and of those there were some twenty thousand in the Spain of our Catholic Philip. of the Holy Office" was the same as saying spy or informer, and of those there were some twenty thousand in the Spain of our Catholic Philip.

Your Mercies should be aware of what the Inquisition meant in a country like ours, in which a charging bull could not move Justice as quickly as pieces of eight, where everything up to the Most Holy Sacrament was for sale, and where, in addition, every man and woman alive had a quarrel to be adjudged. No two Spaniards-and by my faith this is still the case-took their breakfast chocolate the same way: one drank only chocolate from Oaxaca; another took his black; this one with milk; that one with fried bread; and yet another in a bowl with sweet French bread. Similarly, it was necessary no longer to be be a good Catholic and old Christian, but only to a good Catholic and old Christian, but only to appear appear to be. And nothing made one seem a more enthusiastic defender of the Faith than to betray those who were not, or those who because of old rancor, jealousy, envy, or quarrels made good prospects. Who knows? Some of those prospects might actually be nonbelievers. to be. And nothing made one seem a more enthusiastic defender of the Faith than to betray those who were not, or those who because of old rancor, jealousy, envy, or quarrels made good prospects. Who knows? Some of those prospects might actually be nonbelievers.

As was to be expected, denunciations fell like rain, and "I have it on good authority" and "Everyone knows" rattled down like hail. When the implacable finger of the Holy Office pointed toward some poor wretch, he immediately found himself abandoned by patrons, friends, and relatives. Son accused father, wife accused husband, and prisoner betrayed accomplices, or invented them, if he hoped to escape torture and death.

And there was I, at thirteen, trapped in that sinister web, knowing what awaited me and not daring to think about it. I knew stories of people who had taken their own lives to escape the horror of the prison I was being carried to. I must confess that in that dark carriage, I came to understand why. It would have been easier and more dignified, my thoughts ran, had I speared myself on Gualterio Malatesta's sword and ended everything quickly and cleanly. But there was little doubt that Divine Providence wished me to suffer this test. Curled in my corner, I sighed deeply, resigned to confronting what lay ahead without hope of rescue.

Although it would not have hurt my feelings, I mused, had Providence, divine or otherwise, a.s.signed that Herculean labor to someone else.

During the rest of the journey I thought of Captain Alatriste. I hoped with all my soul that he was safe, maybe somewhere nearby, planning to free me. But I did not hold that hope long. Even if he had escaped the extremely clever trap set by his enemies, this was not a chivalric romance filled with fabulous feats of knight-errantry; the shackles clicking to the swaying of the coach were not fantasy but real. And so, too, were my fear and loneliness, and my uncertain fate. Or certain, according to the point of view. The fact is that later, life-the pa.s.sing years, adventures, loves, and the wars of our lord and king-caused me to lose faith in many things. But I had already, young as I was at the time, ceased to believe in miracles.

The carriage came to a stop. I heard the coachman unhitch the mules, and knew that we had stopped at a post house. I was trying to calculate where we might be when the coach door opened. The sudden glare dazzled me-for it was now the late afternoon of the next day-and for a few seconds I was blinded. I rubbed my eyes, and when I opened them, there stood Gualterio Malatesta, observing me. As always, he was in severe black: gloves and boots, the plume in his hat, and the line of mustache that accentuated the fineness of his features, forcing the contrast between the first impression of pulchritude and, at closer look, a face so marred by pockmarks and scars that it suggested a battlefield. At his back, across a broad sweep of land and about half a league away, I could see Toledo glowing in the golden light of the setting sun, its ancient walls crowned by the palace of Emperor Charles V.

"We say good-bye here, boy," said Malatesta.

I stared at him, confused. I must have looked terrible, with the dried blood of poor Luis de la Cruz all over my face and clothing, along with the usual wear of a journey. For a moment, I thought I saw a frown on the Italian's brow, as if he was not happy with my state, or my situation. I simply stared, uncomprehending.

"They take over here," he added finally.

He nearly smiled that slow, cruel, and dangerous smile of his that revealed teeth as white as the eyeteeth of a wolf. But it vanished immediately, as if he had changed his mind. Perhaps he judged that I was already so browbeaten that he would not humiliate me further. Actually, he did not seem all that comfortable. He observed me a moment longer, and then, his expression unreadable, put his hand on the door.

"Where are they taking me?" I asked.

My voice sounded weak, so unfamiliar it could have belonged to someone else. The Italian did not answer. His eyes, black as death, stared at me without blinking. When Gualterio Malatesta looked at you, you always wondered if he had eyelids.

"There."

With his chin, he gestured toward the city over his shoulder. I saw his hand on the door as the hand of the executioner, and the door as the stone on my tomb. I tried to find some way to prolong what instinct told me was to be my last moment of sunlight for a while.

"Why? What have I done?"

Again he did not answer. He simply stared. I could hear mules being brought up, and as they harnessed the new pair the carriage shook. I saw several men, armed to the teeth, pa.s.s behind the Italian, and in their midst the black and white robes of a pair of Dominican priests. One glanced toward me as he went by, indifferent, as if instead of seeing a human he were observing an object. That look was the most frightening thing I had as yet experienced.

"I am sorry, boy," said Malatesta.

He seemed to have read the horror in my thoughts. And may the Devil take me if in that moment I did not believe he was sincere. It was but an instant, however-those four words and a flash in the blackness of his gaze. When I tried to pursue the shred of compa.s.sion I thought I had glimpsed, I met only the impa.s.sive mask of an a.s.sa.s.sin. The carriage door was beginning to close.

"What news of the captain?" I asked with anguish, frantic to stay a few more instants in the sun.

Not another word from Gualterio Malatesta. A beam of sunlight shone on his somber face. And then I did see an expression I could not doubt, a quick flash of rage and spite. It lasted only a second, and then it was gone, hidden behind the cruel grimace, the dangerous, bloodthirsty smile that twisted his pale, cold lips. But my heart leaped with joy, for I knew, with every bone in my body, that Diego Alatriste had eluded the ambush.

Malatesta slammed the carriage door, and I was again in darkness. I heard shouted orders, a horse galloping away, and then the coachman's whip. The mules started off, and the carriage began to roll toward a place where not even G.o.d would be on my side.

The hopelessness of being in the hands of an all-powerful apparatus devoid of emotion, and thereby of pity, struck me the moment I emerged from the coach into a dismal inner courtyard that dusk made even more somber. After my shackles were removed, I was led to an underground room by four constables of the Holy Office and the two Dominicans I had seen at the post house.

I will spare Your Mercies the details, but after I was stripped and thoroughly searched, I was subjected to a preliminary interrogation by a scribe who demanded to know my name, age, the names of my father and mother, those of my four grandparents and eight great-grandparents, my current dwelling, and my place of origin. Then, in a routine tone, the scribe tested me on elementary Christian knowledge by making me recite the Lord's Prayer and the Ave Maria. Finally, he asked me the names of any persons who might be connected with my situation.

I asked what my situation was, was, but he did not tell me. I asked why I was there, and he did not answer that either. When he persisted in asking for names, I did not answer, pretending to be confused and afraid-although if I am to be frank, I didn't need to pretend. When my questioner persisted, I burst into tears, and that seemed to be enough for the moment, for he put his quill into the inkwell, scattered powder over the page, and put away his sheets of paper. On the strength of that experience, I resolved to resort to weeping any time I found myself in a tight spot, although I feared that weeping would not require any great effort on my part. If there was one thing I would not lack for, I surmised in my misery, it would be reason for shedding tears. but he did not tell me. I asked why I was there, and he did not answer that either. When he persisted in asking for names, I did not answer, pretending to be confused and afraid-although if I am to be frank, I didn't need to pretend. When my questioner persisted, I burst into tears, and that seemed to be enough for the moment, for he put his quill into the inkwell, scattered powder over the page, and put away his sheets of paper. On the strength of that experience, I resolved to resort to weeping any time I found myself in a tight spot, although I feared that weeping would not require any great effort on my part. If there was one thing I would not lack for, I surmised in my misery, it would be reason for shedding tears.

After that, believing the interview was over, I found it had been only a proem, a prologue: the first act had not yet begun. This I learned when I was taken into a square room without windows or embrasures, lit by a large candelabrum. The only furnishings were a large table, another smaller one holding writing materials, and a few benches. The two priests I'd seen at the post house were seated at the large table, along with a third individual wearing a large gold cross around his neck. With his dark beard and black robe he looked convincingly like an officer of the court, or a judge. At the smaller table was a scribe very different from the one who had conducted the preliminary questioning, a crowlike man who put down the smallest detail of what was said, and, to my growing fear, probably things I had not said. Two constables, one tall and strong-looking and the other redheaded and thin, were my guards. On the wall hung an enormous crucifix, the occupant of which had undoubtedly pa.s.sed through the hands of this very tribunal.

As I learned from that point on, the most fearsome thing about being a prisoner in the secret dungeons of the Inquisition was that no one told you what your crime had been, or what proof or witnesses they had against you-nothing about anything. The inquisitors limited themselves to posing question after question, and the scribe to noting it all down, while you addled your brain trying to decide whether what you were saying weighed on the side of your release or of your condemnation. It was possible to spend weeks, months, even years there without knowing the exact reasons, with the added aggravation that if your answers were not satisfactory, they would resort to torture in order to facilitate your confession and obtain the proofs they needed. And when you were tortured, you would begin to answer w.i.l.l.y-nilly, not knowing what you should be saying. Everything led to desperation, to the conscious or unconscious betrayal of friends, of you yourself, and at times to madness and death. That was one way of dying other than being led in your white robe and conical hat to the scaffold, with a garotte around your neck, a pyre of dry kindling beneath your feet, and your neighbors and former friends shouting their approval, enchanted with the spectacle.

I did at least know why I was there, though there was little consolation in the knowledge. And because I knew that, after the first questions, I soon found myself in serious straits. Especially when the younger priest, the one who had glanced at me with such indifference, asked for the names of my accomplices.

"Accomplices in what, Il.u.s.trisimo Il.u.s.trisimo?"

"I am not called Il.u.s.trisimo Il.u.s.trisimo," he replied darkly, his large tonsured bald spot gleaming in the light from the candelabrum. "I am asking for the names of your accomplices in the sacrilege."

The roles had been a.s.signed, as in a play. While the man with the dark beard and black cloak sat in silence, like a judge who listens and deliberates before handing out his sentence, the two priests were skillfully playing their parts: the younger, the role of implacable inquisitor; the other, plumper and more placid in expression, the benevolent confidant. But I had lived in Madrid long enough to smell a ruse, so I determined not to trust either one, and to act as if I didn't see the man in the black robe.

An added complication was that I did not know how much they knew. And I hadn't the least idea whether my sacrilege-as it had just been defined-was the one they were referring to. Because, in talking with someone who has the power to make you regret it, it is just as dangerous to ask for one card too few as one card too many. Indeed, it can be ruinous even to say, "I'll stay."

"I have no accomplices, Reverend Father." I addressed the plump one, but with little hope. "Nor have I committed a sacrilege."

"You deny," the younger asked, "that in the company of others you profaned the convent of the Adoratrices Benitas?"

Well, that was something, even if that something gave me gooseflesh when I imagined the consequences. It was a specific accusation. I denied it, of course. And following that, I denied knowing-even by sight-the wounded man whom, on my way home, I had accidentally run into behind the low wall on Canos del Peral hill. I also denied that I had resisted arrest by the agents of the Holy Office. I denied everything to the end, everything I could, except the unarguable fact that I had been holding a dagger when the long arm of the Inquisition reached out to pull me in, and that another man's blood still crusted my doublet. As it was impossible to deny that, I plunged into a maze of circ.u.mlocutions and explanations that had no bearing on the case. Finally I unleashed the tears, as a last resort in fending off new questions.

That tribunal, however, had seen many tears fall, so the priests, the man in the robe, and the scribe simply waited until my jeremiad had ended. It appeared that they had time to burn-not a direction I wanted my thoughts to take-and that, aside from their indifference, neither cruel nor reproachful, and their asking the same questions over and over with monotonous persistence, was the most disquieting aspect of the interrogation. Although I tried to maintain the air of nonchalance and confidence appropriate for an innocent, that was what terrified me about those men: their coldness and their patience. After a dozen "No" and "I don't know," even the plump cleric had dropped his mask, and it was obvious that I would have to travel many leagues to find a hint of compa.s.sion.

I had not eaten a bite in more than twenty-four hours, and I was beginning to feel faint, even though I was seated on a bench. Having exhausted the ploy of the tears, I began to consider the possibilities of a faint. Considering the way I was feeling, it would not be a pretense. That was when the priest said something that hurtled me toward an honest swoon.

"What do you know of one Diego Alatriste y Tenorio, often known as Captain Alatriste?"

This is it, inigo, I thought. The end. End of denials, and pointless blather. From here on, anything you say, even what you confirm or disprove before that scribe who is setting down your every last sigh, can be used against the captain. So you are through talking, let that take you where it takes you. Despite my situation and my whirling head, and despite the boundless panic sinking its claws into my entrails, I decided, calling upon my last shreds of strength, that nothing, not those priests, not the secret dungeons, not the Supreme Council, not the Pope of Rome, would tear a word from me that would endanger Captain Alatriste. I thought. The end. End of denials, and pointless blather. From here on, anything you say, even what you confirm or disprove before that scribe who is setting down your every last sigh, can be used against the captain. So you are through talking, let that take you where it takes you. Despite my situation and my whirling head, and despite the boundless panic sinking its claws into my entrails, I decided, calling upon my last shreds of strength, that nothing, not those priests, not the secret dungeons, not the Supreme Council, not the Pope of Rome, would tear a word from me that would endanger Captain Alatriste.

"Answer the question," the younger priest ordered.

I did not. I concentrated on the floor before me, on a paving stone split by a crack with as many sharp turns as my luck. And I was staring at the same crack when one of the constables standing behind me, obeying an order issued by the priest without a change of expression, stepped forward and struck a blow to the nape of my neck that was like being clubbed. From the force of it, I calculated that it came from the taller and stronger of the two.

"Answer the question," the priest repeated.

I stared at the crack without a peep, and was stunned by a blow stronger than the first. Tears as sincere as the pain in my bruised neck flowed despite my attempt to contain them. I swiped them away with the back of my hand; this was not the moment I wanted to cry.

"Answer the question."

I bit my lips so there would be no chance I would open my mouth, and saw the crack in the floor speeding toward me as my eardrums rang, boom, boom, like the tympanum of a drum. This time the constable had knocked me to the ground. And the stones were as cold as the voice I heard above me. like the tympanum of a drum. This time the constable had knocked me to the ground. And the stones were as cold as the voice I heard above me.

"Answer the question."

The words came from a great distance, like echoes in a bad dream. A hand pulled me onto my back, and I saw the face of the redheaded guard bending over me, and behind him, that of the priest who had been questioning me. I could not contain a moan of desperation and hopelessness, because I knew that nothing would get me out of that place, and that they had all the time in the world. As for me, I had barely started down the road I was going to travel to h.e.l.l, and I was in no rush to continue. So I fainted, just as the redhead had grabbed my doublet to drag me to my feet. And-I call as witness the Christ looking down on me from the wall-this time I did not have to feign at all.

I do not know how many hours went by in the damp cell where my only company was an enormous rat that spent its time peering at me from a dark drain in one corner. I slept and chased bedbugs in my clothing to keep occupied, and three times I wolfed down the hard bread and bowl of nauseating pottage a somber jailer set at the door to my cell with a great clatter of locks and keys.

I was plotting a way to get close enough to the rat to kill it, for its presence filled me with terror every time I felt myself drifting off to sleep, when the red-haired constable and the one round as a tub-G.o.d had been as generous with him as with me-came for me.

After making our way through ever more sinister corridors, I found myself in a room similar to the first, but with certain shadowy additions in regard to company and furnishings. Behind the table, joining the man with the dark beard and robe, the scribe with the crow's beak, and the Dominicans, there was a third priest of the same order, whom the others treated with great respect and servility. Just seeing him, I was afraid. He had short gray hair cut in the shape of a helmet across his brow. His cheeks were sunken, the hands emerging from the sleeves of his habit were fleshless claws, and it was especially the fanatic, feverish gleam of eyes that seemed consumed with fever that caused me to wish never to have him as my enemy. Compared with him, the other two priests were Little Sisters of the Poor. And there was something more. At one side of the room stood a rack with ropes waiting to tear limbs from their sockets. In this room, there was nowhere for me to sit, and my legs, barely able to hold me as it was, began to tremble. A big fish was needed here for so many cats.

Again I will spare Your Mercies the details of the interminable interrogation to which I was subjected by my old acquaintances, the Dominicans, while black-robe and the new inquisitor listened and kept their silence, the constables stood like rocks behind me, and the scribe kept dipping his quill into the inkwell to note down each and every one of my answers, and my silences. This time, thanks to the partic.i.p.ation of the new arrival-he kept pa.s.sing the interrogators papers that they read attentively before posing new questions-I was able to form an idea of what I had fallen into. The horrifying word "Judaizer" was p.r.o.nounced at least five times, and with each mention my hair stood on end. Those eight letters had delivered many people to the stake.

"Did you know that the blood of the de la Cruz family is not pure?"

My head reeled with those words, for I was not unaware of their sinister implication. Ever since the Jews had been expelled by the Reyes Catolicos, Reyes Catolicos, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabel, the Inquisition had rigorously pursued the remnants of the Mosaic faith, particularly the King Ferdinand and Queen Isabel, the Inquisition had rigorously pursued the remnants of the Mosaic faith, particularly the conversos conversos who were secretly faithful to the religion of their grandfathers. In a hypocritical Spain that gave such importance to appearances, where even the lowest of the low paraded himself as an hidalgo and old Christian, hatred of Jews was widespread, and papers, purchased or authentic, doc.u.menting one's purity of blood were indispensable if one were to obtain position or high office. And while the powerful grew rich in scandalous business dealings, shielding themselves behind ma.s.ses and public charities, a violent and vengeful people killed their hunger and boredom by kissing relics, buying indulgences, and enthusiastically persecuting witches, heretics, and Judaizers. And as I once said when referring to Senor de Quevedo and others, not even the finest Spanish minds were strangers to that climate of hatred and repudiation of heterodoxy. For example, consider these words from the great Lope de Vega. who were secretly faithful to the religion of their grandfathers. In a hypocritical Spain that gave such importance to appearances, where even the lowest of the low paraded himself as an hidalgo and old Christian, hatred of Jews was widespread, and papers, purchased or authentic, doc.u.menting one's purity of blood were indispensable if one were to obtain position or high office. And while the powerful grew rich in scandalous business dealings, shielding themselves behind ma.s.ses and public charities, a violent and vengeful people killed their hunger and boredom by kissing relics, buying indulgences, and enthusiastically persecuting witches, heretics, and Judaizers. And as I once said when referring to Senor de Quevedo and others, not even the finest Spanish minds were strangers to that climate of hatred and repudiation of heterodoxy. For example, consider these words from the great Lope de Vega.

Cruel nation, which Hadrian exiled,only to make its way to Spain,has oppressed and defiledour Holy Christian empire,and with persistent barbaritydefamed the Spanish Monarchy.

Or that other great playwright, don Pedro Calderon de la Barca, who would later put these words in the mouth of one of his famous characters: Oh, the accursed swine!Many burned at the stake,and it gave me such joyto see them blaze, that I said,as I fanned the flames,"Heretic dogs, behold a judgeof the Holy Inquisition."

Not to forget don Francisco de Quevedo-the same Quevedo who, in the dark of night, without hesitation hastened to effect a point of honor and aid a friend of converso converso blood, himself composed no few verses and lines of prose reviling the tribe of Moses. In our day, with the Protestants and Moors burned or exiled, the incorporation of the Kingdom of Portugal during the reign of our good and great Philip II had provided an abundance of secret or public Jews into which to sink our collective teeth, and the Inquisition kept sniffing around them like the jackal noses out carrion. And Jews were another of the reasons that brought the king's favorite, don Gaspar de Guzman, the Conde de Olivares, into a confrontation with the Supreme Council. In his attempt to keep the vast heritage of the Austrias intact, as he squeezed dry the exhausted purses of va.s.sals and threatened the selfish interests of n.o.bles, waged a war in Flanders, and struggled to break the backs of Aragon and Catalonia, the Conde-Duque, as he was known, weary of the monarchy's being held hostage to Genoese bankers, wished to replace them with Portuguese brokers. Their purity of blood might be in doubt, but their money was old Christian, clean, and available to fill Spain's empty coffers. That plan put the favorite at cross-purposes with the councils of state, the Inquisition, and the papal nuncio himself, while our lord and king, good-natured and extremely religious, weak in matters of conscience as in many other things, wavered indecisively. In the end, he chose to beat the last blood, himself composed no few verses and lines of prose reviling the tribe of Moses. In our day, with the Protestants and Moors burned or exiled, the incorporation of the Kingdom of Portugal during the reign of our good and great Philip II had provided an abundance of secret or public Jews into which to sink our collective teeth, and the Inquisition kept sniffing around them like the jackal noses out carrion. And Jews were another of the reasons that brought the king's favorite, don Gaspar de Guzman, the Conde de Olivares, into a confrontation with the Supreme Council. In his attempt to keep the vast heritage of the Austrias intact, as he squeezed dry the exhausted purses of va.s.sals and threatened the selfish interests of n.o.bles, waged a war in Flanders, and struggled to break the backs of Aragon and Catalonia, the Conde-Duque, as he was known, weary of the monarchy's being held hostage to Genoese bankers, wished to replace them with Portuguese brokers. Their purity of blood might be in doubt, but their money was old Christian, clean, and available to fill Spain's empty coffers. That plan put the favorite at cross-purposes with the councils of state, the Inquisition, and the papal nuncio himself, while our lord and king, good-natured and extremely religious, weak in matters of conscience as in many other things, wavered indecisively. In the end, he chose to beat the last maravedi maravedi out of all his subjects rather than contaminate the Faith. out of all his subjects rather than contaminate the Faith.

All of which, to put it in a nutsh.e.l.l, was like making bread from hosts, or the other way 'round...however you look at it, a disaster. And as time went on, by midcentury, with the Conde de Olivares's fall from favor, the Holy Office's bill came due for collection and it unleashed one of the cruelest persecutions of converted Jews known to Spain. That was the ruin of Olivares's project, and many crucial Hispano-Portuguese bankers and suppliers took themselves off to other countries such as Holland, and with them their wealth and their commerce, to the benefit of the enemies of our crown. In other words, it all ended with our royally f.u.c.king ourselves over. And I say "ended," because between the n.o.bles and the priests here, and the heretics there, and the wh.o.r.e who gave birth to them all, we bled till there was no blood left to bleed. The skinny dog gets the fleas, and we Spanish do not need anyone to ruin us; when it comes to the killing blow, we can deliver it ourselves.

So, in short, there I was, a beardless youth in the midst of all these maneuverings and machinations, and I was about to pay with my young neck. I sighed disconsolately. Then I looked toward my questioner, still the younger Dominican. The scribe was waiting, his pen poised above the paper, looking at me as if I were someone who presented every qualification for becoming good charcoal.

"I know no de la Cruz family," I replied finally, with all the conviction I could muster. "Therefore, I have no way of knowing about the purity of their blood."

The scribe bent his head as if he had awaited that answer, his pen scratching as he performed his filthy office. The lean old priest never took his eyes from me.

"Do you know," my tormentor asked, "that Elvira de la Cruz has been accused of inciting Hebrew practices among her fellow nuns and novices?"

I swallowed. Or rather, I tried. Blood of G.o.d, I tried. But my mouth was dry as a pebble. The trap had closed, and it was a devilishly malefic one. Again I denied any knowledge, more and more afraid to hazard where all this was leading.

"Do you know that her father and brothers and other accomplices, as Judaizing as she, attempted to free her after she was discovered and confined by the chaplain and the prioress of the convent?"

Now there was an unmistakable scent of scorching meat on the air, and I was the roast. Once again, I wanted to say no, but this time I could not get the words out, and I had to shake my head. But my prosecutor, or whatever he was, did not change expression.

"And you deny that you and your fellows are a part of that Judaic conspiracy?"

At that, as frightened as I was-which was not a little-I was slightly irritated.

"I am a Basque, and an old Christian," I protested. "As good as my father, who was a soldier, and who died in the king's war."

The inquisitor gave a dismissive wave of his hand, as if every Christian died in the king's wars, and that meant nothing at all. Then the thin, till now silent, priest leaned toward the questioner, whispered a few words into his ear, and the younger man nodded respectfully. He turned toward me, and for the first time spoke. His tone was so menacing and cavernous that all at once I saw the young priest as the non plus ultra non plus ultra of understanding and sympathy. of understanding and sympathy.

"Repeat your name," the lean priest ordered.

"in...inigo." I was so frightened by the Dominican's severe gaze, the feverish eyes sunken deep in the sockets, that I had stumbled over my own name. He continued, implacable.

"inigo and what more."

"inigo Balboa."

"And your mother's name."

"Her name is Amaya Aguirre, Reverend Father."

I had already gone through all this, it was in the papers, so the repet.i.tions made me even more apprehensive. The priest gave me a fierce, strangely satisfied look.

"Balboa," he said, "is a Portuguese family name."

The ground seemed to drop from beneath my feet, for I did not have to be told the effect of that poisonous dart. It was true that my surname was common on the Portuguese border, a region that my grandfather had left to enlist under the banners of the king. Suddenly-I have previously told Your Mercies that I was a bright enough lad-all the ramifications of my situation blazed with such meridional clarity that if there had been an open door I would have shot out of it like a flash.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced toward the rack, sitting to one side, waiting. That the Inquisition never used it as punishment but, rather, as an instrument for extracting the truth was a fact I did not find comforting. My one hope was that according to the rules of the Holy Office itself, torture could not be used against people of good reputation, royal ministers, pregnant women, servants-to make them inform against their masters-or anyone younger than fourteen...that is, me. me. But I was close to that fateful fourteenth, and if these men were capable of finding me Jewish ancestors, they could at their whim add the necessary months to make me eligible for their rope trick. And though the rack made men sing, it was not exactly a guitar. But I was close to that fateful fourteenth, and if these men were capable of finding me Jewish ancestors, they could at their whim add the necessary months to make me eligible for their rope trick. And though the rack made men sing, it was not exactly a guitar.

"My father was not Portuguese," I protested. "He was a soldier from Leon, like his father, who at the end of a campaign remained in Onate and married there. A soldier and an old Christian."