SatanWorld

By Mark Goldberg

Isaiah Tempesti, a Dominican prior accused of witchcraft, is transformed into a vampire in the New World. Tempesti can gain revenge against the Spanish Church by his Conversion of the Innocents. He constructs his demonic SatanWorld and two mentally-challenged boys are lost within, while four every-day saviors attempt a rescue, joining forces in and beneath SatanWorld, where nothing is as it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Goldberg
• Release date: Jul 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452337913

Book preview

PART ONE

STORM WARNING

Auto-da-fe! Auto-da-fe!

Isaiah Tempesti della Turin de Castile looked down at the gathered from his hiding place behind a finely-wrought baluster above his friend Tomás’ home. The crowd beneath him, cheering the approach of the auto, grew at an astonishing rate; fifty to one hundred more per hour, filling the huge square below. All were loud and dirty. Most were drunk, although the sun was barely risen. None were what the young Dominican thought would populate this sprawling kingdom of Castile in the Year of our Lord, 1492.

He could not believe these were the subjects of Isabella I. They were merely revelers and gawkers; come together to see the penance and sentencings of those who confessed or were found guilty. This sermo generalis -- he refused to use their word, auto-da-fe -- was no more than an entertainment. For them, it had little to do with the cleansing of their region or the purification of their belief. It was a show; a vile horrendous performance, put on as public spectacle to entertain the rabble.

Auto-da-fe! Auto-da-fe!

The huge plaza and marketplace were resplendent with colored crepe. Merchants raised the prices of their goods, then raised their voices, proclaiming the bargains they offered. Dancers and musicians joined in performances, holding out their hands for pieces of silver and fighting with each other as to how they would share their earnings. Festive hand fans moved the late July heat, brushing away insects that lighted everywhere, from the butcher’s display to the sweat-streaked faces of the milling throng.

And still the crowd swelled. Newcomers pressed earlier arrivals closer against the scaffolding the royal carpenters completed two days earlier. It was an enormous construct, fully fifty feet in length, and just as high, with a balcony, where the Catholic Kings Isabella I and Ferdinand II would sit. To the right of the royal balcony ran the amphitheater where the Councils overlooked all activity. Above this was Tomás’ rostrum, placed, in fact, much higher than the Kings’ Balcony. To the left, was built another amphitheater of the same size, in which the accused stood. Beyond the walls of the city, in a wooded area already surrounded ten-men deep, were the stakes; a full dozen, each dressed with kindling and firewood.

Tempesti pictured Tomás, in his purple robe, cowl and scapular, presiding over the event from his upper level of the scaffold. He would look down the long row of this session’s seven hundred fifty accused and mete out justice in the names of Isabella and Ferdinand and his holiness, Pope Innocent VIII.

And that human refuse below – the public – would cheer riotously with every pronouncement, urging the basest of punishments. Never was a fine, a badge of shame, a confiscation of all property, or even a banishment ever enough. The mob yearned to hear of the tortures – the basest of inhumanities – they knew were performed in the dark catacombs beneath the city. And more, they demanded the entertainment of the relaxings. Very seldom were they disappointed. Tempesti felt his disgust turn to bile, flooding his mouth with evil humors. He turned to spit.

Tomás stood behind him. The man moved so quietly, he often seemed one with the shadows. Tempesti swallowed his bitter humors rather than spit in the sight of one so holy. As he watched, his friend and mentor, Tomás de Torquemada, Grand Inquisitor for all Spain, appeared to float toward him, so graceful were his steps.

Torquemada placed an arm warmly around Tempesti’s shoulder and turned him back toward the crowd. They are pigs, Isaiah, aren’t they? He chuckled softly. Pigs coming to see my pronouncements against the ‘swine.’

It was the Grand Inquisitor’s little joke. The majority of those on today’s sermo generalis were Marranos, insincerely-converted Jews, who falsely claimed denial of their heritage and insidious beliefs in exchange for the safety and blessings of the Holy Church. Marrano was the Spanish word for swine, an animal true Jews believed to be unclean.

Torquemada sighed. This is a job that may well go on forever, my friend. Secret Jews, openly-devout Jews, crypto-Jews, Moriscos – those decidedly-filthy followers of Islam – apostates, the heterodox Fraticelli, thieves, witches, diviners. Now, we prosecute even the bigamists and the usurers. He shrugged. The usurers, I guess that brings us back to the Jews again, eh?

He patted Tempesti on the back and nudged him away from the protection of the baluster. Don’t hide yourself, Isaiah. Those animals down there want to see us. We are the personification of their cause; of the cause of the entire state of Castile and the country of Spain. He stepped into view beside the Dominican.

As small groups of people caught sight of him above, cries of praise swelled into paeans of exultation. Tempesti watched, from the corner of his eye, how his friend remained stoic, emotionless, before the crowd below. Finally, without a wave or other acknowledgment, Tomás turned and moved from their view. He quietly motioned Tempesti to join him.

"When his Holiness Pope Sixtus IV appointed me first Inquisitor General of Castile, I was honored beyond words. Of course, it came as no surprise, as I had been confessor and advisor to the Catholic Kings – Isabella I and Ferdinand II – for the nine years preceding that.

"Yet, earlier, Isaiah, I had been no more than a Dominican prior, like yourself, in the Monastery of Santa Cruz. But, I spoke out against the evils of the heretics. I agreed openly and loudly with the opinion that non-Catholics and insincere conversos could destroy both the church and the country. I strongly promoted the philosophy of limpieza de sangre –purity of blood – which forbade Moors and Jews from holding any public office. And I kept myself visible, always in the forefront, where decisions of both church and state were being made. I had no fear of speaking my mind.

Isabella and Sixtus both recognized that. So much so that, I believe when Pope Sixtus passed on and Innocent VIII ascended the Holy See in 1487, the queen spoke up for me and impressed on the new pope that the country needed a Grand Inquisitor. I am certain she mentioned me by name.

He placed his hand in the center of the young Dominican’s back and pressed him forward, toward the stairs and the rooms below.

Midway down, Tempesti stopped and turned to Tomás. There won’t be any relaxings tomorrow, will there?

Torquemada rolled his gaze to the roof and tapped a finger on his chin. I believe there should be an even dozen. Looking forward to your first, eh?

No. I, uh, I was just asking.

"They’re marvelous, you know. Yet, relaxings; why must we couch our actions behind sweet words, Isaiah? Call it what it is. We don’t relax these sinners, we purify them by burning at the stake. Oh, but don’t get your hopes up for too much excitement, my friend. The majority of those being relaxed abjure as the fire is about to be lighted, and in renouncing their false gods and accepting Christ, the church smiles on them and, mercifully, an executioner strangles every converso before setting them aflame.

It truly is a spectacle, though. The crowd quiets so they can actually hear the flames licking at the flesh as the heretics scream and writhe. They cheer for the ones that take longer to expire. I’ve, often, truly considered charging an admission fee. Ferdinand would like that, my adding to his coffers.

As they reached the bottom step, Tomás offered, I could check my scrolls after lunch, see how many relaxings are scheduled, perhaps even a Morisco – those dark ones burn exceptionally well!

He placed both hands on Tempesti’s shoulders and held his friend out at arms’ length. Good for you, Isaiah. You show promise. This afternoon, before the processional, we’ll go down to the dungeons. They don’t all willingly confess, you know. Perhaps you’ll find an affinity for what goes on down there. There may even be a Secretariat in this for you. But, for now, I’m starving. Let’s see what cook has for lunch.

Isaiah Tempesti della Turin de Castile declined luncheon, feigning the fevers. Alone in his room, the young prior attempted making sense of what he had seen; tried to understand what was still to come. There was this evening’s processional, then the morning’s mass, sermon and finally, the reconciliation of the sinners.

Reconciliation. A shudder ran through his body. The Inquisition was nothing new to him. But it had always been something merely mentioned, never seen firsthand. Tempesti understood it to be the purifying of the race in the eyes of Christ’s church. And that the sole task of Tomás and his people was to obtain from heretics an admission of guilt and a penitential submission. But these burnings? And that horrendous mob in the square below clamoring for it? Is this what he came to Castile for; to become a part of this horror?

He moved slowly to the room’s wooden cot and sat on its edge, hugging himself, as if strangely-chilled in these warm July days. He slipped one foot from its sandal and placed it on the polished stone floor. Tempesti understood that somewhere below, through catacombs that led to the castle, was the dungeon, and he thought he might feel the vibrations of those tortured souls through the floor.

He knelt at the side of the cot and prayed for those beneath his feet and the many others who would be sentenced to shame or death on the morrow. Then he included his friend Tomás de Torquemada, hoping what the Grand Inquisitor chose to be his direction in life would not, ultimately, be a road that led to the worst of hells.

There was a knock at the door and a cleric entered, ready to lead Isaiah Tempesti to the dungeons.

The Dominican was wrong. The dungeons were not just below the floor of his room. Rather, they were several levels lower, deep beneath the ground. He felt a damp and morbid darkness settle on his face and hands, as he descended countless stairs. Light now came only from the cleric’s tallow.

Cells were narrow, dark and silent; each one caging but a single prisoner. Walking close to one side, Tempesti chanced a glance in occasional cells. What he saw by the single candle’s light, was seldom more than the living dead; men and women, thin as rails, their skins as white as the underbelly of a carp, possibly from years without a look at the sun. Penitent? There is no stronger look of penitence than what I see here.

At the end of a long hallway was a huge wooden door, reinforced by iron cross-stays. Its weight was such that the cleric was forced to place his tallow on the floor and use two hands to pull the door open.

The screams and cries – the ramblings, wails, confessions and prayers – crashed over Tempesti as they flooded forth from the open doorway. He hesitated, wanted to turn and run, but the cleric’s hand pulled him into the chamber.

Tempesti expected private rooms of inquisition; sequestered cubicles with single prisoners and individual interrogators. Not this! Not a huge chamber cluttered with strange devices of torture and scores of people – men, women, children, the elderly – being put through punishments Satan himself had not yet devised. Isaiah Tempesti fought back bile.

Ahh, Isaiah, I feared you might still be feeling ill. Tomás placed an arm about his shoulder and guided him further into the room. The cleric bowed before the Grand Inquisitor and backed away.

I seldom get down here myself, anymore. But, with your arrival, well, I had to give you the tour myself. He turned and gently placed a finger on Tempesti’s chest. He tapped the finger with each word he spoke. "And you will be impressed, my friend. You...will...be...impressed. Keep in mind my offer of a Secretariat position.

As you know, the Church’s role in the Inquisition is not to act as a court of justice. We do not decide on guilt or innocence. We are nothing more than a disciplinary body. We punish only after the prisoner has confessed.

So, these are all confessed criminals?

A chuckle bubbled from Tomás’ lips. Don’t be foolish, Isaiah. If they had already confessed, they would be in their cells, preparing for their sentencing in the auto-da-fe. This is not punishment. These are merely ones who have been accused, but have yet to confess. What we do here is accept their confession. And, if torture is necessary to elicit that confession or any other information, so be it. He beckoned for Tempesti to follow him to a corner of the large chamber.

Take this man, for instance. He is accused of Judaising. Witnesses said he was seen changing his linens on feast-days in honor of his Sabbath and using no lights from Friday evenings onward and in other ways keeping that Sabbath according to the laws of Moses. We just need to hear it from his mouth. Torquemada offered the slightest smile. He will confess...eventually.

The man was barely conscious. Stripped naked, except for a bit of cloth about his loins, he hung by the wrists from a pulley, which was attached to the ceiling a full twenty feet above his head. Heavy weights were manacled to his wrists and feet. As Tempesti watched, the man was raised slowly to the top of the pulley’s arc, the weights straining at his feet, shoulders and wrists. Suddenly, the rope was released and the victim fell to just inches from the floor, where he was viciously jerked to a stop.

This garrucha stretches and often dislocates the arms and legs, Tomás explained. Its success depends largely on the number of weights attached to the suspect and how sharp a jolt he receives.

Tempesti turned his eyes from the man, whose body was again being raised to the ceiling. What did he do, Tomás? Who accused him? Who reported his acts?

Torquemada shrugged. What does it matter? Witnesses and accusers are confidential. The accused never know and we don’t really care. It’s the result that is important. Anyway, let’s move on. As an afterthought, Tomás waved toward the torturer and the cleric in charge of the victim and explained, All torture is performed by Royal executioners and a Secretary of the Inquisition – a position I am offering to you – stands by at all times, recording every act of torture, every question posed and response given...not to mention each shriek and wail of agony.

Tempesti wanted to stuff his fingers in his ears. He silently prayed for blindness so he would not have to look further at such cruelties. This madness is what he proposes for me?

Ahh, here we are. You’ll find the toca a fascinating concept, Isaiah.

A young girl, no more than seventeen, was bound to a wooden rack. Like the man in the garrucha, she was naked except for the cloth covering her loins.

Tomás barely looked at her. Here, we keep the mouth forcibly open and a toca, that linen cloth, is put down the throat. We then pour water slowly from a jar onto the cloth, which conducts it into her stomach. The severity of the torture varies with the number of jars of water we use. Sometimes as many as six or seven. It makes them feel as if they are suffocating.

Tomás, she’s no more than a child.

The Grand Inquisitor sighed. Heretics, witches and thieves know no specific age. From children to ancients, they all destroy the pure Catholic blood of Spain.

And what was her crime?

Tomás whispered, It is said she solicited men.

Tempesti was forced to lean close to him, the better to hear his words. He looked about, to see from whom this information might need be kept secret. Why are you whispering?

Torquemada frowned and moved to hide his face from the girl. Prisoners are not usually told the reason for their arrest. Too much knowledge often encourages them to offer up a hurried, false confession to avoid torture. You must remember, we are sworn to seek out only the truth.

But how can she confess at all, Tomás, with that gag in her mouth?

She’ll find a way. Come along, I have more to show you.

Tempesti found he could not pull himself away from the girl. There was something else that troubled him about her. He looked deeply at her frightened countenance, then allowed his glance to roam down her exposed body to her small, full breasts and the gentle swell of her belly.

Tomás, he called, his voice barely registering above the many cries of the tortured. Torquemada did not respond and Tempesti called again.

What is it, Isaiah?

He reached out, almost touching a finger to the girl’s abdomen. I believe she’s with child, Tomás.

No, no. That is the toca. The water bloats them.

Excuse me, Tomás, but bloat would be higher and breasts in a girl her age would not appear so engorged. I worked for a time assisting the physicians in the maternity hospital in Turin. Tomás, she is with child.

No! The Grand Inquisitor’s booming baritone stopped all but the most dire of wails. He strode sternly to the note-taking Secretary of the Inquisition who awaited the girl’s confession. Is she? Tomás demanded. The Secretary took a step back, shrugging his shoulders.

Torquemada moved to the head of the rack and placed his face close to the prisoner’s. Are you with child, girl?

Ever so slightly, the girl nodded.

Tomás de Torquemada shook an index finger at the Secretary. Damn you, Brother Enrique. You should have known. Take her off that rack instantly. We are not pagans here! We do not tie pregnant women to the rack. He turned to the executioner who administered the toca and was already untying the girl. Leave that to the Secretary. He’ll release her. You bring a torture chair so that he may continue her interrogation.

Tempesti was dumbfounded. You will continue the torture?

Of course. She is still a criminal, isn’t she? But, at least this way she’ll be more comfortable.

Tempesti looked about the room for a cask of drinking water. There was a bitterness in his throat he wished to wash away.

Torquemada supervised the girl’s confinement to a heavy wooden chair, then moved on. He signaled nonchalantly for Tempesti to follow. That’s better now. I thank you, Isaiah. You know, I saw a true torture chair once – it was in Cuenca, I believe – that made our chairs seem like feather beds. It was metal, this chair, with a movable seat. There were manacles for the hands and feet and this strange helmet-like device that had the appearance of a skeleton’s skull hung above it. There were screws in the helmet which were used to put pressure on the top of the head or pierce the ears as well as do damage to the nose and chin. There was also a gag for the mouth with the words Santo Oficio Caballero, the Noble Holy Office, inscribed on its surface. But it was too much. I could not condone anything so horrible.

Tempesti followed Tomás in silence to another rack and another victim. As counterpoint to the young girl at the toca, this prisoner was the oldest woman Isaiah Tempesti had ever seen. As naked as the others, she was bound tightly on a rack by cords which were passed round her body and its appendages. The cords were controlled at one end by an executioner who could tighten them by the turning of a wheel. With each turn, the cords bit into the body and traveled around the flesh.

The potro, Tomás explained, is our most successful tool for obtaining confessions. Of course, we only use it after the prisoner has been subjected to the garrucha and toca first.

Tempesti was not listening. This ancient, strapped down before him, was most likely twice the age his own grandmother had achieved. What little hair she had was whiter than a dove. Her skin hung loosely from her arms and abdomen, as if someone had let out their stuffing. Brown spots darkened her flesh here and there. Her nails – on both her fingers and toes – were thick and yellow. She wore an expression of utter madness.

Isaiah looked up at his friend. His mouth was dry and as he attempted to speak, his tongue felt swollen and in the way. Tomás, how old is she?

Torquemada looked to the secretary who heard the question. The man checked his notations and responded. The heretic is eighty-six.

Eighty-six? Tempesti’s response was squeaked out from a constricted throat. Mother of God, Tomás, at what age do you forego these atrocities?

Even as he said it, Isaiah Tempesti knew he should have held his tongue. One does not challenge the Grand Inquisitor, especially in his own domain. He saw anger flash briefly, then, thankfully, it was gone.

Torquemada moved to the Secretary’s side and scanned the man’s notes. He nodded and said, softly, Continue.

The Secretary bent close to the woman and said, Tell the truth. He then motioned to the executioner who turned the cords tighter.

Tomás stood between Tempesti and the prisoner, shielding her from his words. She is accused of witchcraft, Isaiah. And, as you know, age has no bearing on witches.

Tempesti’s hand flew nervously to his throat. Witchcraft! Sacred Mother, here, truly, is someone worthy of torture. Finally, someone who deserves her fate. No one sits closer to Satan’s side than a conjurer. He wiped damp hands on his robes.

Tempesti moved closer to the rack. He had never seen a witch before and wanted to learn what he could of her evils by hearing her confession.

The old woman’s body was covered with sores. One shoulder was bruised and swollen, perhaps dislocated by a ride on the garrucha. There were few teeth in her mouth and her tongue lolled out of it, dampening her chin with drool.

Tempesti kept his confusion to himself. This is a witch? I have heard they can disguise themselves, but as a slobbering idiot, old and feeble? Certainly, the tortures have created her mania, but she could not have been much more sound before it all began.

Having learned from experience, he directed a question to the Secretary. How long has she been here?

In this chamber, less than a week. In a cell, he checked his notes, going on nine years.

It’s not unusual, Isaiah, for the accused to be imprisoned for an untold and, certainly, unspecified amount of time, offered Tomás de Torquemada.

Tempesti leaned closer to the woman. He could smell her fear and anguish.

Tell the truth, the Secretary repeated. Tell the truth. Confess your witchcraft and abjure your sins.

What is it you want? They were the first words Tempesti heard her speak. They belied her maddened appearance, sounding more pained and tired than mad.

Tell the truth. Confess your witchcraft and abjure your sins.

I don’t understand. What do you want?

Your confession and the names of your followers, your fellow witches and the leader of your coven. The Secretary motioned to the torturer and the cords turned once again.

The woman gritted against the pain, but did not scream. It seemed to Tempesti that she had no screams left.

Tell the truth. Confess your witchcraft and offer up your followers, your fellow witches and the leader of your coven.

The torturer turned the cords again.

Señores, I don’t remember what you told me. Just take me away. I confess. I did what the witnesses say.

Tell the truth. Repeat in detail what the witnesses said.

I told you, I do not know for certain. I admit I did all the witnesses say...whatever it is they did say. I do not remember, but I know they speak the truth. I confess. I am guilty. Now, please take these things from my arms, they are killing me.

The Secretary looked toward the executioner, who turned the cords again.

Confess of your fellow witches and the leader of your coven. Tell the truth.

The woman looked wildly about the room. My family, yes, my family, they all were as you say. My husband, my children, my sisters...my two sisters. Every one was guilty. But, I am old and they are all dead now. It is only me. I did what you say, but it is only me.

The Grand Inquisitor pushed the Secretary aside and moved close to the old woman. It is not enough! His voice was acid, searing the woman with ever more fear. We need at least one other. We need the head witch; the leader of your coven. As you admit to this practice, you must also admit from whom it is you take your obscene orders. Who is your leader?

The cords were turned again and the woman tensed beneath them. She once more bore an expression of madness as she glanced at the three faces bent over her: Tomás, Tempesti and the Secretary.

Tell the truth, intoned the Secretary.

Who is your leader? demanded Torquemada.

Confess, hissed Isaiah Tempesti, caught up in the moment.

The woman turned her head toward the young Dominican, as if she had not seen him there before. She smiled at him broadly, a grin really, and her tongue played over her broken teeth. She raised her head as best she could, nodding in Tempesti’s direction and screamed, It’s him! There is no other witch I follow. I do this man’s evil bidding only. I do his bidding alone, for he is the greatest warlock in all of Castile.

Stunned, Tempesti took a step back. The executioner stared at him from his position at the head of the rack. The Secretary glanced up at Isaiah, then hurriedly added to his notes. Tomás looked back and forth, from confessed witch to accused warlock. The woman continued.

I follow only him. He is my lord. Hail to you, Great Warlock!

Torquemada moved to Tempesti’s side. He looked back at the witch-woman strapped to the potro, as if debating his next move. Then, he briefly placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, I am sorry, Isaiah. The Grand Inquisitor walked away, not looking back, as a second executioner took Tempesti roughly by the arms and led him from the chamber.

This is all a mistake, Tempesti stammered, as he was taken down the corridor to an empty cell. You can’t believe that woman. She’s mad!

He was thrown to the cell’s cold, stone floor and the door closed in the darkness. Tempesti was to his feet in an instant, grasping the slim bars set in the door’s small window. Come back here! This is a mistake. You can’t do this. You can’t!

There was no way to tell how long he remained in the dark, before Tomás returned. During that time, the young Dominican listened to the sounds of the rats that shared his cell, as they scurried back and forth building up the courage to confront him. He believed he could hear the screams of the tortured, down the hall and behind that massive door. But, most of all, it was the old woman’s voice, screeching forth her accusations, brandishing her lies. And his friend’s response, as Tomás whispered to him I am sorry, Isaiah.... I am sorry, Isaiah....

I am sorry, Isaiah. Torquemada stood in the hallway, looking through the barred window cut in the door. A gaoler unlocked and opened it and he took a step into the cell.

Tempesti fell to his knees before the Grand Inquisitor of Spain. Don’t let this happen to me, Tomás.

Torquemada knelt beside him. His face appeared drawn in the cell’s scant light and his shoulders drooped. This was not supposed to happen, my friend.

Does it have to? It is obvious that the old woman is crazy. She could have pointed to you just as easily as she did me.

But she did not. She pointed out you.

So? I’m having trouble understanding why I’m in this cell at all. You are Torquemada. You can erase this charade with a wave of your hand. You can put your arm about my shoulder and casually walk me out that door, can’t you?

Torquemada waited before answering. It’s not that easy. Too many people heard her accusations. The Secretary wrote her words in his transcript. In the eyes of God and His church, you are no better than the witch that accused you.

Tempesti felt as if his bowels would break loose. He wished he could see Tomás’ features better in the cell’s dim light. He needed to read the man’s face. Am I to be tortured?

No, that I can prevent. Confess to witchcraft now, to me, and I will waive the garrucha.

But, I...

Tomás held up a hand to silence him. I know. I know. But these are strange times. The crown, the church, that crazy mob of people we looked down on this morning, they all expect certain things. One is a confession and punishment of the accused. Another is honesty and fairness from their Grand Inquisitor. Too many people heard that woman and they all know that you are my friend. A pardon from me would drive them all to frenzy. Even I could be accused.

Tempesti stood and walked to the darkest corner of the cell. And, so?

You confess. You receive no torture, you are sentenced in tomorrow’s reconciliation...

I am to be in tomorrow’s auto-da-fe?

You could stay right here in this cell for the next three years instead. This city will have another auto by then. You decide. Tomás rose and walked toward his friend. There is no other choice, Isaiah. You march in the auto tomorrow or you never get out of here.

And my sentence?

Torquemada took Tempesti by the arm. Let’s come back near the door and share what little light this dungeon affords. He had to tug gently, twice, before Tempesti would move back into the light.

My sentence.

I’ve thought about that all afternoon. Even during tonight’s processional, I dwelt on it. I believe I’ve come up with the only solution.

I am to be relaxed for witchcraft?

"Don’t be ridiculous. The guilty are only burned if they are unrepentant or relapsed heretics. Now, please, do not jump to any more conclusions. Just listen to me. Even what I am doing now could cause me severe problems. So, just be quiet; just listen.

"We usually never tell the accused what their sentence is until they are in the actual reconciliation. Because, by then, it is too late to appeal. The delay also heightens the suspense, fear and despair each prisoner feels. It’s like a final catharsis for them. We do tell those who are to be relaxed the night before – remain calm, that is not you – to give them time to prepare their souls for confession and repentance. But I am going to tell you now what you can expect tomorrow, because of our long and close friendship.

"There are different levels of penance. Minor infractions result in paying a fine, but you are a Dominican friar and have no money. The levy of a fine you could not pay would place you right back in this cell.

"Then there’s flogging. Stripped to the waist, you would be mounted on an ass and flogged one hundred to two hundred times as you slowly rode through the streets. People, even children, would hurl stones and garbage at you as you rode by. I could not put you through that anymore than I could send you in for torture.

Either in conjunction with those first two punishments or by itself is the forced wearing of the sanbiento – the penitential yellow garment with diagonal crosses – whenever you leave your home, sometimes for as long as ten years or more. The sanbiento is considered the worst of punishments, as no one will associate with someone wearing it. You would be just as alone as if you were still in this cell.

You are killing me, Tomás.

Please, Isaiah. Let me continue. If I passed any of those sentences on you, you would still remain in Castile. And you would be veritably alone. All would shun you and you could not even consider turning to me for anything. We would have to be as strangers.

What does that leave, short of the stake or my taking of my own life?

"The galleys. Banishment to the galleys, for a few years. Please, it’s not that bad. Some have thought this a punishment devised by Ferdinand as a cheap source of workers without his having to resort to open slavery. But, that’s on his galleons. I would not place you there.

There is a young man, an Italian like ourselves, who has been supplicating Isabella for almost eight years now for ships and crews he can take in search of a new world.

Are you crazy, Tomás? A new world? Why not a ship that can sail to the sun?

Tempesti was stunned when the Grand Inquisitor’s hand slapped across his cheek.

Enough. You keep your mouth shut and listen to me, Isaiah, or you can languish in this cell the rest of your days.

I am sorry, Tomás.

Very well. Now then, I know there is no such thing as a new world beyond the horizon. But let this modern-day Marco Polo go search for it. I am familiar with two of his captains, Martín and Vicente Pinzón from Palos, and they are both good men. Believe me, Isaiah, this will be no punishment, it will be a pleasure cruise. You’ll spend a brief time at sea, and when you return, no one will remember this insane accusation. Everything will be as it was.

Tempesti stayed quiet, his eyes closed. Visions of sea monsters and of sailing off the end of the earth danced behind his lids. Finally, he opened his eyes and let out a sigh. Thank you, Tomás.

On the morrow, then. Torquemada left without another word.

Isaiah Tempesti della Turin, soon to be formerly of Castile, spent a sleepless night. Being confined so deep beneath the ground, he had no way to gauge what the hour was when the clerics came for him.

There were three of them. One, a Secretary, carried a notebook and a quill. The Grand Inquisitor says you wish to sign a confession. He handed the notebook and pen to Tempesti.

The Dominican accepted the book, but looked up, confused. There is nothing written here for me to sign.

The Secretary huffed. The Holy Church does not invent confessions, nor do we force anyone to sign that which they do not believe to be truth. You must write and sign your own confession, just as you told it to the Grand Inquisitor last night. And do so with haste. It is only by the Grand Inquisitor’s personal request that you are to be a part of this auto and not wait until the next.

Tempesti sat, pen in hand, blank page open on his lap. Write my own confession? To witchcraft? What do I say? He thought back to his lessons in the Monastery of Santa Cruz, attempted to calm himself and looked to the paper. His hand shook as he wrote, smearing the ink across the page.

I, Isaiah Tempesti della Turin, in the presence of your worships, take oath upon the Holy Gospels, on which I place my hand, that of my own free will I do anathematize and reject every kind of heresy that has been put forward against our holy Catholic Faith and the Apostolic See, especially those into which I fell and which I hold to be here repeated and set forth, and I swear ever to hold and to keep the Holy Catholic Faith as it is held and taught by the Holy Mother Church of Rome, and that I will ever be most obedient to our most holy Father, Pope Innocent VIII. I confess that all who rebel against that holy Catholic Faith are worthy of condemnation: and I do swear never to join with them, but to pursue them and to make known any heresies I know anyone to hold, and should I fall again into my errors or into any other heresies whatsoever, I desire, and it is my pleasure, that I shall be held to be relapsed and punished in conformity with the law.

The Secretary accepted the notebook and pen and gave the confession a cursory glance. Rise, he said. He removed a large crucifix from the folds of his robe and pressed it tightly to Tempesti’s forehead. Do you now adhere to the Catholic faith in every detail?

I do. This is ridiculous. I am a Dominican. My life already belongs to my Lord and His Church!

Do you detest every form of heresy, particularly that to which you have confessed?

I do. My God should not put one as devout as I through this horror. Am I Job? Am I St. Justin? Is there a need for me to prove my faith?

Will you fully accept the punishment which shall be imposed upon you?

I shall. You test me, in this, Dear Jesus. And in return, I shall test You. I will prove my faith on this voyage toward the horizon. But You must show Your love for me in keeping me safe and returning me sound to the land I call home.

The Secretary spoke to the two clerics. Prepare him. He turned and left the cell.

One cleric removed Tempesti’s sandals and began a litany of prayers. The other unfolded a sanbiento and pulled it over the Dominican’s head. It’s yellow color attracted what little light gathered about the cell’s opened doorway.

You must wear this whenever you are out of doors, the cleric explained, for as long as it is decreed. Follow us.

The two clerics walked from the cell. They did not bother to look behind them; to make certain that Tempesti was with them. The Dominican knew he had no choice but to follow.

In the morning light, he joined a large processional that wended its way toward the amphitheaters. Being three-fourths of the way back, Tempesti could not see the Catholic Kings and the Inquisitors, who already made their way to their seats of honor. He was, however, able to make out those priests way in front who carried pasteboard images of prisoners that had died or escaped and were to be burned in effigy. Following them were men and women with ropes about their necks and torches in their hands. Each wore a pasteboard cap, three-feet high, on which were written their crimes.

Tempesti and the other repentant criminals came next, wearing their sanbientos with the large, red St. Andrew’s cross on the front and back. Behind them, way toward the rear were the dozen criminals of both sexes who had relapsed into their former errors and were condemned to the flames. They, too,