Casca 10: The Conquistador
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Authors: Barry Sadler
This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.
CASCA: #10
The Conquistador
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Copyright © 1984 by Barry Sadler
Cover: Greg Brantley
Dynamic Arts
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Shadows drifted over Sevilla, hiding a thousand evils in its wisps of swirling dampness. Behind shuttered windows, those whom the Spanish Inquisition had branded as heretics prayed for salvation; at the same moment in the dungeons of the Grand Inquisitor, the devout monks of the order granted salvation to the worst of the heretics, sorcerers, and witches by burning them alive in the name of the blessed, gentle, all- merciful Lamb.
The terror was upon Spain. Thomas Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor who possessed the full blessings of Holy Rome, had the responsibility to purge Spain of all heresy and sedition.
Before he had been summoned to take over the office of Inquisitor, the Dominican monk had been content to serve as the prior of the monastery of Santa Cruz at Segovia. But his learning and devotion had caused Cardinal Mendoza to nominate him for the office. Now he sat at his desk reviewing the new lists of names given to him of persons who possibly were heretics or workers of evil. He pulled back the cowl from his plain wool cassock. He wore his fine red robe only when conducting an official interrogation or trial. He affected no display of wealth or riches. His reward came from the satisfaction of one who has been serving his god to the best of his ability and knows that he has done well. Since February 11, 1482, the date on which His Eminence Sixtus IV, the Holy Father, had appointed him, at the request of Isabella, as Inquisitor General, he had performed his sacred task with single-minded devotion. He had found his calling.
The single candle on his desk cast no softening shadows on the sharp, angular, sixty-five-year-old features. The deep sockets of the man's head housed dark eyes that appeared to have a fire in them of their own and flickered with righteous fervor when he was able to force another heretic to admit his sins. They were so stubborn. He was pleased that he had had to put only a couple of thousand to the burning stakes. Most would readily confess and recant with just a touch of the thumbscrew or boot; the Church could forgive them once they proved their new faith by giving up all their worldly goods, for blessed are the poor.
Not all of his work had gone as he would have chosen. The Moriscos were permitted to live, those unclean blasphemous former members of the Moslem faith. In his heart, he knew that they had no real love for Mother Church. Tens of thousands of them had fled across the straits to
north Africa, leaving their lands and goods behind. They should have been burned. And then there were the Jews, who, he felt, celebrated cabalistic rites and black masses and performed vile sorceries. Even now they were being permitted to leave Spain unmolested, taking their goods with them. He was not a foolish man; he well knew that the Inquisition served the purposes not only of the true Church but also of the powers seated upon their thrones. Through the Inquisition, they were able to weed out, and if not kill then neutralize by imprisonment, those they thought not loyal to their thrones. But the Jews had bought their way out for the incredibly small price of thirty thousand gold ducats. Those who had not embraced Christianity, he thought, a hundred and seventy thousand now-lost souls, were being set free upon the rest of the world to work their evil.
Torquemada's old heart pounded, recalling the evening when he had confronted Ferdinand and Isabella, crying to them as he threw his crucifix on their dinner table:
"Will you, my king and queen, do as Judas has done and betray your Lord for money?" If they had not been the king and queen of Spain, he would have had them put to the "Question" for their actions.
The blue veins in his wrinkled hands nearly burst with tension as one hand attempted to strangle the other in his passion for justice. His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Frey Francisco Morelia, a good and valued servant of the Lord. The man was still in his twenties and destined for great things in the Church, if his past history of service to the Inquisition was any indication. He entered the office on sandaled feet, his brown homespun robe rustling softly as he approached the Inquisitor General.
"Father, I am sorry to interrupt you at this hour, but we have found something which I think merits your personal attention."
Torquemada leaned back, sucking in a deep breath and releasing it slowly; this helped him regain his composure. Weary as he was, he smiled at his faithful aide.
"What is it, Brother Francisco, that keeps you awake this night?"
Francisco wrung his hands in consternation. "Father, I believe we have found a sorcerer. In all our years, I have never seen one who more surely has the mark of the beast upon him."
Torquemada sucked his lower lip. "Has he been put to the Question?" Even in the pale light of the candle, he could see that Francisco's face was paler than normal, the lips almost white. The brother was deeply disturbed.
"Yes, Father, both the boot and the screw.
He admits nothing." Francisco almost broke into sobs, dropping to his knees to grasp the blue-veined hands of his superior.
"Father, you must come and see this creature for yourself. He is beyond my experience, and I confess that I have a great dread whenever I am within the sight of his eyes."
Gently, Torquemada removed his hands from the grasp of his younger servant. "Very well then. I suppose that I must go and see this person you speak of. As we walk, tell me what you know of him."
Guards posted at his door accompanied the good father as they did everywhere; there were heathens hidden, even in the palaces, who wished to stop his sacred work.
In front and behind, the stern-faced soldiers of Catholic Castile escorted Torquemada and Francisco down the corridors leading to the dungeons. On the ground floors were fine offices, halls, and galleries with their walls covered with the work of Spain's finest artists and sculptors. Rare beauty marked every turning. But once the great oak door by which two guards stood closed behind them to let them into the inner regions below the fine rooms, they entered if not hell then at least purgatory.
The smell of charcoal reached up the several tiers of stairs lit by lamps in brackets bolted to the stone sides of the walls. Francisco lent his arm to the Inquisitor as they went down two levels. On the first level were the cells where lesser offenders were kept. Below them were the true dungeons and torture chambers where the servants of God kept an endless vigil, performing their duties around the clock. From sun to sun they worked in relays, using the thumbscrew and rack or straps and water. Only the use of iron was forbidden them in the treatment of heretics, but through long
practice and study, the loss of iron was of small importance. They knew how to make up for its absence.
The peasants swore that they could hear the sounds of screaming coming from the dungeons at all times of the day and night. But if it grew too loud, it was said that a block of wood was forced between the jaws, stopping most of the outcries. Those who were returned to their cells were usually too exhausted to do more than whimper in their sleep.
The dungeon carried in its damp, smoke-streaked stones the aura of pain. One prisoner caught a quick glimpse of the sharp profile of Torquemada as he descended to the main chamber. That one look was enough to cause the man to loose his bladder upon himself, sending him back to the pile of filthy straw that served as his bed to whimper and pray for mercy from someone, anyone.
As they neared the bottom steps, Frey Francisco filled in the details which had brought this new prisoner to their attention. The man had been arrested by soldiers for riotous behavior in a tavern well known for its bad reputation, but it was tolerated on the waterfronts as a necessary evil as long as the evil was kept within the tavern's own walls. This person had carried a fight into the streets, mauling several citizens and breaking the arm of one of the soldiers when he arrested him. During the confrontation, the man's tunic had been ripped from his body, exposing him to the eyes of the soldiers. They responded in the proper manner once they saw him and took him to the offices of the Inquisition rather than to the jails which housed those with lesser offenses.
"I must warn you, Father," Francisco said nervously to Torquemada, "this man has a most vile aspect in both body and speech. He blasphemes with every other word, and when I tried to offer him solace in the name of Jesus, he told me to take my crucifix and to perform the most abominable rites with it."
At this hour, no one was being put to the Question. Only two jailers and the night warden were to be seen, half dozing as they watched over their charges. When the footsteps of Torquemada and Francisco were heard, the warden came rapidly to his feet, rousing his dozing aides, bowing profusely,
eager to serve his master.
"Where is the one who insulted Frey Francisco?" inquired Torquemada gently. The warden in charge of this section of the dungeons bowed and scraped as he led the way to where the new man was being kept.
"He is stoutly chained, Father. For certain, he is a strong brute such as I have seldom seen. If he hadn't been drunk, I don't think even my three good men could have gotten the shackles on him." Torquemada's curiosity was definitely piqued.
Carrying a torch before him, the warden led them to the cell nearest the rack, where the torturers did their best to straighten out the attitudes of the recalcitrant. Unbolting the door, he entered first, making room by standing against the side of the cell to allow his guests more room to view their prize.
The flames of the torch gave the small cell a hellish aspect. Torquemada automatically made the sign of the cross when he saw what the flames of the jailer's torch exposed to his eyes.
Motioning for the jailer to hold his torch over his charge, Torquemada moved a bit closer, covering his nose with a sleeve to keep out the worst of the odors caused by years of men defecating and urinating on the stone floors. The urine had dried and built up in the corners in yellow, weeping, crystalline piles. He inspected the unconscious figure whose chains had been drawn in, keeping him close to the walls. Torquemada was careful to keep out of range of the powerful arms and hands.
In all his years, he had never seen a body such as the one before him. Never had he witnessed a figure so scarred and gouged that yet had the force of life within its shell. The man had one long scar that ran from his right eye to the corner of his mouth and gave him, even while unconscious, a sinister aspect. To the mind of Torquemada, this man should have died a dozen times over; that much he knew from his long experience in the service of the Church as Grand Inquisitor. His duties required a fair knowledge of anatomy and what the human body could endure before the flesh gave up the spirit. This thing before him, huddled against the stones of the cell, should have been dead.
A shiver ran over the muscles of the man's arms, which rippled like the flanks of a horse trying to shake off a nagging fly. The shiver continued up his body to his face. Torquemada stepped back as the man's eyes opened, squinting at him through sticky, swollen lids.
Seeing that the eyes had intelligence in them, Torquemada addressed the man. "By what name are you called, senor?" The man attempted to speak but could give only a dry croak. Torquemada ordered the jailer to give the man water to clear his throat. Reluctantly the jailer obeyed. He didn't like getting too close to the man who nearly had broken his jaw with a wild backhand swing while they were getting the shackles on him. Torquemada observed the reluctance of the jailer with contempt. The man was supposed to be capable at his job, yet he feared a chained man. Taking a clay water jug, the jailer extended his arm to pour the fluid over the prisoner's face.
The scarred man raised his face to the moisture, sucking it into his mouth. The fluid quickly returned suppleness to dry membranes.
Torquemada repeated his question. "By what name are you called, senor?"
With consciousness returning, so did the pain where the thumbscrew and boot had been applied lovingly to him. They were simple enough devices in principle, no more than vises that could be tightened a turn at a time until, if enough turns were made, the bones would at last crack and then be crushed, leaving the prisoner crippled for life. This was not the first time he had tested them, and he'd long since learned to put pain in the back of his mind, where he could temporarily ignore it. It was there, but it wasn't so intense. He had known more pain than these people could imagine in their wildest nightmares. There was nothing they could do to him that had not been done already, yet he lived and would live long after their bones had turned to dust.
Casca tried to focus on the thin face above him and bring the sharp features into clarity. When he did, he didn't like what he saw.
Straightening up as best he could against the cell wall, he answered hoarsely, "Who the hell wants to know?"
Torquemada was not shocked that the man did not recognize him; rather, he was offended by the lack of respect in the voice.
"My son, I am a servant of the Lord, a simple priest dedicated to His good works. My name is Father Thomas Torquemada."
For some reason, that news did not surprise Casca; he'd had a premonition of things going from bad to worse when he'd opened his eyes and looked at the harsh face above him, a face he had seen many times. Although the features were different, the fervor of religious fanaticism was clear. He had seen it in the eyes of the priests of Ahura Mazda and those of the Teotec who sacrificed living hearts to their gods. They all performed their sacred and priestly duties, convinced that what they did was best for their victims and their souls.
