The Day of Atonement (10 page)

“I know what’s out there,” I said. “Indeed, I mean to find it.”

For a man who is patient and careful, it is entirely possible to remain invisible in a city at night. I knew how to cling to shadow, how to walk without making a sound, how to vanish into darkness and silence. Many London streets are lit with lanterns and patrolled by parish watchmen, which could make remaining unseen occasionally difficult, but Lisbon, by comparison, posed little in the way of a challenge. Outside of the English neighborhoods, most men did not visit public houses or taverns to pass the night in drink and companionship. Such businesses closed their doors at nightfall. There were no pleasure gardens or theaters or outdoor concerts or firework displays or other nighttime amusements of any variety. The streets belonged to the poor and luckless, the drunk and the thieves who preyed upon them, and the well-armed privileged of the city who targeted all. For the unfortunates who could not escape indoors, night was a time of violence and hunger, of desperate struggle.

Those who chose to venture out upon the streets for
sport took pleasure in that struggle. Noblemen patrolled the city in packs like wolves, stalking thieves for amusement and hunting one another in contests of bravado. I vanished into shadows as one such group passed, too drunk and boisterous to notice me even if I had stood in the open, arms wide. This group had dressed entirely in white, no doubt a taunt to a rival band of
fidalgos
. These grudge matches often ended in disfiguration or death. Sometimes these parties would stumble upon a Gypsy or mulatto who had strayed from his fellows, and they would set upon him mercilessly, offering no more quarter than do huntsmen when they corner the fox. Other times a nobleman would fall behind only to become prey himself. Settwell had not exaggerated the dangers that awaited the unwary.

Nowhere was this more true than in the Alfama, the oldest and poorest part of the city. Here, the streets were so narrow that two men upon opposing balconies could share a bottle of wine without difficulty. Every passageway was winding, steep, and labyrinthine, often encased in tunnels or ending abruptly. A wrong turn could mean a dead end, quite literally.

I ignored the
fidalgos
who stumbled past me. I had no use for them. I continued my patrol, and within an hour I found what I sought in a brutally inclining alley behind the massive gothic cathedral of Santa Maria Maior. There were four of them, dressed in the loose and brightly colored shirts of Gypsies. Four if you didn’t count the boy—perhaps thirteen or fourteen at the most, dark-skinned, with wide eyes. It was the boy who interested me. He was with them, but I did not believe he was one of them.

Off to the side, wearing ragged breeches and a vest cut out of a burlap bag, was the group’s evident leader. He was tall, thickly muscled in the arms and broad in the belly, and perhaps he had earned his swagger. To me he appeared a buffoon, drinking from his bottle of wine as he strode boisterously along the street, like a child’s rendering of a hero. Occasionally he raised his bottle in a toast to a woman he called his Beatrice, whom he credited as the finest whore in the
city. I suspected the pool from which he chose was none the best, and the lack of leprosy was apt to elevate a woman into the highest ranking.

I moved swiftly to place myself perhaps thirty paces in front of the Gypsies, and then slowed, coughed, and allowed my boots to scrape the ground. In response the thieves grew suddenly quiet. I heard them moving to the sides of the street, pressing themselves against the buildings, and then falling in behind me. They likely imagined they were being stealthy, and perhaps they were, but I followed their every movement. Using nothing but the noise they made to guide my hand, I could have tossed a knife and had a reasonable chance of striking one of them.

The men did not long hesitate. To do so would have been foolish. Their victim was alone and evidently drunk. If they waited, another band of thieves might appear and claim me for themselves. Within minutes of making myself known, the thieves rushed at me. I felt a hand upon my shoulder whip me around. A man grabbed my arms, and the leader stepped out of the darkness, his wine forgotten. He now held a long knife almost casually, letting it half dangle and catch the light of the handful of stars that peered through the clouds.

He stood in front of me, claiming the higher ground on the steep hill. He had, at least, the sense to do that. Shifting the knife from hand to hand, he grinned, and in the dim light, there was no mistaking the pleasure upon his face. This was the sort of man who relishes power over the helpless. He was imposing in his person, no doubt used to giving orders and having them obeyed, and wore the groomed oiled beard of a
fidalgo
. I supposed he imagined he belonged to a kind of royalty among his tribe, and that sort of prominence set him outside the laws of man and God.

In addition to the leader, and the man who held me in place, there were the two other thieves. They stood back and watched, passing a bottle back and forth. I ignored them. What little fight they had was weakened with every swallow of wine. Near those two stood the boy,
who looked at the other men with the cautious gaze of a dog regularly beaten by his master.

It took but a glance to know his story, or at least a reasonably accurate version of it. He was an orphan of the streets, taken in by the thieves as their slave and their amusement, to be used as they wished. If he was loyal and obedient and of some service, and if he lived so long, he might eventually become one of their number. The boy would not wish for it now, but someday it would become the only life he could imagine. Perhaps long ago he had dreamed of escape, but there was no escape for such as he, and at his age he would know that. His eyes set upon me, and he watched with wary interest, taking no pleasure in my capture, merely assessing the situation for how it might help or hurt his station. I knew then that he was desperate, but he was not broken. Not yet.

How many such boys were there in Lisbon? Hundreds certainly. Perhaps thousands. I could not save them all, but I could save this one, as someone had once saved me. Whatever else I did in the city, whatever crimes I contemplated, I would do some good here and now.

“What have we here?” the leader of the thieves said in a singsong voice of heavily accented English. “A Factory man out upon the street at night? It is not wisest.”

Perhaps I should have been afraid. I was outnumbered quite significantly, and while I was confident in my abilities, I knew nothing of these men. Each of them might have been my match or more. I felt no fear, however, merely the excitement of the moment and the promise of violence. Once, long ago, in such moments, I had searched for fear, as a sign that I was yet unbroken, but I had long since stopped looking. I was what I was, what circumstances had made me. I wished to change all that, but not just yet. For the moment, I was content with my advantages.

“You say nothing, Factory man?” the Gypsy said, clucking his tongue like a disappointed grandmother.

“I’m not with the Factory.” I slurred my words and struck a note of hesitant bravado. “I’ve just arrived in the city.”

“And no one warned you for Lisbon night? Perhaps you’ve make for you enemies, but I assure, I am not one of them. My name is Antonio Alface de Dordia e Zilhão, and I am the enemy of no man who wants be my friend.”

“I am an Englishman,” I said, with too much pride and volume, “and if you wish to be my friend, I suggest you release me. You walk a dangerous path, I promise you.”

“Perhaps we make a mistake,” Dordia e Zilhão said. He pressed one hand to his heart and bowed. “Perhaps we should fear you.”

“Do not mock me,” I said. “I merely tell you that an Englishman is not to be troubled as he goes about his business.”

“Hmm.” Dordia e Zilhão ran a hand over his mustaches. “You have given me many ideas to think on. Now, shall I tell you what to think on?”

“If you have terms, I shall hear them,” I said, standing up a little straighter.

“Remove your clothes.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “What is your meaning?”

“I might cut your throat,” Dordia e Zilhão said, “but then the clothes would be stained with your blood, making them have for no value. Hand me your purse and your clothes of your back, and perhaps we allow you live. If you can make it to home, naked, without much troubled, you will learn for you a lesson about Lisbon for which you will owe me thanks.”

“And if I refuse?” I asked.

“Then you will have learned a different lesson, but I fear for you it will do no good.”

If I complied, did he mean to let me live? I could not say. I did not think even he knew yet what he would do. Such men are often creatures of caprice and whim.

I hung my head, as if in defeat. “I cannot accept your terms. You have made a mistake in taking me, for I suffer from a terrible illness.”

“What illness?” Dordia e Zilhão pretended toward bravado, but his tone became slightly more shrill.

I spoke again, running together a string of garbled nonsense.

“What? Speak, English fool.”

I mumbled once more, but this time I met the eye of the boy and held it for an instant, hoping he would understand the significance.

Dordia e Zilhão stepped closer and put his head near my own. “Damn you, what are you talking about?”

I lurched forward and struck Dordia e Zilhão hard in the face with my forehead. The blow was sure and staggering. I felt the man’s nose pop like an egg, and I heard the satisfying crunch of bone and the warm spray of blood against my forehead as the Gypsy crumpled, coughing up a garbled, gurgling scream. He pitched forward, and the incline of the hill did the rest for me as he tumbled.

The man holding me did not let go in surprise, as I had hoped. Instead, he tightened his grip, perhaps believing that one of the two remaining men would set upon the prisoner. I chose not to wait. I rotated my forearms with a sudden burst of strength, and the thief’s grip loosened, if only for an instant. I drove the heel of my boot into his shin, and feeling his hands slip away, I struck the Gypsy in the face with my elbow. I caught him in the teeth, and felt at least two come unmoored. The man dropped and rolled down the steep incline of the street and into the murky dark.

I turned to face the remaining two men, but they had already fled into the night. It was all for the good, and it made my task easier. Though I had dispatched the first two men with relative ease, I could not depend upon my luck holding.

The fight had been short and brutal. My elbow throbbed, as did my knuckles and my forehead. I hadn’t noticed the pain in the heat of the action—I rarely did—but now it washed over me. If anything,
it was a comfort. I stepped over the groaning body of Dordia e Zilhão and approached the lad, the only one who remained present and conscious.

The light was dim, but I could see the boy was tawny in color and had the high forehead of a Brazilian native, although his other features appeared more European. He was the sort of half-caste that Englishmen would have found shocking but was common enough in a Portuguese port city.

“How old are you?” I asked the boy in Portuguese.

“Fifteen, my master,” he answered, keeping his eyes cast down. He was thin, and his filthy clothes hung loose upon his frame. These things contributed to his look of terror, though no doubt he was frightened enough. Still, I detected that he was alert and ready to flee or, perhaps, spring upon an opportunity if one should appear. He was a creature of the streets, and so prepared to endure risk for the chance of reward.

“Small for your age. What is your name?”

“I am called Enéas.”

“Well, Enéas, what is the largest sum of money you have ever held in your hands as your own to spend?”

The boy took a moment to consider the question. “One real.”

I put a purse in the boy’s hands. “Here’s ten. It is yours to keep regardless of what you choose. However, I am in need of a servant, one who knows the streets and who can get me information. Is that something you can do?”

Enéas nodded eagerly, swallowing hard, perhaps at the thought of the food ten reais would buy. The boy’s muscles were still tense. He was clearly prepared to run, money in hand, should things go badly, but he was not leaving yet. Not until he heard more.

“I can do all that and more,” he said, now sounding brighter. “There is no one who knows Lisbon better than I. I know every street and every vendor in every stall. I know every whore and every drunk.
You need but say to me, ‘Enéas, fetch me the French whore who used to be a seamstress,’ and I shall know who you mean and run to her that very instant.”

“I shall certainly keep that in mind. Here is what I propose. Come with me, and I shall not mistreat you or give you cause to complain, and in exchange I ask only for diligent labor and loyalty. If anyone offers you money to betray me, you must tell me, and I shall make it more profitable to reject that offer. If you should choose to betray me regardless, I can promise you a swift death. Is this a bargain you care to make?”

The boy cocked his head as he considered the offer. “Will there be buggery?”