The Day of Atonement (43 page)

Outside the convent, Mariana’s hand felt warm in mine. The air was cool around us, and it smelled of smoke. Night had fallen while we were inside, and a sheet of gray clouds covered the sky, like a lid coming down on a pot. Scattered fires lit the city, but otherwise all was dark.

“We should stay here tonight,” Franklin said, “and find the others in the morning.”

“I doubt the convent will welcome us now.”

“You might be surprised. They’re meant to offer forgiveness.”

“Mr. Franklin,” I observed, “we left a priest with an axe in his skull in one of their chambers. I’m fairly certain we have worn out our welcome.”

“Maybe so, but they won’t do much about it, will they? And the cold glares of a bunch of dried-up old women may be better than crossing the city in the dark.”

“Safer for us, perhaps. I cannot say what dangers the others might face without us there to protect them. We must go to them.”

“Do you really wish to cross this hellish landscape with a child?” Franklin asked.

“Honestly, I cannot know any course that is safer than another. It’s all madness, so it may as well be madness upon our own terms.”

Franklin shook his head in wonder. “Mr. Foxx, if I had not known your father, I would be surprised to meet a man as honorable as you.”

And yet, you betrayed him, I thought. The anger, however, did not rise to the surface. Franklin had been given a chance to redeem himself, and he had taken it. It was true that, in part, that redemption had included cleaving the skull of a priest, but he had done it for the most moral of reasons. He had helped me. I would not forget that.

We moved out into the broken, burning streets, populated by the dead and the half dead and the murderous. I wanted only to pass unseen. Though frightened, Mariana understood that she had to remain quiet. She gripped my hand hard and walked with her lips pressed together. Franklin, however, knew nothing about stealth, and each step he took announced our presence to anyone who cared to notice. I had to hope his size would deter any attention he attracted.

The destruction appeared worse in the flickering dark than it had in the light of day. There were gangs of men upon the street, armed with knives and swords and hammers and makeshift clubs and pikes—whatever they could get. Some were small groups, only three or four, and others twenty or more. I tried to keep clear of them, but once or twice we were looked over by gaunt men. They were beasts who had been kept upon leashes all their lives by the Inquisition and by ancient custom. Now they were set free. They had no laws to follow. There was no one to tell them they could not carry blades or force themselves upon any woman who caught their fancy.

Over the course of the day, my rough clothing had been stained with blood and shredded. Both Franklin and I were bedraggled and harmless enough in appearance. As long as we did not encounter that species of man so depraved that he wished to sate his lust upon a child, I hoped we would be safe.

In that walk back to Settwell’s house, we saw wicked things. I wished I could have shielded Mariana’s gaze, but she was young and perhaps would not remember what she did not fully understand. A quartet of men, standing facing one another, pleasuring themselves in unison; a pair of gaunt and shirtless boys searching the dead for useful trinkets; a group of laborers beating a Dutchman for sport. The man was upon the ground, his arms raised in futile defense, as they struck him with sticks and stones. There were more than a dozen of them, and though I ached to save the man, to lash out against his tormentors, I did not dare try. I could not risk Mariana’s safety, not against so many foes. The Dutchman caught my eye and cried out for help, and I made myself turn away. I knew that of everything I had seen and done that day, this moment would be the one that came to me as I lay awake at night, but I kept walking all the same.

As we rounded a corner we came upon a half dozen soldiers, and I feared the worst. These underpaid and armed men would be more dangerous than any gang of thieves. One drew his sword before I could react. “State your business!” he demanded.

“Please, senhor,” I said, hoping humility would win the day. “My business is mercy. I bring this child to her father. I promised to find her and return her to him, and that is what I do and where I go.”

I expected the man to scoff, but he only nodded. “Have you stolen? If so, confess now. It will go easier on you.”

“No, senhor,” I said. “I have stated our business true.”

“Submit to a search.”

Something in the man’s tone told me that it was the right course, and I agreed. The soldier gestured to one of his men, who came forward and ran his hands along and inside our coats and pockets. The soldier then backed away and told his commander that we had nothing of import upon us.

In all my time in Lisbon, I had never seen soldiers behave so efficiently
and honorably. “Senhor, you and your men do brave work, keeping the peace,” I said.

The soldier snorted. “All it took was for God to stamp his boot upon us that we might do so. It was His Grace the Count of Oeiras who has ordered things properly. While the king flees the city and hides in the countryside, the count has paid us what we’re owed and organized patrols. We comb the streets looking for able-bodied men to help with the rescue. We should recruit you were it not for the child. We also look for thieves, and all we find shall hang in public at dawn as a sign that the law still reigns in this city.”

“You do well, senhor,” I said. “Strange to consider Lisbon might be better for all this destruction.”

“I’ve thought the same,” the soldier said. “This lot will be disinclined to agree, however.” He gestured behind him and I saw, for the first time, that the soldiers pulled five men along upon a train. Their hands were bound behind their backs and the rope twisted around their waists. “Thieves all, and they shall swing at first light.”

I looked over at the men, hangdog and defeated. They were no doubt hungry and thirsty and tired of walking behind the men who would kill them. I turned away, but then looked back again.

The third man in the train looked familiar, and so I stepped closer and saw that it was the Gypsy Dordia e Zilhão. His face was battered and bruised, most likely from what he had endured in the earthquake and its aftermath, though the contours of his face might have changed after the beating I had delivered. His lips were cracked, and it was plain to see he was parched. He lifted his bloodshot eyes, both so blackened that he looked to be wearing a mask. He’d broken the bones around them. He began to say something to me, but clearly the pain and effort of speaking was more than he was willing to endure, and he slowly dropped his head, wincing slightly at the movement.

I turned to the soldier. Dordia e Zilhão was no friend of mine. He
was a thief of the worst kind, who preyed upon the weak and the lost. He had abused Enéas beyond imagining and he would have raped Roberta. Yet for all that, I had harmed him, tricked him into injury and ruin, not once but twice. Did I not owe him something? Perhaps if I spoke a kind word or two, I could convince the soldier to move the Gypsy from the ranks of the condemned to the rank of soldier. With so many lives blasted out of existence today, was there not here an opportunity for some good, the chance to turn a man from something vile to something useful?

There was, however, a limit to the number of favors I dared ask the soldiers, and so, instead, I said, “Senhor, if you have no preset course you must patrol, might I impose upon you to offer us escort that we might see this child home?”

Whatever doubts the soldier had entertained about me now vanished. A man who wished soldiers to accompany him was certainly honest. “Senhor,” the soldier said, “I have seen horrors and suffering today that I should not forget if I live a thousand years. I would be forever in your debt if you gave me the opportunity to look upon something good.”

And so it was we made our way back to our friends under armed escort. When we reached Settwell’s house, I saw the curtains part and then Settwell came running out of the house and grabbed Mariana and hugged her. The two of them wept. Whatever else might be said of Settwell—that he was a liar and a thief and a fool—there was no doubt that he loved his daughter, and that he had suffered for his mistakes.

When Settwell finally let go of Mariana, he stood and embraced me. “I have wronged you,” he said, “and yet you braved what I dare not imagine to save my daughter. I know you did it for her and not for me. That does not matter. I am at your command for as long as I live.”

“We shall see,” I said.

I turned to thank the soldiers and was surprised to find all six of
them sobbing like children. I had been so full of rage toward the Portuguese, had seen so much of their worst nature, that I had forgotten what a sentimental people they could be.

“Senhor,” I told the soldier, “I thank you for what you have done for us and what you mean to do for the city.” I cast a glance at Dordia e Zilhão. Perhaps it was not too late to ask for more. “That man there—the one with the blackened eyes. What is his crime?”

The soldier wiped his tears upon the back of his hand. “We caught him and a fellow beast attempting to rape a novice nun. Her arm was crushed under a fallen building. When we rounded the corner, the friend was lifting her skirts while that one was pulling down his breeches. Why, have you something to say on his behalf?”

Whatever impulse toward mercy I had felt abruptly withered. “No. I thought I knew him, but I see I am mistaken. I hope he hangs slow.”

“As slow as can be arranged,” the soldier agreed. “This destruction shall turn every man into either his best self or his worst self, and the worst ones must be made to suffer.”

I did not disagree. I thanked the soldier once more and turned back to Settwell and his house. It was time to make ready to leave Lisbon forever.

I set out provisions, and we ate and drank in silence. I had not explained my plan in detail to the others, because I was not entirely certain it would work, and I did not wish for them to see me fail. It was not for the sake of my pride, but rather for their sense of security. They needed to believe I was competent, and given what these people had experienced, the slightest falter on my part could fill them with uncertainty. To survive what lay ahead, they would need to believe survival a possibility.

I believed we had a chance, the next morning, to escape the city quickly and safely, but I could not be certain the vehicles I sought were still where I hoped. This location, too, had dangers of its own. Best to say nothing of this, but to keep my group moving and believing we might yet safely flee.

We dared to make no fire that night, but it did not get very cold. I propped myself against the wall near the front door. My plan was to sleep lightly. I wished to see none of the others, nor to speak with them—not about anything
unrelated to our survival. I wanted to consider nothing else until we escaped Portugal.

I think the others could tell I was in no mood for conversation. I made it until near midnight without any of them bothering me. Then I was disturbed by the one member of the group I was not sorry to see: Luis. The old man came in and sat down next to me, lowering himself with stiff difficulty to the stone floor.

In the day’s excitement, I hadn’t noticed if Luis had recognized Franklin. How could I explain my willingness to forgive the man who had sold my father to the Inquisition?

“My creaky bones,” Luis said as he finally settled. “I can recall when the simple act of sitting did not feel like a victory, but I suppose you were not yet come into your beard then.”

I said nothing. I wasn’t being deliberately unfriendly, but I could think of no reply to the idle chatter.

“You have managed to collect quite a varied group of survivors,” Luis tried again. “Lovers and would-be lovers, enemies and friends. I cannot blame you for not wanting to be among them.”

“And an English merchant turned innkeeper.”

Luis nodded, watching me carefully. “Yes. A strange choice.”

“I believe he’s changed,” I said.

“Can a man truly change so much as that? Can he redeem himself for such crimes?” Luis asked.

“I pray to God he can.”

Luis’s face darkened. “Do you know what I think? I think redemption does not matter. I don’t care how much he regrets what he did to your family. I don’t care how much he wishes to atone. It will not bring back your father. It will not rewrite the pain and destruction he caused for a few gold coins—coins the Inquisition took from him as soon as they were stolen.”

“No,” I agreed. “It won’t. The past cannot be remade, but the future can be.”

Luis laughed cruelly. “I did not think you so philosophical.”

“It is something I have been trying to learn, senhor—trying to believe. For sins of one man against another, the Day of Atonement does not atone until they have made peace with each other.”

Luis narrowed his gaze. “What does that mean?”

Of course he did not know the liturgy any better than Gabriela had. He would not recognize a prayer from the holiest day of the Jewish calendar. His forefathers had been Jewish, but he was not.