“No, not mutilation,” Luis said hurriedly. “These men will suffer the agonies of fire. They will be burnt alive. There will be no garrotting beforehand. I want the townspeople to hear their screams when the flames lick their skin. Every last man, woman, and child will attend, without exception,” Luis said enthusiastically.
The council nodded in agreement, and Father Bernardo asked, “May I give them God’s forgiveness before they die?”
“You may, although I don’t think God will listen to your absolutions,” Luis told him.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Darkness had fallen, and the rain had stopped. The streets, with a thick layer of mud still wet and slushy, were lined by a crowd of people carrying lit torches all the way from the prison walls to the town square.
Inquisition men-at-arms and the duke’s militia, stationed along the route from the prison to the edge of the town’s plaza, formed a barrier between the thoroughfare and the throng of people waiting expectantly for their first glimpse of the condemned men.
Two soldiers, pounding heavy drums with their fists, led the execution procession. Father Bernardo and two other priests from San Agustin carried crucifixes and were followed by two Dominican monks from the nearby monastery. The prisoners, lying in the back of a cart, were chained together by iron links attached to neck collars. Their wrists and feet were also shackled, and every time the cart hit a stone or bump in the road, the men groaned in pain. Two knights flanked the cart, and behind it marched the duke, Captain Tur, and the town council members in a solemn line.
Over centuries, executions had taken place on the outskirts of town. But such was the ferocity of these crimes that the council elected that it should be held in Sagrat’s centre so that people would always remember it whenever they passed by the church or sat gossiping on the steps of the municipal palace.
When the procession reached the town square, La Placa Del Rey, two militiamen took up positions on top of each pyre, which was almost as tall as an average man. The stakes, wedged in the centre of the pyres, had been hastily erected and were visible from every corner of the square and surrounding streets.
There had not been a burning in Sagrat for over ten years. The people, mesmerised by the sombre beat of the drums, the sight of the stakes, and then the arrival of the prisoners, stood in morbid stillness, until some gasped with shock when Miguel and Ignacio were pulled off the cart and dragged across the muddy ground on their bellies towards the pyres.
A few of the duke’s soldiers, holding lit torches which would ignite the fires, watched in silence, but some of them couldn’t resist throwing a disapproving look the duke’s way.
Miguel and Ignacio reached the foot of the stakes. At most burnings, the condemned prisoner was tied and bound to a high ladder lying on the ground. After the heretic had been secured to it, it was lifted by ropes until it stood vertically. With the prisoner facing the fire, the ladder was then lowered again onto the mountain of burning kindling, where the prisoner died almost instantly. Not so this night. It seemed that Miguel and Ignacio were to be given a slower and more painful death.
Standing on top of the pyres, militiamen holding the chains connected to Miguel and Ignacio’s iron neck collars tugged continuously, until the condemned men began climbing over the wood pile. Like a couple of reluctant mules, they tried to take steps backwards instead of forward, with their heads jerking against the collars around their necks.
Both prisoners fell and, unable to stand up again, were dragged the rest of the way on their stomachs, groaning in agony as their bodies became entangled in the jagged twigs. The crowd watched as the men’s skin was ripped, scratched, and stabbed. But inch by inch, they continued to move upwards towards the wooden stakes.
Some of the onlookers looked away. A few people with weak bellies tried to leave the town square, but soldiers blocked their way and ordered them to remain. Only the murdered victims’ family, given a place right at the front of the crowd, openly displayed exuberance for the proceedings.
A stone flew through the air, hitting Miguel on the back of the head, and then another and another, until both men were pelted on every part of their bodies. Angry voices from within the crowd rose above the sound of beating drums. Captain Tur called for order, but the shouts of the people grew even louder, until a man’s anguished scream shocked the crowd into silence.
“Where are our grandbabies? Give us peace!” Eduardo, the missing children’s grandfather, sobbed. “Tell us where you buried them!”
Surrounded by the people’s fury, David felt his gut wrench. He stood at the foot of the stake, light-headed and convinced he was going to vomit. Desperate to tell Eduardo where the babies were and scream his sins aloud, he forced his eyes to close and set his lips into a tight line. He could save these men, his scrambled mind screamed. All he had to do was confess. He was going to hell and would suffer all its agonies, but before that, he could do at least one good thing before the devil took him. He could return the babies to their family and bring the duke and Garcia to justice. He could do those things were he not a coward, unable to even let himself imagine the horror of flames engulfing his body …
His eyes snapped open at a lull in the shouting. Turning to face the stake, he watched his fellow militiamen unshackle the prisoners and shuddered at the sight of their almost naked bodies and torn skin. Thick ropes being coiled around Miguel and Ignacio’s foreheads, necks, and bodies left them standing rigid, like soldiers to attention, against the smooth poles. God help them. God help them! his mind screamed.
Jumping at a sharp pain coursing up and down his wounded arm, he looked down to see fingers digging deep into the linen bandage and the emergence of fresh blood surrounding the open wound. Tugging his arm free, he looked back up, and scowled at Garcia, smirking with pleasure at the pain he was causing.
“You should be up there, Sanz. I’d pay with my own coin to watch you burn.” Garcia tilted his head and whispered into David’s ear, “It would give me pleasure to watch you squirm in agony.”
“And it would give me even greater satisfaction to see you standing up there next to me,” David hissed back.
“You are not long for this world.” Garcia grinned maliciously and then walked away.
Father Bernardo and two other priests from the church of San Agustin went to each pyre in turn, holding crucifixes in the air. After making the sign of the cross and uttering prayers that no one could hear, Father Bernardo turned his back on the prisoners and then walked towards the church, followed by the duke, Garcia, and the town’s civil authorities.
“Empty the buckets of pig fat onto the pyres,” Captain Tur ordered his soldiers. The logs and kindling were wet from recent rains and the pig fat would help ignite them.
After the pyres had been doused, David was ordered to put the flame to Ignacio’s pyre. Frozen with dread, he hesitated. His mind scrambled to think of a way out of the horrific nightmare he’d found himself in. For a second he envisaged the two prisoners getting loose from the ropes and running to safety. Gripping the lit torch so tightly that he thought the wood would snap, he found he couldn’t move his arm or take a step forward. It was as though some invisible hand were holding him back. His teeth were chattering. His ears heard the sound of drums and people’s voices shouting at him to hurry up and light the fire, yet he still couldn’t do his captain’s bidding.
“In the name of God, man, give it to me!” Tur’s gruff voice snapped.
David, dazed, handed Tur the torch and then hung his head, lest anyone see his tears.
“Lift your head and behave like a soldier. Every man in this cursed town is looking at you,” Tur said.
Slowly David raised himself to his full height, stood to attention, and nodded. His head was pounding as though it were being struck with hammers. Tur shouldn’t have to light the fire and damage his good conscience, David thought, ashamed. “My apologies, Captain,” he said.
“Are you ready to follow orders, Sanz?” Tur asked, not unkin
dly.
David nodded again. “Yes, Captain.” Looking up at Ignacio’s terror-stricken face, he mouthed, Forgive me. Then he lit the kindling.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Miguel and Ignacio appeared to have been overcome by smoke before the first flames licked their feet. Their flesh, now peeling off their bodies like slices from tender joints, fell onto the flames, making the odour of pig fat and smoke even more pungent and the sight horrific. For anyone in close proximity to the fire, it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. It was also dangerous because of the sparking wood flying perilously far from the pyres and into the crowd of people.
Even though the bodies were still burning, the militiamen no longer stopped the townspeople from leaving the square. Eduardo and Alma, electing to stay, were surrounded by their family members, who were standing in a clustered group and staring unflinchingly at Miguel and Ignacio’s charred remains.
Paco approached David, sitting alone some distance from the stakes. Placing his hand on David’s shoulder as he sat down on the muddy ground, he asked, “What did the lord treasurer whisper in your ear?”
“Nothing. It was of no importance,” David answered.
“David, I am your friend, but I will hammer down this wall you’ve built around you until it cracks. I’m weary of your lies and secrets.”
“Not now … Please, Paco, not now,” David said impatiently.
“Yes, now. I’ve been watching you. You lit the flames on those pyres, but I suspect you knew those poor bastards were innocent, just as I did.”
“That’s nonsense!”
“Is it? Then why do I see more guilt and fear in your eyes than in any prisoner we have locked up in our prison. Who are you afraid of?”
Shrugging off Paco’s hand, David tried to rise to his feet.
“Sit down!” Paco exclaimed, tightly gripping David’s arm. “You’re not going anywhere until I get the answers I’m looking for.”
“I’ve got nothing to say. Let go of my arm.”
“Sit or I’ll hold you down by the tip of my sword.”
David swallowed painfully. His throat felt as though it were filled with bone-dry straw, and it tasted of burnt meat. He didn’t think he could talk to Paco even if he wanted to. Sitting back down from his half-risen position, he decided to let Paco have his say. What did it matter? He wasn’t going to tell the truth anyway. “Get on with it,” he said hoarsely. “What do you want to know?”
“I want to know why you were summoned by the duke on the night the physician died.”
“You’ve already asked me about that. I told you—”
“You lied. I have served in Sagrat’s militia for over twenty years. I hold a higher rank than you, yet no lord or master has ever given me so much as a fleeting glance. Not even Captain Tur crosses the threshold to Peráto’s private chambers. I spoke to the guards who were on watch at his doors that night. They told me you were inside with the duke for a long time. What did he want from you?”
David held his tongue.
Paco tried again. “I watched the lord treasurer approach you tonight and whisper something in your ear. I saw the loathing in your face. What did he say? Why do you hate him?”
“I don’t hate him.”
“More lies. I sensed the hostility between you and him. You either think me stupid or blind.”
“I think you are an astute man,” David said sincerely.
“If that’s so, you’ll not be surprised to learn that I also think you’ve played some part in this shameful travesty of justice. The town was cursed the night the physician fell off that wall … the same night you were summoned and hell spilled onto our streets. I’m not asking anymore. I demand answers or I swear to God Almighty that I’ll take my suspicions about you to Captain Tur.”
David’s sharp intake of breath was audible. Panicking, he averted his eyes. Paco was astute, which meant that his suspicions could run deep. He wouldn’t give up until he was satisfied. He would chip away until he got to the truth. “Will you give me leave until we’ve finished here?” David asked.
Paco nodded. “Yes, but when we leave this square, you’ll spill your guts to me,” Paco warned him.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The militia had been given strict instructions to keep the fires going until every piece of human bone had been incinerated. Just before dawn, the last flickering flames simmering within the pile of ashes died. David tried to concentrate on the job of clearing the mounds of ash. First the men had to douse the debris with water, and then they would shovel it onto the back of the cart.
When the area had been cleaned, the cart was driven away. David and Paco left the square and began picking their way through the deserted streets towards the prison. Walking briskly, David braced himself for Paco’s interrogation. A devoted militiaman, Paco was also loyal, persistent, and above all honest. He and his family would be relatively safe as long as he remained ignorant, David believed, but the moment the truth came to light, his sense of duty would compel him to seek justice against the duke and everyone else involved in the terrible crimes that had been committed.
Battling with indecision, David gave Paco a quick sideways glance. Should he keep his mouth shut, share every detail, or omit certain facts? Would it be better to say that the little girl and the infant were dead or that they still lived? Could Paco be trusted to keep his mouth shut? What would he do when it was confirmed that the wrong men had been executed? Would his disgust outweigh their friendship?
David, jolted from his thoughts by Paco’s sudden grip on his arm, halted in mid-step.
Gesturing behind them, Paco raised two fingers in the air. “There are two of them,” he mouthed.
David pricked his ears but heard nothing. Regardless, he followed Paco, striding towards the end of the street. Turning a corner, they slipped simultaneously into the first shadowy porch and pressed their bodies against its inner wall. Then, with hands on the pommels of their swords, they listened and waited.
Panicking and feeling a sense of doom, David flexed his muscles and tried to slow his breathing. His sword arm would be ineffective, he thought. He would be of no use to Paco. The wound had started bleeding again after Garcia’s rough grip had ripped some of the gut stitches out. If he was forced to wield a weapon now, he would tear the skin further. “Paco, if they’re armed, we should run,” he whispered urgently. “This is not your fight.”
“Hush.” Paco put his fingers to his lips and shook his head.
The two figures wearing dark cloaks with hoods pulled over their heads walked briskly past David and Paco’s position but then halted abruptly, as though they were lost or looking for something.
David, standing rigidly against the wall, silently urged the two men to turn around so that he could see their faces. His chest felt as though it might explode. In his growing anger, he hoped that one of them was the marauder, coming back to try to finish the job. What life was there to be had when he was constantly stalked by fear and threat of death, he thought. Best to die fighting with what little honour he had left, and if he could inflict pain on the whoreson, all the better.
With no swords in sight, Paco leapt from the porch and lunged at one of the men with such force that both tumbled to the ground. David, right behind him, pounced on the other man and after a brief tussle pushed him roughly against a wall and pinned him there with his elbow.
“No, no, David! Son, it’s me … Papa,” the man in David’s grip gasped hoarsely.
Open-mouthed, David whipped the man’s hood off. Still unable to comprehend what was going on, he flicked his eyes to the figure on the ground, being held down by Paco’s dagger, tickling his throat. “Hold fast, Paco!” he said hurriedly. “That’s my brother, Diego.”
Paco’s bewildered eyes widened and then bore into Diego’s face as though he were looking for a resemblance to David. Finally, he withdrew his dagger. “Get up, you fool. You almost got yourself killed! Why were you following us?”
; “I can probably explain that …,” David began.
“You had better.” Without waiting for the explanation, Paco glared at David’s father, Juan. “Sagrat is on high alert. This is no time to be wandering the streets in the middle of the night, stalking militiamen like a couple of thieves or paid assassins. Don’t you know what’s been happening in this town?”
“Enough, Paco,” David said.
“No, David, not enough! Had they come across any other soldiers but us, they would be on their way to prison for questioning. Or they would be dead!”
“We weren’t stalking you. We were trying to catch up with David,” Juan said unconvincingly.
Diego’s eyes were as big as plates. Standing on shaky legs, holding the nicked skin at his throat, he panted for breath. “We went to the prison … but the soldiers wouldn’t let us see you.”
“That’s right,” Juan said. “And when we got home, we found our street crawling with militiamen. They forced us to go to the square, even the neighbours’ children.”
“Instead of shadowing us, why did you not approach us before we left the square? You didn’t do a very good job of it,” Paco said, clearly still angry.
David was no longer listening to Paco but embracing Diego. He was overjoyed, yet his heart thumped anxiously. He had so many questions for his brother. Where did he go after the fire at the farm? Was the little girl well? Where did he leave her? Why did he decide to come back to Sagrat?
“For the love of God, will someone tell me what’s going on?” Paco whispered furiously.
There was no way out of this, David thought. He had to talk. “Paco, I’ll answer all your questions. I’ll tell you everything,” David said.
Juan put his hand on David’s arm. “David, no. Please, son, don’t,” he warned him.