Torquemada by Howard Fast Page B

The strange light cast from these windows flowed across the depth of the room towards the door and gave the interior of the room an unearthly appearance. The walls were of stone, as was the floor, and at the far left, covering almost the entire wall, was a great crucifix, Christ’s figure carved out of wood and hanging in a timeless and unendurable agony of pain.
    The room was furnished with a long refectory table and, behind this table, facing the door, were seven high-backed chairs, each of them upholstered in black leather and each of them topped with a cross. On the table itself were two enormous brass sconces holding very thick candles. The candles were not lit now, the window light making any other illumination unnecessary. Also on the table was a large leather edition of the Vulgate Bible, a cross and rosary and some scrolls of parchment. In the centre chair Torquemada sat, his chin on his hands, his eyes fixed on the table in front of him. Alvero entered, and still Torquemada did not look up; so Alvero stood there for a while and Torquemada sat behind the table and stared at the table. Then very slowly Torquemada raised his eyes and met Alvero’s gaze. Still he did not speak and Alvero said to him very slowly and precisely.
    â€œI met a man who said that Spain was dying.”
    â€œAnd you came to tell me.” Torquemada nodded.
    â€œNo,” Alvero said. “Once I would have come to you – not to tell you – but to ask you a great boon. I would have genuflected. I would have pressed my lips against your knuckles and said to you, give me faith to face such a thing.”
    â€œA man makes a foolish statement and you would ask for faith?”
    â€œThere is sometimes more truth in fools than in wise men.”
    â€œAnd sometimes more foolishness.” Torquemada smiled. “A land does not die because a man says so. Shall I give you faith, Don Alvero?”
    â€œWe were friends once. When did it stop?”
    â€œDid it stop, Don Alvero?”
    â€œThe time came and it stopped.”
    Then Torquemada said, “Tell me when, Don Alvero, tell me when that time was.”
    Alvero nodded and said, “If you wish me to, I will tell you. The time came when you knew what you must do – when you became a righteous man, Father Thomas.”
    â€œThat says nothing, Don Alvero, except that you are quite clever. You specify then that I became a righteous man. You are a very clever man and I never underestimated you. Evidently you would commend a priest who lacked righteousness. That is most interesting indeed. But is it to tell me this that you come here without waiting for me to send for you?”
    â€œI am a tortured man, Thomas. Is that a sign of cleverness, to be a tortured man? I admit to it. I am also not very clever. What game are you playing with me?”
    â€œNo game.”
    â€œWhat then?”
    â€œDo you desire to confess yourself?” Torquemada asked softly.
    â€œTo the priest or to the Grand Inquisitor?”
    â€œBoth are the same man.” Torquemada shrugged.
    â€œI think not. I knew the priest.’”
    â€œBut I still know you, Don Alvero,” Torquemada said dryly. “I know you better than you imagine.”
    â€œBetter than I know myself?”
    â€œIt may be, it may well be that I know you better than you know yourself. I know many things, Alvero. I know, for example, that the Rabbi Benjamin Mendoza came to your home today.”
    â€œYou waste no time to spy on me, Thomas!” Alvero cried.
    â€œThe Holy Inquisition does not spy,” Torquemada replied quietly. “It sees. Who else will open his eyes to see? Would you do away with the Inquisition and let us all be blind? Has it never occurred to you that if Spain is dying, it is the Jew who chokes the life out of Spain?”
    â€œI have always been taught that the Holy Inquisition is a churchly court and not concerned with Jews.”
    â€œThat is pure