The Day of Atonement (44 page)

“It is the reason I came here,” I said. “And it is how I am trying to live.”

“Well, if it is so, there is a difficulty, because I will not make peace with him. I will not forgive him. Leave the traitor behind.”

“No,” I said. “He helped me rescue Mariana. He tried to warn me about the Inquisitor.”

Luis shook his head. “And if he betrays us all again?”

“He won’t. He, too, wants to survive. He would only betray us if he were a creature of pure malice, and I am sure that is not so.”

Luis began to say something, but apparently thought better of it. “I suppose I am not the only one of your refugees who must endure the presence of an enemy.”

“There is no helping it,” I said. “Mrs. Carver must pass the night in the house of the man who orchestrated her ruin.”

“Ruin was coming for everyone,” Luis said. “Settwell’s scheme is now beside the point.”

“That is true,” I agreed, “but her ruin would have had a different shape. Her fortune is gone, her reputation in tatters, and her husband dead. All of those things began with me. If I’d never come here, her life would not have taken such a turn.”

“But perhaps her life would already be finished,” Luis said. “It is a fool’s game to predict what would have happened.”

I was silent.

“Did you seek for those terrible things to happen to her?” Luis asked.

“I sought her poverty,” I said.

“But you believed you were pursuing justice.”

“I was wrong.”

“Men make mistakes,” Luis said. “You made yours with a good heart and just intentions. I know of no instance in these affairs where you deliberately did evil or sought to harm those you believed blameless. No one can know the results of his actions. You may pull a drowning man from a lake, and that man might be a heartless killer. Does that mean that when you see a man struggling in the lake you must pass him by?”

“Of course not. The man could just as well be a saint as a demon. Most likely he is neither.”

“But if he is a demon,” Luis said, “and you saved him, do you blame yourself for your actions? Perhaps it is human nature to do so, but the impulse is wrong. At any given point in our lives, Mr. Foxx, we can only make the best choice given to us. Choices are in our power, but consequences are not. You must continue to make the best choices you can, and face the consequences bravely.”

I managed a weak smile, certainly invisible in the darkness. “You are a wise man, senhor.”

“Just an old one,” Luis said. “A man learns a few things as he travels the decades, even if he does not mean to.”

“Then tell me this,” I said. “I came to Lisbon to pursue justice. I came to kill a man I believed I needed to kill. I found him at the time of my choosing, and as I was about to take his life, that was when the city came apart. What does it mean? Was this the intervention of God, telling me not to kill the priest?”

Now it was Luis’s turn to laugh. “You suffer from the arrogance that afflicts all who look for omens. The wind blows east, and you ascribe it some meaning in your life, but the wind blows east for all men, not just you.”

“But not all men were about to confront such a person when the quake began.”

“Is it the only time you encountered the priest?”

“No, I had spoken with him many times before that—and, of course, after.”

“And none of those times the earth shook?”

“You know it did not.”

“Then that is your answer,” Luis said. “Tens of thousands live in Lisbon. When the earthquake struck, women were giving birth and men dying. Offers of marriage were being proffered and those offers were accepted or rejected. Secrets were revealed and concealed. Men committed crimes or advanced schemes. They wrote poems and struck bargains. Lovers came together for the first time and broke apart forever. Oh, I suppose more than a few men merely sat about picking nits or pissing in pots, but how many besides you were engaged in business that felt monumental? What makes you believe God was speaking to you and not one of them?”

I was curiously comforted by Luis’s explanation of my insignificance. “Thank you, my friend. I am glad you are with me.”

Luis grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. “Don’t think me anything but selfish. I depend upon you to help me survive what comes next.”

“As I depend upon you,” I answered.

I drifted off from time to time, but I was awake when Roberta came into the room and sat next to me, almost precisely where Luis had. I listened to her breathe for a few minutes, but said nothing until she spoke.

“I know you’re awake.”

“Yes,” I said.

She fell back into silence, and I began to wonder if she had fallen asleep. Then I heard her breathing change, and I understood she was crying.

“I know nothing about you,” she said.

“That is probably for the best,” I told her.

“You are a Jew,” she said. “An escaped New Christian. And you came back here seeking revenge against the Inquisition. I pieced that much together.”

“Yes,” I said.

“And Senhora Nobreza. You knew her when you were younger.”

“Yes.”

“You loved her?”

“Yes.”

“You came back for her too, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Then you love her still?”

Why did she want to know? Did her question suggest there had been some thawing in her heart? “I thought I did when I came here, but she and I have changed. We were children then, and so much time has passed, but more importantly, life has made us different than what we were. She is happy with her husband.”

Roberta was silent for a long time. I imagined she must be thinking about her own husband, killed by Inácio, killed because of me. Then I saw something glimmer in the moonlight. I realized Roberta was holding something out to me.

“Senhora Nobreza said she thought this was yours. This is the blade that man used when he attacked me.”

I looked at the dagger and shook my head. It was nothing to me, a replica. It was meaningless when I had given it to Inácio, but it had become so much more. Now it would belong to Roberta.

“You should keep it,” I told her. “You’ve earned it with your courage.”

“I was not brave,” she said. “I was terrified.”

“Anyone can take risks when he is not frightened. To act, despite fear, is the soul of courage.”

“Were you frightened,” she asked, “when you did all those terrible things? When you fought those men?”

“No,” I said. “I was too angry to be frightened.”

Roberta was silent for a long time. At first I thought it was because she did not believe me. Then I thought it was because she did.

“What is your secret?” she asked. “How do you summon anger of such strength that it drives away the fear?”

At this I laughed. “You don’t understand. The only reason I am here, in this city, is to purge myself of that anger. I want, more than anything else, to be afraid, but I’m not, because for so long I haven’t cared if I lived or died.”

After a long while she said, “Why did you refuse me? I want to know the truth.”

“Because you did not know I was a Jew.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Do you truly think that would have mattered to me?”

“I did not fear bigotry,” I said, “but discovery. I couldn’t let you know I had been lying to you. And I refused you
because
I had been lying to you. I didn’t trust you.”

“But you trust me now? Why would you? I have told you I blame you for everything that has happened.”

I took in a deep breath. “I can’t begin to explain everything, and I don’t wish to—not while we are here. When we’re safe, when we are free of this city, then you may ask what you like.”

“Why? What will be different then?”

“
I
will be different then,” I said.

“How will you be different?”

I turned away from her. “I hope I shall be afraid. It is what I wish to believe.”

I was awake before first light. Despite Settwell’s financial reversals, his larder remained well stocked, so I filled sacks with cheeses and dried meats and fruits. I found some bread, two days old, but soon enough no one would complain. I filled old wine bottles with water. They would be heavy to carry but there was no helping it, and with
any luck, we would not be traveling on foot for long. I divided the goods among as many bags as possible, keeping in mind the strength of each in the party.

I then ate a breakfast of stale bread and cheese rind. Franklin joined me, and we discussed the route. Then Luis arrived. He glared at Franklin for a long time, and the Englishman left. Even after he was gone, Luis remained silent for several minutes, then turned away and looked out the window.

“How certain are you that we shall be able to escape the way you claim?” he asked.

“Fairly certain,” I said. “But there can be no way to know what we might face.”

“I am not a young man,” Luis said, “and the journey will be hard.”

“You shall be well tended to.”

“Even so,” Luis said. He turned to look at me. “I cannot be sure I will survive what is to come. After yesterday, none of us can be certain. I want you to have this.” He held out a letter, folded several times and sealed with wax. “Do not open it unless I am dead. It contains things I would have you know about your family. I will tell you them myself when we are safe, but now is not the time. Yet I could not risk that I might die without your knowing.”

“It will be a hard thing not to open it,” I said.

“You seem like a disciplined man to me,” Luis said with a sad smile. “I can’t stop you, of course. I can only tell you that my preference is that you wait either for a time of quiet or for my death. If you honor me, you will honor my wishes.”

I put the letter in the pocket of my coat. “Then it shall be as you ask.”

Half an hour later, we were upon the street. There were more soldiers about than during the previous night, and it was hard to walk fifty paces without observing groups of three or more, muskets at the ready. They appeared tired, but something made them seem like a new version of their old selves. In the wake of the disaster, they had
found purpose and, from what I had been told, leadership. I had no idea who this Count of Oeiras was, but the soldiers had spoken of him with such reverence, and he evidently had taken charge of the kingdom.

Had we been searched, as we had the previous day, we would have been marked as thieves and so condemned to death. I had not troubled to count the wealth we had taken. I was fairly certain none of the others had either. The money was abstract now, and it would remain so until we were free of danger. I supposed it was in the many tens of thousands of pounds, perhaps even more than a hundred thousand—enough for all of us to live well for the rest of our lives, should our lives last beyond the next few hours and days. The soldiers were now one more threat to our safety, but I hoped a group such as this, with women and a child and an old man, would attract no notice. My hopes bore out. The soldiers we passed nodded to us or offered quick exchanges of news and advice, but no more than that.

I led the way. Behind me walked Luis, Gabriela and Eusebio, Settwell and Mariana, and Roberta. I had placed Franklin in the rear. We could not head directly to our destination, for the streets were collapsed and burning. We moved east, uphill, before finding a clear path to the Alfama. As we crossed the Rossio, we saw a newly constructed scaffolding with more than a dozen bodies dangling from ropes. Perhaps one of them was Dordia e Zilhão. I looked away.

In the Alfama, everything was surprisingly calm. Many of the fires from the previous day had gone out. Refugees, such as we saw, were docile—in mourning or confusion, but the panic of the previous day had dissipated. Soldiers crossed our path every few minutes, keeping the peace and troubling no one who showed no signs of ill intent. Once I saw an old man stumble, and a stranger set down his pack and his own concerns to help him to his feet. The hour of Lisbon’s destruction was also its finest. Stripped of its wealth and corruption, its priests and its
fidalgos
, it was but a collection of human beings, with all their flaws and all their virtues.

As we walked, I sensed Luis moving beside me. “You are sure there will be a boat where you are going?”

“Nothing is certain, senhor. Certainly not any longer, but I believe so. I hope so.”

“And we shall be safe on the ocean, you think?”

“Safer than here.”

I had no plan to brave the open sea. We would hug the coastline north until we reached Spain and were free of the Inquisition’s grasp. From there we would buy passage on a ship, or barring that, procure a carriage and proceed on land until we reached France. Then, by land or sea, to Calais, and from there across the Channel to the first English port available.

At last we came to the heart of the Alfama and the house I sought. I looked up and down the street to be certain there were no soldiers, and then kicked in the door. Inácio’s stronghold smelled strongly of fish and the Tagus. I led the group down the hallway to another door, which opened to the cavernous boathouse. It was dark, for there were only a few small windows toward the ceiling, but even in the gloom, I saw a single large boat, intact. It had but one mast and a square sail. It was not meant to travel far, and would offer no protection from the elements. Traversing the waters on such a vessel would prove rough going, but it was our way out of Lisbon, and I meant for us to take it.

I remained motionless for a long moment. I knew little enough of sailing, and I had no idea if any of the others had more experience, but there were oars, and the prospect of hard labor heartened me. That was something I could do. So long as we kept within sight of the shore, and the weather did not turn foul, we would endure.

Settwell moved forward to the boat. I watched him examining it, running his hand along the inside, checking the rigging. He was a merchant, and I supposed that required him to know a thing or two about sailing vessels. He certainly acted like a man who knew what he was about.

Settwell had set in motion the events that had hurt so many people and had betrayed my friendship and loyalty. But I could not summon any real anger. He had used his lies and his guile, for that was his nature, just as I used fists and blades. Perhaps he had learned something. Perhaps he only knew he had become rich. I chose not to make it my concern.