The Quality of Mercy

“Quiet, sinner!” shouts the Inquisitor. “Thou knowest this to be truth! Thine own daughter confessed thy sins. Because her confessions were made under oath to the Holy Office, her life shall be mercifully spared. But thee … thou who wast warned in good faith—”

“But I have done nothing, Most Holy—”

“Still thou deniest what has been observed and verified by thine own daughter!” the Inquisitor screams. “Thou art to be eternally damned if thy confessions are not made before thy death. Make thy confessions, sinner!”

“But I have done nothing—”

Don Henrique addresses the audience, his expression incredulous. “What is to be done with this mongrel to save his soul? Must we show him the Devil’s way?”

Turning to one of the sentries, he orders, “Shave this New Christian!”

As two warders restrain Lopes, a third takes his torch and brings it to the struggling man’s beard. The whiskers catch fire and Lopes screams. I cannot watch anymore.

Henrique says, “Confess thy sins, wretched soul, and allow the Savior to take pity on you!”

“I confess! I confess!”

“Thou will confess in earnest?”

“Yes, yes, only please! …”

I force myself to glance at the wretched man. Lopes is on fire—a human torch. His shrieks curdle my blood.

“Douse the fire,” Don Henrique suddenly commands.

A bucket of water is splashed into Lopes’s face. He gasps for air, his face a grotesque melting candle of dripping water, burnt hair, and charred skin.

The Inquisitor accuses, “Thou changest linens on Friday. And thou concealest the treacherous act from thy servants by placing the dirty linens atop the clean, only to remove them before sunset on Friday. Admit it!”

Lopes says nothing.

“Still thou wadest in defiance!”

“No, Your Holiness,” Lopes squeaks.

“Speak up, Fernando Lopes!” the Inquisitor thunders. “Did thou change linens on Friday?”

Lopes nods.

“Dost thou admit to thy sin?’

“Yes, Your—” Lopes swallows. “Yes, Your Holiness.”

“And to thy sin of refraining from the consumption of pork?”

“But Your Holiness,” Lopes protests feebly, “pork makes me ill—”

“Still thou retainest the Devil’s obstinence?”

“Truly my stomach is ill-bred for its consumption.”

Don Henrique turns to the galleries.

“Must we continue listening to the lies of this filthy Jew? Must we prove our intent to save his soul once again? Light the beard.”

“No!” Lopes screams. “Yes, I confess. I did abstain from the consumption of pork.”

“Thou art a Judaizer. Admit it, Jew!”

“Yes, yes, it is true!”

“And who else was involved in thy crimes? Thy wife?”

“No! Verily, she is an honest Christian!”

“As thou art an honest Christian,” Don Henrique mocks.

“No, no! She knows nothing of my sins—”

“Admit it, dog! Thy wife is also a sinner—”

“But it is not true!”

“Light his beard.”

“No,” Lopes pleads with anguish. But this time he refuses to speak further. His cries are put to rest when again Don Henrique orders his beard to be drenched.

“Fernando Lopes,” says the Inquisitor, “dost thou repent for thy wicked ways?”

“Yes,” Lopes whispers.

“Dost thou embrace the cross and pledge an oath of faith that Jesus Christ is thine only chance for salvation in the Hereafter?”

“Yes.”

Don Henrique walks over to the condemned man and holds out his crucifix.

“Embrace the cross, Fernando.”

Lopes does as ordered.

“Pledge thy faith to Christ the Lord,” demands the Inquisitor.

“I pledge my faith to Christ the Lord.”

“That He is thy Savior.”

“He is my Savior.”