bacon fat, or vinagrillo (vinegar water), a cosmetic lotion composed of vinegar, eggs, sweet limes and honey. And the scent of these women in the blaze of the Andalusian sun was overwhelming, for their maids, in droplets projected between beautiful white teeth, had spat ambergris, rosewater, and civet upon them.
It was at the Orangery that Pedro got his first glimpse of the manner in which the overseas business was conducted. He felt like a small fish in a pond of piranhas and wondered if he could learn to swim among them. This was not his way of doing business and the cacophony and odors he experienced were overwhelming. However, he could not escape Seville yet, for his agent told him that he had to meet with officials at the Casa de la Contratacion. They would obtain information regarding his character and confirm his license to travel overseas. His agent and his agent’s wife were to be his only witnesses.
* * *
“They’ll be asking you many questions, Senor Robledo,” his agent said as they stood in the shade of one of the cathedral’s soaring portals. “There’ll be questions regarding your age, your community of residence, your marriage, the legitimacy of your children and whether either of them is committed to a religious order or to marriage. They’ll want to have information regarding your parents and those of Senora Robledo, whether you’re an old or a new Christian, everything. You’re incredibly fortunate in one regard, at least,” he said. “The prohibition against emigration was just this year suspended. And then we can hope that they’ll not have been instructed to detain you, and that your answers mirror those you provided when you made your initial petition—the one you made three years ago. Are your circumstances the same?” he asked.
“No,” Pedro responded. “Much has changed. The initial petition was made for my wife and for our four children, and also for my nephew, Luis, whom I raised as my own. Also, we were going to live with my cousins, Miguel de Sandoval and Catalina Sanchez who were residents of Mexico. My cousin Miguel, God rest his soul, died from a fall from his horse, and his wife returned here. And you know of my children and of Luis,” he said sadly. “Things have changed enormously, Senor Enriquez. The initial petition was made to provide us with a back-up plan. Now we’re forced to go.”
“I was sorry to hear of your children, don Pedro,” his agent responded while crossing himself with his right hand. “Your loss is beyond measure. However, I’m sure they’re in a better place, God save and keep them,” he added in a guarded tone while he persisted with the task at hand. “Regarding the license, don Pedro,” he continued. “We’ll be truthful, but only as thorough as required, and it’ll be best not to have anyone else there whom they might question—if you know what I mean. You do know what I mean?” he asked while again hitching his short cape about his shoulders.
“Yes, I understand,” Pedro answered.
“Your wife and children might yet have to appear,” he said, “but perhaps our testimony will be sufficient. We’ll leave Diego in the garden. It can only be entered from the cathedral. Ordinarily, it’s closed off to the laity, but I’ve received permission for him to stay there.”
* * *
Diego would have preferred to be left on the gradas where he could have watched the people on the steps. Instead, he now sat in a little sunken garden at a corner of the cloister where shrubs and trees bordered a covered walk-way that ran along the inside walls. The little garden was cool and well-hidden, sheltered by copious orange trees and tall, downy palms motionless in the still air. The floor of the recessed garden was set with small, flat stones and ringed with a tangle of roses and stork’s bill, red and white. The roses of this early spring perfumed the air and the splash of water into a moss-green pool made the speech of those around him unintelligible except for that of a small group of novitiates who were at his elbow.
Black-robed men in twos and threes made a circuit of the cloister. Each of these men was dressed in a long black tunic with winged sleeves, belts, scapulas and hoods. The look of them reminded him of the priests at the cathedral in Toledo and of the priests’ procession up the stone corridor to his grandfather’s home. That walk, however, had been conducted at night and had been lit by candles. As Diego watched the priests, he, too, placed his hands before his face in the manner of rendering a prayer.
The novitiates—children, really—wore the dress of their order and were seated around their superior discussing the nature and most important qualities of prayer. “Prayer,” their superior said, “is an art to be learned, and may be one of four kinds: adoration, thanksgiving, penitence or petition.” They nodded in apparent understanding of his words and he continued. “Our practice of praying for the dead,” he said, “falls into the category of prayers of petition, and is based on our belief that those of our Church who have died, but not yet arrived at the Beatific Vision, the final destiny of the redeemed, can be helped by the prayers of those still alive.”
“Members of our Church only?” questioned one. “What of the others, Father?”
“Heaven is the dwelling place of God, and the angels,” their superior said, “and only His faithful disciples, members of our Church, will reign with Him in His glory. The rest? Well, they’re lost.”
“No matter their innocence, Father?”
“Well,” he responded, “if they have a positive disbelief in the Christian faith can they really be said to be innocent?” he asked of the children as he looked quizzically from one to another. “No, my sons,” he said with finality, “if they don’t believe in our Catholic faith, they’re infidels and can’t be saved.”
Diego listened to all of this and understood it as babble. Members of the Church? Beatific Vision? These were concepts that were beyond his comprehension. Leaving the sunken garden, he wandered into the cathedral and was overwhelmed by its majesty. He watched as others dipped the tips of their fingers into the holy font and did the same. He then sat in a pew beside a tier of votive candles and again assumed the posture of one in prayer.
He had been brought up a Catholic, and had only been introduced by osmosis to the secrets of his faith, for his family’s beliefs were, to a large extent, rules of life, rather than a creed. He knew but one prayer—The Lord’s Prayer—and he had no idea where among the four categories it belonged. He wondered whether he should have washed his hands before entering the cathedral, and thought how, at home, his parents’ one candle (“the candle of the Lord,” his mother pronounced it) would have been placed within a pitcher to conceal it from prying eyes.
His prayer was not one of those presented by the priest but was more in the form of a question. “Why? Why Ana and Luis?” he asked, as he began to sob quietly to himself, the tears of regret running down his cheeks. He could not reconcile himself to the fact that he had lived while they had died, and he would forever be haunted by the look in Ana’s eyes as she slipped from his grasp, for she too appeared to be asking a question: “Why Diego? Why?”
“I don’t know, Ana,” he said aloud, startling those who sat around him. ‘”Why did I let go?”
Who Does Not Venture Forth Does Not Cross the Sea
The Passage
The fleet within which the Robledos were to sail was made up of several dozen vessels, merchantmen, and armed galleons. These were berthed at the docks alongside the river where cargo was being loaded into their holds. One of these ships, the Morning Star, on which the Robledos had gained passage, was a fully rigged sailing vessel carrying broadsides of brass and iron pieces, both ship- and man-killers, some of great weight. On this ship, and on the many others that lined the stone quay, a representative of the Casa de la Contratacion was inspecting registros or bills of lading.
Also on board were commissioners from the Office of the Inquisition who arrived to see that no books forbidden by the Holy Office were smuggled aboard. Pedro had made a decision regarding the Holy Office and hoped it would serve him well. His fear of the Office had resulted in tragedy and he was no longer going to conduct himself as a fugitive, hiding in the shadows and living in fear. If the Office had been commanded to detain him, so be it. He would return to accept whatever