The Day of Atonement Read online

  The world had turned to chaos, and I knew I needed to impose order and structure. I needed the destruction of the city to conform to my rules. I would not let the end of the world keep me from rescuing Roberta and Gabriela and Mariana. There was confusion and violence and death everywhere, and none of it would stop me. I understood that this was the place and the time I was built for. All my loss and anger meant I belonged here. My broken soul was made for this. I was a devil, and this was the pit. Everything in my life had led me here, to this moment, when the world around me at long last was a fit place in which I might dwell. I had come home.

  I took Roberta’s hand and led her down the center of the street, farthest away from falling bricks, and together, with careful and wandering steps, we began to walk.

  Chapter 27

  I guided Roberta through the streets, which were full of the crying, the wounded, and the praying. Twisted bodies lay everywhere. We saw severed limbs and heads, and corpses cut in half. Buildings burned all around us. Fissures had opened in the earth, five and ten and fifteen feet wide, winding their jagged way across streets and under the ruins of houses.

  We reached a little garden where strolling fidalgos and English merchants had often liked to look upon the rolling hills of the city. Now we stopped to gaze at the wreckage. From our elevated position, Lisbon looked as though it had been blasted by an invading army. Hardly a church or mansion remained whole. Where there once were buildings now was smoldering rubble. Other sections were engulfed in violent flame, and great clouds of smoke and soot lingered in the air. Ironically, to the east the Alfama had taken some damage, but this poorest part of the city was also the best preserved.

  A great swell of people moved toward the river. “They’re trying to escape on ships,” Roberta said. “We should hurry before there is no more room.”

  “No,” I said. All of Europe had read of the earthquake in Lima the year before, in which waves had followed the tremors. I would not risk such a fate—not with Roberta. “There are too many of them. There will be chaos and violence, and perhaps even great waves.”

  Roberta looked down. “Then all those people will die,” she said.

  I followed her gaze to the English quays and the collection of inns and taverns that had been built up around it.

  “Oh, hell,” I said. “I believe I have to go down there after all.”

  Still holding Roberta’s hand, I made my way down the hill toward the Duke’s Arms. The crowd of people grew thick as I approached the tavern. I pushed and punched by those eager to get on board ships, on barges, on anything that floated.

  “You said it was dangerous down here,” Roberta said.

  “That’s why we need to be quick. I have to find someone and get him safe.”

  “Who?”

  “Kingsley Franklin, the man who betrayed my father.”

  Roberta studied me. “Why?”

  “Because I think he’s sorry for what he did,” I said.

  “I don’t understand you at all,” Roberta told me, but offered no more objections.

  Pulling Roberta behind me, I entered the Duke’s Arms, which had been shaken in the quakes but was not seriously damaged. Every surface was covered with dust, and a few rafters had fallen from the ceiling. Pots and mugs and food lay on the floor. It looked like a great wind had blown through the common room.

  No one was inside but Franklin, who sat at one of the tables, his mug full, his feet up. A grim smile was spread over his ruddy face.

  “God took his deuced time, but He got the job done,” Franklin said. “This city needed a good leveling.” He took a swig from his mug. “You and the lovely lady have earned a drink, I believe.”

  I shook my head. “We need to get to higher ground. We should do it soon.”

  Franklin shrugged. “Lima. I read about that. But what does it matter? Maybe a great wave will come. Maybe not. I had nothing, and now I’ve even less. What can you tempt me with that can compete with the privacy of my own tavern and all the ale I can drink?”

  “I have friends in the Palace dungeon,” I said. “I mean to rescue them.”

  “That again.” Franklin raised his mug. “Good luck to you, sir. I shall see you in hell, and toast you once more.”

  “Mr. Franklin, the Palace lies broken, and within there is a fortune. Gold, jewels, bank notes, coins. All of it stolen. I suspect, with the entire city in chaos, that fortune is largely unguarded.”

  Franklin set down his mug. “Go on.”

  “I want your help. I want you to come with me to save my friends, steal from the Inquisition, and then rescue Charles Settwell’s daughter. You can sit here and wait for death, or you can have your revenge on the Inquisition by taking its money and defying its cruelty.” Franklin took a long drink and rose. “Let’s go.”

  If Franklin felt any sadness at the thought of leaving his tavern, possibly never to return, he showed none of it. He stepped out into the street, squinted at the press of people pushing toward the river, and began trudging uphill. He breathed heavily and steadily. He was a big man, and easily winded, but he was not weak, and he seemed no stranger to exertion. We made swift progress.

  After a few minutes Franklin stopped. He cocked his head, and turned to me. “You hear that?”

  “What?” Roberta’s eyes were wide with alarm. “What is it?”

  I heard nothing but the distant wailing and calling of names and endless barking of dogs. Then there was something more, a low hissing. It sounded like wind and sand blown hard against a wall. Next came the panicked screams, thousands of them.

  I turned around. The crowds in the streets, already far below, were pressing back, away from the water. Indeed, the water had pulled away from the shore, and the great Sea of Straw seemed to be shrinking. Packed masses were shouting and pointing. Those closest to the water were visibly shoving those nearer to land, but they were packed in too tight. No one could move.

  I looked to the expanse of the Tagus, beyond the ships, and saw a wall of water, perhaps sixty feet high, closing in at impossible speeds. Nothing I had ever seen had filled me with such awe. This was the hand of God, the mighty fury of nature, a power so incredible and unstoppable it made me want to laugh at the futility of my life and my struggles.

  Franklin stood next to me, staring at the wave. His face was blank.

  “Run!” I cried. I gave Franklin a shove, grabbed Roberta’s hand, and began to move.

  The large man roused himself from his stupor and began to move farther up the hill. I set myself to the task of gaining altitude and doing it quickly. Roberta climbed too, scrambling mightily, summoning all her strength. I took pleasure at her effort. After all she’d witnessed, after all she’d endured, she still wanted to live.

  The angle was steep, and the loose white sand gave way under our feet, but death was behind us, and we dug in with our fingers. Twigs and burrs and shards of rock drove into the flesh under my fingernails. I did not turn around until I heard Franklin cry out.

  “Help me!” he called.

  Twenty feet behind me, Franklin had stumbled. Clouds had passed before the sun, darkening the sky, and the wind pushed toward the river. A panicked mass, ready to overtake and trample us both, approached. Beneath us the wave foamed and roared, and prepared to crash against Lisbon. A deafening sound blasted forth, dwarfing the noise of the quake that morning. Water sprayed over us.

  Then, like a great rug being tossed across the shoreline, the wave struck. Countless people were thrown backwards, their bodies broken by the force of impact. Blood streaked through the air like comet tails. So many terrified people, trampled and drowned. The wave hit hardest to the west, tearing through warehouses and homes like they were made of mud. The Duke’s Arms was washed away, as were the houses above it. The very ground under my feet might be pulled toward the sea, and I scrambled backwards lest I be sucked into the destruction. To the east, water tore stone and tile from the great Palace, but even farther east the Alfama, once again, was spared.


  Already the lucky ones who had escaped were streaming past me, and Franklin was disappearing under their feet. I began to push against the crowd, shoving blindly, unable to believe what I saw. It seemed as though half the city was now underwater, and for the blink of an eye there was stillness. Then the water began to pull back in a violent rush. After it did, the thousands who had been standing upon the quays were gone. So were the ships that had been in the Tagus—some dashed against the city, others simply swallowed by the river.

  What hadn’t been destroyed by the impact of the wave was being taken by the water’s retreat. Buildings and stairs and trees were all being ripped away, and from halfway down Chiado Hill, it was but mud and wreckage. I tore my eyes away and looked down at the dirt where Franklin lay, arms over his head as people trod on him.

  Roberta waited ahead. “Go!” I cried to her, and then shoved into the crowd, knocking a half dozen men down, and clearing a space around Franklin. I reached down and grabbed the Englishman by his massive upper arms and pulled him to his feet. His nose bled, and he would have a nasty black eye, but he appeared to be otherwise unharmed.

  “You came back for me,” Franklin shouted above the noise. “You are your father’s son.”

  “That is a conversation for another day,” I said, and prodded the man forward, looking to get away from the hillside before it crumbled into the river.

  I moved Franklin along, making the big man run as quickly as he could. I would not now lose Roberta. Saving Franklin at the cost of being separated from her would be too much to bear, but I found her in the crowd ahead, gazing with the hundreds of other survivors at the destruction below.

  In the distance, the crying had calmed. We heard no more screams, but some low moans echoing off the river, now swollen with drowned bodies. Along the shore I saw only a few sluggish forms wandering amid the tattered remains of inns and warehouses. They staggered like the dead brought to life, and all around them, the true dead lay at horrible angles. There were too many to count, and they were only a fraction of the souls who had, minutes ago, crowded the harbor. Thousands were dead, but the people I cared about might yet be saved.

  Chapter 28

  I could not have said what I had imagined, but when I reached the Rossio, my mind went blank. The Palácio da Independéncia was broken but not destroyed. The great hospital was partially in ruins, but it stood proud compared to the surrounding buildings, many of which were unrecognizable. The Palace of the Inquisition had taken a great deal of damage, but parts of it stood yet, and I remained hopeful.

  The dead lay in the square. How many were there in the city, buried and burned, crushed and drowned? A quarter of the population? A third? Half? More? Everywhere, the living were on their knees, praying that God not punish them further.

  The great front door of the Palace of the Inquisition was splintered and broken, and Franklin and I walked through, side by side, with Roberta trailing behind.

  “You can’t truly intend to go in there,” she said. “What you said before. You didn’t mean it. You couldn’t have.”

  “I have friends in the prison,” I said. “I mean to get them out.”

  “And you, Mr. Franklin. Do you mean to do this?”

  “I do,” he told her. “I mean to make myself useful to Mr. Foxx, and if I can get rich in the bargain, I shan’t complain.”

  Dust and blood covered the tiled walkways. Priests rushed about, carrying their own wounded, fetching water, bandages, whatever else was needed. A small fire burned in the cloister, but no one tended to it.

  One of the priests scowled at us. “There’s no help for you here,” he said. “Seek it elsewhere.”

  “Is this your Romish charity?” Franklin asked, putting his meaty fists to his bulging sides. “I ain’t impressed.”

  “What choice have we?” snapped the priest. “There is nothing but survival. I cannot help you.”

  “I’m not here to ask for help,” I said, “but to offer it.”

  “Oh,” the priest said, eyeing Roberta skeptically. “Well, I suppose we could use more hands. The wounded priests are to be found down that hall. Ask Brother José what you can do to—”

  “What of the prisoners?” I interrupted.

  “The prisoners?” the priest repeated, incredulously. “I haven’t the time to concern myself with them. Men of God have been injured.”

  I stepped forward, grabbed the man by his robes, and threw him against the wall. He struck with his feet well off the ground and crumpled to the floor. “You will find the time,” I said. “How many are there, how do I get to them, and where are the keys?”

  The priest held out a key ring. “I have them here. Please, don’t hurt me. There are seven men and three women in the prisons. The entrance is down that hall and to the left. I do not know if it is accessible. No one has checked on them.”

  They’d been left to die of thirst or starvation, buried alive. I took the keys and stepped away.

  “Go down there if you like,” the priest continued, smirking. “I’ll find some way to seal you in. You may die with the heretics, for you are clearly one of them.”

  I swiftly stepped toward the priest, grabbed him by his hair, and smashed his head into the wall. Something cracked, but I did not know if it was tile or the priest’s skull.

  Roberta screamed and put a hand to her mouth. “You killed him.”

  “I might have,” I said. “Likely not.”

  “But he’s a priest.”

  “That signifies nothing,” I said. “Beggars who bow to the communion wafer when it passes in the street are holier than these men. They are Inquisitors. I will not show mercy to them, not for an instant.”

  We walked down the hall and found the heavy wooden door that led to the prisons. I fumbled with the keys on the ring until I found the right one. When I opened the door, I was struck by the stench of the prison below—the stink of sweat and piss and shit and rotten food. I cursed and descended the stone stairs into near-total darkness.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I found embers in a fireplace. Everything in the small chamber was coated with dust from the ceiling, but it seemed as though the building had not crumbled belowground. I lit a torch and handed it to Roberta.

  Her hair was wild, but her eyes appeared focused and her face was set with determination. She was returning to herself. She had sat weeping in her house before, but now tears were a luxury she could not afford, and instead she wore the hardened shell of suffering and endurance. I knew it well.

  “Stay close,” I said.

  We unlocked the next door, and this led us down a long corridor that forked. To the left, I knew, was the women’s prison, to the right the men’s. I had walked this path before. We went left first. I stormed through the door and, seeing there were no guards, grabbed the torch from Roberta’s hand. Franklin hung back, eyeing the halls for signs of trouble.

  There were eight cells here, but only one was occupied. Gabriela and an old woman I did not know sat together, holding hands and saying the Hail Mary. Gabriela was in prison for Judaizing, but she recited the prayers of her tormentors. She had not even the comfort of the religion for which she was punished.

  I stepped forward and began to insert keys into the lock.

  Gabriela looked up, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Sebastião. Why are you here?”

  “I’m here to rescue you,” I said.

  Gabriela began to weep. “We shall be executed for this.”

  “There has been an earthquake. Surely you felt it.”

  “We did,” Gabriela said. “How bad is the damage?”

  “Lisbon is gone,” I told her. “Destroyed beyond repair, I think.” The true key went home with a satisfying click. “I am taking you back to England with me. All of you.”

  The old woman in the cell with her stood up and spat. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “Not with Jews. It’s your fault I’m here, and it’s your fault that God is angry enough to punish the city. When the priests come
for me, then I’ll leave, but not before.”

  “That’s your choice,” I said. I helped Gabriela to her feet. She looked over and saw Roberta holding the torch, and next to her, Franklin.

  “Who are they?” she asked.

  “These are my friends,” I said. I gestured toward the innkeeper. “That is Kingsley Franklin.”

  “And I am Roberta Carver, once a merchant, now a widow. Mr. Foxx has saved and ruined my life.”

  “That may be his particular skill,” Gabriela answered.

  “Let’s get the men,” Franklin said, breaking up the conclave of aggrieved women.

  In the men’s prison there were three times as many cells. Men were no more inclined to heresy than women—women were just less likely to own property for the Inquisition to steal.

  I moved through the prison, opening cells and explaining to the men what had happened. The prisoners who were strangers to me fled. When only Luis and Eusebio remained, I gathered my people around me.

  “There are fires and destruction everywhere,” I said. “I’ve seen no soldiers to keep the peace. Lisbon is lost. We must head out of the city on foot, and then find passage by cart or horse, perhaps toward Cascais. There we will buy passage on a ship—or steal a vessel if we have to.”

  “Do you think God sent a bolt of lightning to Lisbon?” Eusebio snapped. “That we alone are struck? There will be damage at Cascais, and any viable ships will be gone.”

  “Then we will continue by land,” I said.

  “How far do you mean for us to go?” Eusebio demanded.

  “We will walk to Spain, if necessary. To France. I care not. We are leaving this cursed country. This is your chance to be free. I do not claim that God has destroyed the city so that we could have this opportunity, but the opportunity has come, and it would be a crime against God not to seize it.”