The Compendium of Srem

  Tomás gave Adelard a sharp look. “Told? Who else have you told?”

  “No one, Prior. Since Ramiro had already seen the book, I thought—”

  “See that it stops here. Tell no one what you have read. Tell no one that this abomination exists. Knowledge of the book does not spread beyond this room. Understood?”

  “Yes, Prior,” they said in unison.

  He turned to Ramiro. “You have no desire for first-hand knowledge of these heresies?”

  Another violent shake of the head. “From what little I have heard from Brother Adelard, they must be contained. Heresies spread with every new set of eyes that behold them. I do not want to add mine.”

  Tomás was impressed. “You are wise beyond your years, Ramiro.” He motioned him closer. “But it is your knowledge of book craft that we need today.”

  Ramiro was in charge of the monastery’s library. He had overseen its construction in the monk’s cloister—was still attending to refinements, in fact—and was in charge of acquiring texts to line the shelves.

  Ramiro approached the Compendium as if it were a coiled viper. He touched it as if it might sear his flesh. Adelard came up behind him to watch over his shoulder.

  “I do not know what kind of metal this is,” Ramiro said. “It looks like polished steel, but the highlights in the surface are most unusual.”

  Tomás had wondered at the pearly highlights himself.

  “It is not steel,” Adelard said.

  Tomás raised his eyebrows. “Oh? And you are a metallurgist as well as a philosopher?”

  “I seek to learn as much about God’s Creation as I can, Prior. But I think it is obvious that the covers are not steel. If they were, the book would weigh much more than it does.”

  Ramiro gripped the Compendium and hefted it. “As light as air.”

  “Note the hinges that connect the covers to the spine,” Tomás said. “Have you ever seen anything like that?” As Ramiro raised it for a closer look, Tomás added, “I ask because we must determine where this was fashioned.”

  Adelard was nodding his understanding. “Yes, of course. To help us hunt down the heretic who made it.”

  Ramiro was shaking his head. “I have never seen anything like this. I cannot fathom how it was put together.”

  “Through sorcery,” Tomás said.

  Ramiro looked at him, eyes bright. “Yes, that is the only explanation.”

  He hid his disappointment. If Ramiro had recognized the workmanship, they would have brought them that much closer to naming the heretic.

  “This Moor who sold it to you,” Tomás said, turning to Adelard. “He was in the marketplace?”

  “Yes, Prior.”

  “Could this be his work?”

  “I doubt it. He was poor and ragged with crippled fingers. I cannot see how that would be possible.”

  “But he may know who did make it.”

  “Yes, he certainly may.” Adelard slapped his palm on the table. “If only we had jurisdiction over Moors!”

  Ferdinand and Isabella’s edict limited the inquisition’s reach to anyone who professed to be Christian, but its focus had always been the conversos—the Jews to whom the Alhambra Decree had given the ultimatum of either converting to Christianity or leaving the country.

  “We have jurisdiction over the purity of the Faith,” Tomás said, pointing to the Compendium. “That includes heresy from any source, and this is heresy most foul. Have him brought here.”

  4

  The Moor stood before them, quaking in fear.

  Because of the sorcerous nature of the Compendium and his determination to keep its very existence secret, Tomás had decided to forego a full tribunal inquiry and limit the proceedings to himself and the two others who already knew of it.

  After Adelard identified the Moor, soldiers assigned to the Inquisition had rounded him up and delivered him to the tribunal room.

  Tomás studied this poor excuse for a human being. The name he had given upon his arrival was mostly Berber gibberish. Tomás had heard “Abdel” in the mix and decided to call him that. Abdel wore a dirty cloth cap and a ratty beard, both signs of continued adherence to the ways of Mohammed. His left eye was milky white, in stark contrast to the mass of dark wrinkles that made up his face. He had few teeth and his hands were twisted and gnarled. Tomás agreed with Adelard: This man did not craft the Compendium.

  “Abdel, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your savior?” Adelard said.

  The old man bowed. “Yes, sir. Years ago.”

  “So, you are a Morisco then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And yet you still wear your beard in the style required by the religion you claimed to have given up.”

  Tomás knew what Adelard was doing: striking fear into the Morisco’s heart.

  The old Moor’s good eye flashed. “I wear it in the style of Jesus as I have seen him portrayed in church.”

  Tomás rubbed his mouth to hide a smile. Adelard had been outflanked.

  “We are not here to question your manner of dress, Abdel,” Tomás said, wishing to turn the inquest to the matter that most concerned him. “No accusations have been made.”

  He saw sudden relief in the Moor’s eyes. “Then may I ask why—?”

  Tomás lifted the Compendium so that the Moor could see the cover. “We are here to question why you are selling heresy.”

  His shock looked genuine. “I did not know! It is just a book I found!”

  “Found?” Adelard said. “Found where?”

  “In a trunk,” he said, head down, voice barely audible.

  “And where is this trunk?”

  The Moor’s voice sank even lower. “I do not know.”

  Adelard’s voice rose. “Do you mean to tell us you have forgotten?” “Perhaps some time on the rack will improve your memory!”

  Tomás raised a hand. He thought he knew the problem.

  “You stole it, didn’t you, Abdel?”

  The Moor’s head snapped up, then looked down again without replying.

  “Understand, Abdel,” Tomás went on, “that we have no jurisdiction against civil crimes. We are concerned by the immorality of your action, yes, and trust that you will confess your sin to your priest, but we can take no action against you for the theft itself.” He paused to let this sink in, then added, “Who did you steal it from?”

  When the Moor still did not reply, Tomás kept his voice low despite his growing anger. “We cannot punish you for stealing, but we can use every means at our disposal to wring a confession from you as to the source of your heresy.” He released his fury and began pounding on the table. “And I will personally see to it that you suffer the tortures of the damned if you do not—”

  “Asher ben Samuel!” the Moor cried. “I stole it from Asher ben Samuel!”

  Silence in the tribunal room. Ramiro, who had sat silent during the interrogation, finally spoke.

  “Asher ben Samuel… at last!”

  Samuel was a prominent Jewish importer who converted to Christianity rather than leave the country after the Alhambra Decree, but no one on the inquisition tribunal believed his conversion had been true. They had dispatched townsfolk to spy on him and catch him engaging in Judaist practices. They watched for lack of smoke from his chimney on Saturdays, which would indicate observance of the Jewish Sabbath. They would offer him leavened bread during Passover—if he refused, his true faith would be revealed. But he always ate it without hesitation.

  Still, the tribunal had not been convinced.

  But now… now they had him.

  Or did they?

  After Abdel was removed, to be freed again to the streets, Tomás said, “What accusation can be leveled against Asher ben Samuel?”

  “Heresy, of course!” Ramiro said.

  “Who will accuse him?”

  Adelard said, “We will.”

  “On the word of a disreputable Morisco street merchant who will have to admit to thievery to make the accusat
ion?”

  They fell silent at that.

  “I have an idea,” Ramiro said. “In which are we more interested: exposing a crypto Jew, or learning the origin of this hellish tome?”

  Tomás knew the answer immediately. “I think we can all agree that the Compendium presents a far greater threat to the Faith than a single converso.”

  “It surely does,” Ramiro said. “Although in my heart I believe that Asher ben Samuel is guilty of many heresies, we have not caught him at a single one. But in the course of our attempts to catch him over the years, we have kept too close a watch on him to allow him the opportunity of fashioning this book without our knowing.”

  Tomás reluctantly agreed. “You are saying that if the book did not originate with him, he must have bought it from someone else.”

  “Exactly, good Prior. Each owner and subsequent owner is a stepping stone across a stream. Each one brings us closer to shore: the heretic who fashioned it. And so I propose that Brother Adelard and I confront Asher ben Samuel in his home with the book and learn where he obtained it.”

  “That is most irregular,” Tomás said.

  “I realize that, Prior,” Ramiro said. “But if we wish to limit knowledge of the book’s existence, we cannot keep bringing suspect after suspect to the monastery. Who knows how many we will have to interrogate before we find the fashioner? Eventually the other members of the tribunal will begin to ask questions we wish not to answer. And by our own rules of procedure, each accused is allowed thirty days of grace to confess and repent. If the trail is long, the fashioner will have months and months of warning during which he can flee.”

  All excellent points. He was proud of Brother Ramiro.

  “But how will you induce him to speak in his home? The instruments of truth lie two floors below us.”

  Ramiro shrugged. “I will tell him the truth: that we are more interested in finding the heretic behind the Compendium than in punishing those through whose hands it happened to pass. Asher ben Samuel is a wealthy man. He has more to lose than his life. He knows that if brought before the tribunal he will be found guilty, and then not only will he face the cleansing flame at the stake, but all his property will be seized and his wife and daughters cast into the streets.” Ramiro smiled. “He will tell us. And then we will move on to the next stepping stone.”

  Tomás nodded slowly. The plan had merit.

  “Do it, then. Begin today.” He tapped the Compendium’s strange metal cover. “I want this heretic found. The sooner we have him, the sooner his soul can be cleansed by an auto da fé.

  5

  From within the sheltering cowl of his black robe, Adelard regarded the twilit streets of Ávila. He was glad to be out in the air. He left the monastery so seldom these days. Spring had taken control, as evidenced by the bustling townspeople. When summer arrived, the heat would slow all movement until well into the dark hours.

  Brother Ramiro carried the carefully wrapped Compendium between his chest and his folded arms as they crossed the town square. Adelard glanced at the trio of scorched stakes where heretics were unburdened of their sins by the cleansing flame. He had witnessed many an auto da fé here since his arrival from France.

  “Note how passersby avert their eyes and give us a wide berth,” Ramiro said.

  Adelard had indeed noticed that. “I don’t know why. They can’t know that I am a member of the tribunal.”

  “They don’t. They see the black robes and know us as Dominicans, members of the order that runs the Inquisition, and that is enough. This saddens me.”

  “Why?”

  “You are an inquisitor, I am a simple mendicant. You would not know.”

  “I was not always an inquisitor, Ramiro.”

  “But you did not know Ávila before the Inquisition arrived. We were greeted with smiles and welcomed everywhere. Now no one looks me in the eye. What do you think their averted gazes mean? That they have heresies to hide?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then you are wrong. It means that the robes of our order have become associated with the public burnings of heretics to the exclusion of all else.”

  Adelard had never heard his friend talk like this.

  “What are you saying, Ramiro?”

  “I am saying that we are not an order that stays behind its walls. We have always gone out among the people, helping the sick, feeding the poor, easing pain and sorrow. But the order’s involvement in guarding the Faith seems to have erased all memory of our centuries of good works.”

  “Be careful what you say, Ramiro. You are flirting with heresy.”

  “Are you going to accuse me?”

  “No. You are my friend. I know that you speak from a good, faithful heart, but others might not appreciate that. So please watch your tongue.”

  Adelard was surprised at Ramiro’s familiarity with the people of Ávila. He had imagined him spending all his time in the library or tilling the monastery’s fields. He changed the subject.

  “I’ve known you for a number of years now, Ramiro, but I don’t know where you are from.”

  “Toro. A province north of here.”

  “Do you still have family there?”

  “No. My family was wiped out in the Battle of Toro. I was just a boy and barely managed to survive.”

  Adelard had heard of that—one of the battles in the war for the crown of Castile.

  “How did you come to the order?”

  “After the horrors I’d seen, I wanted a life of peace and contemplation and good works. And that is what I had until the Inquisition changed everything.”

  Adelard had come to the Dominicans for very different reasons. The order provided him a place to pursue the philosophy of nature and to write papers explaining God’s Creation and how what he had learned bolstered the doctrines of the Church. Sometimes he had to stretch the truth to avoid censure, but in general his papers were well received and seen as a cogent defense of doctrine. As a result, when the pope decided that the Spanish Inquisition needed outside influence, he assigned Adelard to be one of the new inquisitors.

  But concerns about doctrine faded as the Compendium took command of his thoughts, much as it had since he’d opened it yesterday and begun reading. The ability of its text to appear written in the reader’s native tongue certainly seemed sorcerous, and yet… and yet it seemed so congruent with the civilization described within.

  Since his youth, Adelard had been fascinated with the philosophy of nature. When his father would bring home small game from the hunt, he would insist on gutting them, but doing so in his own way—methodically, systematically, so that he might understand the inner workings of the creatures. And even now he had reserved a room in the monastery where he could mix various elements and record their interactions.

  He wondered if there might be a natural explanation for the marvels described within the Compendium and for the wonder of the tome itself—something that would not violate Church orthodoxy.

  He would have to ponder this alone. He could not discuss it with Ramiro, who had not read it, and he might be risking his position, perhaps even his life, if he broached the subject with the Grand Inquisitor.

  They reached the large plot of land on the edge of town where Asher ben Samuel lived, and started down the long path that led to his house.

  “Does it seem right that a Jew should have such fortune?” Adelard said as they passed through a grove of olive trees.

  “He is a converso—no longer a Jew.”

  Even though they professed to be Christian, conversos were mistrusted and even held in contempt. Especially someone with the financial influence of Samuel. Was his “conversion” simply economic pragmatism, or had he truly rejected his old beliefs? Adelard suspected—nay, was convinced—of the latter. The problem was proving it.

  “You are so naïve, Ramiro. Once a Jew, always a Jew.”

  “I have Jewish blood. And so, no doubt, do you.”

  “You lie!”

  “There’s hard
ly an educated person in Castile who does not carry Jewish blood.”

  “I was raised in France.”

  “Probably the same there. Even our own prior—were you aware that a grandfather in the Torquemada line was a Jew?”

  Tomás de Torquemada, the Hammer of Heretics, the Queen’s confessor… had Jewish blood? How was this possible?

  “That can’t be true!”

  “It is. He makes no secret of it. He has said that the purpose of the Holy Inquisition is not to stamp out Jewish blood, but to stamp out Jewish practices.”

  “All right, then, if the Prior says it is true, I accept it as true. But even so, his Jewish blood and yours are different from Asher ben Samuel’s.”

  “How?”

  “The prior and you were raised in the Faith. Conversos like him were not.”

  At the end of the path they found the high-walled home of Asher ben Samuel.

  Ramiro said, “It reminds me of a fortress.”

  They stopped before the wrought iron gate and pulled the bell cord. An elderly footman exited the house and limped across the gap between.

  “Yes?” he said, his eyes full of fear.

  “We have come to see your master,” Ramiro said.

  “On a matter of faith,” Adelard added.

  The old man turned away. “I must go ask—”

  “Open immediately!” Ramiro said. “Members of the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition do not wait outside like beggars!”

  With trembling hands, the old man unlocked the gate and pulled it open. He led them through a heavy oak door into a large, tiled gallery that opened onto a courtyard. And there sat Asher ben Samuel, reading under a broad chandelier.

  A squat man of perhaps fifty years, he rose and came forward as they entered. “Friars! To what do I owe this honor?”

  Adelard wondered why he didn’t seem surprised or upset. Had he seen them coming?

  “We will speak to you in private,” he said.

  “Of course. Diego, go to your quarters. But first—can I have him bring you some wine?”

  Adelard would have loved some good wine, but he would accept no hospitality from this Jew.

  “This is not a social call,” he said.