that is the great King Solomon.
‘Lilith was determined to prove them wrong. So she disguised herself as the queen of Sheba and went to visit the wise old king. And he did find himself falling in love with her, just as she said he would, but he decided to test that she really was who she claimed to be. So he built for himself a floor of glass, sat down on the other side of it, and sent for Lilith to come to him. When she drew near, she saw the glass shining in the sun and thought it was a pool of water, so she raised her skirts to wade through it and then King Solomon saw to his horror that instead of human legs she had the hairy legs of a goat. And he knew then that she was no mortal woman at all, but a wicked demon sent to tempt him.’
Seeing my mouth open wide with amazement, Jorge popped a sugared almond into it and laughed.
Gentle, wise old Jorge, how could he be here in this vile place, chained on that pyre? All his life he had been a physician and had done nothing but help and heal both neighbour and stranger alike. What had he done to make the Inquisitors think he was a Judaizer? Who could have reported him? Which of our neighbours would have done that? I wanted to scream out they had arrested an innocent man. But he wasn’t. Those words he shouted out before they gagged him again meant he wasn’t innocent at all. He was a heretic. But even though I knew that, I still couldn’t bear to see him punished. I tried to look somewhere else as my father had warned me to do, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. I felt as long as I kept looking at him, I could keep him alive. I could will him to live.
By the time the Moor reached the end of the line of prisoners, three of them remained alive – Jorge, a woman and a young lad. All had refused to confess their guilt and renounce the faith of Abraham. The friars were still standing beside them, urging them to repent in the hope that their courage would fail them and in their terror of the flames they would finally throw themselves on the mercy of the Church and its swift garrotte. The Church wanted no martyrs for another faith.
All heads now turned to the royal dais. The two Jesuits standing behind the king’s throne prodded little Sebastian to rise. The crowd drew in their breath as he descended the steps. They watched the slow progress of their tiny king as he marched alone across the dark square, his cape trailing after him in the breeze. The gold coronet about his brow turned to blood-red in the light of the torches.
When Sebastian drew level with the Inquisitor-General, the commander of the soldiers stepped forward and with a low bow handed him a blazing torch almost as long as the boy was high. The officer respectfully pointed to the place on the edge of the pyre where Sebastian must light the pyre. The sticks at that spot glistened in the dancing flames. They had been coated with tar so that they would catch fire at once. The Inquisitor-General stood to one side, his head bowed. It was up to the king, not the Church, to light the fire that would burn the living and dead to ashes.
The child held the burning torch awkwardly, recoiling from the heat of it. He stared wide-eyed at the flames, holding the torch as far away from himself as he could, as if he feared that the flames would set light to his hair. But he was not tall enough to balance the heavy weight at arm’s length. He advanced a couple of steps, then he lifted his head and looked up at the figures above him on the pyre. His gaze seemed to rest upon the young lad, who stared directly into the little king’s face. The leather gag masked his mouth, but his eyes were as large and liquid as those of a fawn.
For a moment the boy-king and the young prisoner just stared at each other. Then the officer, perhaps fearing that Sebastian had forgotten where he was to light the pyre, bent down to whisper to him. Sebastian whipped round, his chin jerking up defiantly, his brow creased in anger. Then