He took away the hand and gave Mike a weary look. "The Office of the Holy Inquisition was set up in 1478 specifically for the purpose of ferreting out Jews, Mike. The Spanish forced all Jews to convert, starting in 1391. Dominican monks led mobs in pogroms on the Jewish quarters. Die or be baptized: those were the choices. A lot of Jews chose baptism. Conversos, they were called. Then the Spanish monarchy, with the Pope's blessing, set up the Inquisition to hunt down the ones who were still privately practicing Judaism. Those people were called marranos. 'Secret Jews.' "
Mike remembered the term. Rebecca had used it in the carriage to refer to herself, the first time he met her. "And then… ?"
Morris looked away. "Trial by torture. Auto-da-fй. That's where they gathered the Christians in a town in order to watch the festivities, complete with sermons and parades. All the heretics were brought out from the prisons. Secret Jews, mostly, along with secret Moslems-those were called Moriscoes-and whoever else had come under suspicion."
Roth shook his head. "The whole thing was insane, Mike. One of the reasons Christians in that era-this era, God help us-were so filthy was because it was dangerous to pay too much attention to cleanliness and personal hygiene. Who knows? You might be a secret Jew or a Moslem. Better to remain in an ostentatious state of Christian grime. And when disease comes, blame it on witches or the Jews."
Again, he wiped his face. "The ceremony-the auto-da-fй-would be climaxed by having the heretics burned alive at the stake." Sarcastically: "If you can call someone who's been in the hands of the Inquisition 'alive,' that is. Plenty of them died in the Church's torture chambers. Those-the corpses, I mean-would be burned at the stake so the Inquisition could legally inherit their property."
Seeing Mike's little start of surprise, Morris had chuckled harshly. "Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that? They have some peculiar notions about legal impartiality, in this day and age. The Inquisition is mostly financed by the seized property of the condemned. So you can just imagine how many verdicts of 'innocent' they ever handed down. Didn't take those holy men very long to become rich."
Remembering that conversation, and the anger it had produced in him, Mike forced his mind back to the business at hand. We'll see who burns who, in the new dispensation. Piazza was moving on to a discussion of the refugee problem, but Mike interrupted.
"Excuse me, Ed, but there's something I want to bring up before we get into that." He turned to Ferrara. "Who's the best chemist in town, Greg? You?"
The science teacher shrugged. "Depends what you want, Mike. For some things, me. For others-"
"I want someone who knows how to make napalm."
Ferrara's mouth snapped shut. Opened. Closed.
"Nothing to it," said Melissa. "There's at least three homemade recipes that I know of."
Everyone, Mike included, stared at Melissa. The prim-looking, gray-haired schoolteacher shrugged. "I never made it myself, you understand." Sniff. "Didn't really approve of such tactics, even back then. But one of my college boyfriends was an anarchist. He used to meddle with the stuff all the time. Claimed we'd need it come the revolution."
Stares. James Nichols burst into laughter. "It's nice to know I'm not the only one here with a misspent youth!" He eyed Melissa approvingly. "But-damn-you white kids were ambitious. I never thought past a simple Molotov cocktail."
Melissa frowned. "What's the point of that?" she demanded. "Surely you didn't think-"
"Okay!" exclaimed Mike. "Enough, already!" He chuckled. "Christ, I didn't expect I'd be kicking off a sixties radicals' reunion."
Rebecca's brow was creased with frustration. Plainly enough, the conversation had once again taken a turn she was unable to follow. "Excuse me," she said softly. "What is-napalm?"
Mike's eyes fixed on her. "It's something we'll make to greet the Inquisition when they show up. Them and their goons." He smiled grimly. "Think of it as portable hellfire."
"Oh." Her dark eyes were very round. And then very bright. "Oh."
There came a knock on the door. Without waiting for a response, Darryl McCarthy came barging in. The young miner was carrying his rifle and was practically bouncing like a rubber ball.
"We got visitors, Mike! Scotsmen! Soldiers!" He caught sight of Rebecca and steadied down. "They say they're looking for you, Miss Abrabanel. Well, your father, actually."
Mike rose to his feet so abruptly that his chair tipped over. His right hand clenched reflexively. "Why?" he demanded.
Darryl stared at him, puzzled by the obvious anger in that curt question. But Rebecca immediately interrupted.
"Michael-please." She smiled at him warmly, but shook her head. "It is not what you think. I imagine they-" She turned to Darryl. "Are these men in the employ of the king of Sweden?"
Darryl's head bobbed. "That's what they say, ma'am. Somebody named Gustav."
Melissa's jaw dropped. "Gustav?" The history teacher rose to her feet almost as abruptly as Mike had. "Are you talking about Gustavus Adolphus?"
Darryl was now utterly confused. "Who's that?" He threw up his hands with exasperation. The rifle, still in his right hand, was waving around like a stick. Frank was about to snarl something when Darryl realized what he was doing and apologetically lowered the firearm. He double-checked to make sure the safety was still on. Then, in a much-aggrieved tone, said: "I don't know what this is all about. All I know is that a whole bunch of horsemen-couple dozen, at least-showed up at that farmhouse where we had the shoot-out with those thugs."
He started to elaborate but broke off. "Oh, hell, why ask me? They're in the parking lot."
Now it was Frank's turn to lunge to his feet. "You let them through the perimeter?" he demanded angrily.
Darryl's face, at that moment, almost caused Mike to burst into laughter. The miner looked like a ten-year-old boy, aggrieved beyond measure by the quirks and whimsies of grown-ups. "They're Scots, for Christ's sake! Practically family. Of course we let them in."
Mike started for the door. "Come on, Frank. Let's just go see for ourselves."
The entire emergency committee trooped after him. Frank brought up the rear. As he passed Darryl, he commented sourly: "Your uncle Jake was family, too. Died in prison, didn't he, serving a murder sentence?"
A much aggrieved boy. "Only second-degree," he protested. "He would've been up for parole in a year, if he hadn't gotten knifed."
"Family," muttered Frank. "Wonderful."
They were there, all right. The Scotsmen had apparently arrived in marching order, three abreast, and were maintaining their positions. Twenty-six cavalrymen-there were only two men at the head of the column-still astride their mounts. The horses were skittish, stamping their hooves on the pavement nervously. But they were no more apprehensive than their riders, staring at the hill rising up behind the high school.
Staring at the backhoe and the bulldozer, more precisely. The big pieces of construction equipment were working away, engines roaring, clearing the area for the planned refugee camp. One of the camps, rather. The main refugee center would be built two miles away, next to the power plant, where the shelters could be provided with steam heat exhausted as a byproduct of the plant's operation. The camp on the hill above the high school would be heated from the school's own natural gas supply, with the added advantage that the inhabitants would be able to use the school's cafeteria.