Miguel Aguilar cleared his throat before speaking.
“In my estimation, it would be more appropriate to further the interrogation, to ask her again some of our previous questions and be certain of her answers. We should also ask her some new questions, and in the light of those decide whether or not to impose torture.”
This response seemed to satisfy everyone. They all stood up to go and have dinner and to relax their minds and bodies after a long and grueling day.
26
Saleema tries to calm herself as she sits in solitary confinement. She doesn’t sleep because only with open eyes can she keep the rats away from her and repel the nightmares she cannot repel when she’s sleeping, only to awaken in a seizure of terror. She lies awake wondering what it is that will give her peace of mind. The giant woman who brings her food told her she was a witch, that it was proven and declared, and like all the hundreds of other such trials conducted by the Office of Inquisition, this one would end with her being burned at the stake. She ran the scene through her mind. They would tie her up, lead her into a public square packed with curious spectators anxiously awaiting the stack of wood to be set afire, like the burning of the books… How did her grandfather Abu Jaafar bear to watch the blaze of fire as it ravaged one book after another, to see the pages curl up on themselves as if the fire were warding itself against them and continuing on its path of destruction, consuming, burning, snapping off, and turning into coal everything in its way until nothing remained but dust and ashes? And what was written in them, where did that all go? Saleema wondered. Weren’t human beings inscribed sheets, strings of words having meaning that, when put together, connote the whole that a person signifies? She is Saleema bint Jaafar, and in one split second she wanted to defeat death, but then she changed her mind and accepted a mission less impossible. She read books, treated the sick, and deliberately disregarded the injustice of the Castilians. When she walked through the markets, she didn’t concern herself with the shops like other women did, but rather with the face of a woman she prescribed a remedy for but did not heal, and she would examine the face and the symptoms, and run them through her mind and think of a treatment.
“Saleema bint Jaafar,” the inquisitors asked, “why do people resent you?”
They lie. They never asked the people of Albaicin. Will they be able to look her in the eye when they light the fire beneath her? Will they be able to endure what Abu Jaafar endured, but what she could not, the day they burned the books? And Aysha? She tried not to picture her or think about her, pushing away what can defeat the body and soul and bring the mind to the brink of madness. She conjured the image of her grandfather, Abu Jaafar, the grown-up who inscribed the first word in her book. It wasn’t her father or mother who did that, but the grandfather who announced that he would provide her with an education just as he would for Hasan, and who whispered to his wife that Saleema would be like the educated women of Cordova. Her grandmother laughed and repeated those words to Saleema. And so it was inscribed. The only person she ever treated severely was Saad. Why, she asked herself, when he loved her and she loved and still loves him? “I made you suffer, Saad. Will you ever forgive me?” she thought to herself. She wondered if he was still alive or had he preceded her there. Was there an illusion or a reality? She wondered if she would encounter her grandfather, her little son who died, and her own father, if in fact there really existed. She thought about meeting her father. He won’t recognize her because the little girl he fathered has become a full-grown woman in her forties. She would probably recognize him because he must resemble Hasan. Poor Hasan! He wanted so much to protect his family, and out of nowhere comes this unexpected catastrophe. But he’s not alone. Maryama is with him. She brings life to the house and nurtures his children and Aysha as well. Saleema broke down in tears. Her body shook as she tried in vain to suppress the sobbing.
When Saleema went through the ordeal of the red hot iron and walked with it in measured steps, the inquisitors did not come to the conclusion, as would be expected upon undertaking such a trial, that the accused was truthful in her testimony. In fact, they were as convinced as ever that she was deeply involved with a powerful demon who empowered her to cause injury. On the following day, they resumed their interrogation of her, and she added nothing more to what she had already told them. She may have even aroused more suspicion when the judge asked her if she journeyed long distances at night on the back of a flying beast, to which she replied that she had never heard of any human being able to do such a thing with the exception of the Muslim prophet, Muhammad. When asked to explain and elaborate on her answer, she told them the story of the winged creature who carried Muhammad from a mosque in Mecca to a mosque in Jerusalem. When the judge asked her if she believed that this actually took place, Saleema avoided answering the question directly: “I’ve been baptized, and I’ve become a Christian.”
These new details drew the attention of the inquisitors to another aspect of the case that had not occurred to them previously, that is, that the accusation of apostasy may not be limited to the accused’s consorting with the devil, but could extend to the veracity of her faith. It appeared that despite her baptism she did not relinquish her Muhammadan faith, and therefore her consorting with the devil was intended to cause harm to the Catholic Church. The inquisitors tried to extract a confession from her on this point. When they failed to do so, the judge offered her a choice and a warning. “Do not take this matter lightly, for you will have to hold a bar of burning iron.” She answered that she was ready, and they watched as she held the bar with her two hands and walked with it. The inquisitors shuddered at the thought of how she did this, as did the scribe whose writing table was set up in the courtyard so that he could record everything that transpired therein.
When the members of the tribunal withdrew from the main hall, the judge congratulated himself and his colleagues because they did not soften on this woman, and for taking all the necessary precautions to protect themselves from such a powerful witch. Each one of them had made a talisman of holy salt, and they wrote down the seven words that Jesus Christ uttered on the cross on a small piece of paper and hung them like scapulars around their necks and against their chests, underneath their black cassocks.
“We must proceed with torture!”
The two assistants nodded their heads in agreement. Alonso beamed in delight at the prospect of what was to befall a woman gone astray from her faith. Miguel Aguilar sat quietly resigned to the fact that these habitual proceedings were intended to extract the truth from proud and obstinate sinners whose vices transformed Lucifer from one of God’s noble angels into a wicked demon.
On the day of sentencing, they escorted Saleema in fetters to Bibarambla Gate Square. The guards made a path through the throngs of people who came to hear the sentencing and witness the execution. Saleema tried as best she could to withstand the agony of walking on two feet swollen and burned by torture. She tried not to think about the chafing of her hands shackled and tied behind her back. She still had the blisters from the red hot iron bar she had been forced to carry. She didn’t dare look at the people around her. She occupied her mind with her thoughts. They were going to sentence her to death, so why didn’t her insides roil with dreaded fear, or why didn’t she cry out in anger and fury? She wondered if it was because she wished for death, that she was imploring God to relieve her of the unbearable suffering of her body and soul. She wondered if she was submitting her fate to God, like many of the great martyrs who face death bravely even though they may not understand or accept God’s will. Perhaps it was something altogether different, that she decided without any forethought not to humiliate herself by screaming or begging, or even crying out in fright like mice in their traps. She would not add insult to injury onto herself. Intelligence in human beings is a noble quality. Pride in themselves is sublime. She could now walk to the burning stake like a person who masters her own soul. She could say, “Yes, I am Saleema bint Jaafar. I was raised by an honorable man who made books and whose heart fumed the day he witnessed the burning of the books and who walked away in silent dignity. But I did cry out, Grandfather, when they tortured me, that is correct. My mind and my body collapsed, but only for several moments, Grandfather. I never said anything you would be ashamed of. I studied the books as you taught me to do, I eased people’s pain as best I could. I even dreamed that one day I would dedicate to you, Grandfather, a book I wrote from my own research and experiments. That was my dream, Grandfather, that I could have realized had it not been for the prison of time.”