The Compendium of Srem (2 page)

Before opening the
Compendium
, he took his bible, kissed its cover, and laid it in his lap…

Tomás read through the night. His candle burned out just as dawn began to light the sky, so he read on, foregoing breakfast. Finally he forced himself to close both the abominable book and his eyes.

As he slumped in his chair he heard the sounds of hammers and saws and axes and the calls of the workmen wafting through his window. Every day was the same—except Sunday, of course. Main construction on the monastery—
Monasterio de Santo Tomás
—had been officially completed four years ago, but always there seemed more to do: a patio here, a garden there. It seemed it would never be finished.

The monastery had become the centerpiece of Ávila. And that it should not be. It had grown too big, too ornate. He thought of the elegant studded pillars ringing the second-floor gallery overlooking the enormous courtyard, beautiful works of art in themselves, but inappropriate for a mendicant order that required a vow of poverty.

It housed three cloisters—one for novitiates, one for silence, and one for the royal family. Since the king and queen had funded the monastery, and used it as their summer residence, he supposed such excess was unavoidable. The queen was why he had moved here from Seville—he had been her confessor for many years.

He opened his eyes and stared at the cover of the
Compendium of Srem
. He wasn't sure if Srem was the name of a town or the fictional civilization it described or the person who had compiled it. But the title mattered not. The content… the content was soul rattling in its heresy, and utterly demonic in the subtle seductiveness of its tone.

The book never denounced the Church, never blasphemed God the Father, Jesus the Son, or the Holy Ghost. Oh, no. That would have been too obvious. That would have set up a barrier between the reader and the unholiness within. Tomás would have found shrill, wild-eyed blasphemy easier to deal with than the alternative presented here: God and His Church were not presented as enemies—in fact, they were never presented at all!
Not one mention.
Impossible as it was, the author pretended to be completely unaware of their existence.

That was bad enough. But the tone… the tone…

The
Compendium
presented itself as a collection of brief essays describing every facet of an imaginary civilization. Where that civilization might exist—or when—was never addressed. Perhaps it purported to describe the legendary Island of Atlas mentioned by Plato in his
Timaeus
, supposedly sunk beneath the waves millennia ago. But no one took those stories seriously. It portrayed a civilization that harnessed the lightning and commanded the weather, defying God's very Creation by fashioning new creatures from the humors of others.

But the tone… it presented these hellish wonders in a perfectly matter-of-fact manner, as if everyone was familiar with them, as if these were mere quotidian truths that the author was simply cataloguing for the record. Usually when imaginary wonders were described—the Greek legends of their gods and goddesses, came to mind—the teller of the tall tale related them in breathless prose and a marveling tone. Not so the
Compendium
. The descriptions were flat and straightforward, almost casual. And the way they interconnected and referred back and forth to each other indicated that a great deal of thought had been invested in these fictions.

Which was what made it all so seductive.

Many times during the night and through the morning Tomás had to force himself to lean back and press the Holy Bible against his fevered brow so as to counteract the spell the
Compendium
was attempting to weave around him.

By the time he closed the covers, he had dipped barely a fingertip into the foul well of its waters, but he had read enough to know that this so-called
Compendium of Srem
was in truth the
Compendium of Satan
, a library of falsehoods fashioned by the Father of Lies himself.

And the most profound lies concerned gods, although he didn't know if “god” was the proper word for the entities described. No, “described” was not the word. The author referred to two vaporous entities at war in the aether. The people of this fictional civilization did not worship these entities. Rather they contended with them, some currying favor with one so as to help defeat the other, and vice versa. They had not bothered to name their gods, and had no images of them. Their gods simply…
were
.

But reading the
Compendium
was not necessary to appreciate its hellish origin. Simply leafing through the pages was all it took. For the book had no end! It numbered one hundred sheets—Tomás had counted them—but when he'd leafed to the last page, he'd found there was no last page. Every time he turned what appeared to be the last page, another lay waiting. And yet the sheet count never varied from one hundred, because a page at the front was disappearing every time a new one appeared at the rear. Yet whenever he closed and reopened the book, it began again with the title page.

Sorcery… sorcery was the only explanation.

Brother Adelard and Brother Ramiro arrived together.

Tomás had rewrapped the
Compendium
in Adelard's blanket and carried it to the tribunal room. He had been shocked at the thick tome's almost negligible weight. Once there, he summoned them and waited in his seat at the center of the long refectory table. The room was similar to the tribunal room at the monastery in Segovia where he had spent most of his term as Grand Inquisitor: the long table, the high-backed leather-upholstered chairs—the highest back reserved for him—facing the door; stained-glass windows to either side, and a near life-size crucifix on the wall above the fireplace behind him. The crucifix was positioned so as to force the accused to look upon the face of their crucified Lord as they stood before the inquisitors and responded to the accusations made against then. They were not allowed to know the names of their accusers, merely the charges against them.

“Good Prior,” Adelard said as he entered. “I see in your eyes that you have read it.”

Tomás nodded. “Not all of it, of course, but enough to know what we must do.” He shifted his gaze to Ramiro. “And you, Brother… have you read it?”

Ramiro was about Adelard's age, but there the resemblance ceased. Ramiro was portly where Adelard was lean, brown-eyed instead of blue, swarthy instead of fair. Those dark eyes were wide now and fixed on the
Compendium
, which Tomás had unwrapped.

“No, Prior. I have seen only the cover, and that is enough.”

“You have no desire to peruse its contents?”

He gave his head a violent shake. “Brother Adelard has told me—”

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.”

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.