The Inquisitor's Wife by Jeanne Kalogridis Read Free Book Online Page A

olive tree, only an arm’s length from his shivering victim, who now sat crouched, knees to chest, as he pressed against the knotted trunk.
    A palpable beat of silence passed, during which time Antonio draped the cloak over the gasping old man’s shoulders and pressed the scarf into his hand; Gabriel’s blows had done the poor Jew such harm that he could not stand. By then I was wriggling my way through the crowd; every male was gaping at Antonio, utterly spellbound. Desperate to reach my friend before the tide turned against him, I pushed harder as I forced my way past distracted, motionless boys.
    The crowd suddenly caught its collective breath, and one youth giggled, then another; abruptly, the cul-de-sac filled with the Eagles’ and Lions’ derisive laughter. Beet faced, Gabriel rose to his hands and knees, clearly smarting from the blow, his teeth gritted with hatred and pain. As he rose groaning to his feet, he shot an accusatory glance at his teammates.
    But the other boys were fickle; the Jew would provide sufficient entertainment once Miguel returned with the knife. Until then, they found sport in the slightly more even contest between Antonio and Gabriel.
    “Fight!” one of them shouted, and the rest of them gleefully took up the chant:
    “Fight fight FIGHT!”
    Antonio moved away from the Jew and the olive tree, and, gripping the heavy walking stick at the base with one hand, held it like a swordsman ready to parry. Gabriel squared off against him—a hulking Goliath against a lithe, armed David—and charged, bellowing. By then I had made my way past all but the outer ring of sweating boys and stopped to stare and pray silently for Antonio’s sake.
    Antonio’s free hand moved so quickly to his tunic pocket that Gabriel, focusing on his opponent’s weapon, did not notice—not until Antonio flung more sand into his eyes and thwack ed the side of his head, just above the ear, with the tip of the stick.
    The audience roared—some with approval, others with encouragement for Gabriel, who cursed the blue of the Madonna’s veil and the Holy Crimson Blood as he rubbed his eyes. The injured Jew had by then retied the scarf to cover his missing nose and his mouth; I fancied that he was smiling beneath it, perhaps because I smiled involuntarily myself.
    My grin immediately faded as Gabriel, still half-blinded, grabbed two large handfuls of dirt and pelted Antonio in the face with them. Antonio ducked his head, though not in time. He reached one-handed for his stinging eyes, keeping a firm grip on the walking stick, and swiped randomly at the air.
    It wasn’t enough. Gabriel recovered faster and caught hold of the stick; all too easily, he wrested it from the smaller boy’s grip—then threw it aside and charged Antonio, knocking him to the ground.
    Gabriel’s bulk collided with Antonio’s shorter, slender frame with an ominous thud, and Antonio released a sharp, wordless vocalization as his back struck the ground, forcing the air from his lungs. By then, I had screamed and was already pushing my way between the two avid spectators that separated me from the fighters. In less time than it takes to draw in a breath, Gabriel was on his knees, his left arm wrapped tightly around the prone Antonio’s neck, his right terminating in a fist that struck the younger boy’s head again, again, again. Antonio tried to lift his head, and I caught sight of his face: His features were even and pretty, childlike in proportion, with his straight nose still too short, his eyes still too big for his head. He would grow up to be a handsome man—at least, if the damage Gabriel wrought that day was not too great. At the moment, one of Antonio’s eyes was swelling shut and blood trickled from one of his perfect nostrils.
    I bolted from the crowd, aware not of Gabriel’s massive fists but only of Antonio and his wounds. I ran directly up to his tormentor, who, kneeling, was now at my eye level, lost in an animal fury, unaware