The word “auto-da-fé” means “act of faith”; consequently Aziraphale is bitterly unsurprised that it’s the word assigned to the Inquisition’s public displays of cruelty.
He’s been making his way through Spain for about three years now, undermining these glorious works whenever he can. Aziraphale has always been excellent at casual blasphemy, and here in Spain there’s a near-endless supply of opportunities. It fills him with a spiteful glee that fuels his endeavors and his imagination—and distracts him from keeping count of all the human measurements of time that have passed since he last saw Crowley.
Heaven’s earthly agents keep him busy. Especially the Grand Inquisitor, Torquemada—the hammer of heretics, the light of Spain, the savior of his country, and one of the greatest human adversaries he’s ever faced. Even the Serpent can’t tempt Torquemada; he’s already been seduced by the blinding glories of Heaven. There is no glittering treasure and no carnal satisfaction that can overshadow the zeal in the Grand Inquisitor’s soul. He longs to do a great work for the Almighty, to purge the unfaithful from Spain, and the righteousness has rotted him from the inside in a way that seems to please the forces of Good.
(They must be pleased, he reasons, because he’s heard no stories of angels or heavenly visions condemning the path the Crown and the Inquisition have begun to blaze in a very literal sense through the country. There are a few brave and foolish humans who do protest, here and there, but then Aziraphale has long since learned that there are always a handful of humans in any era or part of the world who are driven by faith not in the Almighty but in doing the right thing.)
But a Great Seducer has hundreds of ways to make Torquemada’s job harder. Aziraphale undermines constantly. When he catches whispers that the Grand Inquisitor wants to ban heretical literature, Aziraphale introduces several printers and booksellers in back rooms over bottles of good wine, helps to facilitate several underground means of distribution for books the Inquisition deems too far from God. Quite a few butchers who refuse to give up halal or kosher practices find a friendly white cat outside their back doors, meowing prettily for scraps—and keeping a lookout for officers of the Inquisition. Sometimes on a Saturday if a particularly zealous soul is out looking for evidence of incorrect worship, a wisp of white smoke hovers over the chimneys of conversos who have forgotten they must now light fires on the Sabbath like their neighbors. Sometimes inside the houses of the conversos the residents suddenly become aware of music somewhere far away, a lute or a harp.
From city to city he slinks, whispering and wiling, scattering strange demonic luck in his wake. He can only keep so many from the bloody claws of Heaven’s engines of destruction, but for a little while at least Aziraphale can turn all his attention to the kind of thwarting that’s mostly preservation. If Heaven is so keen to get rid of undesirable thoughts and worshippers (or at least sanction their destruction), Aziraphale will make sure they survive, all across Spain.
(This is not to say that his efforts are entirely focused on keeping the undesirables out of danger. In every city he’s visited, some Inquisitor or local stoolpigeon has ended up wandering into a dark alley, beaten and robbed and often stripped of any evidence that might have convicted a converso. In Valencia an entire tribunal falls ill for a week after a dinner meeting [1]. Couriers carrying messages between Inquisitors find themselves lost in dark and unfamiliar places, sometimes wandering for weeks.)
Aziraphale moves often, purposefully, every journey a thwarting. Seville, being the seat of the Inquisition, is ripe for mischief to make against Torquemada. He’s been here before, but he likes to keep his knowledge as current as possible while he’s on an active project like this one. So he employs a trick he’s learned from humans: he seeks out someone chatty and an excuse to sit and listen.
*
Fernand, unlike many men in his trade, is respectable enough to keep a shop. Not a big one, but it’s a comfortable place, and he can even afford to hire an assistant. Local boy. Smart kid. He can even read and write—and so can Fernand, though he doesn’t always let everyone know that.
The man in the silver spectacles who walks in that morning shines on his doorstep like a new coin. He wears almost all white, except for stylish touches of gold and red, and his smile is broad and sunny. Fernand asks whether the gentleman is troubled with a toothache or in need of bloodletting, but the fellow smiles wider and tells him no, nothing so drastic. Merely a haircut.
They chat amiably as Fernand works. Or rather Fernand mostly chats, and the gentleman listens, occasionally asking questions. It seems he’s back in Seville after an absence, and wants to know what he’s missed. Fernand has plenty of stories from the last few months: weddings, births, affairs, people who’ve vanished after Inquisitors came sniffing around. And then of course there’s the madman, the Angel Of Seville.
The gentleman’s sunny smile melts away as Fernand relates how the angel wanders from cantina to cantina, how his wildness is a puzzle to everyone around him. Before Fernand quite knows what’s happened, the gentleman has seized him by the front of his shirt—and even with the silver spectacles in the way, Fernand can feel his gaze burning.
“Take me to the angel,” the gentleman says in a strange voice, “and I swear to you the good name of the best barber in Seville will live forever.”
[1] There is a very small amount of arsenic naturally occurring in apple pips. By some miracle, a large quantity of pips end up in the pepper grinder at the Inquisitors’ table. Smaller amounts of what science has yet to identify as E. coli also end up in every dish. Whether this is due to sixteenth-century food hygiene practices or perhaps has something to do with the white cat lurking outside the kitchen is up for debate.
also BSing everywhere but with a handcrafted joke here just for you
He’s been making his way through Spain for about three years now, undermining these glorious works whenever he can. Aziraphale has always been excellent at casual blasphemy, and here in Spain there’s a near-endless supply of opportunities. It fills him with a spiteful glee that fuels his endeavors and his imagination—and distracts him from keeping count of all the human measurements of time that have passed since he last saw Crowley.
Heaven’s earthly agents keep him busy. Especially the Grand Inquisitor, Torquemada—the hammer of heretics, the light of Spain, the savior of his country, and one of the greatest human adversaries he’s ever faced. Even the Serpent can’t tempt Torquemada; he’s already been seduced by the blinding glories of Heaven. There is no glittering treasure and no carnal satisfaction that can overshadow the zeal in the Grand Inquisitor’s soul. He longs to do a great work for the Almighty, to purge the unfaithful from Spain, and the righteousness has rotted him from the inside in a way that seems to please the forces of Good.
(They must be pleased, he reasons, because he’s heard no stories of angels or heavenly visions condemning the path the Crown and the Inquisition have begun to blaze in a very literal sense through the country. There are a few brave and foolish humans who do protest, here and there, but then Aziraphale has long since learned that there are always a handful of humans in any era or part of the world who are driven by faith not in the Almighty but in doing the right thing.)
But a Great Seducer has hundreds of ways to make Torquemada’s job harder. Aziraphale undermines constantly. When he catches whispers that the Grand Inquisitor wants to ban heretical literature, Aziraphale introduces several printers and booksellers in back rooms over bottles of good wine, helps to facilitate several underground means of distribution for books the Inquisition deems too far from God. Quite a few butchers who refuse to give up halal or kosher practices find a friendly white cat outside their back doors, meowing prettily for scraps—and keeping a lookout for officers of the Inquisition. Sometimes on a Saturday if a particularly zealous soul is out looking for evidence of incorrect worship, a wisp of white smoke hovers over the chimneys of conversos who have forgotten they must now light fires on the Sabbath like their neighbors. Sometimes inside the houses of the conversos the residents suddenly become aware of music somewhere far away, a lute or a harp.
From city to city he slinks, whispering and wiling, scattering strange demonic luck in his wake. He can only keep so many from the bloody claws of Heaven’s engines of destruction, but for a little while at least Aziraphale can turn all his attention to the kind of thwarting that’s mostly preservation. If Heaven is so keen to get rid of undesirable thoughts and worshippers (or at least sanction their destruction), Aziraphale will make sure they survive, all across Spain.
(This is not to say that his efforts are entirely focused on keeping the undesirables out of danger. In every city he’s visited, some Inquisitor or local stoolpigeon has ended up wandering into a dark alley, beaten and robbed and often stripped of any evidence that might have convicted a converso. In Valencia an entire tribunal falls ill for a week after a dinner meeting [1]. Couriers carrying messages between Inquisitors find themselves lost in dark and unfamiliar places, sometimes wandering for weeks.)
Aziraphale moves often, purposefully, every journey a thwarting. Seville, being the seat of the Inquisition, is ripe for mischief to make against Torquemada. He’s been here before, but he likes to keep his knowledge as current as possible while he’s on an active project like this one. So he employs a trick he’s learned from humans: he seeks out someone chatty and an excuse to sit and listen.
*
Fernand, unlike many men in his trade, is respectable enough to keep a shop. Not a big one, but it’s a comfortable place, and he can even afford to hire an assistant. Local boy. Smart kid. He can even read and write—and so can Fernand, though he doesn’t always let everyone know that.
The man in the silver spectacles who walks in that morning shines on his doorstep like a new coin. He wears almost all white, except for stylish touches of gold and red, and his smile is broad and sunny. Fernand asks whether the gentleman is troubled with a toothache or in need of bloodletting, but the fellow smiles wider and tells him no, nothing so drastic. Merely a haircut.
They chat amiably as Fernand works. Or rather Fernand mostly chats, and the gentleman listens, occasionally asking questions. It seems he’s back in Seville after an absence, and wants to know what he’s missed. Fernand has plenty of stories from the last few months: weddings, births, affairs, people who’ve vanished after Inquisitors came sniffing around. And then of course there’s the madman, the Angel Of Seville.
The gentleman’s sunny smile melts away as Fernand relates how the angel wanders from cantina to cantina, how his wildness is a puzzle to everyone around him. Before Fernand quite knows what’s happened, the gentleman has seized him by the front of his shirt—and even with the silver spectacles in the way, Fernand can feel his gaze burning.
“Take me to the angel,” the gentleman says in a strange voice, “and I swear to you the good name of the best barber in Seville will live forever.”
[1] There is a very small amount of arsenic naturally occurring in apple pips. By some miracle, a large quantity of pips end up in the pepper grinder at the Inquisitors’ table. Smaller amounts of what science has yet to identify as E. coli also end up in every dish. Whether this is due to sixteenth-century food hygiene practices or perhaps has something to do with the white cat lurking outside the kitchen is up for debate.