Sete-Sóis and Sete-Luas, two such lovely names that it seems a pity not to use them, did not come from São Sebastião da Pedreira to the Rossio to watch the auto-da-fé, but nearly everyone else flocked to watch the spectacle, and from eye-witness accounts and the official records that always survive despite the numerous earthquakes and fires, we know what and whom they saw being sentenced to torture, to the stake or exile, the black woman from Angola, the mulatto from Caparica, the Jewish nun, those impostors masquerading as priests who said Mass, confessed, and preached without any authority to do so, the judge from Arraiolos who had jewish blood on both his father's and his mother's side of the family, some one hundred and thirty-seven miscreants altogether, for the Holy Office of the Inquisition tries to cast its nets as widely as possible, in order to ensure that they will be full, thus obeying Christ's mandate when He told Saint Peter that He wanted him to be a fisher of men.
The great sorrow shared by Baltasar and Blimunda is that they do not possess a net capable of dragging down those stars along with the ether which keeps them suspended in mid-air, according to Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço, who is about to leave them and cannot say when he will return. The Passarola, which had started out looking like a castle under construction, is now like a tower in ruins, a Babel rudelyinterrupted without warning, and cords, canvas, wires, and irons are all in disarray and they no longer even have the consolation of opening the chest and studying the design, for the priest is carrying it in his luggage, he departs tomorrow, is travelling by sea, and with no greater risk than one might expect from the hazards of a sea journey, for peace with France has finally been declared, the signing of the peace treaty warranting a solemn procession of judges, magistrates, and bailiffs on horseback, followed by the trumpeters and buglers, then the palace footmen bearing silver maces on their shoulders, and behind them seven kings-at-arms wearing sumptuous robes, and the last of them carrying in one hand the parchment that formally declared peace, the treaty was read first of all in the Palace Square below the King's apartments, from where the royal family could look down on the crowds who filled the courtyard, the palace guards standing in formation and after the treaty was read out in the King's presence, it was read out once more in the Praça de Sé, and a third time in the hospital grounds adjoining the Rossio and now that a peace treaty has been signed with France, treaties with other nations will follow, But who will give me back the hand I've lost, Baltasar muses sadly, Don't worry, between us we have three hands, Blimunda reassures him.
Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço gave his blessing to the soldier and the clairvoyant and they kissed his hand, but at the last moment all three embraced, for friendship was stronger than reverence, and the priest said, Farewell, Blimunda, farewell, Baltasar, Look after each other and take care of the Passarola, for I shall return one day with the secret substance I mean to obtain, it will be neither gold nor diamonds, but the very air God Himself breathes, guard the key I gave you safely, and when you leave for Mafra, remember to pass by here from time to time to inspect my machine, you may enter and leave without permission, for the King has entrusted me with the estate and he knows what is stored here, and with these words the priest mounted his mule and departed.
Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço must already be on the open sea, so how should we amuse ourselves now, until we can fly, let's go to a bullfight, they can be very entertaining, In Mafra there are no bullfights, Baltasar explains, and since we don't have enough money to attend the entire four-day event, because the Palace has demanded an exorbitant fee for leasing the Palace Square this year, let's go on the last day for the grand finale, with tiered stands erected all around the square, even on the side where the river is, which makes it difficult to see anything except the upper decks of the ships anchored beyond, Sete-Sóis and Blimunda have found themselves good seats, not because they arrived earlier than anyone else but simply because an iron hook stuck to the end of an arm clears one's path just as quickly as the cannon that came from India and is preserved in the Tower of St Julian, someone feels a tap on the shoulder and turns around to find he might just as well be looking into the mouth of a cannon. The square is surrounded by masts that have tiny flags on top and are covered with streamers trailing all the way down to the ground and fluttering in the breeze, at the entrance to the arena is a wooden portico painted in simulated marble, and the columns are painted to look like stone from Arrábida with gilded cornices and friezes. The main pillar is supported by four enormous figures painted in a variety of colours and with a lavish display of gold leaf, the flag, made of tin plate, depicts on both sides the glorious St Antony standing on fields of silver, and the fittings are also gilt, the enormous crest of multicoloured plumes is so skilfully painted that the plumes look real, they give a nice finishing touch to the flagpole. The stands and terraces are swarming with people, spectators of rank and influence are seated in specially reserved seats, while the Royal Family watches from the palace windows, stewards are still watering the square, some eighty men dressed in the Moorish style with the arms of the Senate of Lisbon embroidered on their capes, the crowd is growing impatient as it eagerly waits for the bulls to appear, the preparations are now over, and the stewards withdraw from the arena, the square is as clean as a pin, and a fresh smell comes from the moistened ground, it is as if the world had been created anew, the spectators eagerly await the onslaught, soon that same ground will be covered with the blood, excrement, and urine of the bulls, or the droppings of the horses, and if some spectator should wet himself with excitement, let us hope that his breeches will protect him from the shame of making a fool of himself in the presence of all the inhabitants of Lisbon and of His Majesty Dom João V.
The first bull entered the arena, then the second, and then the third, then the eighteen bullfighters on foot whom the Senate had contracted in Castela at vast expense, then the picadors cantered into the arena and stabbed with their pikes, while those on foot embedded darts festooned with coloured papers in the necks of the bulls, one of the picadors showed his anger at a bull that had pulled his cape to the ground by charging at the animal and wounding it with his lance, which is one way of avenging tarnished honour. The fourth bull charges in, then the fifth, and the sixth, and on and on up to ten, twelve, fifteen, twenty bulls, until the square is like a blood-bath, the women laugh, screech with joy, and clap their hands, the palace windows look like branches in full blossom, while down below the bulls expire one after another, their corpses being removed on low wagons drawn by six horses, the same number as are used for members of the Royal Family and the titled aristocracy, and if the six horses are not a sign of the majesty and dignity attributed to the bulls, they do show how much the bulls weigh, just ask those horses groomed and resplendent, their embroidered trappings in crimson velvet and their saddles and caparisons trimmed with silvered fringes while the poor bulls are riddled with darts and pierced with lance wounds and their entrails dragging along the ground, in their frenzy, the men grope the frenzied women, who brazenly snuggle up against them, including Blimunda, who clings to Baltasar, and why not, he can feel all that blood being shed in the arena rush to his head, those rivulets on the flanks of the bulls pour out the blood of living death and make his head spin, but the image that imprints itself on his mind and brings tears to his eyes is the bull's drooping head, its gaping mouth, its great tongue hanging out, a tongue that will never again taste pastures, except those mythical pastures in the other world of bulls, whether it be paradise or hell.