Cries of anguish cut Lisbon’s noontide heat. Then stopped. Followed by a stream of air-slicing snaps and a man’s angry commands. “Get up! Get up, you burro!” Tile making supplies under his arm, Pêro pushed through the gathered crowd. Paulinha trailing him, arriving at the edge of a scene of horror. A man lay collapsed in the dirt, dust plastering one side of his face, his nose, his lips. His black back lacerated raw and bloody.
burro“I’m going to miss the ship, the sale!” the master roared. He pointed to the handcart loaded with heavy sacks of wheat.
For a split second, Pêro and Paulinha looked into the fallen man’s eyes, his soul, pleading for mercy, for relief, for escape. Pêro dropped his materials and lunged forward, arms outstretched. “Jibo! No! Stop!” He gasped, his tongue dry. It
