As I see the first hint of sunlight, the death march begins. We advance toward the Terriero do Paco -- the great city square adjacent to the Royal Palace on the seafront.

Leading the processional is Don Henrique -- the Inquisitor General of Portugal by appointment of his older brother, His Royal Highness John the Third. Don Henrique is an ugly man -- lean, with an avian nose, and black eyes set so deeply that the sockets appear hollow. His thick beard -- a weave of bronze, copper, and iron -- is meticulously shaped to a dagger point. His dress is appropriately august -- official: floor-length black robe and cape, white clerical collar, and black trapezoidal hat. Dangling from his neck is his scallop-edged crucifix of gold, inset with topaz, lapis, aquamarine, sapphire, and topped with a finial of diamonds. A haughty man, Don Henrique always wears jeweled crosses. Gilt bible clutched to his breast, eyes fixed straight ahead, he presses on slowly but inexorably, prepared to carry out the work of his God.

Following the Inquisitor are four rows of black-garbed monks. Around their necks are unadorned crucifixes fashioned from the heavier base metals. Rigid and stone-faced, they carry black-covered bibles and hold aloft crosses and banners. They chant low-pitched dirges as they trudge forward on sandaled feet.

Behind the clergy are the royal officials and the blackhooded executioners -- the secular arm of the law. Their ranks advance in taut, military fashion -- arms swinging with pendular precision, not a boot out of step.

We are at the rear of the retinue. The victims -- the wretches. We are heavily guarded and hold lighted tapers that spit fire into the early morning. sky. Some o