by John Boyne
In my cell now, I wondered whether Lieke was experiencing similar pangs of guilt. She was being held in the room next to my own and spent her hours wailing, screaming or so quiet that I wondered whether she had taken her own life. Had I the means, I might have done so myself.
* * *
• • •
I did not see sunlight again until I was being dragged in chains along the streets of Athens while the locals huddled together in groups, cursing my name, spitting at me and throwing rotten fruit at my head. Having spent a week of confinement in such a small cell, I found it difficult to walk at first, but I knew that if I tripped or fell, the horses would simply drag me along, and so I had no choice but to keep moving.
If they were furious with me, however, the Athenians reserved their worst condemnation for Lieke. They accepted that men were weak creatures, too easily swayed by a woman, but expected a wife to behave with more loyalty. My erstwhile lover was walking a third of a mile behind me and I could hear the jeering that was being aimed in her direction, and knew how deeply she, who had always prized her status, would hate this public shaming.
As we approached the center of the city, I saw my brother Jorgen standing with his beloved Ulyssa, and next to them was Shura, the young woman with whom I had developed an affectionate relationship. She was weeping, as she had been when we first met, and I hoped that she did not despise me too badly for what I had done.
Othon de la Roche had been Lord of Athens for many years and was well known to be that rarest of creatures, an uxorious man. He and his wife, Isabella, had been married since the start of the century, producing ten children together, all of whom miraculously lived. The couple were inseparable and it was rumored that they had even been observed holding hands at a public event, an unprecedented intimacy. While this might have suggested that they were kind and considerate souls, I guessed Othon’s fidelity would work against Lieke and me, for if there was one thing that a man who loved his wife enjoyed, it was castigating those who brought shame upon the institution of marriage.
The lord was seated impassively upon a painted throne, his hands resting regally upon the arm-supports, and when I was unshackled from the horse, I fell to my knees, in relief as much as pain, while a bucket of what I hoped was dirty water but smelled like piss was thrown over me to wipe some of the dust from my face. A moment later, I glanced to my right as Lieke, also bruised and bloodied, slumped to the ground next to me, looking so unkempt that I almost felt sympathy for her. Her hair had been chopped short, she bore cuts on her lips and across her face, and I dreaded to think what other indignities the jailers might have inflicted upon her during her imprisonment, for they were brutal fellows.
The crowd fell silent now and we looked up to see Isabella, the lady of the city, joining her husband on the dais, while, seated on a chair a few steps lower, was the cuckold himself, Gergo Aquilo, looking wounded and miserable. I hoped that he would not turn in my direction, for I could not bear to feel the weight of his disappointment upon me. To my relief, he spent most of our trial staring down at his sandals, only occasionally throwing a glance toward his errant wife.
“You have been brought here today to answer charges of murder,” cried Othon, raising his arm now like an old Roman emperor. The last voices were silenced as he stared down at us. “You, Lieke, wife of Gergo Aquilo, claim that this worthless creature kneeling next to you was responsible for the death of the songbird Hermione. He, on the other hand, insists that it was you who loosened the rocks above the area where she sat to play her kithara, hoping that they would fall and kill her. As they did.”
“He’s lying!” shouted Lieke. “I would never do such a cruel thing! I am an honest and faithful wife, as God is my witness! This man tried to seduce me on many occasions, but I always resisted him out of loyalty to my beloved Gergo. He seeks to denounce me now out of bitterness, nothing more.”
“And you?” asked Othon, unmoved, turning his gaze to me. “How do you respond to such an allegation?”
“I admit that Lieke and I have enjoyed those pleasures that are sacred to a husband and wife,” I replied, my voice catching in my throat, for it had been some time since I had used it. “But I did not unsettle the stones. She begged me to do it, yes, but I refused. So, either she took it upon herself to complete the task or she found another.”
Of course, this was a lie. Lieke had asked me to commit this act of folly in exchange for my freedom and I’d even begun to do it before reconsidering and restoring the stones to their original places. But there had not been enough time for them to settle correctly and a crack of lightning had seen the stones tumble from their perch, killing Hermione even as Gergo watched from the courtyard of his villa.
More questions were asked and Lieke and I contradicted each other at every step until, at last, it became clear that neither of us was going to admit any guilt.
“Then there is no way for me to decide who is telling the truth and who is lying,” announced Othon finally. “So I will leave it to God to decide.”
The crowd cheered in delight; they had been hoping all along that this would be the verdict. The greatest and most vicious spectacle of all.
Lieke and I, however, looked around in terror, for this was what we had feared the most. Hanging would be bad, and having our heads lopped off would be equally objectionable, but this? This was the worst of all possible punishments.
“We shall have a trial by ordeal,” declared the Lord of Athens. “And may God instruct us on who is at fault here and who is blameless!”
* * *
• • •
No one in the history of our great city had ever survived a trial by ordeal. Despite the pretense that the outcome was a result of divine providence, there was really only one possible verdict, and, accepting that I would fail and forfeit my life, I did my best to make peace with my situation, hoping that I would be reunited with my loved ones in the next life. I put the question to Jorgen as I waited for the trial instruments to be set up, doing my best not to look in their direction, for they were fearsome tools, capable of striking terror into even the hardiest of souls. Lieke had screamed in panic when the large pot was wheeled into the courtyard, and the smell of boiling lead was already beginning to grow pungent in the air.
“This is a question that I cannot answer, Brother,” he replied sadly, and I noticed, to my astonishment, that he had tears in his eyes. “A thousand women await my presence in the next life and I don’t know how I’ll choose between them either.” A hand flew out, slapping him hard across the face.
“My apologies,” he said, turning to Ulyssa.
“You’ll be waiting for me, Jorgen,” she snapped. “I will outlive you and then you will remain chaste until I arrive to join you.”
“Of course,” he said. “I meant that I never played favorites in the past. Obviously, now…now is different.”
Ulyssa reached across to kiss me now and I wondered whether I might ask her to embrace me again when the terrible moment came, as her scent might cause me to pass out entirely, but I was touched to see that she seemed upset by my upcoming torment. She had not admitted her responsibility for telling Gergo Aquilo that she had seen me lurking among the fatal stones earlier on that terrible day, but I guessed that it was she who had betrayed me. Still, I did not blame her; she had been fond of Hermione and my actions had been my own.
A great horn sounded from the platform and, intertwined with the ecstatic roars of an excited populace, Lieke screamed once again as my stomach dipped in fear. I had never considered myself either particularly brave or cowardly, but the idea of what was to come was almost too much for me. Had there been a word that I could have said to bring life to an immediate end, I would have happily uttered it at that moment.
“Good luck, Brother,” said Jorgen, throwing his vast body around me. “Tell our father how much I have always regretted my lengthy absence fr
om his life.”
Before I could wrap my arms around him, too, one of the soldiers pulled me away, dragging me to the dais, where I stood next to Lieke, who was visibly shaking. I glanced at her and started to say something, but she cut me off by raising her hand and I assumed that she was trying to reconcile herself with what was to come, too, and needed silence. Respecting that, I looked away and held my tongue.
A moment later, Othon de la Roche stepped forward, holding out his arm once again as the crowd fell silent. At the corner of the dais, an executioner stood with an axe and block, ready to end the life of whoever God decreed was guilty.
“These two wretched creatures are accused of taking the life of an innocent girl,” he declared. “They both claim innocence, so God shall decide their fate. Behold!”
He pointed toward the enormous steel pot that stood in the center of the platform, decorated with symbols of fire, earth, wind and water. It was filled with lead, which, scalded by the flames beneath it, had returned to liquid form and was bubbling ferociously, great gurgles of darkness eager to swallow us whole. Stepping forward, he opened his palm to reveal a stone, which he held over the center of the pot. I narrowed my eyes, as it seemed to have a face carved into it, but it was impossible to know whose. The Lord of Athens displayed it to the crowd for a moment before dropping it into the cauldron.
“All that is asked of you,” declared Othon, “is that you reach into the pot and retrieve the stone. If you can do so without suffering any injury, then you will be declared innocent and will walk free this very day. If, however, your arm is lost to the lead, then you are found guilty, and will be beheaded. First, the shameless wife.”
Two soldiers marched forward and dragged Lieke toward the vessel. She struggled with them, doing her best to pull away from the fumes and heat of the boiling lead, but they were too strong for her.
“Retrieve the stone,” repeated Othon. “If you refuse to try, you will be lowered in slowly, head first.”
Lieke closed her eyes for a moment, her lips moving soundlessly, in prayer perhaps, and then she offered a half-smile, as if she had given up on this world entirely, and plunged her arm into the horrible liquid, sinking it down all the way to the shoulder.
Her scream was like nothing I had ever heard before. It was a shriek as the clouds might have made when they gave birth to the storms that first created the world. The crowd cried out, too, in a mixture of horror and delight, and, although I wanted to look away, it was impossible not to stare as she fell to the ground, her arm missing, a horrible, boiling stump at her shoulder.
“Guilty!” cried Lady Isabella, leaping up from her throne. “God has declared it so!”
“He has,” agreed Othon, nodding toward the soldiers, who lifted the unconscious woman from the dais and dragged her toward the block. She came back to life for a moment but seemed dazed by what was going on. She was thrown down, her head pressed against the wood; the executioner lifted his axe and, without a moment’s delay, it fell upon her, severing her head from her body, a great stream of blood pouring from the corpse. Looking away in terror, I caught Gergo’s eye and could see that he was deeply upset. I suppose he had loved her once.
“And now you,” said Othon, and I stepped forward, determined not to be dragged by soldiers but to show some courage in death. I looked into the lead, hoping for a miracle, then thrust my arm out, feeling the heat of the pot rise against my skin, before allowing it to sink down as deep as it would go.
There was no immediate pain. But there were visions. Curious visions. Before my eyes, the world turned a multitude of colors and the audience seemed to grow silent, as did the person of Othon de la Roche standing next to me. I saw a boy tending to another, pressing a damp cloth against his forehead. A man sailing away from a shore on a block of ice. A group of monks bent over their manuscripts. And then, as if by common consent, the crowd parted, leaving an aisle in the center, and an elderly woman dressed entirely in black walked slowly between them, ascending the steps to where I stood, her eyes completely white. It was obvious that she was blind but when she stood before me it was as if she could see directly into my soul.
“It doesn’t burn,” I said.
“It does,” she replied. “But you cannot feel it. Do not give in, son of Makira.”
“Am I dead?” I asked. “Has the lead killed me?”
She shook her head. “Do you want to live?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“Where?”
I thought about it. The words emerged from my mouth without my even understanding what they meant.
“Among the stars,” I said.
“And you will,” she replied, turning her back on me then, walking away, and as she disappeared in the distance, I heard a great swell of noises and, blinking, was astonished to see the people of Athens restored to their places, looking at me and crying aloud in delight. Some were even crying.
“Your arm,” said Othon, and I looked down. I was no longer reaching into the pot but was holding the stone that he had dropped into it earlier. I stared at it in astonishment. The moment had come and gone so quickly that I could scarcely believe what had happened.
“You are innocent,” he declared. “God has decreed it! And you may go free.”
The crowd cheered again, and I opened my palm to look at the stone itself. Someone had used a chisel and hammer to chip away at it, for there was a rough portrait of a man carved into the front. Had the idea not seemed absurd, I would have sworn that the face belonged to my father.
PORTUGAL
A.D. 1267
A FREE MAN ONCE AGAIN, I made the decision to travel eastward from Lisbon toward Évora, intending to make my way through Spain and Italy as my quest continued. I did not, however, journey alone. Serafina and I had developed a friendship from the day I encountered her weeping silently in the duke’s courtyard, and when I was preparing to leave the city, having somehow managed to keep my head attached to my shoulders, she took me aside to ask whether she might accompany me.
My brother João found a pair of horses for us and, after an emotional farewell, we began our ride cross-country, occasionally conversing but more often content to be left alone with our thoughts. On our second evening, however, when we stopped at a hostelry in search of food and rest, I saw a more determined side to her character than I had observed so far. Earlier that day, we had visited a new cathedral that stood in the center of the city and while I had been content to stroll around the nave and transept, marveling at the work of the stonemasons, Serafina had knelt in one of the pews, her head bowed low in prayer. It seemed that she was not praising God, however, but asking for His help, for with every movement of her lips, her body arched forward a little more in desperate entreatment.
The inn where we spent the night was one of the most modern I had ever encountered, with separate tables for smaller groups and a washroom outside that was connected to a well. One simply pressed down on the arm of the pump and the water flowed out, as if by magic! I would have thought that witchcraft was involved, had a fellow traveler not explained to me the simplicity of the operation. And then, before our meals were served from an enormous steel pot, we were each handed a small knife, no bigger than my middle finger, and a steel implement with two tines at the end, which, we were told, should be used to pierce our food before bringing it to our mouths. Why we could not simply use our hands as nature intended was a mystery to both of us, but, happy to engage in the customs of this strange new world, we did as instructed, even though I feared that I might perforate my tongue with two neat holes as I separated the meat from the steel.
“Do you recall the afternoon when we first met?” I asked as we ate. “You were drying tears from your cheeks.”
“I remember,” replied Serafina.
“You told me that it was a special day for you but did not say why.”
She nodd
ed but offered no explanation and I wondered whether I was perhaps intruding too far on a private matter. Before I could ask anything more, however, a man came over, quite drunk, and slumped down next to us, leering at my companion, who looked back at him coolly as she continued to eat.
“How much?” he asked, turning to me with a wink.
“How much for what?” I asked.
“For her. Ten minutes. I’ll be quick, I promise. And I don’t have any diseases, not like most of this lot,” he added, pointing toward the other tables. “I’ll get her back to you much as you gave her to me.”
As if his boorishness wasn’t bad enough, I doubted his honesty, for his body stank and his hair was so thick and matted upon his head that I felt certain a legion of lice must have set up camp there. His nails were blackened, too, and those few teeth that remained in his head were an unsettling shade of yellow.
“Friend,” I said, trying to control my temper, “remove yourself from these seats before I do you an injury.”
He raised an eyebrow, apparently more surprised than offended by my reply, and shook his head. “I have money if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said, extracting a pouch of coins from the pocket of his coat and letting a few fall into his grubby palm.
“I don’t care how much—”
“I’m not for sale,” said Serafina, interrupting me as she reached across, enclosing the man’s hand in her fist. Like a kicked dog, he yelped in pain and surprise as his skin cut against the edges of the coins, pulling back from her with a curse.
