by Dave Duncan
The inquisitor held out a paper.
Carrying his musket, the soldier marched three paces to the table to take it, then brought it back and held it up in front of the prisoner. "The inquisitor asks if the accused recognizes this notice."
The accused did, and his sweat turned cold in the heat. The paper was a smudged and tattered poster dated October 1519. The woodcut it bore was a crude drawing of himself as a youth, but a good likeness considering that it had been done from memory. The inscription in both Scots and Gaelic outlined the Parliamentary act of attainder that declared him to be possessed by a demon. It also proclaimed a reward of five thousand marks for anyone who brought in his corpse with a blade through the heart.
How had they gotten ahold of that? They had not produced that poster before, or even mentioned it. He found his voice, although it sounded strange to him.
"It lies."
The inquisitor did not wait for the translation. "But the accused does recognize it?"
The soldier translated the question and Toby's reply: "I have never seen it before. I was told about it. It lies. Whoever wrote it was lying."
Other people had been lying also, members of the pilgrim band, but he had not been told which. They had all been interrogated at the roadblock—questioned separately, most of them several times. Whatever slanders might have been spoken could be only their word against his, but that poster was damning. Who could argue against an act of Parliament? The one person who might have passed that paper to the Inquisition was Baron Oreste, because he had been responsible for it in the first place.
The interpreter returned the paper to the table and came back to thump the butt of his musket on the floor beside the prisoner and deliver the next translation.
"The inquisitor says that the evidence is strong enough to force a confession. This is the accused's last chance to repent. If the accused does not name his demon, he will now be put to the Question."
The soldier still did not meet Toby's eyes. He might be a decent enough fellow when off-duty, perhaps popular with his mates, a good singer, or skilled with women, homesick for England, planning to buy a freehold with his loot, if he ever laid his hands on any, if the war would ever end ... any or all of those things. But now he was very much on duty and would do what he was told to do whether he liked it or not. He had no choice; this was not his fault. If he disobeyed an order he would be hanged or whipped to shreds, or his fate might be worse than either of those, because to argue with the Inquisition was itself evidence of possession.
Sweat streamed down Toby's face and ribs although there was a huge icy rock in his belly. "Tell him I do not have a demon. He is making a terrible mistake. He is going to torture an innocent man."
Even as the soldier was translating the prisoner's answer into a Castilian little better than Toby's own, the inquisitor beckoned to the three black-hooded tormentors who had been standing silently under the windows with brawny arms folded, waiting out the interminable preliminaries. The prospect of action at last must seem welcome to them, because they strode forward eagerly, crowding in close around the accused. He struggled to relax, to enjoy these last few moments without pain, but he knew he had passed up one faint chance. He should have run to the far end and grabbed up a branding iron or something and tried to break out. He would not have succeeded, but perhaps a misjudged blow would have broken his neck. Now he was hemmed in, and it was too late.
"The accused will remove all his garments."
Was this it, or just a bluff? Toby glanced at the menacing black hoods closing in, and their sinister dark eye holes. Three to one. They were all smaller men than he, but they might well be faster. Resistance would only bring violence and increase his suffering, although he suspected he did not know what real suffering was yet—the inquisitor was about to teach him.
Unless it was only a bluff. The interrogation had advanced in slow stages, so they would probably just frighten him today and start the real hurting tomorrow. He shrugged and reached for the laces of his doublet.
When he had stripped, one of the novices took away his clothes. The tormentors roped his wrists behind him and clamped fetters on his ankles. The pulley overhead jangled. Calloused hands fumbled at his back, fastening the rope to his bonds.
It did not feel like a bluff. They were going to begin with the strappado. Oh, spirits!
How long would the hob make him endure? It had never cared how much he suffered—it had done nothing on the two occasions he had been whipped and had once let him be beaten to a pulp in a fight so vicious that his opponent had died under his fists. It had not interfered at all, except possibly to keep him alive, and if it did start to intervene now, that would merely prove to the friars that they had been right all along.
"Tobias," the inquisitor sighed. He spoke again through the English soldier. "The accused is a strong man, but a heavy one. This will hurt the accused and may do him permanent damage. The brothers do not wish to make the accused suffer. They have his interests at heart, and they will persevere for however long it takes. The accused must tell them the name of his demon so they may cast it out and he will be a free man again."
The soldier's pink face was streaming sweat as he fumbled through to the end of that speech. He still did not look at the accused's eyes.
Toby bit back a savage desire to tell the venerable cleric to stuff his own head into a certain dark place—they would merely see abuse as confirmation of his possession. He blinked the sweat away and looked at the other two friars, who stared back sympathetically. But neither was going to help him. They mourned his plight. They thought that they knew the only way to save him from it. He was not a person any more, he was only the accused.
He tried to speak calmly, but the words came out as a shriek: "I do not have a demon!"
The inquisitor shook his head wearily and gestured. The tormentors pulled on the rope. The rope lifted Toby's wrists. He bent forward, but the pull continued. His arms rose inexorably, curling him over until his head was level with his waist, and then his shoulders could flex no more. He rose on his toes. The friar said a word, and the men stopped hauling. There Toby was held, gasping with the strain. He would not scream. He would not cry out. He must not admit anything at all. Nothing but denial.
The friar spoke again. "The inquisitor asks —"
He cut off the translation with a yell. "I do not have a demon!"
He waited.
So did they.
They had all day, and tomorrow and next week and forever. His toes were weakening. His toes were about all he could see—his legs, his toes on the flagstones, and little splashes in the dust as sweat dripped from his hair. His toes were failing, setting more and more of his weight on his twisted shoulders. Hot knives of pain dug in, twisting joints in ways they were not supposed to move, prying ligaments awry.
Head down, he could not see the gestures, so it was a surprise when the rope suddenly slackened. Somehow he retained his balance on his bound feet and let his arms down. The relief was so intense that he gasped aloud and felt that he had failed his manhood by doing so. Panting hard, he straightened up to face the inquisitor.
He croaked, "I do not have a demon!"
The friar smiled sadly and nodded to the two novices at the door. They came forward and wiped Toby's face with a white cloth, then held a pewter cup to his lips. He drank eagerly of the tepid water. It was refilled and he emptied it again.
The inquisitor said, "The accused has barely tasted what will happen. He must reveal the name of his demon or his sufferings will be a thousand times worse than what he has just experienced."
Toby stared into those droopy, bleary eyes, so full of sympathy and understanding. He spoke to them with all the sincerity he could muster and a mouth that was dry as salt again already. "Tell the venerable father that I know that. Tell him I am more terrified than I have ever been in my life. Tell him I will do anything he wants, anything at all, but I cannot reveal the name of a demon that does not exist."
&
nbsp; The soldier translated. The brother with the quill scribbled busily, periodically dipping his pen in the inkwell with fast little strokes like a chicken pecking dirt. He turned a page, dipped again, wrote more.
The inquisitor nodded unhappily as if the answer had been exactly what he expected. He looked past the prisoner, to the waiting tormentors.
"Take me to a sanctuary!" Toby yelled. "The spirit will tell you that I don't have a demon!"
Maybe it wouldn't, but that was what an innocent man would say. It might not work in his case, but it would delay the torture. An hour's reprieve would be worth anything he could imagine, even ten minutes. He knew it would not work, of course. He had made the suggestion many times in the previous, more gentle interrogations. The Dominicans did not trust the spirits, or spirits would not cooperate with the Dominicans—whatever the reason, the request was always refused.
The inquisitor ignored the suggestion. The rope tightened again, bringing instant protests from Toby's shoulders. His arms rose, and so did the pain. Soon he was up on cramped, bleeding toes again. And higher still. His feet left the floor, leaving all his weight hung on his cruelly twisted arms. The strain bent his spine, crushed his shoulder blades together, wrenched wrists and elbows, but it was in his shoulders that the real agony blazed. He would not cry out. Oh, spirits, spirits! He had made no sound when he was chained to Sergeant Mulliez's whipping post, and he would make none now. He gasped for breath, but he would not cry out. Never!
He spun slowly, seeing the flagstones rotate below his toes. They pulled him higher, every heave and jolt a greater agony. He was going to lose control of his bladder soon. When they had raised him until his face was at head height—so they could watch his expression, perhaps—they tied the rope to a bracket, leaving him there.
How long, spirits, how long would they keep him up here?
Pain, pain, pain! This was much worse than any flogging. It was worse than his prizefight against Randal, much, much worse. How long had that lasted? An hour? Probably less, and yet it had seemed like a lifetime. Then he had at least been able to fight back, draw strength from anger, even cling to a faint hope of surviving and winning. Enduring the floggings had been only a matter of counting, knowing that each lash was one less to come. Here there was no hope at all. This would go on forever, hob versus friars. Their patience was inexhaustible and the hob immortal. The longer he survived, the more obvious his guilt.
He did not see the command given to release the knot. He fell to the stone, striking feet and toppling onto his face, uttering a startled yell. Oh, the relief! The agony was still intense, fire in his bones, but not as bad. Nothing could be that bad.
Really? They had barely started.
The young novices lifted him to his knees. Murmuring solicitously, they wiped the sweat and dirt from his face and dabbed blood from his bitten lip. They gave him water. He was shaking so hard he could barely drink, his teeth chattering on the cup.
"The inquisitor asks if the accused is ready to reveal —"
He had nothing to lose now. "He is a pig-faced, shit-eating son of a thousand fathers! All the rest of you are cowardly, dog-fornicating—"
A wooden bar was dragged between his teeth, ending his speech before he had even warmed up. The tormentors must have been standing behind him with the bit ready, so they had known exactly how he would react at this point in the proceedings, and that was a dismal reminder of how expert they were at their job. They stretched his mouth as wide as it would go and tied the rod in place with a knot behind his head. His arms began to rise again, bringing instant pain. He lurched to his feet, but the relief was momentary. Soon he was back where he had been, twirling around giddily, suffering more of the excruciating agony.
Silence.
Terrible, unendurable silence as the nine pairs of eyes watched him, waited for him to nod, to scream, to do anything. He just hung there, turning. He would not scream!
Silence. Pain.
Pain. Silence. It was very, very hard not to whimper. He drooled, because he could not swallow. How long must this go on?
Forever. It seemed like hours, days, weeks, but it could have been only ten or fifteen minutes.
"The inquisitor says that if the accused is ready to reveal the name of his demon, he should nod his head."
The accused ignored the invitation.
The friars rose to their feet, gathered up their papers, and marched solemnly out from behind the table, past the prisoner, over to the door. The novices followed them out, and the door shut with a heavy thud. Only the prisoner remained with the interpreter and the three tormentors. There was nothing more to do until he had been made to see reason.
One of the tormentors said something and the others laughed. He gave Toby a push, making him spin faster.
"This one is strong. He will give us many days' work."
"But he should be screaming by now," said another, who sounded young. "Let's beat him on his cojones." He pushed, sending Toby swinging.
"That's against the rules," said the third, shoving him back like a child on a swing.
"Father Vespianaso is not here to see."
"No, we save that for later, when he is jaded and can appreciate it."
They kept this up for a while, shoving him, spinning him, thumping him on the back to jar his shoulders. Little of their mockery reached through to Toby, locked away in his furnace of agony, but what he did hear turned some of his terror to anger and so gave him strength. Swine! Contemptible cowards!
"It is ridiculous that he is not screaming."
"This is true. Why should the friars enjoy their tapas in peace when we have to keep working?"
Two of them took hold of the rope and began pulling and letting go, bouncing him up and down. That was the worst yet, every jerk sending waves of agony through his shoulders. He tried to concentrate on counting the jolts: five, six, seven ... but he soon lost track. Every breath came out as a groan. Despite everything he could do to keep still, his feet flailed in their fetters, jangling chain, tearing skin.
The bouncing stopped.
"Why does the man not scream?" the young one said. "He insults us."
"You are right," said the leader. "We will not wait for the friars. Foreigner! Tell him again."
The soldier said, "The accused may nod if he is ready to reveal the name of his demon-I-can't-do-nothing-mate."
That helped. It wasn't much, but somehow that tiny hint that someone appreciated his efforts did help a little. Toby shook his head to show the soldier that he understood. He could lie, of course, and he might get away with it once, because they would have to take the gag out for a moment to hear what he wanted to say, but to start lying would be a confession that they had broken him. The hob had no name.
Without untying the rope from the bracket, all three tormentors began hauling together, raising him higher. Round and round he turned, looking down now at the vacant table with its two candles and its crucifix, the three strong men straining to support his weight, their knuckles white on the rope, eyes shining through the eye holes of their hoods as they waited for the right moment.
Wait for it. Wait for it!
He was not going to cry out. He knew what was coming, but he would not cry out.
They were making him wait for it, another last chance to repent. He could nod his head and escape what was coming. He didn't.
Wait for it.
The tormentors let go. He dropped to the end of his tether. He heard things tearing in his shoulders and a universe of pain exploded through him.
He screamed.
No, he had not known what pain was. He screamed and screamed, swinging on dislocated shoulders, turning faster than before, barely able to suck in enough air around the gag to scream again. He soiled himself. Blood dribbled from his mouth. He continued to scream.
Why had he ever been born?
No! No! They were raising him again. How many times? As many times as it took to make him tell what he could not tell. As many times as
it took to tear every ligament, break the joints, make his arms completely useless. He had been stupidly proud of his strength and now he would not be able to lift a crust to his lips. Then they would start on his hips, or his toes, or his fingers. Or bring out the hot irons.
They dropped him again.
He heard something break, but he could scream no louder.
The soldier had withdrawn to the window end of the room and was leaning his face against the wall, unwilling or unable to watch any more. The tormentors stood chatting among themselves, as men did when they worked together—discussing women, the price of wine, the bullfight. Whenever the prisoner's screams began to fade, they pulled him up again and dropped him, each time a little farther than before. Agony! More cracking and tearing. How could the pain be even greater when it had already been more than he could stand or have ever imagined?
And again.
And again.
He was stretched out on the stone floor, staring up at the black hoods with their evil eye holes. Unclear how that had happened ... perhaps fainted? There was no false gentleness now. Two of the tormentors were leaning on his broken shoulders, pressing him down on his bound arms while the third emptied a jar of water on his face. Some of it went in around the gag, making him choke and writhe. The soldier knelt at his side. The friars were back, peering down sadly at the wreckage.
"The inquisitor says that if the accused is ready to reveal the name of his demon, he should nod his head."
They would have to take the gag out, if only for a moment. He would be able to swallow at least once. They might even leave it out if he behaved, although he should not count on that mercy. But then they would all know that he was broken. After that he would be only warm meat. That tiny defiance was all that was left of Toby Longdirk, of him, of the person who was more than a lump of meat. He shook his head.
