The voice emerges from the darkness, authoritarian. Ruth, her ankles swollen, her feet bruised and oozing pus, struggles to stand.
A guard steps forward and thrusts a burning torch into the iron holder. The whole cell is illuminated and now she can see that the walls are covered with graffiti carved into the stone. There is a multitude of tongues: Latin, German, Dutch, Arabic, Spanish and even some Hebrew.
January 10th 1636. May God speed my demise and Angel wings carry me up to the skies…
I die for Philip, King of Spain, long shall he reign…
To all who have borne witness, I have been true to my word…
And finally, in a hand she instantly recognises:
Ruth, forgive you
r Aaron.
Suddenly, it is as if her life is already over. As if she is already a sentence hewn into the limestone. The room fills with the whispers of the prosecuted, the forgotten, the executed. Dizzy, she swoons. She lies in the filth, her eyes wide, drinking in the light she has been deprived of for so long. All sensation rushes from her, emptying her completely. She wants to remain here in this great inner silence where it feels safe, in this place of no-being where she is conscious of nothing except the beating of her own blood in her ears.
‘I said get up, witch!’
Her fears come tumbling back, inundating her whole being with an appalling cataclysm of dread. Terrified, she pisses herself as she staggers upright.
‘Do you know who I am?’
Only vaguely aware of the hot fluid coursing down her thighs she shakes her head dumbly.
Disgusted, Carlos Vicente Solitario, dressed in the dark robe of interrogator, stands over her. Mud streaks the young woman’s bare shoulders, her hair is matted and she stinks of her own filth, but still he stands close, breathing in her stench. He regards the proximity as a perverse martyrdom: it is his holy duty to deal with the corrupt, the evil, the unclean. A sense of purity washes through him. He is on a crusade, a just quest which raises him above his fellow humans. Setting his jaw the friar glistens with self-righteousness.
Ruth stares at him. Even with her memory dimmed by pain she recognises the dark eyes.
Detlef, standing behind Solitario, looks down at the ground ashamed. The midwife, out of her mind with fear, has let the hessian sack slip and stands rawly naked, oblivious. The canon steps forward and pulls the cloth gently over her shoulders. He cannot help but hold his breath as he does so.
‘Note how little time it took for the sorceress’s true nature to reveal itself. Look at her: she is now more animal than woman. This is why it is so important to enforce the limpieza de sangre.’ The inquisitor addresses Detlef and the guard as if giving a sermon on the methods of exposing the damned.
No doubt he has performed such lectures with more appreciative audiences, Detlef observes, revolted by the obvious intoxication the Dominican displays, his eyes shiny, his scar an ugly throbbing crimson, his mouth wet with saliva.
‘For God’s sake, she is witless with fear.’
‘Such a creature knows no terror.’
‘Such a creature is as human as the rest of us.’
‘That is for the Inquisition to decide.’
They are interrupted by Ruth’s voice, cracked and hoarse. ‘I know you for your cruelty. You are my nemesis, the persecutor of my race.’
‘I am the persecutor only of those who worship Lucifer, who manipulate simple souls with their sorcery. If you are not one of these, you have nothing to dread.’
‘You know I am not. You have no evidence other than superstition and fear, the fodder upon which the fat cows of the Inquisition thrive.’
Carlos nods and the guard steps forward, delivering a blow to Ruth’s head which sends her reeling.
Detlef steps forward. ‘Enough! At least keep her alive to stand trial. There are many in this city who have benefited at her hands.’
‘Are you one of them, Canon von Tennen?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I have never met the woman before.’
The younger cleric looks vaguely familiar to Ruth. There is an intelligence in his face that makes her instinctively trust him. She turns, blood streaming from her nose. ‘Please, Canon, tell me: what is the evidence?’