by Paulo Coelho
The order’s superiors had arrived in town the previous day for their yearly visit. All the inhabitants had gathered in the main square. They were under no obligation to do this, but anyone who failed to appear was immediately viewed as suspect. Families of all social classes crowded together in front of the church, and one of the Superiors read out a document explaining the reason for the visit: to unmask heretics and lead them to earthly and divine justice. Then came the moment of mercy, when people who felt they had shown a lack of respect for divine dogma could confess spontaneously to their sins and receive only a mild punishment. However, despite the terror in everyone’s eyes, no one moved.
Then the crowd was asked to denounce any suspicious activities. A farm laborer had stepped forward and named each of the eight girls. He was a man known to beat his own daughters but who always attended Sunday Mass, as if he were an innocent lamb of God.
The Inquisitor turns to me and nods, and I immediately hold out the letter to him. He places it next to a pile of books.
The couple wait. Despite the cold, the father’s forehead is shiny with sweat.
“None of our family took a step forward because we are God-fearing people. We haven’t come here to save all the girls; we just want our daughter back. I promise by all that’s holy that we’ll send her straight to a convent as soon as she’s sixteen. Her body and soul will have but one goal: devotion to the Divine Majesty.”
“That man made his accusation in front of the whole town,” the Inquisitor says at last. “He risks public disgrace if he is found to be lying. Most denunciations are made anonymously. Such bravery is rare.”
Relieved that the Inquisitor has at least broken his silence, the girl’s father thinks that perhaps there is a chance to negotiate.
“He’s an enemy of mine, you know that. I dismissed him from his job because he coveted my daughter. It’s pure revenge on his part, and nothing to do with faith.”
He would like to add that the same is true of the other seven accused. There are rumors that this same farm laborer has had sexual relations with two of his own daughters. He’s a pervert who can find pleasure only in sex with young girls.
The Inquisitor removes a book from a pile on the table.
“I would like to believe that, and I’m prepared to be shown that this is the case, but I have to follow the correct procedures. If she is innocent, she has nothing to fear. Nothing, absolutely nothing, will be done that is not written down here. True, we did commit certain excesses at the beginning, but we are more organized and more careful. No one ever dies at our hand now.”
He holds out the book: Directorium Inquisitorum. The girl’s father takes it but does not open it. He grips it hard, as if to conceal the fact that his hands are trembling.
“It contains our code of conduct,” the Inquisitor goes on. “The roots of the Christian faith. The perverse ways of heretics. And how we should distinguish one from the other.”
The woman raises one hand to her mouth, trying to bite back her fear and her tears. She sees that they will achieve nothing here.
“I won’t be the one to go to the court and tell how, as a child, she used to talk to what she called her ‘invisible friends.’ It’s well known in the town that she and her friends would go down to the woods and sit around an upturned glass, place their fingers on it, and try to make it move by sheer willpower. Four of them have confessed to having tried to enter into contact with the spirits of the dead in order that they might know the future, and to having diabolical powers, such as the ability to converse with what they call ‘the forces of nature.’ God is the only force and the only power.”
“But all children do such things!”
The Inquisitor gets up, comes over to my desk, picks up another book, and starts leafing through it. Despite the friendship that binds him to this family—which is the only reason he agreed to this meeting—he wants to have the matter settled by Sunday. I try to reassure the couple as best I can with my eyes, the only means open to me, given that I am with my Superior and cannot voice an opinion.
They don’t notice, however, being entirely focused on the Inquisitor’s every gesture.
“Please,” says the mother, making no attempt now to hide her despair. “Spare our daughter. If her friends confessed, it was only because they were—”
Her husband grabs her hand, interrupting her, but the Inquisitor completes her remark.
“Tortured? Look, we have known each other for many years, you and I, and have discussed all aspects of theology. Surely you know that God is in each of these girls and would never allow them to suffer or to confess to anything that was not true. Do you think that a little pain would be enough to extract from their souls the very worst of ignominies? His Holiness Pope Innocent IV gave torture the seal of approval three hundred years ago with his papal bull, Ad extirpanda. We do not torture because it gives us pleasure; we use it as a test of faith. Those who have nothing to confess will be comforted and protected by the Holy Spirit.”
The couple’s lavish clothes are in marked contrast to the bare room stripped of all comfort, apart from a fire that has been lit to warm the place a little. A ray of sunlight enters through a chink in the stone wall and sets the jewels of the woman’s rings and necklace glittering.
“This isn’t the first time the Holy Office has visited the town,” says the Inquisitor. “On previous visits, you neither complained nor thought that what we were doing was unjust. On the contrary, you approved of this practice over supper, saying that it was the only way to stop the forces of evil from spreading. Whenever we purged the town of its heretics, you applauded. You saw that we are not cruel tyrants but seekers after truth, which is not always as transparent as it should be.”
“But—”
“But those things happened to other people, to those whom you deemed deserving of torture and the pyre. Once”—he points at the man—“you yourself denounced a family who were neighbors of yours. You said that the mother practiced the black arts and caused your cattle to die. When we proved this to be true, they were condemned and…”
He pauses before completing the sentence, as if savoring the words.
“… and I helped you to buy that family’s lands for next to nothing. Your piety was well rewarded.”
He turns to me: “Bring me the Malleus Maleficarum.”
I go over to the shelf behind his desk. He is a good man, convinced that he is doing the right thing. He is not carrying out some personal revenge; he is working in the name of his faith. Although he has never confessed his feelings to me, I have often seen him gazing off into the distance, as if asking God why He has placed such a heavy burden on his shoulders.
I hand him the thick leather-bound volume with the title emblazoned on the front.
“It’s all in here, in the Malleus Maleficarum, a long, detailed investigation into the universal conspiracy to bring back paganism, the belief in nature as our one salvation, the superstitious belief in the existence of past lives, the vile art of astrology and the so-called ‘science’ that denies the mysteries of faith. The Devil knows he cannot work alone, that he needs witches and scientists to seduce and corrupt the world.
“While the men are away, fighting and dying in wars to defend the Faith and the Kingdom, the women start thinking that they were born to govern, and the cowards who believe themselves to be sages turn to mediums and scientific theories for what they could easily find in the Bible. It is up to us to prevent this from happening. I did not bring these girls here. I am simply charged with ascertaining if they are innocent or if they must be saved.”
He gets up and asks me to go with him.
“I must leave now. If your daughter is innocent, she will be at home with you before a new day dawns.”
The woman throws herself on the ground and kneels at his feet.
“Please! You held her in your arms when she was just a baby.”
The man plays his last card.
“I will give all my lands and
all my wealth to the Church, right now. Give me a pen and some paper, and I will sign. I want to leave here hand in hand with my daughter.”
The Inquisitor pushes the woman away, but she remains kneeling, sobbing helplessly, her face buried in her hands.
“The Dominican Order was chosen precisely so that this kind of thing would not happen. The old Inquisitors were easily bribed, but we Dominicans have always made a living from begging and will continue to do so. Money does not tempt us; on the contrary, your scandalous offer only makes your daughter’s situation worse.”
The man grabs me by the shoulders.
“You were like a son to us! When your parents died, we took you into our house so that your uncle would not continue to mistreat you.”
“Don’t worry,” I whisper in his ear, afraid that the Inquisitor might hear. “Don’t worry.”
Even though he had taken me in only so that I could work like a slave on his land. Even though he, too, had beaten and insulted me whenever I did anything wrong.
I extricate myself from his grasp and walk over to the door. The Inquisitor turns around one last time to the couple.
“One day, you will thank me for having saved your daughter from eternal damnation.”
“UNDRESS HER.”
The Inquisitor is sitting at a vast table surrounded by a series of empty chairs. Two guards make a move toward her, but the girl holds up her hand.
“I don’t need them; I can do it alone. Just, please, don’t hurt me.”
Slowly she removes her velvet skirt embroidered with gold thread, as elegant as the dress her mother wore. The twenty men in the room pretend to take no notice, but I know what is going through their minds: lewd thoughts, lust, greed, perversion.
“And your blouse.”
She takes off the blouse, which was doubtless white yesterday but which is now dirty and crumpled. Her gestures seem to be too slow and studied, but I know what she’s thinking: He’ll save me. He’ll stop this now. And I say nothing, but silently ask God if what is happening is right. I start to repeat the Lord’s Prayer over and over, asking God to enlighten both her and my Superior. I know what he’s thinking, that the denunciation had its roots not only in jealousy and vengeance but in the woman’s extraordinary beauty. She is the very image of Lucifer, the most beautiful and most perverse of Heaven’s angels.
Everyone here knows her father, knows how powerful he is and what harm he can do to anyone who touches his daughter. She looks at me, and I do not turn away. The others are scattered about the great subterranean room, hidden in the shadows, afraid that she might emerge from this alive and denounce them all. Cowards. They were summoned here to serve a great cause, to help purify the world. Why are they hiding from a defenseless young girl?
“Take off your other clothes, too.”
She is still gazing fixedly at me. She raises her hands and unties the ribbon on her blue slip, which is all that is covering her body now, and lets it fall to the floor. Her eyes plead with me to stop what is happening, and I respond with a slight nod, indicating that she need not worry, everything will be all right.
“Look for the mark of Satan,” the Inquisitor tells me.
Picking up a candle, I go over to her. The nipples of her small breasts are hard, although I cannot tell whether this is because she is cold or involuntarily aroused by the fact of standing naked before all these men. Her skin is covered in goose pimples. The tall windows with their thick glass let in little light, but the light that does enter glows on her immaculately white skin. I do not need to look very hard. On her pubis—which, when I was most sorely tempted, I often used to imagine kissing—I can see the mark of Satan hidden among her pubic hair, at the top left-hand side. This frightens me. Perhaps the Inquisitor is right, for here is irrefutable proof that she has had sexual relations with the Devil. I feel a mixture of disgust, sadness, and rage.
I need to be sure. I kneel down beside her naked body and look at the mark again: a crescent-shaped mole.
“It’s been there since I was born.”
Like her parents, she thinks she can establish a dialogue and persuade everyone of her innocence. I have been praying hard ever since I came into the room, desperately asking God to give me strength. There will be some pain, but it should all be over in less than half an hour. Even if that mark is irrefutable proof of her crimes, I loved her before I gave myself, body and soul, to the service of God, knowing that her parents would never allow a noblewoman to marry a peasant.
And that love is still too strong for me to master. I do not want to see her suffer.
“I have never called up the Devil. You know me, and you know my friends as well. Tell him”—she points to my Superior—“that I’m innocent.”
The Inquisitor then speaks with surprising tenderness, which can only have its source in divine mercy.
“I, too, know your family, but the Church is aware that the Devil does not choose his subjects on the basis of social class but for their capacity to seduce with words or with false beauty. Jesus said that evil comes out of the mouths of men. If the evil is within, it will be exorcised by screams and will become the confession we all hope for. If there is no evil there, then you will be able to withstand the pain.”
“I’m cold. Do you think—”
“Do not speak unless spoken to,” he responds gently but firmly. “Merely nod or shake your head. Your four friends have already told you what happens, haven’t they?”
She nods.
“Take your seats, gentlemen.”
Now the cowards will have to show their faces. Judges, scribes, and noblemen take their places around the large table at which the Inquisitor has been sitting alone until now. Only myself, the guards, and the girl remain standing.
I would prefer this rabble not to be here. If it were only the three of us, I know that he would be moved. Most denunciations are made anonymously, because people fear what their fellow townspeople will say; had this denunciation not been made in public, then perhaps none of this would be happening. But destiny has determined that things should take a different course, and the Church needs the rabble. The legal process must be followed. Having been accused of excesses in the past, it was decreed that everything should be set down in the appropriate civil documents. Thus, in the future, everyone will know that the ecclesiastical authorities acted with dignity and in legitimate defense of the faith. The sentence is handed down by the state; the Inquisitors have only to indicate the guilty party.
“Don’t be afraid. I have just spoken to your parents and promised to do all I can to establish that you never took part in the rituals of which you have been accused. That you did not invoke the spirits of the dead or try to discover what lies in the future, that you never tried to visit the past, that you do not worship nature, that the disciples of Satan never touched your body, despite the mark that is clearly there.”
“You know that—”
Everyone present, their faces now visible to the prisoner, turn indignantly to the Inquisitor, expecting a justifiably stern response. However, he merely raises his finger to his lips, asking her once again to respect the court.
My prayers are being heard. I ask God to fill my Superior with patience and tolerance, and not to send her to the Wheel. No one can resist the Wheel, and so only those whose guilt is assured are placed on it. So far, none of the four girls who have appeared before the court has merited that extreme form of punishment, which involves being tied to the frame of the Wheel, studded with sharp nails and hot coals. When the Wheel is turned, the prisoner’s flesh is scorched and torn.
“Bring the bed.”
My prayers have been answered. One of the guards bawls out the order.
She tries to run away, even though she knows this is impossible. She runs from one side of the room to the other, hurls herself at the stone walls, rushes to the door, but is repelled. Despite the cold and damp, her body is covered in sweat and gleams in the dim light. She doesn’t scream like the other girls; she
merely tries to escape. The guards finally manage to hold her down and, in the confusion, deliberately touch her small breasts and the tuft of hair covering her pubis.
Another two men arrive, carrying a wooden bed made specially in Holland for the Holy Office. Today its use is recommended in several countries. They place it very near to the table and bind the silently struggling girl. They open her legs and clamp her ankles with the two rings at one end of the bed. Then they stretch her arms above her head and tie them to ropes attached to a lever.
“I will work the lever,” I say.
The Inquisitor looks at me. Normally, this would be done by a soldier, but I know how easily these barbarians could tear her muscles, and, besides, he has already allowed me to take charge on the four previous occasions.
“All right.”
I go over to the bed and place my hands on the piece of wood that is now worn with use. The other men lean forward. The sight of this naked girl tied to a bed, her legs spread, could be seen as simultaneously hellish and heavenly. The Devil tempts and provokes me. Tonight I will whip him out of my body, and with him the thought that right now I want to be here embracing and protecting her from all those leering eyes and smiles.
“Get behind me in the name of Jesus!” I cry out to the Devil, unwittingly pressing the lever so that her body is pulled taut. She barely groans when her spine arches upward. I ease the pressure, and her spine relaxes.
I am still praying ceaselessly, begging for God’s mercy. Once the pain threshold has been crossed, the spirit grows strong. Everyday desires become meaningless, and man is purified. Suffering comes from desire, not from pain.
My voice is calm and comforting.
“Your friends have told you about this, haven’t they? When I move this lever, your arms will be pulled backward, your shoulders will come out of joint, your spine will rupture, and your skin will tear. Don’t force me to go that far. Simply confess, as your friends did. My Superior will absolve you of your sins, you will be able to go home with only a penance, and everything will return to normal. The Holy Office will not revisit the town for a while.”