“Bishop, scripture teaches that God is beyond the physical reach of this world,” said Father Sanchez. “The only way to the Eternal is through faith and prayer. No golden calves, no magic, no potions. To seek him by any other means is blasphemy, a sin.”
“And what is sin, Father, but the single most important quality that engenders us to God,” replied Bishop Promane. “We are born of sin, made from the very essence of sin. If there was no sin, there would be no need for God to save us from it. How many souls have been converted to the faith through fear of eternal damnation? Thousands? Millions? Sin is what keeps us forever tethered to the church. It is its greatest ally. Without sin, religion would crumble.” The bishop took a moment for his words to sink in and then came to the point of his discourse. “The robe.”
“I know nothing of a robe, Bishop.” Father Sanchez rasped as rivulets of sweat ran down his bald pate and along the creases in his neck.
Instead of replying the bishop let the silence hang in the air like a weapon. It was one of many he’d cultivated over the years. His imposing physicality was another. The bishop was a solidly built man with a ruddy complexion and aquiline nose. His dark hair fell about his shoulders framing coal colored eyes that gleamed when his ire was up. It was up now. He swept his robe back and hovered over the priest so that they were almost nose to nose.
“Now you are guilty of the sin of lying!” he growled. “We found the scroll in your apartments.”
“I do not deny having the scroll,” whimpered the priest. “But it is written in Aramaic. I have no idea what it says.”
Bishop Promane sighed deeply. This was not going well. He did not enjoy these ‘examinations’, especially that of a fellow priest. But his duty was to the church first and foremost. There was a hiss of hot metal being dipped into water and it made Father Sanchez’s heart race.
“Have no fear, father,” cooed the bishop, “I’m sure your faith will sustain you.”
Bishop Promane nodded to one of his guards who brought a searing, hot iron over to the rack Father Sanchez was strapped to. The guard stood over the trembling, half naked man. The bishop gestured to a spot on the priest’s body and without hesitation the guard pressed the iron into the priest’s ribs, making his flesh sizzle.
“Ahhhhhh!” screamed Sanchez.
“My apologies, Father. So?”
Sanchez feared pain as much as any man. But he feared the consequence of acquiescing to the bishop’s request even more. The cleric’s body quivered. He raised his tear-filled eyes to the ceiling and began to pray. It would all be over in a matter of minutes. Bishop Promane nodded to the guard who tightened the ropes on the rack another notch. ‘Pop’ went the priest’s left shoulder as it separated from its socket. Sanchez screamed again but remained resolute. The bishop was impressed, not just by how well the priest withstood pain, but that his obstinate nature confirmed that he must have the knowledge the bishop was seeking. The poor man only needed the proper incentive.
“I do admire your tenacity, Father, but time is a weighing factor and the Pope is an impatient fellow.”
“Please...,” cried Father Sanchez, “I cannot tell you what I do not know.”
The inquisitor shook his head and then nodded to another guard who stood at the top of the stone staircase by a door, high above the dimly lit chamber. The sentry exited the dank room and returned a moment later with a confused and terrified maiden who looked to be in her late teens. The slim blonde girl was forced down the steps, faltering every so often on the granite stone, slick with moss and blood. At the bottom of the chamber she was led past various torture devices that included the iron maiden, the breaking wheel, the knee splitter, and strappado. The sight of them sent her stomach into spasms. Even more bewildering was the sight of Father Sanchez bound to the rack with his limbs stretched beyond their natural limits. The priest sensed the girl’s presence and turned to find his young charge standing over him.
“Dear God,” he whimpered as a new dread gripped him.
“I have failed and only have myself to blame,” said Bishop Promane. “You are free to go.”
The guard untied Father Sanchez ropes. His long, angular body slid to the ground as his joints buckled with pain. One of the guards helped him to his feet while another other forced Sofia to take his place.
“Father?” cried the distraught maiden.
“No! Please...” begged Sanchez.
Bishop Promane ripped the girl’s dress from her body and exposed her nakedness to the guards’ lascivious gaze. The guards began to lash her arms and legs to the device with blood-soaked ropes. Steeling herself, she looked defiantly into Bishop Promane’s eyes, “You might take my body but never my soul!”
The Bishop returned her defiant stare with an admiring look. “Brave words, Sofia. I am told you also have a younger sister, Belle?”
Father Sanchez, who was bracing himself against one of the machines, began to whimper. Sensing victory, Bishop Promane leaned into the priest again.
“Whisper to me where the robe is and I promise this sweet child and her sister will never endure a moment’s pain.”
With labored breaths, the priest whispered the words his provocateur was so anxious to hear. Bishop Promane smiled and ascended the staircase. Then he stopped and turned back.
“Come, Father, you’ll accompany me.”
Sanchez looked worriedly at the bishop’s hostage.
“She will remain here until the robe has been recovered.” Turning to his guards, he commanded, “No one is to touch her.”
Two guards bolstered Father Sanchez under his arms and escorted up the staircase.
“Place your trust in the Lord,” Father Sanchez called out to Sofia. “He will not abandon you.”
After Promane led Sanchez out of the chamber, the heavy wooden door slammed shut, leaving the girl trembling on the rack.
“And what is sin, Father, but the single most important quality that engenders us to God,” replied Bishop Promane. “We are born of sin, made from the very essence of sin. If there was no sin, there would be no need for God to save us from it. How many souls have been converted to the faith through fear of eternal damnation? Thousands? Millions? Sin is what keeps us forever tethered to the church. It is its greatest ally. Without sin, religion would crumble.” The bishop took a moment for his words to sink in and then came to the point of his discourse. “The robe.”
“I know nothing of a robe, Bishop.” Father Sanchez rasped as rivulets of sweat ran down his bald pate and along the creases in his neck.
Instead of replying the bishop let the silence hang in the air like a weapon. It was one of many he’d cultivated over the years. His imposing physicality was another. The bishop was a solidly built man with a ruddy complexion and aquiline nose. His dark hair fell about his shoulders framing coal colored eyes that gleamed when his ire was up. It was up now. He swept his robe back and hovered over the priest so that they were almost nose to nose.
“Now you are guilty of the sin of lying!” he growled. “We found the scroll in your apartments.”
“I do not deny having the scroll,” whimpered the priest. “But it is written in Aramaic. I have no idea what it says.”
Bishop Promane sighed deeply. This was not going well. He did not enjoy these ‘examinations’, especially that of a fellow priest. But his duty was to the church first and foremost. There was a hiss of hot metal being dipped into water and it made Father Sanchez’s heart race.
“Have no fear, father,” cooed the bishop, “I’m sure your faith will sustain you.”
Bishop Promane nodded to one of his guards who brought a searing, hot iron over to the rack Father Sanchez was strapped to. The guard stood over the trembling, half naked man. The bishop gestured to a spot on the priest’s body and without hesitation the guard pressed the iron into the priest’s ribs, making his flesh sizzle.
“Ahhhhhh!” screamed Sanchez.
“My apologies, Father. So?”
Sanchez feared pain as much as any man. But he feared the consequence of acquiescing to the bishop’s request even more. The cleric’s body quivered. He raised his tear-filled eyes to the ceiling and began to pray. It would all be over in a matter of minutes. Bishop Promane nodded to the guard who tightened the ropes on the rack another notch. ‘Pop’ went the priest’s left shoulder as it separated from its socket. Sanchez screamed again but remained resolute. The bishop was impressed, not just by how well the priest withstood pain, but that his obstinate nature confirmed that he must have the knowledge the bishop was seeking. The poor man only needed the proper incentive.
“I do admire your tenacity, Father, but time is a weighing factor and the Pope is an impatient fellow.”
“Please...,” cried Father Sanchez, “I cannot tell you what I do not know.”
The inquisitor shook his head and then nodded to another guard who stood at the top of the stone staircase by a door, high above the dimly lit chamber. The sentry exited the dank room and returned a moment later with a confused and terrified maiden who looked to be in her late teens. The slim blonde girl was forced down the steps, faltering every so often on the granite stone, slick with moss and blood. At the bottom of the chamber she was led past various torture devices that included the iron maiden, the breaking wheel, the knee splitter, and strappado. The sight of them sent her stomach into spasms. Even more bewildering was the sight of Father Sanchez bound to the rack with his limbs stretched beyond their natural limits. The priest sensed the girl’s presence and turned to find his young charge standing over him.
“Dear God,” he whimpered as a new dread gripped him.
“I have failed and only have myself to blame,” said Bishop Promane. “You are free to go.”
The guard untied Father Sanchez ropes. His long, angular body slid to the ground as his joints buckled with pain. One of the guards helped him to his feet while another other forced Sofia to take his place.
“Father?” cried the distraught maiden.
“No! Please...” begged Sanchez.
Bishop Promane ripped the girl’s dress from her body and exposed her nakedness to the guards’ lascivious gaze. The guards began to lash her arms and legs to the device with blood-soaked ropes. Steeling herself, she looked defiantly into Bishop Promane’s eyes, “You might take my body but never my soul!”
The Bishop returned her defiant stare with an admiring look. “Brave words, Sofia. I am told you also have a younger sister, Belle?”
Father Sanchez, who was bracing himself against one of the machines, began to whimper. Sensing victory, Bishop Promane leaned into the priest again.
“Whisper to me where the robe is and I promise this sweet child and her sister will never endure a moment’s pain.”
With labored breaths, the priest whispered the words his provocateur was so anxious to hear. Bishop Promane smiled and ascended the staircase. Then he stopped and turned back.
“Come, Father, you’ll accompany me.”
Sanchez looked worriedly at the bishop’s hostage.
“She will remain here until the robe has been recovered.” Turning to his guards, he commanded, “No one is to touch her.”
Two guards bolstered Father Sanchez under his arms and escorted up the staircase.
“Place your trust in the Lord,” Father Sanchez called out to Sofia. “He will not abandon you.”
After Promane led Sanchez out of the chamber, the heavy wooden door slammed shut, leaving the girl trembling on the rack.
