Bent over his desk, his nose almost touching the paper, a scribe transcribed each of the questions asked by the inquisitors. Ignoring the tortured man’s screams, he scribbled a little cross to note that no reply had been forthcoming. Three priests were present at the interrogation, observing the prisoner’s reactions with a resigned air: they were going to have to be patient. After each cry or contortion, they conferred briefly in low voices, then signaled to the torturer whether he should inflict more pain or observe a pause.
Federico was tied to a rough wooden chair. Facing him, in full sight, a panoply of pliers, mallets, needles glittered in the torchlight. Hot coals were burning inside an iron cauldron supported by a tripod. The torturer moved slowly. He heated a pair of pincers until they were white-hot, calmly contemplating the dancing flame that caressed the metal. When he took them out, they were steaming. He brandished them for a moment in the air as if he were undecided, then, taking his time, examined the different parts of the body. Each of the limbs he looked at in turn was already burning with anguish. Then for a long time he trailed the pincers over his victim’s skin, without touching it completely, moving from the thighs toward the chest, then, all at once, closed the instrument over the right nipple and squeezed tightly, without moving or batting an eyelid, his eyes aimed vaguely at the far end of the cell. The flesh immediately melted with a great hiss. Galvanized by the pain, Federico began shaking compulsively. A hot current ran through his veins. His brain was about to explode. In spite of the terrifying smell of burning flesh, he could smell the stronger stench of alcohol emanating from his torturer’s toothless mouth, the only sign that the man was even human. Even in the throes of torment, his body arched, his head thrown back, Federico tried to stay fixed on the brute, to look into his glassy eyes and curl his lips in a kind of complicit smile, as if both of them were on the same side. The torturer gently released his grip then disappeared from his field of vision. He returned with a bucket and planted himself in front of Federico, awaiting further instructions. After a moment, a jet of icy water struck the prisoner’s face to stop him fainting. Federico knew that the sufferings he was enduring at present were only a prelude. He tried to draw strength from every spasm of his muscles, to find courage in the most secret crannies of his soul.
One of the inquisitors stood up. He was holding a thick volume, which he leafed through distractedly as he approached. Reaching the wooden chair, he slammed the book shut and showed it to his colleagues, by the light of the cauldron, then to Federico. The binding bore the Medici coat of arms surrounded by a motto in Hebrew. The gilding on the arms shone in the middle of the cover. Its familiar glitter comforted him, and he clung to it like a drowning man to a piece of flotsam. The monk spat on the emblem. As Federico was laboriously getting his breath back, he heard a metallic sound. A bar ending in a stamp in the shape of a cross was being dipped in the coals.