The heavy clank of an iron gate opening was followed by heavy feet descending damp stone steps. There were cries and a pleading coming up from the darkness below, the staircase leading down lit by flickering torches on the wall. The stench of defecation and decay was everywhere. Water fell from high places and splashed with a maddening persistence. The darkness had an enveloping chill about it, felt by all save those dressed in furs.
The tall lithe figure of an Inquisitor, clad in black loose fitting clothing, marked with symbols of the Catholic faith, was waiting for Tacit at the bottom of the circling stone steps, a cruel leer on his face. He said something Tacit couldn’t hear and the jailer next to him laughed, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth.
“You look nervous, Tacit,” the black clad Inquisitor called up. “This is your first visit to Toulouse prison, isn’t it? Well you are welcome here of course.” It was not said as a greeting. It was meant as a threat, a wicked tease to someone visiting an underworld few had ever witnessed and, of those, few ever wished to return to afterwards.
The Inquisitor turned and banged hard on the large wooden door behind them. A rustle of keys and turning of a heavy lock sounded moments later and the vast door was pulled open, a gaggle of filthy leering men with great rings of keys on belts, whips in hand, peered out, smiling and laughing.
“Glad you could make it, Tacit,” the Inquisitor mocked, putting an arm around him. “I’ve heard great things about you from the field. Building quite a reputation, from the sounds of things. But you’ve only done part of the job.” He thrust a finger into Tacit’s shoulder and looked hard into his eyes. His face cracked with a smile and he smoothed the part of the coat that he had just prodded. “This is the best bit, the bit where we separate the men from the boys, where we dispense justice to those who really deserve it. You’ve never been down here, have you?”
Tacit shook his head and tried to mask his abhorrence. “Oh, you’ve been missing out,” Inquisitor Salamanca continued, turning and stepping through the door. “We used to carry out sentences in the Vatican, in the main Inquisitional Chamber, but some of the Cardinals … well, they didn’t have the appetite for it. So …” He looked across the passageway at Tacit. “It was decided to move to these salubrious surroundings. And do you know what? I think they were right. Down here we can work unmolested, untethered by the reticent hand of those who would see us adopt a more conciliatory approach towards our enemies.”
Suddenly, Salamanca stopped and thrust an arm across Tacit’s chest. “Which, of course, would be an extremely foolish thing to do. The last thing we want to do is give the initiative back to them. The only way to win this war is to keep up the pressure. No remorse. No hesitation. No weakness.” He looked at the jailer, grinning fiendishly alongside. “Is the witch prepared?” he asked and the jailer nodded eagerly.
The smell of rot and putrefaction was almost overwhelming in the stinking claustrophobic corridor, lined either side with wooden doorways, filled with a persistent wailing from behind most of them.
The jailer pushed past Tacit and unlocked the door in front of them, heaving it open on creaking hinges. A squeak of alarm came from the gloom beyond, along with a stench like an animal’s cage. Salamanca stepped inside and a heavy hand on Tacit’s shoulder coaxed him inside a stride behind.
“Restrain her, Inquisitor,” Inquisitor Salamanca demanded, as he stripped beneath the waist and fondled at his crotch. The jailer laughed wickedly as he took Salamanca’s clothes from him. Tacit was aware of sweat on his brow, on the top of his lip, a fear and trepidation like that he had felt once before, long long ago.
“Who is she?” he asked, peering into the far darkness of the rank, stinking cell. The bleached white form of a naked woman scampered weeping across his vision, her greying long hair trailing behind her as she ran.
“Does it matter?” Salamanca called. There was a lightness in his voice, as if he took great pleasure from his work. He caught hold of the woman and manhandled her to the table in the centre of the room, ignoring her blows, pushing her over the length of it. “She’s a witch,” he hissed. “That’s all that matters. Take her hands quickly!” he demanded, his eyes flashing at Tacit, his weight on top of her. Without question, Tacit did as he was told but there was doubt in his eyes and fear in his face as he held onto her hands. “She’s created armies of bastard warlocks,” the Inquisitor hissed. “This is the only way!”
The witch’s imploring eyes were on Tacit’s. He closed his own as loathing built within him. He saw his mother, and then almost at once, Mila.
“Inquisitor Salamanca!” he muttered. Nausea washed over him. His head was spinning. He could hear cruel laughter. He opened his eyes. Froth and blood, everywhere. He removed his hands from hers. “Stop!” he implored. Freed, at once the woman turned on her attacker, rending deep scars in Salamanca’s face.
“Stop!” Tacit cried again, this time at the woman, at the chaotic scene, as Salamanca roared in pain and anguish at his wounds. The woman was on top of him, biting and tearing with her teeth and hands, the Inquisitor’s face resembling a torn knuckle of meat.
The door to the cell was thrown open. Guards rushed in, cudgels suppressing the witch almost instantly. Tacit watched in revulsion as they crowded around her, their blows only ending when she lay lifeless on the floor.
Salamanca held his face, his wild eyes turned on the young upstart.
“She’s now dead because of you, Tacit!” he hissed, reaching out to the table for support. “You put those cudgels on her body. You took her life. Instead of being cleansed, she’s dead.” He raised a finger, drenched in the blood from his raked face, and pointed.
Tacit stumbled backwards against the wall of the cell, lowering his head into his trembling hands, the vision slowly passing away from his eyes.