They take him to the same torture chamber they have been using for decades. Many of the jailers are the same, too; they have gone from working for the Republic to working for the Medici family, except for one, who chose to go into exile. The head executioner has not changed: he’s a fifty-year-old man chosen by the lords of the city from among their most trusted men.
A physician has him undress, examines him to make sure that he has no wounds, palpates him to verify there are no hernias and to avoid the risk of his intestine coming out. Niccolò feels the man’s cold fingers on him and knows there’s no escape. His breaths come short and fast. He is troubled by the fact that his beloved city now has their hands on him—hands that are actually claws.
The physician finds him fit for the rope.
The judge asks him again if he wants to confess.
He doesn’t reply.
With a nod from the head executioner, a jailer grabs his left hand and holds it firmly behind his back, then uses his free hand to grip Niccolò’s shoulder. With help from a second jailer, he then grabs Niccolò’s right arm and yanks it behind his back, too, at which point he ties the two wrists together.
“Don’t fight it; just let yourself go,” they advise him.
Niccolò hopes that the executioner knows how to do his task well, otherwise he will be maimed for life.
“How long have you been doing this?” he asks the man.
“Twenty years. I have a great deal of experience,” the executioner replies.
He feels the man come up behind him. His wrists are positioned so that one is on top of the other. They are then wrapped with a strip of leather. He then feels the men tying some ropes around the leather in a ligature. He starts to sweat, despite the fact that the room is freezing cold. He is at the complete mercy of a power that is far greater than him, but he must force himself to rely on reason. He has nothing to confess and yet, under that kind of torture, people often admit to anything. If he doesn’t speak, they won’t be able to condemn him to death. That’s the first step he must take. He needs to get out of the labyrinth into which he’s been thrown. Will he succeed?
A thick rope descends from the ceiling and hits him in the back.
Even if he can’t see, he perceives what’s going on: they’re wrapping it around the ligature and tying it in a knot.
“Pull him up slowly,” the executioner says. He has a Roman accent.
The jailer who tied Niccolò’s wrists together now grabs his thighs and lifts him up, while the other man secures the rope to his wrists. He is yanked high off the floor. He hangs in the void: a pain the likes of which he has never felt before rages through his shoulders. The weight of his body pulls his arms out of their sockets.
It’s even worse when they let his body swing back and forth. With every single movement, the pain gets more acute, always increasing. It’s a lacerating pain and it makes him tremble and shake. He yells, screams, and pants. He, who always used irony and reason to separate himself from the rest of the world, now lacks both. All his thoughts are reduced to brief, disconnected flashes. His entire history, memory, and feelings are gone. They no longer exist. All he understands is that he is mistreated by the city of Florence. He cannot ignore or detach himself from this aggressive act. If he had something to confess, he would; not having anything is now the worst condemnation. He screams louder and urinates on himself.
“Will you talk now?” the judge calls out from below.
He hears himself scream but says nothing.
They lower him and place him face down on the ground.
He feels the icy pavement on his chest and cheek.
The physician slaps his arms back into their sockets. “You can go again,” he says.
They lift him to his feet.
Once more, a jailer wraps his arms around Niccolò’s thighs so his feet do not touch the floor. Before he is raised up again, the executioner asks the physician, “How long can we go on?”
“No more than an hour. If necessary, we can continue tomorrow.”
An hour. Tomorrow. Quantities of time that seem impossible to tolerate.