Read Online Rora by James Byron Huggins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Byron Huggins
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testimonies were another tactic.
Seated before the prisoner, the Inquisitor would lazily leaf through a thick manuscript of "confessions and witness reports" as the prisoner watched. The Inquisitor was to remark, quite casually, that the abundance of evidence clearly supported all accusations against the prisoner, so why did the prisoner continue to refuse cooperation? Denial, it was ominously inferred, would only lead to great physical suffering.
The danger in this involved the prisoner requesting names of witnesses or specifics of a crime. Since the testimonies were false, any answer by the Inquisitor would betray the ruse.
Also, the Waldenses, in particular, should never be allowed a quick death, for they were grimly resolved to die for their faith and considered their death martyrdom. Killing them only gave them what they were willing to accept and encouraged the rest to resist. So the most infinitely painful torture chambers were utilized.
The Prison House of Turin contained perhaps the most terrible of all Inquisitional tortures— the Fosse .
Coming into wide usage during the fourteenth century, it was originally a series of cells in the dungeon of the Paris Chatelet. But, in effect, a Fosse was a single room in the shape of an inverted cone without fresh air or light. Prisoners were lowered into it by rope through a hatch in the floor. Half-filled with water, a Fosse was so small that one could neither stand nor lie down. Submerged hip-deep in the fetid cones, it took only a few days before the prisoner’s flesh began to rot, leaving bloody rags that soon turned black with gangrene. Then fever and delirium would infect the brain and the prisoner would erupt with wild and incoherent statements until they purposefully drowned themselves in their blood or their hearts failed from the strain.
There were fourteen of the cones in the dungeon, and they were all filled.
Glowing red braziers held pools of fiery coals across the full width of the underground chamber. The bellows were worked by prisoners chained to walls. Severed limbs were heaped in a pile amid wide sheets of skin that had been stripped from the living, and bodies not yet destroyed were stacked like wood against the far wall.
Incomel was sweating almost instan tly in the smothering atmosphere that burned his nostrils regardless of how shallow he breathed the noxious air heavy with the stench of charred flesh. He avoided limbs that had been torn, not severed, from at least a dozen prisoners and moved gingerly aside as Corbis finished with another. As the broken man slumped forward, he reached out to Corbis with blackened stumps that had been arms—arms that erupted with fresh blood at the fall. His hideous shriek was cut short by Corbis's boot.
Sweating profusely, Corbis wore only a short smock and the tight, sleeveless harness of a blacksmith. It was obvious that his enormous girth was not comprised of copious fat like so many other monks, but rather that his arms and legs were unnaturally hard and thick, like the quarters of a bull. His belly, straining against the thick leather harness, revealed only a tight curving gut that hinted of great power stored between the thick thighs and wide, barreled chest. His neck was a wide stump that supported his strangely bald head.
Corbis's face should have naturally reflected fatigue at the onerous work. Instead, it reflected only a rising pleasure. "More prisoners?" he spat, peering from hairless lids.
"No," Incomel responded placidly. "But Pianessa attacks again tomorrow."
"Good. These will not last the night." He waved roughly and guards dragged another prisoner from the crossed bars of a cell, strapping him to the chair.
"Have any renounced?"
Corbis looked across, as though in a daze. "What?"
Glancing at the guard as he stepped discreetly away from the chair, Incomel blinked at Corbis's flat stare. "Have any of the prisoners renounced their heresy and rejoined the Church?"
"Oh," Corbis grunted. "No
Seated before the prisoner, the Inquisitor would lazily leaf through a thick manuscript of "confessions and witness reports" as the prisoner watched. The Inquisitor was to remark, quite casually, that the abundance of evidence clearly supported all accusations against the prisoner, so why did the prisoner continue to refuse cooperation? Denial, it was ominously inferred, would only lead to great physical suffering.
The danger in this involved the prisoner requesting names of witnesses or specifics of a crime. Since the testimonies were false, any answer by the Inquisitor would betray the ruse.
Also, the Waldenses, in particular, should never be allowed a quick death, for they were grimly resolved to die for their faith and considered their death martyrdom. Killing them only gave them what they were willing to accept and encouraged the rest to resist. So the most infinitely painful torture chambers were utilized.
The Prison House of Turin contained perhaps the most terrible of all Inquisitional tortures— the Fosse .
Coming into wide usage during the fourteenth century, it was originally a series of cells in the dungeon of the Paris Chatelet. But, in effect, a Fosse was a single room in the shape of an inverted cone without fresh air or light. Prisoners were lowered into it by rope through a hatch in the floor. Half-filled with water, a Fosse was so small that one could neither stand nor lie down. Submerged hip-deep in the fetid cones, it took only a few days before the prisoner’s flesh began to rot, leaving bloody rags that soon turned black with gangrene. Then fever and delirium would infect the brain and the prisoner would erupt with wild and incoherent statements until they purposefully drowned themselves in their blood or their hearts failed from the strain.
There were fourteen of the cones in the dungeon, and they were all filled.
Glowing red braziers held pools of fiery coals across the full width of the underground chamber. The bellows were worked by prisoners chained to walls. Severed limbs were heaped in a pile amid wide sheets of skin that had been stripped from the living, and bodies not yet destroyed were stacked like wood against the far wall.
Incomel was sweating almost instan tly in the smothering atmosphere that burned his nostrils regardless of how shallow he breathed the noxious air heavy with the stench of charred flesh. He avoided limbs that had been torn, not severed, from at least a dozen prisoners and moved gingerly aside as Corbis finished with another. As the broken man slumped forward, he reached out to Corbis with blackened stumps that had been arms—arms that erupted with fresh blood at the fall. His hideous shriek was cut short by Corbis's boot.
Sweating profusely, Corbis wore only a short smock and the tight, sleeveless harness of a blacksmith. It was obvious that his enormous girth was not comprised of copious fat like so many other monks, but rather that his arms and legs were unnaturally hard and thick, like the quarters of a bull. His belly, straining against the thick leather harness, revealed only a tight curving gut that hinted of great power stored between the thick thighs and wide, barreled chest. His neck was a wide stump that supported his strangely bald head.
Corbis's face should have naturally reflected fatigue at the onerous work. Instead, it reflected only a rising pleasure. "More prisoners?" he spat, peering from hairless lids.
"No," Incomel responded placidly. "But Pianessa attacks again tomorrow."
"Good. These will not last the night." He waved roughly and guards dragged another prisoner from the crossed bars of a cell, strapping him to the chair.
"Have any renounced?"
Corbis looked across, as though in a daze. "What?"
Glancing at the guard as he stepped discreetly away from the chair, Incomel blinked at Corbis's flat stare. "Have any of the prisoners renounced their heresy and rejoined the Church?"
"Oh," Corbis grunted. "No
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