Chapter 51: The Witch Appears
Why? Why, in a world that had pistols holstered at every constable's hip, did they still have knights and battle-priests who looked like they’d stepped out of a history book? The contradiction baffled me. And then I looked closer and saw it. Tucked beneath the knights' polished steel skirts, half-hidden by the priests' flowing black robes, were the same strange, bulky pistols the peelers carried. What was this bizarre contradiction? Were they prepared for a cavalry charge or a back-alley gunfight? This world couldn't seem to decide which century it belonged to.
Time ticked by, each second stretching into an eternity of anticipation. The guards stood motionless, statues of iron and faith, as the crowd continued to swell. Soon, every inch of the stone tiers was packed. People stood in the aisles, their faces turned towards the stage with a hungry, ghoulish excitement. Some had even climbed onto the rooftops of the surrounding buildings for a better view. I overheard the wheezing old man next to me talking to his companion. "Heard they put this one through the wringer," he rasped, his voice a dry rustle. "The worst tortures. And still, she showed no sign of witchcraft. I reckon she's innocent."Â
"Course she is, you old fool," his friend chuckled, spitting a wad of tobacco onto the ground. "If she were a real witch, they'd have ten times the guards here, and the Inquisitors besides. The nobs up top know she's a fake. They're just tossing a bone to the Church, keeping the priests happy with a bit of fire and brimstone."
A chill, colder than any winter wind, went through me. They knew. They knew she was an innocent, a scapegoat, and they didn't care. They weren't here to see justice done; they were here for the show. The entire crowd was the same. They weren't religious fanatics, burning with a righteous zeal to purge the world of evil. They weren't here to rage against the injustice of a young girl's murder. They were just… bored. They were here for the entertainment. A public execution was a spectacle, a bit of grisly fun to break up the monotony of their miserable lives, something to gossip about over their watery ale that evening. It was no different to them than a puppet show or a dog fight. Their casual, bovine cruelty, their hunger for simple, bloody entertainment, was more horrifying to me than any fanatic's righteous fire. I felt a profound, sickening sense of alienation, a chasm opening up between me and the cheering, jeering mob around me.
Just then, a commotion rippled through the crowd on the far side of the arena, near the VIP gallery. The spectators there, the ones with the slightly better seats, were getting to their feet, craning their necks to look back towards the main entrance. Below the gallery was a large, dark gate, the only entrance to the square floor. This, I guessed, was where the condemned would be brought in. Their anticipation was a palpable thing, a wave of excitement that washed over the entire plaza. The main attraction was about to arrive.
And sure enough, the great wooden gates groaned open. A pair of guards with long, silver-tipped spears marched out, their polished armor gleaming. Between them walked a single, black draft horse, its hide glossy with sweat. And behind the horse was a cart. No, not a cart. It was a cruel parody of a horse, its back a sharp, triangular beam of rough-hewn wood mounted on wheels, a torture device designed for maximum agony and humiliation. And sitting astride it was a young woman. She was bound, her hands tied cruelly behind her back. Her hair, a tangled, filthy mane, was the color of bone. She was naked, her pale skin a horrifying roadmap of weeping welts from a whip, branded marks from hot iron, and angry, half-healed scars. Her face was covered by a rough burlap hood, and a gag was stuffed in her mouth, muffling the whimpering sounds that escaped her throat. This was how they had brought her here, paraded through the streets on that instrument of agony. No wonder the crowds had been so thick. The gentry in their fine gallery had been given a perfect, front-row seat to her humiliation. This, I thought, my heart a cold, heavy stone in my chest, was the poor, broken girl they had chosen to sacrifice to their superstitions. This was the witch. And now, they were going to burn her.
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