Really? They had barely started.
The young novices lifted him to his knees. Murmuring solicitously, they wiped the sweat and dirt from his face and dabbed blood from his bitten lip. They gave him water. He was shaking so hard he could barely drink, his teeth chattering on the cup.
"The inquisitor asks if the accused is ready to reveal—"
He had nothing to lose now. "He is a pig-faced, shit-eating son of a thousand fathers! All the rest of you are cowardly, dog-fornicating—"
A wooden bar was dragged between his teeth, ending his speech before he had even warmed up. The tormentors must have been standing behind him with the bit ready, so they had known exactly how he would react at this point in the proceedings, and that was a dismal reminder of how expert they were at their job. They stretched his mouth as wide as it would go and tied the rod in place with a knot behind his head. His arms began to rise again, bringing instant pain. He lurched to his feet, but the relief was momentary. Soon he was back where he had been, twirling around giddily, suffering more of the excruciating agony.
Silence.
Terrible, unendurable silence as the nine pairs of eyes watched him, waited for him to nod, to scream, to do anything. He just hung there, turning. He would not scream!
Silence. Pain.
Pain. Silence. It was very, very hard not to whimper. He drooled, because he could not swallow. How long must this go on?
Forever. It seemed like hours, days, weeks, but it could have been only ten or fifteen minutes.
"The inquisitor says that if the accused is ready to reveal the name of his demon, he should nod his head."
The accused ignored the invitation.
The friars rose to their feet, gathered up their papers, and marched solemnly out from behind the table, past the prisoner, over to the door. The novices followed them out, and the door shut with a heavy thud. Only the prisoner remained with the interpreter and the three tormentors. There was nothing more to do until he had been made to see reason.
One of the tormentors said something and the others laughed. He gave Toby a push, making him spin faster.
"This one is strong. He will give us many days' work."
"But he should be screaming by now," said another, who sounded young. "Let's beat him on his cojones." He pushed, sending Toby swinging.
"That's against the rules," said the third, shoving him back like a child on a swing.
"Father Vespianaso is not here to see."
"No, we save that for later, when he is jaded and can appreciate it."
They kept this up for a while, shoving him, spinning him, thumping him on the back to jar his shoulders. Little of their mockery reached through to Toby, locked away in his furnace of agony, but what he did hear turned some of his terror to anger and so gave him strength. Swine! Contemptible cowards!
"It is ridiculous that he is not screaming."
"This is true. Why should the friars enjoy their tapas in peace when we have to keep working?"
Two of them took hold of the rope and began pulling and letting go, bouncing him up and down. That was the worst yet, every jerk sending waves of agony through his shoulders. He tried to concentrate on counting the jolts: five, six, seven... but he soon lost track. Every breath came out as a groan. Despite everything he could do to keep still, his feet flailed in their fetters, jangling chain, tearing skin.
The bouncing stopped.
"Why does the man not scream?" the young one said. "He insults us."
"You are right," said the leader. "We will not wait for the friars. Foreigner! Tell him again."
The soldier said, "The accused may nod if he is ready to reveal the name of his demon-I-can't-do-nothing-mate."
That helped. It wasn't much, but somehow that tiny hint that someone appreciated his efforts did help a little. Toby shook his head to show the soldier that he understood. He could lie, of course, and he might get away with it once, because they would have to take the gag out for a moment to hear what he wanted to say, but to start lying would be a confession that they had broken him. The hob had no name.
Without untying the rope from the bracket, all three tormentors began hauling together, raising him higher. Round and round he turned, looking down now at the vacant table with its two candles and its crucifix, the three strong men straining to support his weight, their knuckles white on the rope, eyes shining through the eye holes of their hoods as they waited for the right moment.
Wait for it. Wait for it!
He was not going to cry out. He knew what was coming, but he would not cry out.
They were making him wait for it, another last chance to repent. He could nod his head and escape what was coming. He didn't.
Wait for it.
The tormentors let go. He dropped to the end of his tether. He heard things tearing in his shoulders and a universe of pain exploded through him.
He screamed.
No, he had not known what pain was. He screamed and screamed, swinging on dislocated shoulders, turning faster than before, barely able to suck in enough air around the gag to scream again. He soiled himself. Blood dribbled from his mouth. He continued to scream.
Why had he ever been born?
No! No! They were raising him again. How many times? As many times as it took to make him tell what he could not tell. As many times as it took to tear every ligament, break the joints, make his arms completely useless. He had been stupidly proud of his strength and now he would not be able to lift a crust to his lips. Then they would start on his hips, or his toes, or his fingers. Or bring out the hot irons.
They dropped him again.
He heard something break, but he could scream no louder.
The soldier had withdrawn to the window end of the room and was leaning his face against the wall, unwilling or unable to watch any more. The tormentors stood chatting among themselves, as men did when they worked together—discussing women, the price of wine, the bullfight. Whenever the prisoner's screams began to fade, they pulled him up again and dropped him, each time a little farther than before. Agony! More cracking and tearing. How could the pain be even greater when it had already been more than he could stand or have ever imagined?
And again.
And again.
He was stretched out on the stone floor, staring up at the black hoods with their evil eye holes. Unclear how that had happened... perhaps fainted? There was no false gentleness now. Two of the tormentors were leaning on his broken shoulders, pressing him down on his bound arms while the third emptied a jar of water on his face. Some of it went in around the gag, making him choke and writhe. The soldier knelt at his side. The friars were back, peering down sadly at the wreckage.
"The inquisitor says that if the accused is ready to reveal the name of his demon, he should nod his head."
They would have to take the gag out, if only for a moment. He would be able to swallow at least once. They might even leave it out if he behaved, although he should not count on that mercy. But then they would all know that he was broken. After that he would be only warm meat. That tiny defiance was all that was left of Toby Longdirk, of him, of the person who was more than a lump of meat. He shook his head.
"The inquisitor warns the accused that the pain will be increased."
One tormentor held the prisoner immobile by pressing on the ends of the bar in his mouth while the others lashed stone weights to his ankles.
CHAPTER FOUR
His arms were free. The gag was gone. "Senor, what is the matter?" Wasn't that Eulalia's voice? Grass? Horrified faces against the sky: Josep, Miguel... Hamish shouting, "Demons, Toby, what's wrong?"