The Scribe(83)
The executioner grabbed hold of the prisoner and with a violent blow cast him into the bottom of the pit. The clamor became deafening. The Swine stood up, drooling, with a lost look in his tear-filled eyes. The crowds pumped their fists in the air and called for blood. At that moment, two more men approached the pit bearing large wooden spades, making the crowd delirious with excitement. They positioned themselves beside a heap of sand and without saying a word they started shoveling it onto the captive. The Swine tried to turn around to escape from the pit, but the men prevented him with blows. One of them pressed into his back with the end of his spade, immobilizing him, while the others continued to bury him alive. As if in a fit of ecstasy, the crowd egged them on with curses and oaths. The Swine attempted to wriggle away from the spade that held him down. But the weight of the earth now upon him prevented him from moving his legs, and all he could do was thrash about like a trapped rabbit.
Soon the earth was piling onto his head. He spat and started to writhe out of pure desperation, his eyes all but coming out of their sockets. Spitting again and again, the sand continued to rain down on him until, gradually, he was completely covered.
For a moment the square fell silent, but suddenly the sand moved and the prisoner’s head reappeared, spewing out soil. The Swine breathed in as though it would be his last mouthful of air, and the crowd cried out in astonishment.
The bishop stood up and gestured to Kohl, but he didn’t notice. Alcuin knew that the drug was starting to take effect.
Lothar sensed his vision clouding. His legs weakened and a dry heat pricked at his throat. He tried in vain to grab hold of Kohl. He attempted to speak but was unable, and he barely had time to cross himself before he fell flat on his face, taking the chair and table with him.
Silence descended upon the crowd. Even the executioner turned his head, forgetting about The Swine for a moment.
Seeing the executioner distracted, Kohl intervened. “Finish him off, damned fool.”
The executioner didn’t move. Then Kohl leapt down toward the pit and snatched the spade from him.
He was about to deal the final blow when Alcuin appeared between him and the prisoner. “You dare to disobey a sign from the heavens? God wishes to prolong this criminal’s suffering,” cried Alcuin as loudly as he could. Then he walked over to the fallen bishop and pretended to examine him. “When Lothar recovers, we will enjoy another execution!” he added.
The crowd roared again.
“You?” exclaimed Kohl. “You’re the monk who came to the mill just the other day!”
“The murderer will pay for his crime, but the law, the executive authority, must justify the punishment,” he put forth.
Kohl tried to strike The Swine again, but Alcuin stopped him.
“This is not God’s will,” he repeated, holding the spade firmly.
The masses bellowed excitedly.
Finally, Kohl spat on the prisoner, took his wife by the arm, and departed, escorted by his entourage. The chapter’s council followed him, still bewildered by what had happened to Lothar. But Alcuin reassured them that the bishop’s condition was not serious and he would soon recover.
Finally, amid insults and threats, The Swine was lifted out of the pit and reloaded onto the cart. He and his captors left the square, and headed back to the slaughterhouse.
Helga the Black seemed distraught. Not only had she not seen an execution, but in a moment of distraction, a street urchin had stolen her bag of pastries. Theresa proposed buying a hot bun made with rye from a nearby stall, an offer that Helga immediately accepted. While Theresa searched through her empty pockets, the prostitute had already approached the pastry stand and was bartering for the buns. She selected a round bread roll, agreeing with the baker that she would pay her dues when he came by the tavern. She smiled with pleasure as they both wolfed down the pastries in no time at all. They found it to be so delicious that Helga did not hesitate to buy another, bigger one, laden with honey.
When they had finished, Theresa noticed the paste of flour and earth around Helga’s mouth that she had used to hide her scar. Another blob hung from her nose like a strange white wart. When she told her, Helga burst into animated laughter. Theresa was surprised it didn’t make her wound bleed again. She decided to ask what had happened.
“I wasn’t out of bed yet when I heard a banging on the door,” she said. “I didn’t even have time to ask who it was. As soon as I opened it, I felt a kick to my stomach and punches rained down on me. The animal! He slit my face and told me that if I dared keep the child, next time it wouldn’t be my belly that he’d cut open.”
“But why does he behave so? What does he care what you do?”
“He must fear that I’ll report him.”
She explained that those accused of adultery were given seven years of penance, a punishment that consisted of daily fasting for the duration of the sentence, although a sum of money could be paid in lieu of it.
“He really likes his food,” she complained. “And I think he’s scared that his wife will disown him. Then he’ll lose the carpenter’s workshop, which belongs to his father-in-law. But you know what? I’m going to do it. I’ll report him even if it comes to nothing. With this scar, nobody will pay for my services anymore. Who’s going to want to lie with a disfigured whore?”
“It’s not that bad,” Theresa reassured her. “It’s barely visible. When I saw you this morning, it really seemed much better.”