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The River
VII Bertrand’s boots punch through the frozen mud like he’s trying to kill the earth itself. Snow and ice on these damn mountains of Lebanon. Winter hasn't let go yet. The party is stretched along a wolf-thin path—twelve men, four
pack mules, the idiot priest, and the crate of Christ’s fingernail that
Ferdinando and Bertrand are supposed to be protecting. The mountains crush
the sky into a slit above them, so the air tastes like a nosebleed. No one
talks except to curse or spit. Every man here is sick with hunger, cold, or
some secret filth only the devil knows how to diagnose. Bertrand, the Templar, leads the way. He’s taller than any of
them, except Ferdinando, built like a siege engine, hair black as old blood.
He laughs at the wind, the slope, the dead they keep finding half-thawed
along the pass. His sword hangs loose, half-drawn, as if the world owes him a
fight. Ferdinando keeps close. He’s taller, face eaten by pox scars and
drink. He carries a knife but favors a hatchet. He likes how easy it is to
split a skull from behind. Together, he and Bertrand are the fist of the expedition—picked by the bishop for
their talent in “unorthodox negotiation.” Or maybe just because
the bishop hated both of them and hoped the mountains would do what the
gallows hadn’t. Behind them, the first two soldiers lag, both cowards with names not
worth remembering, so they call them Dullard and Snot. Dullard is slow and
thick-necked; Snot is sallow, all nerves and twitch. They hate Bertrand and Ferdinando
in the special way only condemned men hate their executioners. The trail corkscrews around a boulder glazed with black ice. Snot
slips and grabs Ferdinando’s cloak, nearly tearing it off. Bertrand
hauls Snot up by the throat and pins him against the stone. “You want to fuck the captain, at least suck his cock
first,” Bertrand grins, pressing harder, watching Snot’s tongue
loll. Snot kicks feebly. Dullard shouts, “Let him go, you fuck!”
and swings a boot at Bertrand’s shin. Bertrand releases Snot, who
collapses in the slush and retches. Ferdinando can’t help but laugh, a ratty sound. “If you
girls want to fight, fight. Otherwise keep your baby hands to
yourselves.” Dullard puffs up, fists balled. “I’ll cave your face in,
cripple.” Ferdinando sidesteps, hatchet raised. “Try me, bitch.” Bertrand steps between them, shoves Dullard so hard he skids back a
meter. “If you don’t start walking, I’ll feed you to the
next bear myself,” Bertrand snarls. Dullard stares at him, rage curdling into something greasy and small.
“You think you’re God’s finger, you templar
piece of shit. But you’re just a whore in armor. Why do you even wear
the cross? Everyone knows you piss on it.” Bertrand’s face changes. He grins, showing rotten teeth.
“Because it keeps cunts like you from stabbing me in my sleep,”
he says, leaning close. “And if you try, you better not miss.” Dullard backs off. Snot struggles to his feet, glaring at Ferdinando
with snot and tears slicking his face. The argument poisons the rest of the march. Snot mutters curses behind
his sleeve, and Dullard hocks spit at Ferdinando’s boots every chance
he gets. Even the idiot priest—who’s supposed to be their moral
compass—starts walking closer to the mule than to the men. When dusk knits the valley shut, the party clusters beneath a slab of
overhanging rock. Ferdinando and Bertrand take the fire side, drinking
piss-weak wine and gnawing dry meat. The others shiver together, avoiding the
firelight, like it’ll make them a target. It probably will. Bertrand waits until the priest is asleep. “They’ll try to
knife us,” he says to Ferdinando, voice low as a prayer. “Tonight
or tomorrow. I can feel it.” Ferdinando grins. “Let ‘em try.
I sleep with my boots on.” Bertrand grunts. “You want to fuck? It’ll calm your
nerves.” Ferdinando’s not a man to refuse. He grinds against the templar’s thigh, rough and silent, only letting out
a noise when Bertrand bites his neck hard enough to bruise. They finish
quick, pull up their trousers, and piss on the fire to hide the smoke. Above them, the mountain is pitch and silence, heavy with old snow. At dawn, the party moves through a defile so narrow the mules have to
be led single-file. The sun is a dirty coin above the ridge. Snot goes first,
holding the lead rope, hunched as if the cliffs might bite. Dullard follows,
then the priest, then the crate, then Bertrand and Ferdinando. The path is wet, melting from a night of hard freeze. Water sings in
the rocks overhead. Ferdinando feels the prickling, a change in air pressure, the hairs
rise on his neck. “Heads up,” he mutters. Too late. A crack like cannon-fire. The world vibrates. A boulder the size of a wagon wheel detaches from the slope, gathering
speed. Snot hears it, turns, and tries to run—right into Dullard, who
shoves him off the path. But the boulder is already there, smashing both of
them into the stone wall. There’s a red mist, a splinter of bone, then
nothing but the wet slap of meat. The mules panic. The priest screams and crumples. Bertrand and Ferdinando
duck behind the crate, hatchets out, but nothing else falls. When the dust settles, the two soldiers are gone. What’s left is
unrecognizable—a smear of flesh, scraps of leather, bone like broken
tusks. Bertrand laughs, a deep howl that echoes off the cliffs. “Guess
God picked sides after all,” he says. Ferdinando stares at the blood on the rock, then at Bertrand. He feels
a twist in his gut. Not guilt. Not even relief. Just a hunger that something,
somewhere, is still watching. They drag the crate and what’s left of the party through the
pass. Behind them, the mountain is quiet again, waiting for the next
argument. The pass opens into a shallow basin scarred with old snow and the
bones of mules. No one wants to talk about what happened, but the stink of
fear is thicker than the rot coming off the priest’s feet. With Dullard
and Snot gone, the party is down to ten: Bertrand, Ferdinando, the priest,
the commander—an old bastard named Otto—five soldiers and a
single pack boy too young to shave. They set camp early, the survivors clustering away from Bertrand and Ferdinando.
Otto draws his sword and plants it in the dirt, pretending to stand guard,
but his hand shakes so hard you’d think the
sword is trying to escape. Bertrand tends the fire, eyes flickering with pleasure. “You
notice how much quieter it is?” he says, poking the logs.
“It’s like someone finally wiped the shit off God’s
asshole.” Ferdinando snorts and picks dirt from his nails. He glances at the
priest, who is huddled over his book, muttering prayers with lips gone blue
from cold and terror. The commander won’t look at either of them. He eats in silence,
gaze pinned to the blackening sky. They sleep in shifts, but the night is rotten with dreams. Ferdinando
wakes to find the priest standing over him, hands trembling, knife drawn.
Bertrand’s already awake, a rock gripped in his fist, watching. “You’ll do it, then?” Bertrand whispers. The priest’s voice breaks: “Witchcraft. Both of you.
You… you called the stones, made the earth spit up and kill those
men.” Ferdinando grins. “If we could do that, you’d be dead
already.” The priest sobs and stabs at the air. “Blasphemy. Satan’s
tricks. I won’t let you corrupt the relic.” Otto’s up now, sword drawn, glaring at the priest. “Put
that down before you cut yourself, you lunatic.” But the priest won’t drop the knife. “They’re
witches, Otto. Didn’t you see? The mountain is their servant! Snot told
me he saw them chanting in the dark—” “Snot is meat,” Ferdinando says, “and you will be
too.” Otto hesitates, then he picks a side that will make him safest. The
other soldiers are around him. “Drop the knife, father,” Otto says, voice dead. “We’ll
do this properly. Like men of God.” The priest wails, drops to his knees. Otto binds his wrists and tosses
him beside the crate. Then he turns to Bertrand and Ferdinando, face pale and
mean. “You two—on your knees. Now.” Bertrand grins and obliges. Ferdinando spits in the snow and kneels,
face split with contempt. “On the charge of consorting with the devil and murder by
sorcery,” Otto says, “I sentence you to trial by water. Tomorrow,
at dawn. If you drown, your souls are damned.” Ferdinando shrugs. “Not the first time I’ve been drowned.
You get used to it.” Bertrand, still kneeling, says, “You know this is a joke, right?
That if God cared, he’d have killed us years ago.” Otto ignores him, the soldiers bind their hands behind their backs,
and Otto posts the pack boy to watch them. The night is long. The priest weeps. The pack boy gnaws his knuckles,
looking everywhere but at the condemned men. The soldiers are nervous. Bertrand turns to Ferdinando, voice low and gentle. “You want
one last fuck before the river?” Ferdinando laughs, rolling his neck. “You’re a romantic,
Bertrand. All right.” They grind together in the snow, cold and awkward but stubborn, hands
tied and cocks out. Ferdinando bites Bertrand’s ear, hard enough to
draw blood. When they finish, they piss together on the priest’s robes. The sky shreds itself into morning, grey and sharp as slate. Otto
drags them to the riverbank—little more than a ditch, clogged with
meltwater and debris. The priest, face streaked with tears and snot, mutters
curses in Latin. The pack boy shivers, dragging the crate behind him. The
soldiers move silently. Otto ties stones to Ferdinando’s and Bertrand’s ankles.
“You know the drill,” he says, voice flat. “May God judge
you.” Bertrand winks at Ferdinando. “See you on the other side,
bitch.” They kneel at the edge, hands bound. Otto puts a hand on their heads. “Let’s get it over with,” Ferdinando says, and spits
in the river. The soldiers drag Bertrand to the river first. Otto hauls him by the hair, the Templar’s face gone slate pale,
but his eyes burn. The pack boy shuffles behind, dragging the relic crate,
and the priest staggers after, clutching his useless cross. The morning is
raw, river ice crackling over the rocks. Otto’s sword is already wet
from not bothering to clean it. They dump Bertrand on the mud. The Templar laughs, spitting blood and
tooth fragments. “You fuckers never do it right,” he says, voice
full of contempt and something close to pride. Otto grinds his boot into Bertrand’s neck. “You want a
last prayer, Templar?” Bertrand hawks a gob of blood. “Stick your prayers up your
cunt.” He grins at Ferdinando, who’s kneeling in the slush, hands
lashed behind him. “Tell you what, sweetheart: next time, you get to
drown me. I’ll even let you jerk me off first.” Otto scowls and kicks Bertrand in the ribs, then yanks him to the
riverbank. The water is bitter and black, little shards of ice spinning in
the current. They force Bertrand to his knees. Otto steps behind and knots a
leather cord around Bertrand’s throat, holding it like a leash. The
priest fumbles with his book, mumbling scripture too fast for sense. Ferdinando watches, mouth dry but eyes wide, soaking in every detail. Otto jams Bertrand’s body into the river. The Templar’s
body fights instantly, every muscle straining, knees gouging furrows in the
mud. He thrashes so hard he nearly drags Otto in, but Otto leans with his
weight, pressing the cord deeper. Bertrand’s body spasms. His cock, stiff from cold or death or
maybe just the pure perversity of it, juts out like a mast. Ferdinando,
kneeling on the shore, laughs and yells, “Come on, Bertrand! You said
you liked it rough!” Bertrand’s face breaks the surface for a second. He sucks air
and river water, coughs up a gout of blood, and grins—really grins,
mouth full of purple tongue and broken teeth. “Harder, you old cunt!” he roars, before Otto plunges him
back under. Ferdinando shifts on his knees, feels his own cock hardening against
the tight of his trousers. He watches Otto’s arm muscles bulge with the
effort, the priest babbling and shaking as if scared the devil himself might
rise from the water. Bertrand’s struggles slow. Bubbles foam from his mouth, then
stop. Otto keeps him under another full minute, face set, veins popping at
his temples. When he drags the corpse out, Bertrand’s face is slack,
skin blue, but his cock is still hard and leaking. “See?” Ferdinando calls out. “He died like a
champion.” Otto wipes sweat from his brow. “You’re next.” The priest retches into the weeds, unable to even look. Otto and two soldiers drag Ferdinando to the river. His knees knock
together, but he smiles like a man headed for a brothel. “Don’t I
get a last fuck, Commander?” he asks. “Or are you afraid
you’ll catch something?” Otto shoves his face into the mud. “Shut up.” “C’mon, boss, just a tug for the road.” Ferdinando
wriggles, grinds his hips against the earth, and spits out a mouthful of
silt. “Your daughter liked it, didn’t she?” Otto yanks Ferdinando upright and punches him in the mouth. Blood
tastes like metal and pennies and victory. Otto ties a new cord around Ferdinando’s neck. The pack boy, who
can’t stop shaking, tries to help but only gets in the way. Ferdinando
looks at Bertrand’s body, leaking fluids into the snow, and smiles.
“Bet you wish you could see this, big man.” Otto jams Ferdinando’s face into the river. The water bites like
knives, fills his nose, his ears, the gaps in his teeth. He holds his breath
and thinks about Bertrand’s cock, about the way the templar
grunted when Ferdinando bit down on it during the long winter nights. He
thinks about nothing at all, then about everything—his mother’s
hands, the Bishop’s pink face, the taste of Snot’s tears when he
begged not to die. Otto jerks the cord and holds Ferdinando’s head under. Ferdinando
thrashes, bucks, feels his cock explode with warmth and shame and pleasure.
He opens his mouth, drinks river and silt and death. The world goes black. Otto waits another minute. Then he drags Ferdinando out, limp as a
sack of rotting meat. He cuts the cords, lets the body roll into the current.
The river takes Ferdinando first, then Bertrand, the two of them spinning and
colliding, bobbing like grotesque lovers down the valley. The priest stares after the bodies, face blank with horror and awe.
Otto wipes his hands, says nothing. The pack boy weeps, snot and tears
freezing on his cheeks. The two corpses bounce off rocks, arms tangled together, cocks still
stiff in the cold. By the time they vanish around the bend, they look like
saints, martyred by their own obscenity. The river is quiet, except for the sound of laughter echoing off the
cliffs. It could be the water, or it could be Bertrand and Ferdinando, finally
getting the last word. The Fire
VIII The air inside the barn is thick, wet with the stink of sweat and
spilt seed. Ferdinando from Siracusa drives his
hips into the trembling servant boy, each thrust shaking dust from the
rafters. The boy’s pale legs scissor, thrash against the packed earth,
but Ferdinando’s weight—two hundred pounds of muscle and hair and
gristle—presses him down like a slab. He screams, and the sound bounces
off the stone in a way that makes Bertrand, standing at the boy’s head,
snort and laugh. The Templar keeps one big hand wrapped in the boy’s
tangle of hair, the other clamped across his jaw to lever open the mouth. “Stop whining, you little faggot,” Bertrand growls, and
jams his cock deeper into the boy’s throat. The boy’s cries go
wet and muffled, choking on Bertrand’s meat. Tears streak the dirt on
his cheeks; spittle and snot slide down his chin. Ferdinando rocks harder,
his balls smacking the boy’s ass. The boy’s fists beat helplessly
against the stone, each impact lighter than the last. “Easy, Bertrand. You’ll break him before I’m
done,” Ferdinando says, breath ragged, beard matted with spit. His cock
spears in and out, each time dragging a gob of blood and slick from the
clenching hole. “He’s soft as butter.” “I’ll save you a spoonful,” Bertrand grunts, teeth
bared. “Finish up. We don’t have all night.” Ferdinando leans forward, planting one thick-fingered hand on the
boy’s shoulder, forcing him flat. The boy’s feet kick weakly. Ferdinando’s
other hand circles the throat and squeezes, just enough to make the
boy’s eyes bulge and the sphincter clamp tighter around him. His cock
pulses; he lets out a grunt that’s half roar, half laughter.
“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s—” The door explodes inward with a crash and a blossom of torchlight.
Cold night air floods in, carrying the stink of manure and horses and a dozen
yelling voices. Four men-at-arms burst into the silo, halberds and torches
leveled, shields painted with the city’s wolf sigil. Behind them, a
church functionary in black robes squints in disbelief, then looks away and
retches. Ferdinando yanks free, dick streaming with blood and cum, and glares
at the intruders. The boy collapses onto the straw, making hiccupping, animal
noises. Bertrand lets go, gives the boy’s head a contemptuous shove,
and turns, cock still half-hard. “God’s balls, can’t you knock?” Bertrand
bellows. The lead guardsman advances, eyes fixed not on the scene but somewhere
beyond it. “Drop your weapons! In the name of the city and the Holy
Tribunal, cease all resistance!” “Weapons?” Ferdinando laughs, slapping his cock against
his thigh. “You see any weapons, you goat-fucking idiot?” The boy curls up and vomits, legs drawn to his chest, arms hugging his
knees. Ferdinando watches him, expressionless. The functionary recovers enough to speak. “You are under arrest
for…for sodomy. For assaulting an innocent. For blasphemy against
nature and the Lord.” His voice cracks. Bertrand wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sneers. “You
mean the Lord who turned water into wine so the apostles could get properly
drunk and rape choirboys?” The guardsman swings the butt of his halberd into Bertrand’s
gut, folding him to the ground. Another clubs Ferdinando across the jaw. He
staggers, but it takes three men to wrestle him down and bind his arms with
rough cord. Outside, a crowd is already gathering, drawn by the shouting and the
glow of torches. Women pull children close, clucking in disgust. Old men
jeer, spitting in the dirt. When Ferdinando and Bertrand are dragged into the
street, stones and rotten fruit follow. They are paraded through alleys, mud and garbage squelching underfoot.
Bertrand’s nose is bleeding, but he laughs as they pass the brothel.
“See you soon, girls!” he shouts, and a whore spits on him from
the window. Ferdinando bears the abuse in silence, eyes fixed straight ahead,
jaw set. They are thrown into a stone cell, the floor slick with piss and
slime. Bertrand wipes blood from his nose, grins at Ferdinando.
“We’ll be out by dawn. Church loves a good show but they
can’t afford to lose men like us.” Ferdinando says nothing. He sits, naked and bleeding, and stares at
the wall. His breath rasps, heavy as a bull. By noon, the summons comes. Two men-at-arms unlock the door and drag
them, still bound, to the cathedral. The nave is packed: the old, the sick,
and the sanctimonious fill every pew, eager for scandal. A red-faced bishop
sits enthroned at the altar, his rings glinting as he drums his fingers. The functionary who saw them arrested reads the charges, voice thin
with outrage: “Ferdinando from Siracusa and
Bertrand, poor Fellow-Soldier of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, you
stand accused of gross sodomy, of raping an innocent, of sacrilege and
contempt for the Church…” The boy is there, bandaged and bruised, forced to kneel on the cold
stone. He can barely speak, but when prompted, whispers: “They made
me…they said if I told, they’d kill my mother. They laughed. They
wouldn’t stop. Please, mercy…” The bishop narrows his eyes, raises a hand for silence. “This
city has no place for beasts. You have corrupted the lowest among us. You
have violated God’s law, and spit in the face of His justice.” Bertrand bows his head, voice suddenly soft and trembling. “Your
Grace, I am—ashamed. I have sinned, but it was Ferdinando who led me.
He tempted me with wine and perverse tales. I repent, I beg you: forgive me,
and I will die for Christ.” Ferdinando laughs. The sound echoes, deep and bitter, across the
marble. “You’re all so fucking predictable. Dress a man in lace
and gold, let him grope altar boys for twenty years, and suddenly he’s
God’s right hand. You want to kill us? Fine. But spare me the
sermon.” The bishop’s lips curl in disgust. “You do not even deny
your crimes?” “Deny? Why bother? The boy’s alive, isn’t he? If I
wanted him dead, you’d be scrubbing his brains from the altar.” A gasp runs through the crowd. Bertrand stares at the floor, hands knotted. “Blasphemer!” spits the functionary. “You are
unrepentant, a devil in flesh.” Ferdinando grins, shows yellow teeth. “Christ hung out with
whores and thieves. You’d have burnt Him too, if He didn’t pull
off the resurrection trick.” The bishop slams his fist on the altar. “Enough. For the sin of
sodomy, for rape, for blasphemy and heresy, you are condemned. You will be
taken to the Old Square and there burned, your ashes scattered to the river.
Bertrand, for your repentance, your soul may yet be saved. Ferdinando, you
will burn alive until the Devil himself comes to claim you.” Bertrand shudders. “Thank you, Your Grace. Thank
you…” Ferdinando spits on the floor, and it lands near the bishop’s
slipper. “Can’t wait. I’ll piss on you from hell.” The guards drag them out, one at each arm. In the antechamber, as they
pass the boy, Ferdinando leans in, voice a poisonous whisper: “Told you
it would hurt. Don’t worry, your bishop will finish the job.” The
boy recoils, cowers behind a priest. In the holding cell, Bertrand collapses on the stone, face in his
hands. “They’re going to do it. They’re really going to
burn us.” Ferdinando sits, legs splayed, hands raw and bleeding. “You
could have died with some balls, Templar.” Bertrand looks up, eyes shining. “We fucked a boy, Ferdinando.
In front of God and everyone. What else could I do?” Ferdinando leans his head against the wall, closes his eyes.
“Next time, pick a quieter spot.” The sky is black glass, cold and empty, when the guards come for them.
No prayer, no final meal—just two men in damp chains, hoisted to their
feet by the neck. Ferdinando’s beard is caked with spit and scabs;
Bertrand reeks of nervous sweat and stale blood. They are prodded out of the
cell and through the twisting stone corridor, torches flickering in the damp. At the far end, the jailer waits with their execution costumes. Bertrand first: a simple white tunic, thin as parchment, the sacred
color of repentance. It hangs on him like a shroud, and over it a hempen rope
is draped, coiled around his neck. The rope isn’t even knotted—a
joke, a mockery, to show everyone he’s already condemned. “Fits you, Judas,” Ferdinando growls, but his voice is
flat, exhausted. Ferdinando gets nothing. The guards strip him naked, hacking the rags
from his body, exposing every scar and patch of body hair to the chill. When
he shivers, a guard spits, “Animal.” Another yanks a bundle of
dry twigs from a basket—cruelly chosen with thorns and
nettles—and wraps them around Ferdinando’s groin. The sticks poke
and prod, their only purpose to half-conceal and half-torment, turning his
cock and balls into a grotesque bouquet. “Nice touch,” Ferdinando says, grinning with blood in his
teeth. The square is already thick with people. News of the execution spreads
like plague, drawing every vendor and beggar for three miles. Torches ring
the square, blue smoke twisting up to the steeple. High on the makeshift
scaffold, two stakes jut from a bed of firewood, new and sappy and slick with
resin. The crowd shoves and jostles for a better view. The guards frog-march them up the stairs. Bertrand tries to stand
tall, jaw clenched, eyes forward. Ferdinando sways, then catches himself,
leering at the mob. The bishop is there, fat and sour, flanked by altar boys and priests
in crimson vestments. The functionary reads the charges again, but the crowd
is too loud to hear him. Ferdinando grins, bare and shameless, as children
gawk at the monster’s balls and old women scream for his soul. They haul Bertrand to his post first. He barely resists, but the rope
around his neck isn’t for decoration: the executioner threads it
through an iron ring and ties it off, leaving just enough slack to force his
head forward. His hands are bound behind the stake, wrists knotted so tight
they bleed. When it’s Ferdinando’s turn, the guards struggle to keep
him still. He spits at the bishop, who flinches and dabs his face with a silk
rag. The crowd hoots; the guards strike him with cudgels until he sags. They force him against the stake, binding his arms
with chains and weaving the dry twigs tighter around his genitals. The
nettles dig in; blood trickles down his thigh. From the platform, Ferdinando locks eyes with the crowd, picks out
faces—his butcher, a whore he once paid, the innkeeper who sold him
watered wine. He spits again, this time into the dirt. The pyres are loaded, cordwood stacked high. The stench of pitch and
sap mixes with sweat and terror. Ferdinando bellows, “Take a good look, you shits! This is what
men look like!” He thrusts his hips, making the sticks rattle. The
guards punch him in the kidney; he howls with laughter. The bishop lifts his hand for silence. “Pray for your
souls!” he shouts. The crowd hushes, as if afraid to miss the first
lick of flame. Bertrand begins to weep. Ferdinando just bares his teeth and stares at
the sun, waiting. It will be a spectacle worth remembering. The mob seethes below the scaffold, hungry for the spectacle. Vendors
hawk fried onions and sweetmeats to children pressing forward for a better
look; a blind beggar prays, voice lost in the uproar. Ferdinando feels their
eyes clawing at him, every gaze a hot coal. His mouth is dry, but he hawks a
gob of spit at the executioner anyway, grinning at the man’s flinch. The bishop intones a prayer, but the crowd isn’t listening. They
want violence, not absolution. When the prayer ends, a fat bell tolls from
the cathedral. The executioner steps forward, torch sputtering blue, and
touches it to the kindling beneath Bertrand’s stake. The wood takes instantly. Thick white smoke billows, swallowing
Bertrand’s legs. He thrashes, trying to pull back, but the rope at his
neck yanks him forward. A moment’s panic—Bertrand’s tunic
catches fire at the hem, flames creeping up like rabid dogs. But the executioner’s work is precise. He climbs the scaffold
behind Bertrand and seizes the loose end of the rope, looping it twice around
a stud. With a quick, brutal jerk, he hauls Bertrand backward. The
Templar’s eyes bulge; his mouth opens in a silent scream. His feet
kick, burning in the fire, but the rope does its work faster than the flames.
In seconds, his face goes blue. His bowels give way, shitting
down his bare calves, piss arcing out over the pyre. The crowd laughs, and
women shield their children’s eyes. Bertrand’s body jerks once more, then slumps, swinging gently as
the fire devours his feet. The bishop makes the sign of the cross, mutters
something about mercy. Ferdinando laughs, bellowing over the crackle. “Piss yourself in
front of God, Templar! I hope he likes the smell!” Now it’s his turn. The executioner leaves Bertrand’s
corpse to the flames, and approaches Ferdinando’s stake. He looks up,
eyes cold, and shoves the torch deep into the bundle of twigs around Ferdinando’s
groin. At first, nothing. Then a hiss, a pop. Sap explodes, needles and
thorns combusting in a single burst of heat. Flames lick at Ferdinando’s
cock and balls, shriveling the flesh, boiling the skin to blisters. He howls,
a sound that silences the square. His hips buck, fighting the chains, but the
only relief is more pain as the fire chews its way up his gut. The stench is
overwhelming—singed hair, roasted meat, hot shit. “Fuck you all!” he roars, through tears and snot and
agony. “May your daughters suck Turk cock, may your priests rot from
the asshole down—may your Christ swallow my fucking ashes!” The
fire eats his words, and the crowd howls approval, pelting him with stones
and rotten food. The twigs collapse, embers raining down his thighs. The flames race up
his belly, blackening his belly hair, fusing his balls to his thigh in a
charred mass. The heat is a living thing, gnawing at his belly, crawling up
his ribs, licking his beard. The pain is so bright it eclipses thought. He feels his face blistering, lips peeling back, teeth exposed. His
vision tunnels; he thinks he sees the boy from the trial, standing in the
front row, eyes wide. He tries to say something—maybe an apology, maybe
just one last fuck you—but the smoke scorches his tongue. The flames climb higher, devouring his chest. His skin splits, shrinks,
peels back to expose yellow bone. His fingers claw at the stake, scraping
uselessly. The world is fire, and the crowd is screaming for more. Finally, mercifully, his heart ruptures. Ferdinando sags in his
chains, head lolling forward, beard still smoldering. The executioner waits
until the ropes burn through, and his body topples into the bed of coals. The bishop signals the crowd: it’s done. The masses surge
forward, trying to collect bits of ash for relics or souvenirs. The bodies
are left to burn down to blackened stumps. By dusk, nothing remains but a
greasy residue and the stink of pork fat. At midnight, two men-at-arms shovel the ashes into a sack and carry it
to the river. They dump the remains into the black water, and the current
takes them away, out to sea. |
