“I assure Your Eminence that I shall put an end to that.”
“You keep assuring me. Two years ago, in December, you supposedly found a witness whose testimony was to uncover some dangerous, literally demonic organisation or sect, guilty of numerous murders. You unearthed that witness, reportedly a deacon from the Namysłów Collegiate Church, in a madhouse of all places. I was waiting in suspense to listen to the testimonies of that lunatic. And then what? You didn’t manage to get him to Wrocław.”
“I didn’t manage,” Hejncze said, “because he was assassinated on the way. By somebody who uses black magic.”
“Indeed. Black magic.”
“Which proves that somebody wanted him silenced,” the Inquisitor continued calmly, “for had he spoken, his testimony would have seriously harmed somebody. He was an eyewitness to the murder of the merchant Pfefferkorn. Perhaps he would have identified the murderer if he’d been shown a suspect?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps not. We don’t know. And why don’t we know? Because the papal Inquisitor is incapable of protecting a witness, even if he’s a nutcase from the Tower of Fools. A disgrace, Grzesiu. A fiasco.
“Crime is flourishing under your very nose; no one is safe,” continued the bishop, without waiting for a reaction. “Robber knights in league with Hussites sack monasteries. Jews desecrate Hosts and graves. Heretics steal taxes, the hard-earned money of the poor. The daughter of Jan Biberstein, knight and magnate, is kidnapped and raped openly by Hussites as revenge for Biberstein being a good Catholic. And where were you? Somebody had to intervene. I, Bishop of Wrocław, with my hands full of endless matters regarding the faith, have to burn the guilty for you.”
“Were there any guilty people among those burned today?” asked the Inquisitor, raising an eyebrow. “I can’t say I noticed.”
“Noticing isn’t your strongest suit, Grzesiu,” the bishop retorted. “You fail to notice far too many things. With injurious results for Silesia, regrettably. For the Church. And for the Sanctum Officium, which you serve, after all.”
“Empty and ostentatious executions are injurious to the Holy Office. Injustice is injurious. Such things cause dark legends to arise, myths about the cruel Inquisition, grist to the mill for heretical propaganda. In a hundred years—the thought horrifies me—only the legends will remain, dark and horrific tales of dungeons, torture and fires. Legends that everybody will believe.”
“You understand neither people nor historical processes,” replied Konrad of Oleśnica coldly, “which writes you off as an Inquisitor. You ought to know, Grzesiu, that there are always two sides. If horrendous legends arise, there’ll be anti-legends. Counter-legends. Even more horrendous ones. If I burn a hundred people, in a hundred years they’ll be saying I burned a thousand. And others will say I didn’t burn a single person. In five hundred years, if this world lasts that long, for every three people talking excitedly about dungeons, torture and fires, there’ll be at least one fool claiming there were no dungeons, torture wasn’t used, the Inquisition was as compassionate and fair-minded as a good father, penalties were light, nothing more than a ticking off, and all those fires were a fabrication and heretical libel. So do your job, Grzesiu, and leave the rest to history. And to the people who understand it. And please don’t drivel on about justice. The institution you work for wasn’t founded for justice. Justice is droit du seigneur. Ergo, justice is me, because I am the senior person here. I am a lord, a Piast, a duke—a Prince of the Church, to be sure, but one who habet omnia iura tamquam dux. You, meanwhile, Grzesiu, are, forgive me, a servant.”
“Of God.”
“Bullshit. You’re a servant of the Inquisition, an institution meant to strangle thought at birth and intimidate people who think, rebuke and oppress minds, sow fear and terror, and make sure the mob are afraid to think. Because that institution was founded with that purpose. Pity so few people remember that, which is why heresy is spreading and flourishing. It is flourishing thanks to people like you, fanatics with their eyes fixed on Heaven, barefoot and begging, in imaginary imitation of Christ. They who talk of faith, of humility and of divine service allow birds to perch on them and shit on them and from time to time receive the stigmata. Do you have the stigmata, Grzesiu?”
“No, Your Eminence. I do not.”
“Well, that’s something, at least. To continue: what you see around you, Father Inquisitor, is not God’s plaything but a world that needs to be governed. Ruled. And power is a privilege of princes. Of lords. The world is a dominium that has to surrender to rulers, bowing low to accept droit du seigneur, the right of the lord. It’s the natural order that power is wielded by the Princes of the Church. And then their sons. Yes, yes, Grzesiu. We rule the world and our power will be inherited by our sons. The sons of kings, princes, popes, cardinals and bishops. And sons of mercers, forgive my frankness, are—and will be—vassals. Subjects. Servants. They are meant to serve. Serve! Do you understand, Gregorz Hejncze, son of a Świdnica merchant? Do you see?”
“Better than Your Eminence realises.”
“Then go and serve. Be as vigilant towards signs of heresy as your name—Gregorikos—ought to suggest. Be uncompromising towards heretics, heathens, deviants, monsters, witches and Jews. Be merciless to those who dare to raise their minds, eyes, voices and hands against my power and my possessions. Serve. Ad maiorem Dei gloriam.”
“Regarding the latter, Your Excellency may count on me absolutely.”
“And remember.” Konrad raised two fingers, but there was no trace of a blessing in the gesture. “Remember: he who is not with me contra me est. Either with me, or against me, tertium non datur. He who is tolerant of my enemies is himself my enemy.”
“I understand.”
“Good. We shall draw a thick line through what has been. Let’s turn over a new leaf. Sapienti sat dictum est, to begin with let’s agree on this: next week you will send another ten to their deaths at the stake, Inquisitor Grzesiu. May Silesia hold its breath for a moment. May sinners recall the fires of Hell. May the hesitant redouble their faith, having seen the alternative. May informers recall that they must inform—actively and on anybody they can, before somebody informs on them. A time of terror and fear has come! The heretical viper must be seized by the throat in an iron hand and a spiked glove. Seized and held, not released! For it is because the grip was once loosened, because weakness was shown, that heresy is on the march now.”
“Heresy has existed in the Church for centuries,” said the Inquisitor softly. “For ever. For the Church has always been a rock and a haven for people who profoundly believe, but who also have lively minds. But also, unfortunately, always a refuge, a fertile breeding ground for the displays of such creatures as Your Eminence.”
“I admire in you your intelligence and frankness,” the bishop said after a long silence. “A true pity that I admire nothing else.”
Father Felicjan—known to the world once as Hanys Gwisdek and nicknamed Little Louse—was basking in a sunny spot at the end of the garth, observing behind a blackthorn bush the bishop and the Inquisitor deep in a hushed conversation. Who knows, he thought, perhaps soon I shall be allowed to take part in conversations like that? As an equal? For I am advancing.