The Weapon

It was mid-August and the incipient night did not succeed driving the heat of the day away. Only on the banks of the Tiber did the cool evening breeze provide some relief. Along the river there still was a brisk state of trade. A man cleaved through the busy crowd. His blue eyes and the light complexion of his hair and skin showed that he was not Roman. Foreigners were nothing unusual here and therefore nobody noticed him.

While the foreigner hastened to his aim, he absorbed the unique atmosphere of this town once more. Forsooth, Rome was the centre of the world, the midpoint of the universe! Rome, town of the Christian faith! And yet, the senses of the foreigner were sharp enough to realize the dark sides of the town. Nowhere else, vice and superstition, vanity and blasphemy, haughtiness and immorality were as widespread as here, right under the eyes of the Roman Curia.

The foreigner turned into a side road, which led away from the river. The ambience changed immediately. The streets got narrower, darker. The buildings were no longer as pretentious. Here, there was no hustle and bustle and as the foreigner made it further from the river, it became quieter and lonelier. He continued along some narrow and winding alleys and finally he stood in front of a big building. At first glance the building appeared unimposing, almost abandoned. It was bereft of any decoration. Nothing construed this building’s special purpose. Regarding the building longer, it was just the cool simplicity of the construction and the complete lack of any pomp that created a special aura. It appeared cold; cold and menacing. Mechanically, the foreigner pulled his cloak tighter. Above the door a simple signboard was attached: "Inquisitio Haereticae Pravitatis Sanctum Officium".

The foreigner hesitated. He knew that he was in front of the strongest bastion of Christianity. Not the Castel Sant’Angelo, not anywhere else but here, in an unfashionable side street of Rome, was the headquarters in the fight against the antichrist. From here, the Grand Inquisitor was sending the Christian soldiers in the battle against evil. Here a power was concentrated that was very close to the divine almightiness. In the fight for the eternal truth this power was deployed without any scruples.

The Foreigner shook his head, as if he could chase away his thoughts this way. After all, he was a Christian soldier, too. He had served the Lord in the realm that called itself the Holy Roman Empire. He hadn’t rested, until he had tracked the heretics down in their hide-outs, until he had snatched away their masks and debunked their lies. Then he had given them over to the secular court and divine justice. He had disinfested swathes of land. He had purged heresy, purged it together with its followers and supporters, annihilated it with fire and sword. Noblemen had complained about him, because their countries had been depopulated. In the end, even some bishops had attacked him. He hadn’t cared! He had acted according the will of God, by order and with the authority of the Holy Inquisition! Of course, innocents had suffered. Wasn’t it in the nature of evil to aver suspicion? In the war for good there were no compromises. Those preaching sympathy and consideration were, after all, only allies of the devil. They too would have deserved to die, to burn like the damned heretics in the eternal fire of perdition!

He took a determined step to the entrance, opened the door and entered. He crossed an entrance hall. A monk was waiting and invited him to follow. The monk ignited a torch and they entered a windowless corridor. On both sides there were iron shod doors. The foreigner wondered what was behind them. Deeper and deeper the corridor led inside the building. The foreigner could not see the end. He felt like he was penetrating deeper into the interior of the underworld.

Finally they reached the end of the corridor. The monk opened the door and they stepped into another room. The monk gave the foreigner a sign to wait and disappeared behind a door on the opposite side of the room. The foreigner looked around the room he had to wait in. On the walls there were paintings, all of them showing illustrations of saints, of Christian martyrs. The artists had emphasized the illustration of the woes. The foreigner saw the stoning of Stephanus, Polycarb on the stake, Saint Adrew at the ‘Crux Decussata’, Saint Afra in the fire, Cyprian’s decapitation, Saint Pantaleon with cleaved skull. The line of blood witnesses appeared endless.

While the foreigner was waiting, pictures of the saints and memories of the latest past intermingled. Too much did the illustrations of the pain and sacrifice of the saints look alike the purging of the heretics. The same tools, that made martyrs, were also used to exterminate heretics. Even among the heretics there were men, which stuck to their misbelief; which resisted even torture; which even took themselves for saints. Sometimes it was hard to recognize heretics. A minor detail could make the difference between heretic and saint, between perdition and beatitude. How could one be certain? In nebulous cases – and there had been many - the foreigner had decided against the accused. It was better to kill two innocent than to let one culprit escape. God would identify his own.

Today it would turn out if his acts had been right or wrong. Today he would be judged. Today the man would stand in front of the highest instance, that existed on earth; an instance, where no appeal, no doubt existed.

The door opened and the monk indicated the foreigner to come in. When he entered, he saw a man sitting at a desk. The Grand Inquisitor wore pompous clothes, with a precious cross hanging at his breast and a golden ring on his hand. He radiated an aura of authority and power.

Slowly, almost cautiously, the foreigner approached the desk. He bowed his head and kissed the ring of the Grand Inquisitor. With a wave of his hand the Grand Inquisitor called on him to sit down.

"My son! I have heard a lot about your fervour and your deeds. Therefore, it has been my wish to get to know you."

The foreigner looked enquiring at the Grand Inquisitor, but he could not detect, whether these words intimated laud or dispraise.

"Our mission is to protect the herd of the Lord from the Evil. This is a difficult, responsible mission. Fervour is not enough. Too much fervour can make us miss our aim and serve the evil."

The foreigner looked inquiringly at the Grand Inquisitor. He took a small box out of a drawer, put it on the desk and opened it. He took out a pistol and put it on the desk. Then he shut the box again. The foreigner stared at the weapon, its muzzle pointed straight at him.

"Do you see this weapon? She gives power to the one which has it; power, power over life and death. And what is even more important, with this weapon I can force people to do what I want them to do. Even though there is only one bullet inside the barrel, I can force my will upon two, three or more people, even on a crowd. However, at the very moment I use this pistol, the power is gone. I may have killed one, but at the same time I freed the others. Those will do the opposite of what I had forced them to do before. Free from their fear they will turn against me."

He interrupted his speech to scrutinise the foreigner. He glanced down and waited silently for the Grand Inquisitor to continue.

"My son, we also have great power over human beings. You know that they fear us and with this fear we can control them. However, if we use this power incorrectly, this fear can turn against us. Consider this always! I wish you God’s blessing for your further work."

Unassertively, the foreigner looked at the Grand Inquisitor who gestured with the hand with the ring. The audience was finished. The foreigner stood up, kissed the ring and left the room. He hurried through the corridor to the entrance hall and stepped outside.

It was now dark. Still it was hot. The foreigner noticed that beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. His clothes were soaked with sweat, too. He hurried to get away from the house of the inquisition. He headed for the river, where he hoped to be cooled by the evening wind. He would dive into the busy crowd there. Nobody would notice him.