The Sword Brothers (6 page)

Conrad looked around
the square and saw that some of the rooftops were filled with
spectators, while below them people were hanging out of windows to
get a better view.

‘Crows,’ sneered
Henke.

On the higher rooftops
were real crows, great fat beasts that were beginning to assemble
in anticipation of a tasty feast. Conrad was perplexed by the whole
spectacle. He had never been brought to such events before, though
there were some children in the crowd, most on the shoulders of
their parents who were pointing at the scaffold and the various
devices on it. In the windows of the houses positioned immediately
behind the scaffold were persons of quality, noble men and women
who had paid for the privilege of being close to the
executions.

‘Will my father be
arriving soon?’ asked Conrad, who began to suspect that something
was not quite right with what he was seeing.

Half a dozen
individuals entered the square, all dressed in black leggings,
short-sleeved tunics and hoods over their heads. They were
skinners, men who made a living from skinning dead animals and
disposing of the carcasses. But they also assisted the executioner
in a number of ways, from torturing prisoners during interrogations
to assisting him on the day of executions itself.

‘Yes,’ said Rudolf,
‘he will be here soon.’

People began to jeer
and hiss as the skinners made their way to the scaffold. Not for
nothing did they wear hoods to conceal their identities. The church
absolved executioners of any personal responsibility for the deaths
they caused because they were carrying out the judgement of just
and godly authorities, but the citizenry largely despised them. So
they hid their identities to prevent public opprobrium and out of
fear of retribution from friends or family of the condemned. Once
on the scaffold they placed the branding irons and tongs in the
coals of the braziers. The chatter among the crowd became more
agitated and excitable. There was a frisson in the air, the
anticipation of blood and suffering. Rudolf looked at Henke and
shook his head, then glanced at Conrad.

There were more boos
and hisses as the executioner himself slowly made his way to the
scaffold, a hulking brute of a man attired in knee-length black
leather boots, tight black hose, waist-length short-sleeved grey
tunic secured by a black leather belt and a black leather face mask
that encased his large head. Members of the crowd moved back as he
ambled to the scaffold, not daring to look this agent of death in
the eye.

‘There’s father,’
shouted Conrad as a wagon pulled by two horses entered the square
from the northeast entrance, a great cheer erupting from the crowd
when they saw it. Driven by a skinner wearing a hood, a pale,
nervous priest attired in a white gown walked beside it, reading
from an open Bible he had in his hands. On the back of the wagon
was a large iron cage, in which were half a dozen prisoners – three
male, three female – one of whom was Dietmar Wolff. Without
thinking Conrad rushed forward to be near his father, who sat
disconsolately on the floor of the cage. His fellow male prisoners
were standing at the bars of the cage, staring wide-eyed at the
crowd and then at the scaffold that was rearing into view as they
contemplated the final minutes of their lives.

‘Father, father,’
called Conrad, who reached the wagon and began waving at his
father.

Dietmar looked up and
saw his son walking beside the wagon. He rose unsteadily and went
to the bars, stretching out a hand to his son.

‘It will be all right,
father,’ said Conrad, grasping his father’s hand, ‘I have brought
friends who will get you released.’

Tears streamed down
Dietmar’s face as he held his son’s hand.

‘Where is your
sister?’

Conrad smiled. ‘She is
safe at the nunnery, father. The nuns have been very kind to
her.’

‘You must leave this
place, Conrad.’

Conrad was shocked.
‘Leave? Why? We will leave together, father.’

Suddenly the crowd
began pelting the cage with rotten vegetables and stones, a piece
of flint hitting Dietmar above the eye, causing him to flinch and
let go of Conrad’s hand.

‘Come with me,’ said
Rudolf as he pulled Conrad away from the wagon that was now being
struck from all directions. Those inside cowered and sank to the
floor in an effort to make themselves smaller targets, shielding
their heads with their hands as best they could. The crowd was
engulfed in rapture at their plight and the filth-covered priest
who had been unwittingly caught in the barrage.

‘Father, father!’
screamed Conrad as Rudolf and Henke dragged him back to a safe
distance.

‘It is too late,
Conrad,’ said Rudolf, holding his shoulders firmly and looking
directly into the boy’s eyes.

The realisation that
his father had been brought to this place to die finally dawned on
Conrad. The colour drained from his cheeks and his knees buckled
from under him. Henke caught him before he collapsed and held him
upright.

‘No,’ said Conrad
faintly.

But his anguished cry
was drowned out in the tumult as the crowd warmed itself up pelting
the now terrified prisoners. After a few minutes one of the
skinners blew a short trumpet, its high-pitched sound resonating
across the square and silencing the crowd. The executioner also
raised his hands to still any other noise. A silence charged with
expectation hung over the throng like a thundercloud.

The executioner nodded
to one of the guards ringing the scaffold and he and two others
went to the wagon where the priest was rubbing his now dirty robe
with his hands. The skinner was unlocking the cage door and opened
it when the guards arrived. One called a name that Conrad thought
he had heard before and one of the male prisoners walked gingerly
forward, to be roughly seized by the guards and manhandled down the
steps at the back of the wagon. He was pushed forward to the
scaffold and up the steps to where the skinners were waiting. The
priest followed him, reciting prayers as two skinners grabbed his
arms and a third pulled off his white gown, now smeared with
filth.

Executions were always
held three days after sentencing – the same length of time between
Christ’s death and resurrection. During this time a priest would
hear a prisoner’s confession, grant absolution and offer the
Eucharist.

Now the prisoner,
wrapped only in his braies, was spread-eagled on the X-shaped cross
and secured in place by leather straps around his wrists and
ankles. The tension among the crowd was unbearable. A skinner
approached the secured coiner with a pair of red-hot tongs and
began to nip the flesh on his chest with them, causing the man to
scream and convulse as the pain shot through him. The crowd erupted
into wild cheering as the skinner began to dance round the victim,
stopping to tear at his white flesh with the tongs. The priest
standing to one side on the scaffold was now visibly shaking as he
tried to pray for the man, who shrieked every time his flesh was
singed. He thrashed around on the cross in an effort to set himself
free but the straps were too thick and his efforts were in
vain.

Conrad saw the man’s
chest rise and fall as he gasped for air as the shock of his ordeal
gripped his body. The executioner waved the skinner away who
replaced the tongs in the brazier, and then went to the table and
picked up a thick iron bar some three feet in length. The priest
was now talking in gibberish as he stared down at his prayer book.
The executioner walked forward to stand beside the right leg of the
prisoner, who was now groaning. He raised the iron bar above his
head and smashed it down on the man’s shinbone, a sickening crunch
resonating across the square as the limb was shattered.

The coiner emitted a
high-pitched scream as the crowd shouted.

‘One!’

The executioner moved
to stand on the other side of the prisoner and once more brought
down the iron bar, this time on his left shin. The man squealed in
pain and the priest threw up on the scaffold.

‘Two!’

The executioner
shattered the man’s right thigh.

‘Three!’

Then his left
thigh.

‘Four!’

With each blow the
victim’s screams became fainter until they were nothing more than
weak groans by the time that the executioner had smashed his
forearms and upper arms. He walked back to the table and replaced
the iron bar on its surface, then filled a cup with water from a
jug beside it. He drained the cup, refilled it and walked over to
the priest, offering it to him. Conrad stood open mouthed, both
horrified and fascinated by what he had just witnessed: a man
reduced to a bloody pulp that was now being unfastened from the
cross by four skinners while a fifth rolled over one of the wheels
and laid it flat on the scaffold. The mutilated prisoner was then
lifted off the cross, placed on the wheel and his shattered limbs
then braided through the spokes of the wheel. He and it were then
carried to the rear of the scaffold where six tall poles were
positioned in a row. Ladders were placed against the pole on the
far right end of the line and the wheel hoisted onto its top –
directly in front of the noble spectators who applauded politely.
The still living victim, his body a writhing mass of lacerated gore
and shattered bones, was left to become a feast for crows when the
crowds had departed and the scaffold disassembled.

The executioner, his
tunic now splattered with blood, nodded to the guards once more for
them to bring another of the condemned to the scaffold. The custom
was for a woman to follow a man and so the guards went to the rear
of the cage and ordered the poor wretch who had been found guilty
of petty treason to come forward. The woman, dressed in a white
linen gown, screamed and refused to move as the crowd began
jeering. The guards entered the cage. One grabbed her hair as
another hit her hands with the butt of his spear shaft. They
dragged her out and handed her over to the skinners.

They ripped off her
gown and spread-eagled her on the blood-coated cross, fastening the
straps round her limbs. The dancing skinner took a pair of red-hot
tongs from the brazier, these having four claws on the end that he
proceeded to clamp on one of the victim’s breasts. She squealed in
agony as he twisted the tongs to rip the breast from her chest. The
crowd, delighted, erupted into rapturous applause as he held the
grisly trophy in the air and tiptoed back to the brazier.

The ashen-faced
priest, now in a state of shock, babbled incoherently as the
executioner proceeded to smash the woman’s limbs with his iron bar
as the crowd once more counted down the strikes. When it was over
the squirmy pile of flesh and bone was threaded through another
wheel and hoisted into position beside the first victim. And then
the name of Dietmar Wolff was called.

‘No!’ shouted Conrad
and lurched forward, only to be restrained by Henke’s tight grip.
Rudolf grabbed the boy’s shoulders.

‘There is nothing you
can do, Conrad. I am sorry.’

Conrad, tears welling
up in his eyes, looked forlornly at Rudolf as his father stepped
from the cage and walked to the scaffold. He knew the horrible
death that awaited him but to his credit did not flinch in the face
of terror. He may have been a lowly baker but he walked to his
death unfalteringly and with his head held high. The crowd fell
silent as Dietmar Wolff ascended the steps to the scaffold and
pulled the robe over his head and handed it to one of the
skinners.

The executioner’s
other apprentices grabbed the baker and forced him back on the now
bloody, slippery cross as the priest, who had at last managed to
compose himself, stepped forward and made the sign of the cross
over Dietmar. One of the skinners took a pair of tongs from the
brazier but the executioner waved him back. A ripple of excitement
went through the crowd – the executioner wanted to have some fun
with this one. He took the iron bar from the table and wiped the
blood from it with a cloth, then swung it in the air a few times.
People in the crowd nodded and smiled to each other. This should be
worth watching. Conrad, horrified but unwilling to abandon his
father by averting his gaze, saw his lips move as he prayed to God,
the priest likewise reading from the blood-splattered Bible in his
hands.

The executioner
stepped forward, raised the iron bar above his head and brought it
down savagely on Dietmar Wolff’s neck. There was a loud crack
followed by a stunned silence from the crowd. What nonsense was
this? The executioner had killed the baker with a single blow. He
had administered mercy and thus deprived the spectators of
witnessing the torments of a man being smashed to pieces. Conrad
covered his face with his hands and began to sob. Henke looked at
Rudolf who nodded back at him. The previous night they had visited
the executioner in his home and paid him to ensure that Dietmar
Wolff would have a swift death.

‘We should leave this
place of death,’ remarked Rudolf, who caught the eye of the
executioner and made the sign of the cross.

Henke led Conrad away
as the executioner proceeded to smash the limbs of the baker prior
to his corpse being hoisted aloft on a wheel. He proceeded at speed
for the murmurs among the crowd told him that they were not best
pleased to have been deprived of their fun. He knew that it was not
uncommon for executioners to be ripped to pieces by an angry crowd
for either failing to fulfil their expectations or botching the
killing of prisoners. When he had finished he barked orders at the
skinners to fix the mangled corpse to the wheel and ordered the
guards to fetch the next prisoner. Fortunately it was a woman. Once
she had been stripped and her torture started the crowd would soon
forget their displeasure.