A Prisoner Is Shown the Torture Implements

The bricks were sweating, nervous. Icy slime had soaked his coat-sleeve, much to his disgust. Tall baulks of formless timber seemed to climb towards the bulbous shadows. Guido, trussed and pinioned, tried to scratch the saline rime that nagged his upper lip (for scratch he must), using his shoulder. Someone’s hand-held lamp was scouring crazy patterns on the damp. As Fisc officials fidgeted and fussed, Count Guido, motionless, gouged free of Time, stared at the torture implements. Nonplussed, unravelled, unaware of glare or grime, he saw steel jaws, unsoftened by stale dust. The hanging chains, when brushed, gave up a chime as sinister as that serrated clamp which dominated all the waiting ramp. The irony was utterly sublime. They’ll “put him to the question”, as discussed. As fitted the prevailing paradigm, They’d tear his vitals, gouge him, drill him, thrust their white-hot spikes quite through him, till his crime was suitably admitted, as was “just”. Some may withstand the pincers’ chew and champ, but Guido knew he wasn’t of that stamp. His eyes had hardly started to adjust. Prolonging this perverted pantomime would only satisfy the sadists’ lust. If necessary, he’d recant in rhyme. His knuckles scraped the carapace of rust of some utensil, which this fetid clime so soon engendered. Turning to decamp, he felt no pain beyond necrotic cramp.