“It is a pity,” Frollo said. “We shall wait here- wake up, Clopin, and say goodbye to the boy,”
The guard came and removed Pheobus from the chair. They did not go far- only down to the hallway, where the prisoners were whipped. There, Pheobus’ arms were hooked to the wall, and a stripe of skin was removed with the crack of the whip.
“What count?” The guard asked.
“One,” Pheobus managed to choke out. Another line of skin was drawn from his back, the pain, like lightning, leaving a scar across his vision. “Two,”
The whip was spiked, leaving a bite with the slash of the hide. When he missed count, the guard would turn him over and drive a wedge under his nails.
Hours passed. Pheobus’ back ran red with blood, his fingers mutilated, sobbing for forgiveness. He stood trembling at the wall, waiting for the sixtieth blow, when the guard took him off the hook, wrenched the wedges from his fingers, and brought him back to the dungeon, where Clopin and Frollo were waiting.
Clopin was still seated on the floor, his face up, his red, exhausted eyes seething with hatred at the judge.
“Look, Pheobus,” Frollo said, gesturing to Clopin. “The gypsy has learned to stay silent. Now if only we could teach him to bark like a dog and fetch sticks, he might be of some use,”
Frollo laughed. Clopin was silent. Pheobus was sat back in his chair, his head swimming from the rush. He could hear Frollo speaking, but not the words themselves.
A light shined in his eyes.
A searing pain leaked down his back, dead flesh rolling away as the liquid bore into his skin. He writhed, muscles in his back jerking against his flesh.
“I was wondering if you were still with us,” Frollo muttered, setting aside the vial of salt water. “There we are- all together again. As I was saying- the guards tell me you still won’t speak. This is very poor behavior, Pheobus. A good Christian man would not keep information from his friends,”
“I have no information,” Pheobus said.
“Your will is iron, boy, but your body is not. Forgiveness is the word of Christ- repent,”
“I have done nothing wrong,” Pheobus said. He was set on his feet and moved.
His arms were tied before him, his shoulders near his ears. The judge clamped iron on his fingers and twisted a gear, and Pheobus watched a stream of blood leak from his missing fingernails.
The judge removed himself, again applying the salt onto his back. The pain flashed across his spine, then down his shoulders and speared his fingers.
He screamed.
The screw twisted again, the iron biting down into the brittle bones in his fingers, veins and flesh squeezing like a boil preparing to burst.
“M’sieur Pheobus, the Captain, I beseech you once more- repent. Confess. Give in to the light of the Lord, and you will be spared. Look at your hands, M’sieur- I don’t know how much more they will take. One twist or two, the screw with destroy them. Such good hands, look at them, Captain. You will never again hold the reins of your horse or the handle of your sword. You won’t feel anything when you run them through a woman’s hair, or touch a fine brocade,”
Pheobus’ lungs shook inside his chest- he was sobbing, he realized.
“What did you say, M’sieur?” Frollo asked. Pheobus’ lips moved- he felt the air on his tongue, the muscles in his cheek twitch.
“I did not hear you. Once again, please,”
“I confess!”
Frollo spun on his heel.
“Did you hear me?” Clopin shouted. “I confess! It was all my idea! I have done it all!”
Frollo reached Clopin in two strides.
“I beg your pardon?” He asked.
“The entire operation- the burglary, the blasphemy, the witchcraft- it was my idea,” Clopin said. “M’sieur the Captain was a fingerpuppet in the game. He was a pawn. You have beaten a scapegoat,”
Frollo laughed. “Are these the great tricks of the King of the Gypsies?”
“Burglary, witchcraft and blasphemy, you mean?” Clopin asked innocently. “They are!”
“It is a pity,” Frollo said. “We shall wait here- wake up, Clopin, and say goodbye to the boy,”
The guard came and removed Pheobus from the chair. They did not go far- only down to the hallway, where the prisoners were whipped. There, Pheobus’ arms were hooked to the wall, and a stripe of skin was removed with the crack of the whip.
“What count?” The guard asked.
“One,” Pheobus managed to choke out. Another line of skin was drawn from his back, the pain, like lightning, leaving a scar across his vision. “Two,”
The whip was spiked, leaving a bite with the slash of the hide. When he missed count, the guard would turn him over and drive a wedge under his nails.
Hours passed. Pheobus’ back ran red with blood, his fingers mutilated, sobbing for forgiveness. He stood trembling at the wall, waiting for the sixtieth blow, when the guard took him off the hook, wrenched the wedges from his fingers, and brought him back to the dungeon, where Clopin and Frollo were waiting.
Clopin was still seated on the floor, his face up, his red, exhausted eyes seething with hatred at the judge.
“Look, Pheobus,” Frollo said, gesturing to Clopin. “The gypsy has learned to stay silent. Now if only we could teach him to bark like a dog and fetch sticks, he might be of some use,”
Frollo laughed. Clopin was silent. Pheobus was sat back in his chair, his head swimming from the rush. He could hear Frollo speaking, but not the words themselves.
A light shined in his eyes.
A searing pain leaked down his back, dead flesh rolling away as the liquid bore into his skin. He writhed, muscles in his back jerking against his flesh.
“I was wondering if you were still with us,” Frollo muttered, setting aside the vial of salt water. “There we are- all together again. As I was saying- the guards tell me you still won’t speak. This is very poor behavior, Pheobus. A good Christian man would not keep information from his friends,”
“I have no information,” Pheobus said.
“Your will is iron, boy, but your body is not. Forgiveness is the word of Christ- repent,”
“I have done nothing wrong,” Pheobus said. He was set on his feet and moved.
His arms were tied before him, his shoulders near his ears. The judge clamped iron on his fingers and twisted a gear, and Pheobus watched a stream of blood leak from his missing fingernails.
The judge removed himself, again applying the salt onto his back. The pain flashed across his spine, then down his shoulders and speared his fingers.
He screamed.
The screw twisted again, the iron biting down into the brittle bones in his fingers, veins and flesh squeezing like a boil preparing to burst.
“M’sieur Pheobus, the Captain, I beseech you once more- repent. Confess. Give in to the light of the Lord, and you will be spared. Look at your hands, M’sieur- I don’t know how much more they will take. One twist or two, the screw with destroy them. Such good hands, look at them, Captain. You will never again hold the reins of your horse or the handle of your sword. You won’t feel anything when you run them through a woman’s hair, or touch a fine brocade,”
Pheobus’ lungs shook inside his chest- he was sobbing, he realized.
“What did you say, M’sieur?” Frollo asked. Pheobus’ lips moved- he felt the air on his tongue, the muscles in his cheek twitch.
“I did not hear you. Once again, please,”
“I confess!”
Frollo spun on his heel.
“Did you hear me?” Clopin shouted. “I confess! It was all my idea! I have done it all!”
Frollo reached Clopin in two strides.
“I beg your pardon?” He asked.
“The entire operation- the burglary, the blasphemy, the witchcraft- it was my idea,” Clopin said. “M’sieur the Captain was a fingerpuppet in the game. He was a pawn. You have beaten a scapegoat,”
Frollo laughed. “Are these the great tricks of the King of the Gypsies?”
“Burglary, witchcraft and blasphemy, you mean?” Clopin asked innocently. “They are!”
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