“Silence, Jew! You ought not to complain. The Inquisition is an instrument perfected by one of your co-religionists—Thomas de Torquemada.”

The officers approached and surrounded me.

“And by the way,” His Holiness added, “he has a valet who is waiting outside. Tickle him also a little to make him speak.”

The officers smiled.

“But first this man—a Jew and an infidel.”

He motioned with his head and reseated himself. I was pulled away unceremoniously. His Holiness fondled the Holy Grail.

LXV: THE HOLY INQUISITION—UNTAPPED RESERVOIRS—A NUN VISITS ME—“DANCE!”—THE ABBESS OF THE CONVENT OF THE SACRED HEART—SALOME BATTLES AGAINST THE MOON

A LONG room. In the center, upon a platform, a round table. In an angle, a bench, the length of a tall man, at one end a pole, at the other a windlass—a simple thing, almost a toy.

A soldier in back of me, the tip of his sword touching my body. At the rack, a colossal individual stricken with elephantiasis—an enormous face, the color of mud, a nose wrinkled like an elephant’s trunk, crossed with heavy red and blue veins, and ears like two open palms. At the table, three stout individuals dressed in black.

The man in the center reading, reading accusations against me. Jew, blasphemer, mocker of Jesus, the Pope and the Holy Church, enemy of all Christian institutions, false claimant to the French nobility, plunderer of holy relics—reading, reading—

What would be the final judgment? Would I be burned at the stake? Would I become a mass of blisters and raw flesh, unable to live, incapable of death? Would I be ordered to the rack, my members torn from their sockets, my flesh cut into shreds, while consciousness persisted in each writhing nerve? Would I be buried alive, to feed, living, the worm that dieth not?

Should I confess or refute the crimes and sins attributed to me? Which meant less torture?

Never had I been in such imminent danger, not even when the cenaculum of Charlemagne tried me for heresy and bribery. Then, I had a flicker of hope,—the Emperor might remember my services, he needed my drugs to relieve his pain. The Borgias knew neither mercy nor gratitude.

Meanwhile, the man continued reading, reading a strange and new version of the life of Cartaphilus, Wandering Jew, Anti-Christ.

Where was Kotikokura? Was he tried separately? Had he escaped? Had he, like some wild animal, scented the danger awaiting him?

The man read on. Soon he would stop—and then—no, Cartaphilus must not surrender without a struggle! But the soldier’s sword touched my back, and the monstrous individual stood erect beside the rack.

The ring of Antonio and Antonia! The ring! The ring! Why did this word reverberate in my mind?

The ring!

I turned it on my finger. A ray of the sun played upon it. It glittered like a small lamp in a dark cellar. One of the three judges looked at it, fascinated. The ring! The word rose from a great depth, as a bucket rises from a well—heavy and overbrimming.

The ring!

He continued to look at it, his lids motionless.

“Save yourself, Cartaphilus! Save yourself!” Was it my own voice? Was it the voice of another? A fierce determination took possession of me. The desire to live, to rescue my body from the claws of the Inquisition, flared up with primordial intensity. Fear vanished. My strength multiplied. I was no longer a man, but an army.

“These,” the voice—this time clearly within me—cried, “are mortals, Cartaphilus. You are the stuff of which the stars are made…!”

I stretched forth my arms and fastened my look upon the Inquisitor at the left. The man blinked and tried to turn his head. He struggled. The tension was plainly tangible. I continued to concentrate upon him. The rays of the ring pierced his eyes. Suddenly he succumbed. His head dropped like a toy and he began to breathe with the regularity of a sleeper.

The man in the center droned on, without raising his head.

The Inquisitor on his right rose suddenly, and raised his arm to utter a malediction. I could almost hear the words: “Demon! Jew!” His fiery eyes sank into mine for a moment. In spite of the most desperate resistance, I held him. ‘Cartaphilus’ I shouted within myself, ‘Hold him! Hold fast.’ I summoned new reserves out of the depths of myself, as one wrenches a root deeply buried in the earth. An irresistible power, an overwhelming will-to-be, raw, invincible, like life itself, rose from its hiding place in the last layer of my being.

“Sleep!” I commanded. “Sleep! Sleep!” My eyes burned into his. The ring splashed him with fire. Suddenly, no longer a man but an automaton, he breathed deeply, reseated himself, placed his head upon his arm, and snored.

The Chief Inquisitor looked up, astounded. I waved my hands. I recited a passage from the Vedas to distract his attention from his two colleagues. Catching his eyes, I sucked them into mine. His self disappeared in the whirlpool. He struggled like a drowning man, but the waves of energy emanating from me robbed him of his senses. His eyes became as glass.

“Order the soldier who stands behind me to drop his sword and leave,” I whispered.

“Leave!” he commanded. The soldier obeyed.

“Order the Executioner to depart!”

“Depart!” he reiterated.

The executioner departed.

“Now sleep! Sleep!”

He closed his eyes and reclined in his chair.

I breathed heavily through my mouth, like a man who climbs a steep hill, a load upon his back. But I was not exhausted. New strength had flowed into me from the untapped reservoirs of my life—the life of centuries.

The three men, snoring mechanically, looked like crows, their heads half-hidden between their wings.

For the moment I was safe. The bayonet did not pierce my back, nor did the monster in red glare at me, his enormous nose shivering and creasing like an elephant’s trunk. But I was still within the chamber of the Holy Inquisition and outside, doubtless, were the sentinels of the Pope. Maybe Alexander himself, preceded by silver trumpets, was on his way to the court-room! I had to decide upon immediate means of escape.

As I was weighing one thing and another, half accepting, half rejecting, the door opened. A nun, heavily hooded so that hardly more than the lashes of her eyes and the tip of her nose were visible, entered. She looked about furtively.

Where had I seen her, and when? That gait…that carriage! Who was she? The nun approached me and lifted her veil.

“Kotikokura!” I exclaimed. I opened my eyes so wide that they hurt me. “Kotikokura, my friend! Is it possible?” I embraced him. He kissed my hands. “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha, my master!” His eyes filled with tears.

“What is the meaning of this attire?” I asked.

He placed his forefinger to his lips and gave me a bundle. I opened it. Within it was a nun’s attire. In a few minutes, I was as orthodox a nun as walked the streets of Rome. Kotikokura made a gesture of admiration. “Oh, wait a minute, Kotikokura! One must not run away so unceremoniously from one’s host—if one’s host is the Pope.”

Upon the back of the scroll which contained the indictment for high crimes against me, I wrote in large letters: “To His Holiness, Pope Alexander VI from the Wandering Jew.” I put the scroll into one of my shoes which I carefully placed on the rack.

I looked at my judges. Suddenly the word “dance” reverberated through my mind. I approached the table.

“Dance!” I commanded. “Dance! Dance!” I repeated.

The Holy Inquisitors lifted their heads slowly, opened their eyes, and descended from the platform.

“Dance, dance!”

They raised their robes in the manner of elegant ladies and began to dance—a weird, disjointed, savage dance. In Kotikokura the dance aroused tribal reminiscences. He looked bewildered. His legs shivered.