The Heretic

by Antonio Bellomi

Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

After the heretic had been led away, the Inquisitor was left alone in the empty Hall, his elbow resting on the armrest of the golden chair. He was gazing into the void, far and away, beyond Blarion, staring at the appalling vision of a flaming world that the spaceships of the Holy See had turned into a volcano of incandescent lava.

Death and destruction. But had it been really necessary? he asked himself.

Before he could find an answer, a captain of the Swiss Guard came in. “You are needed in the Op-Room, Inquisitor,” he said. “It is briefing time.”

The Inquisitor followed him without speaking. When he entered the Op-Room all the commanders of the spaceships that had taken part in the punitive expedition were standing around the long table. Only when the Inquisitor took his place at the head table did the commanders seat themselves too. The Inquisitor stared at them and saw determined faces, faces that were used to the hard laws of war, faces of Dominicans who were ready for every challenge to enforce the law of the Cross.

Admiral Fau Majok, the commander in chief of the Holy Fleet, was the first to speak. He was a hardened red-skinned Antarian with green hair, and the Inquisitor had already had the chance to appreciate his abilities a few times in the past.

“The heresy has been smashed, Inquisitor,” the Admiral said. He pronounced the words with a characteristic hiss that made him sound like a venomous reptilian. “We have also smashed the resistance of the Klaufir fortress, the last position of the Albigeses. Now all of Blarion IV is in our hands.”

He paused and awaited for an approving nod from the Inquisitor, but the Inquisitor did not answer immediately. His gaze was lost once again in the distant darkness of space, where a world was still smoldering. The silence in the room became almost unbearable, but nobody dared break it. Two of the officers looked at each other questioningly, at a loss.

After a while the Inquisitor seemed to come back to himself and returned his gaze towards the Admiral. “Thank you, Admiral Majok. Your action has been highly commendable, sirs. Not only have you destroyed the nest of vipers that infested Albiges, but you have skillfully smashed the resistance of the heretics that had militarily conquered Blarion IV.”

He paused, then went on. “Now the military part of our mission is finished, I’ll inform the Holy Father that our expedition has succeeded. But there is still one more thing to do, the most unpleasant part of our mission but nonetheless the most needed.”

“We are only waiting for orders,” Admiral Fau Majok said. “Whatever they may be, they will be obeyed.”

The inquisitor looked at the faces of his commanders, one after the other, to be sure there would be no resistance to the order that he was about to give. A few of the men shifted uneasily under the scorching gaze flowing from the holes of the black mask, but nobody spoke.

“The orders of the Holy Father are clear,” the Inquisitor said flatly. “These people, these heretics, these Albigeses, dared to challenge the power of the Church on a cosmic scale such as nobody had the arrogance to do before them. These heretics not only brought the evil seed of heresy to this world, which was faithful to the decrees of the Holy Roman Church, they even dared to turn their arms against the most faithful Catholics, the subjects who were most dear to the heart of the Holy Father.

“They have destroyed, maimed and killed to impose their false faith,” the Admiral dared to say. The other commanders did not even speak a word in the face of that temerity, but the Inquisitor did not seem to pay any attention to the infringement of protocol. He thrust a hand in a pocket of the white cassock with the red flaming cross on the breast and fished out a slip of paper.

“Here is the hypergram the Holy Father sent the day we arrived on Blarion IV. It was encrypted, and I was authorized to read it to you only after our victory.”

The Inquisitor spread out the paper in front of him. He knew the text by heart, having read it over and over in the last days, but he read it aloud and slowly as if it were seeing it for the first time and feared to skip a word.

“The blood of the martyrs of Blarion IV will fall upon those who caused it. Let the blood and the suffering of the heretics atone for the sacrilege performed by their arms against Blarion IV, this world so close to our fatherly heart.”

A frozen silence fell in the room. The punishment would be hard, the hardest of them all. For how many years had it not been applied to the numerous heretical sects that had sprung up time and again in the galaxy? Nobody knew, but all knew it had not been enforced for centuries. It was also true, though, that no other heretical sect had dared to defy the Holy See in a time so sensitive for the interstellar balance, mused the Inquisitor.

He looked at the faces of his officers and saw them full of tension, almost scared of the responsibility they were burdened with.

“This means the crucifixion,” the Admiral said and his voice trembled. The other officers could hardly breathe, and they stared at the Inquisitor, who, with firm hands, was religiously folding the message from Rome.

“The crucifixion,” the Special Inquisitor confirmed dryly, with a nod of his silver-haired head. “The execution will be broadcast by hypervision and will be on air on all the worlds we can reach. The other worlds will receive a recording. All people must understand that the patience of the Holy Father could not bear the arrogance of the heretics any longer. No citizen of the Holy Roman Galaxy will be allowed to forget that day, and what will happen on Blarion IV shall be a reminder to all future generations.”

Nobody spoke. Then the Admiral indicated to Commander Vasco Bejo, the appointee for special services, that he could speak. “Are there special instructions, Inquisitor?” he asked with deference. “Do you have preferences for the organization or do you give us carte blanche?”

The Inquisitor looked at him and considered him carefully. He knew Commander Bejo very well. He was a young and very talented man; he could be relied upon notwithstanding his shrunken form and the look of a bird of prey, which made people shiver when looking at him.

“Only one instruction, Commander Bejo,” the Inquisitor answered. “The crosses shall be planted on both sides of the boulevard leading to the Purification Basilica. For this event, all the branches of the trees shall be cut, and the trunks shall be the poles of the crosses. There are three hundred trees, and they will be enough for the most prominent prisoners. For the other heretics their punishment will be decided at a later time.”

Admiral Fau Majok broke in. “I respectfully observe that we have only five hundred prisoners. All other heretics were killed in combat. It would very easy to build the missing crosses...”

“No!”

The eyes of the Inquisitor flashed. “Three hundred are the trees and three hundred shall be the victims. Their number is sufficient for an exemplary punishment that will go down in history. I don’t see any reason to make people suffer atrociously more than absolutely necessary. Our action shall be an example, not a vengeance.”

The Admiral did not reply. He felt wounded by the rebuke but did not show it.

The other officers did not object. None would have dared to.

“As for the organization,” said the Inquisitor with a shadow of a smile under the mask, “I will leave it up to you, Commander Bejo. I know I can count on your competence.”

* * *

Three days before the collective execution, Father Ombuda was led again to the Special Inquisitor and, as before, he was left alone with him in the great Hearing Hall of the Archbishopric. In the meantime he had not suffered any more torture, and he appeared to have gained strength. Nonetheless he staggered when the Inquisitor came down the steps of the dais and approached him,

“Are you afraid?” the Inquisitor asked him softly.

Father Ombuda threw him a contemptuous glance. “I am not afraid for myself,” he said. “I am just thinking of the suffering you want to force on my disciples. Is it not enough for you to avenge yourself by punishing me, the leader of the so-called heretics?”

The Inquisitor shook his head. “I am not looking for vengeance. I only wish to stop heresies in the Holy Roman Galaxy, and for this it is necessary that the people of the ten thousand suns see your collective execution.”

“But what sort of a man are you to give the most atrocious of deaths to other people? You say we tortured, but this is not true. Yes, in battle we killed the people we considered heretics, but torture, no, we never used torture.”

“Are you really sure?” the Inquisitor asked him coldly.

Father Ombuda’s sureness faltered. “At least those were my orders. If somebody disobeyed...”

In the vast hall silence fell. The sun of Blarion IV was setting down in the third afternoon before the execution and the first shadows were slithering out of the corners of the walls like black vipers.

“The orders, always orders,” the Inquisitor said softly. “Words coming and going...”

He had come close to the prisoner and stood in front of him as if he wanted to say something more and suddenly Father Ombuda raised his chained hands and yanked his mask away. A last sliver of light fell on the features of the Inquisitor and a choked cry escaped from the cracked lips of the prisoner. “The Venerable Master!”

The Inquisitor stood petrified. His lean ascetic face was tense and showed the signs of inner suffering. His eyes revealed an infinite sadness.

Father Ombuda fell to his knees in front of him. “Venerable Master, I don’t understand! You... tell me what is happening. I don’t understand anymore...”

The Inquisitor bent to his old disciple and raised him to his feet, clasping him in an embrace. When he spoke, his voice was laden with pain.

“Father Ombuda,” he told him. “You have been deceived. All of Albiges was deceived. Your heresy was built up artificially. Your emissaries throughout the universe were deceived, and they sent untrue reports so that you could create your false heresy.

“The Church of Rome helped you secretly for years and years so that one day you would revolt and bring war to it. And I, the Venerable Master Moar Januzy, I am the real culprit, because with my teachings I encouraged you to mount your attack against the heart of the Church itself.”

“It was all a lie...” Father Ombuda murmured, his eyes full of horror. “It was all a deceit... built slowly and artificially to push us against the Church... against Blarion IV... But why, why, Venerable Master... and why did you accept such an infamous role?”

The Inquisitor took the old disciple to a stool and bade him to sit down. Then he stood in front of him, crossing the arms on his breast. “I did it for the greatness of the Church,” he said huskily. “Because this was the desire of the Holy Father. Because Faith was waning away among the worlds of the stars and only the blood of the martyrs could give new life to it.

“Religious numbness should not prevail, and it was necessary to awaken the awareness of people. People are inclined to forget the True Faith when the Universe is at peace. The occasional heresies arising here and there were not strong enough to stir souls from their apathy. A striking example was necessary, one so outrageous that it would need an exemplary and unforgettable punishment.”

“And the Holy Father chose us,” Father Ombuda said bitterly. “How much suffering could have been spared. How much unnecessary pain...”

“Not unnecessary, Father Ombuda!” the Inquisitor exclaimed. “Think of what was accomplished. Your suffering will atone for the sin of apathy that permeated the universe. You will relive the death of Our Lord and your example will sing His Glory with a stronger voice!”

“The means of the Lord!” Father Ombuda murmured. “I... I believe your choice was a wrong one, but... if it will be necessary to give new life to the Faith, then we will gladly accept martyrdom...”

The Inquisitor grabbed his shoulders. “Father Ombuda, this is what I hoped to hear from you. The Glory of God is more important than our li...”

The body of Father Ombuda slumped in his arms.

Dead?

The Inquisitor bent over him. Father Ombuda’s heart had ceased to beat.

The emotion, the Inquisitor thought. Father Ombuda’s heart could not withstand the revelation after the torture of the recent days.

The Inquisitor touched his brow. The chief of the heretics could not miss his appointment with the sacrifice, or even the death of his followers would be useless.

The Inquisitor quickly bent over Father Ombuda’s body and unlocked the chain with his universal key. He stripped the body of the plain cassock and dressed it again with his own, the one with the flaming cross. The face of Father Ombuda had relaxed into an expression of peace, and the Inquisitor put his own black velvet mask on the dead man’s face. Their silver hair was identical.

The heretics would be put on the cross, and their leader too. Nobody would know of the impersonation. The martyrdom of the Albigeses would be carried out even if the Special Inquisitor had died of a heart attack. And though he had never agreed with the Holy Father’s schemes to strengthen the faith of his people, he would not draw back, now that he had to pay for it with his life.

He donned Father Ombuda’s cassock and put on the black hood that the heretic had so contemptuously refused. It was his right as a condemned man to wear it, and nobody would take it away from him — not even the Good Sisters of Nazareth, to whose hands he would be entrusted for torture before the execution.

He slowly began to pray: “Domine non sum dignus...”