suddenly bite him hard. He kept himself insulated against the world for the most part, with an armour of leather binding, glued spines and black lettering.
Up Coin Street: windows were open, and the tap-tap of hammers and hiss of scalding steam drifted out from the workshops, bringing the smell of hot metal with it. Everyone seemed hard at work, except him. He felt ashamed, and started to hurry.
6
When it was done, and the guards had escorted Gerhard and a white-faced Felix back to the fortress, Büber stood in silent contemplation in front of the pressing pit, his teeth grazing at the scar-tissue of one of his finger stumps.
The crowd, which had gathered to hear Walter of Danzig’s bones crack, started to leave, and Reinhardt, who’d been in charge of the execution, waited for Büber to give the nod and start the business of raising the massive stone slab.
The sacred grove of ash trees was in the main square of the town, surrounded by tall houses in the same way that the grove surrounded the bleached, smoothed pole of the irminsul. Büber looked up at the pale, ancient trunk, crowned with thick iron nails that bled rust.
The pit was at the base of the irminsul itself. Long ago, their priest-princes had sacrificed captives to Wotan One-Eye by hanging them from the trees. More civilised times had decided that the gods didn’t need blood to keep the crops growing and the summer returning, and the pressing pit had been devised to execute criminals out of sight, if not out of hearing.
Quite how crushing a man’s breath from his body until his ribs snapped and his skull shattered counted as civilised escaped Büber. There were quicker, cleaner deaths to be had.
“Come on then, Captain.” He was weary of this already. “Let’s get it done.”
Reinhardt ordered his men to haul on the rope that passed through the block-and-tackle, and together they watched the stone winched, inch by inch, from the socket in the ground.
The Teuton had been spread-eagled and each limb tied to an inset iron ring. He’d been struggling and screaming and cursing, and it had taken strong men to hold him down. It would take only one to cut him free and remove him from the pit.
Büber pulled out the knife from his belt and went round each corner to saw through the cords, even as the stone carried on rising. As he stepped back, there was a sucking sound and a wet thud. That would be the Teuton’s head.
There was a drain, but that didn’t stop the flags that formed the floor of the pit from being stained almost black. It smelt of everything that had been in the man before the stone came down.
“It’ll need sluicing out,” said Büber, and when Reinhardt grimaced, he added plainly: “You want my job?”
“Thank you kindly, but no, Master Büber. The men’ll see to it.”
Büber unfolded the waxed canvas sheet next to the pit, and took hold of the Teuton’s arms. He gave a tug, and decided that the rest would probably follow. He stepped backwards, easing the body onto the sheet. It was so disarticulated as to appear boneless.
The face was the worst. Danzig looked almost, but not quite, unrecognisable. The chest was a forest of white bone splinters, and his stomach had burst. In contrast, the hands and feet were pristine. Büber used the toe of his boot to arrange the body, then folded the edges of the heavy cloth together. He knelt down and started to sew the shroud up with a bodkin and thick thread.
Reinhardt and his crew chocked the pressing stone up on blocks of timber, and started pouring buckets of water collected from a fountain into the pit. They had stiff-bristled brooms to attack the gore.
Büber looked up from his task occasionally, catching Reinhardt’s gaze. They wore the same expressions of grim-faced resignation. They had their orders, and they knew better than to disobey, even if some of the things they were told to do didn’t make sense, or were foul.
At some point, someone from the stables brought a horse
Up Coin Street: windows were open, and the tap-tap of hammers and hiss of scalding steam drifted out from the workshops, bringing the smell of hot metal with it. Everyone seemed hard at work, except him. He felt ashamed, and started to hurry.
6
When it was done, and the guards had escorted Gerhard and a white-faced Felix back to the fortress, Büber stood in silent contemplation in front of the pressing pit, his teeth grazing at the scar-tissue of one of his finger stumps.
The crowd, which had gathered to hear Walter of Danzig’s bones crack, started to leave, and Reinhardt, who’d been in charge of the execution, waited for Büber to give the nod and start the business of raising the massive stone slab.
The sacred grove of ash trees was in the main square of the town, surrounded by tall houses in the same way that the grove surrounded the bleached, smoothed pole of the irminsul. Büber looked up at the pale, ancient trunk, crowned with thick iron nails that bled rust.
The pit was at the base of the irminsul itself. Long ago, their priest-princes had sacrificed captives to Wotan One-Eye by hanging them from the trees. More civilised times had decided that the gods didn’t need blood to keep the crops growing and the summer returning, and the pressing pit had been devised to execute criminals out of sight, if not out of hearing.
Quite how crushing a man’s breath from his body until his ribs snapped and his skull shattered counted as civilised escaped Büber. There were quicker, cleaner deaths to be had.
“Come on then, Captain.” He was weary of this already. “Let’s get it done.”
Reinhardt ordered his men to haul on the rope that passed through the block-and-tackle, and together they watched the stone winched, inch by inch, from the socket in the ground.
The Teuton had been spread-eagled and each limb tied to an inset iron ring. He’d been struggling and screaming and cursing, and it had taken strong men to hold him down. It would take only one to cut him free and remove him from the pit.
Büber pulled out the knife from his belt and went round each corner to saw through the cords, even as the stone carried on rising. As he stepped back, there was a sucking sound and a wet thud. That would be the Teuton’s head.
There was a drain, but that didn’t stop the flags that formed the floor of the pit from being stained almost black. It smelt of everything that had been in the man before the stone came down.
“It’ll need sluicing out,” said Büber, and when Reinhardt grimaced, he added plainly: “You want my job?”
“Thank you kindly, but no, Master Büber. The men’ll see to it.”
Büber unfolded the waxed canvas sheet next to the pit, and took hold of the Teuton’s arms. He gave a tug, and decided that the rest would probably follow. He stepped backwards, easing the body onto the sheet. It was so disarticulated as to appear boneless.
The face was the worst. Danzig looked almost, but not quite, unrecognisable. The chest was a forest of white bone splinters, and his stomach had burst. In contrast, the hands and feet were pristine. Büber used the toe of his boot to arrange the body, then folded the edges of the heavy cloth together. He knelt down and started to sew the shroud up with a bodkin and thick thread.
Reinhardt and his crew chocked the pressing stone up on blocks of timber, and started pouring buckets of water collected from a fountain into the pit. They had stiff-bristled brooms to attack the gore.
Büber looked up from his task occasionally, catching Reinhardt’s gaze. They wore the same expressions of grim-faced resignation. They had their orders, and they knew better than to disobey, even if some of the things they were told to do didn’t make sense, or were foul.
At some point, someone from the stables brought a horse
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