The dungeon beneath the Palazzo Trinci reeked of damp stone, mold, and cries of despair. The air was heavy, suffocating, with the faint metallic tang of blood lingering on its slick surfaces. Felix’s boots scuffed against the uneven floor as the guards dragged him by his armpits deeper into the cold, his wrists bound tightly with iron chains.

Ruprecht led the way, torch in hand. “Canis Dei,” he said, his voice echoing in the tight space of the dungeon corridor, “let’s see how loud this hound can howl.”

They stopped before a massive door reinforced with iron rivets. One of the guards produced a heavy key and unlocked it with a resonant clang. The door groaned open, revealing a dark chamber. Instruments of torture lined the walls—racks, pincers, tongs, and hooks—each one designed to reduce flesh and bone to pliant obedience.

Felix was shoved forward, the impact driving him to his knees on the cold stone floor. The guards yanked at his armor straps, stripping him of his clothes. Then they hooked the shackles on his wrists to a chain and lifted him off the floor.

“Leave us,” Ruprecht ordered, placing his torch on the wall. The guards hesitated only a moment before obeying. The iron door slammed shut behind them, sealing Felix alone with the mad Bohemian.

Ruprecht held up a hand and cupped Felix’s chin. “It is good to finally meet you face to face.” He picked up a thin blade from the table, its edge gleaming in the torchlight. “You will answer my questions. And when you do, your suffering will be over. Perhaps even mercifully.”

Ruprecht began methodically pressing the blade’s tip against Felix’s side, drawing a line of shallow blood. “Where is my weapon?”

Felix said nothing, his eyes locked straight ahead.

Ruprecht’s expression soured, his thin lips curled into a scowl. He began twisting the knife into Felix’s side. “The church sent you after something. What is it?”

Felix spit in his face.

The blade dug deeper, and Ruprecht’s patience wore thin. “You think your faith will save you? Let us test its strength.”

Ruprecht turned to inspect the tools of torture provided to him—an arsenal of pain. “The hot poker? Thumb screws? Or maybe,” Ruprecht forcefully yanked on the chain, nearly dislocating Felix’s shoulder, “I leave you here to bleed.”

“Your commander is dead. Your coalition is lost. You cannot win,” said Felix.

Ruprecht laughed like a viper. “You think me Hussite? Jan Hus was a reformer. He sought to reforge the Church. Not me. I wish to break it.”

Felix watched the man as he paced the table.

“He learned of a holy relic. A cookbook, if you can believe it, written in Greek. In its pages it holds the alchemical formula for The Light.”

“The Light…” Felix murmured.

“You know it?” Ruprecht did not look shocked. “It holds the power to make gods of men. With its magic, and my engineering, we will remake the world, Felix. We will usher in a new golden age where there is no God.” He licked his lips. “We will worship ourselves.”

“And those who refuse?”

“Rendered asunder by my cannons.” Ruprecht began pacing again. “Do you know why the knightly class rules Europe? They did not always. In the power vacuum of Rome’s fall, farmers banded together and paid strong men to protect them. Then, after a generation or two, the strong men thought themselves the rulers, and crowned themselves. But with The Light, armed with my weapons, all men will be the strong—all men will be kings.”

“Men you choose.”

Ruprecht allowed a slit of a grin. “Naturally.”

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A loud metallic bang rang out from the door. Men were yelling behind it.

Ruprecht left Felix dangling helplessly and unlatched the door. The guards had returned with orders from the Castilian. Felix was not to be killed yet, not before the torturers could arrive and extract the information he wanted on his war with the Pope.

As they argued, Felix looked above him. The chain was drawn through a metal ring in the ceiling. Over time, the stone had worn with the sweat of encroaching water, crumbling around the nail that held it. Felix flipped upside down and braced his bare feet on the ceiling, and began to pull.

Ruprecht was the first to notice. “Stop him!”

Felix strained with all his might, his muscles tensing and his teeth clenched. Then he felt it loosen, and the stone gave way at the bracket, and he was cast to the cold stone floor with a meaty thud.

Two men rushed towards him and Felix scrambled to his feet. His wrists still bound in iron shackles, he grabbed the chain and whirled it around his wrist, then sent out a loop that caught the closest man by the neck. Pulling him close he shot out a heavy kick that knocked the other man prone.

Felix pulled the chain taught until there was a snap, and the man went limp against him. Dropping him to the floor, Felix lunged at Ruprecht and brought down his bound hands on Ruprecht’s head, hitting him with the edge of the shackles and carving a gash in his forehead, knocking him cold.

He didn’t have much time.

Naked as the day he was born, and bleeding, Felix dashed up the stone stairs. The dungeon’s layout was a maze, but Felix’s memory served him well. He retraced his steps. His bare feet were silent against the stone, his ragged breath muffled by the cries of other prisoners echoing through the halls.

He could hear yelling behind him. He would not outpace them. And there was nowhere to flee. The dungeon fed directly back into the great hall, where he would be surrounded. He paused momentarily to think.

“Fuck it,” said Felix.

Corrado sat in his chair conversing with his council. They spoke of military campaigns and arming the condottieri, veterans of the Italian Wars, to use against the Papacy. Then they went quiet. A naked, shackled Felix was standing in their midst.

“Wha—seize him!” cried Corrado.

Felix sprinted towards his throne, and kicked him in the face. Unaccustomed to receiving the violence he so often condemned on others, Corrado gripped his bloody nose and tears streamed down his cheeks.

Felix planted a foot on the back of the throne, and leapt directly up, catching his shackles on an unlit sconce. Then he scrambled up to the sound of flowing water. During the plague, the Roman aqueducts were redirected. Kings and nobles would receive their own unpolluted water directly into their keeps, to keep themselves from mingling with the sick commoners. It was his way out.

The priests and magistrates reached up in a swarm and clawed at his feet, trying to tear him down. But a few swift kicks knocked them onto their perfect robes, their jewelry jingling as they hit the floor. Then he swung to where a steady stream of fresh water poured into the fountains of the keep, and he slipped inside.

He scrambled as best he could through the water. It was cold. The aqueduct channel was just large enough to accommodate him, and awash in complete darkness. He continued until the tunnel opened up into the much older, larger Roman aqueduct. Then he followed it to freedom.

Seeing moonlight ahead, he raced for it, and fought the current, then jumped through the opening.

Felix landed in the mud, far outside of Foligno. He lay there for a moment, staring up at the stars, catching his breath.

He rose to his feet, dripping and exhausted, only to find himself face to face with two Foligno guards. He did not have the energy to fight these men. Nude and helpless as he was. His escape was for naught.

The men laughed at his naked state. “Damn Benandanti,” one sneered. “Get out of here!”

Felix nodded, grateful for their mistake, and fled into the shadows. Maybe there was some luck to Felix after all.

Caesar was standing watch at the house, and bleated with excitement as Felix arrived.

Tabor emerged from the home, an expression of relief washed over him. “You look like hell.”

“I’ve been worse. I’ve got to get out of here,” said Felix. “They may return.”

“Well, at least take some clothes, first,” chuckled Tabor. “And let me help you out of those chains.”

Tabor brought Felix into the home to warm up by the fire. He worked a hammer and chisel to break the shackles, and they fell onto the table with a clatter. “Here,” said Tabor, “take this armor. It does me no good.” Tabor handed the white armor to Felix.

After helping him fix the straps, he handed his belt back, and Felix latched it to his waist. “Thank you, friend. I’m sorry I brought this upon your home.”

Tabor waved the notion away with a thick hand. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be moving my harvest north, maybe I’ll see you again soon.”

The men held a brawny embrace.

“Go with God,” said Tabor.

Felix leapt on to his horse. And then he rode. The goat chased close behind.