In the murky darkness of a dungeon cell, chained to the wall, hung the sorry figure of a man.

If judged by looks, one might mistake the man for an old beggar. His hair, concealing most of his features, was a mess cimilar to a washing rag, greasy and full of dirt. Determining the colour of the hair was as hard as determining the age of the man himself.

As a whole however, he might be considered a man in his sixties. Strictly speaking the word "whole" could no longer be applied. He had two empty sockets where his eyes should have been, his legs and arms were no better off, one of each were missing.

This man was the infamous Italian torturemaster Piero Gazcolini, and he knew he was going to die today.

He could not see, but his ears were as sharp as ever, and right now he could hear the people of Paris baying for blood. His blood.

It came as no surprise. As one of few grand torturemasters remaining in the service of England, few if any had tortured more Frenchmen than him. During a war that had lasted for a hundred years, he had the impressive record of forty-five years in service.

Unfortunately his attempt to retire, a decade after the war, to the Gazcolini family estate in Tuscany ended poorly. A man like Piero had many enemies, which one sold him out to the French, and at what price was unknown. In the end, that was irrelevant.

Now here he was. Locked in a cell in The Grand Châtelet. For five years he had been played with extensively by the grand torturemasters of Paris. They had seen to it personally that as a fellow member of the same craft, their exchange of knowledge on their subject was very thorough.

Still, he was alive for now. Even if every inch of his body was an aching wound. There were no more toe- or finger-nails left to pull out. After all this time and pain he had become numb to it, to some extent.

He knew there were hundreds of worse ways of torture he could have gone through. Unfortunately nearly all of them ended in death. Until now he had been spared from these, but today he could imagined the way he would die.

Judging by the frenzied crowd, he would not be allowed to die swiftly...

Some time later, he could hear the distinct sound of footsteps coming closer to his cell. His heartbeat quickened as the key was turned, and the rusted iron hinges scraped back.

He could hear several people entering the cell. Soon the one among them spoke.

"So this is him I take it? You sure took your fun with this one monsieur Dobieer. Is he even going to last through the day? His majesty personally decided the methods. I would not want to dissapoint either him nor the crowd. Can you not hear them?" The speaker was clearly a man in his primes.

"Messieurs can rest assured. We have calculated his condition into to our considerations as we proceeded. He will live through to the end. Worry not."

This voice belonged to someone old, with a voice quality like rusted iron.

"Messieurs, before we proceed, his excellency senior Gazcolini should be allowed to meet with a priest. There is no doubt about this man going through Inferno, so vividly depicted by his fellow Country man Virgil. But even sinners like this one should be allowed a confession." This third voice was clearly belonging to that of a youth. His voice was filled with conviction.

The second speaker growled in reply. "Young friend should think before speaking. Do not forget that I serve in a similar position as his excellency senior Gazolini. One might think these words were directed not only to him."

The third voice replied hastily, with some bluster. "Monsieur must not be offended by my too hastily spoken words. I merely meant that about his excellency. Monsieur Dobieer of course is a different matter entirely. You do this in the service of King Loui, crowned by God. Thus your work is also gods work."

The second speaker apparently pleased, spouted some profound words of thanks, before the first speaker interrupted the duo.

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"I am loathed to interrupt such a cordial discus, but time is pressing. If we were to wait for his excellency to recount all of his gruesome exploits to a holy man, than we would probably be waiting for days. Not to mention that I hardly believe you could find any abbed or priest in all of Europe that could stomach such a gruesome telling."

There was a moment's pause as the men considered this. Finally the second speaker voiced a suggestion.

"There is always that old monk loitering around the Châtelet. The loathsome oriental is always trying to tell stories about the great Ming dynasty. He claims they have a wall long enough to encompass all of france many times over. The man is clearly mad, he also believes in someone called the merciful Buddha. Clearly an infidel if you ask me."

The third speaker spoke up in indignation, close to shouting.

"What? Why is it that an infidel and heretic like this is allowed to roam the streets as he pleases? This man should be burned alive for such blasphemous nonsense!"

The first speaker replied uncomfortably. "He is one of the living dead. Enduring purgatory on earth. For some reason he is already paying for his blasphemous actions. What right have we to punish a man who is already suffering the wrath of God? Also, none of them men will go near the man. They are scared of catching his illness."

Nobody spoke for quite some time. All deep within their own thoughts'.

Finally the third speaker voiced his decision.

"Very well. We will let his excellency meet with the infidel. Not here though, outside in one of the alleys'. We can't risk catching the living death. But his excellency probably wouldn't mind. At least he has someone to talk with on his last day among the living."

The other two gave their assent, before they all left the cell. Shortly after this, ironclad boots echoed through the corridors.

...

After being roughly dragged along by a pair of guards, Piero was finally able to take his first breath of fresh air in five years. If he had eyes, he would cry tears of joy. Unfortunately, all he could manage was a croaking sob.

The guards took no notice of his emotional state, continuing to drag their captive along for another few minutes. Finally they dropped him on the ground. One of them spat at him, then they withdrew.

Piero managed to get himself back into a sitting position with some difficulty. Then he just sat there, listening intently.

He did not have to do this for long, a little later he could hear the clear tapping of wood on cobblestones. When the tapping was right next to him, it finally stopped.

He heard a rustling of cloth as the other person sat down before him.

The stranger took a few wheasing breathes before speaking.

"Amitabha benifactor. So I have found you at last. This one is but a humble monk from a distant land. I have been seeking, and Buddha be praised, I have found."

The stranger spoke in a very odd dialect, but his Italian was flawless. Like a native. Hearing his mothertounge spoken so, gave Piero a sudden wish to embrace this stranger before him. Yet he managed to hold himself back.

The stranger continued.

"Benefactor must wonder why this humble monk would come from afar today find you, no? The answer is simple, yet the reason not so. Amitabha.

Many years ago, benefactor once executed a man called Fiero Sampa is it not so?"

Piero had to wrack his brain for a while before remembering the man of which the stranger spoke. Yes, he recalled him. There were not many people Piero especially recalled torturing. Neither were there many he enjoyed inflicting pain upon, but Fiero Sampa was one of those men.

The man had been cruel beyond anything Piero had thought possible of ordinary men. He had seemed to take a perverse joy in torturing the whore he held with him, and her little boy. In anger, the pain Piero inflicted that day layed the foundation for his reputation as one of the most frightening men in Europe.

Piero nodded. The monk broke out in a hollow and angry laughter.

"Amitabha! Benifactor has done this monk a grate favor. The woman and child with that man was my daughter and my grandson. My daughter told me about you when she finally found me. It was the last thing she did before killing herself. We monks must leave behind the mortal world before we become monks. I thought I had severed my bonds to the mortal world, but when I heard that horrible tale, I could not remain a monk any longer. Speak, tell me how he died. I wish to hear how he screamed as my daughter screamed at his hands!"

The monk was crying now. But in his voice was a firmness of iron that sent shivers down Piero's back. In reply, he simply opened his mouth.

At this moment the monk's wrath choked in his throat. What met his eyes was just toothless gums and a stump where the tounge should have been.

He sighed.

"Amitabha benefactor. This one will no longer ask any questions. One favor given must also be repayed. A life for a life. All you are will be left behind. What you will become is no business of mine. Our karmic ties end here, benefactor. Whatever you do in your next life, repent for what you did in this one. Amitabha."

Then he chanted a long scripture from an unknown language, touched Piero's forehead with his hand, before wacking Piero in the head with something hard.

Piero amazingly did not fall over. He just sat there, unmoving. The stranger on the other hand, left. Soon the sound of wood on cobblestones slowly faded into the distance.

When the guards picked up Piero he did not give any sign of noticing. Neither did he cry or beg for mercy when his gruesome execution began. He was quiet as if he was a mouse. It was as if the hearth was lit, but nobody was home.