Sins Of The Inquisition

For years, I have carried the unwanted guilt of my liberation and its adverse circumstances. Although my name was finally cleared of any unlawful act, I was a witness to the brutality that was caused by one man, who was sent by the Spanish Monarchs to impose punishment unto those, who were deemed unbelievers of the Catholic faith. His name was Diego Rodríguez Lucero, and he would be forever remembered and associated to a reign of terror, as the Dark One. He arrived at the city of Córdoba in 1482 and was appointed the inquisitor in 1499. His ruthless tyranny of blood would abate on the 22nd of December, 1506. Ultimately, he would torture hundreds of hapless prisoners, and sentence more than 200 people to the stake at the indelible plaza known, as La Corredera. The narrative that you will read is expressed for the sole purpose of knowing my account, and the cruelty that was inflicted upon me and others, who were innocent of any crimes recorded.

The year was 1500, and my name is Santiago Molina. I had been arrested, on the charges of heresy against the Catholic Church of which I oppugned. I was accused through the process of the inquisition and denounced as a heretic. Even though, I was offered the reconciliation with the Church through the Edict of Grace, I was against the principle of becoming, a cowardice agent for the inquisition. To acknowledge my participation would be to profess my compliant culpability. Once I was detained, my case was supposed to be examined by the calicadores, who would determine the degree of my heresy. My process had lasted two years before my case was then examined, and my detention had entailed the sequestration of my property, which was used to pay for my procedural expenses and maintenance.

The inquisitorial process had consisted of a series of hearings, in which I was not given the option to testify on my behalf. Nor was I given access to a legal counsel that would be afforded to me. Thus, my options for the trial were originally, acquittal, suspension, penance or reconciliation. For a whole year, I would languish in the drear isolation of my imprisonment at the Alcázar, and be vanished to the realisation of my sober reality of which I had attempted to eschew unsuccessfully. My cell was solitary in nature and the representation of my confinement. Every day, I would be aghast by the methods of torture that were evident and gorgonising. The austerulous guards were constantly watchful, and the bells of the belfry would ring every hour, as a haunting reminder of the dread that had pursued the condemned prisoners, whose hour of death was imminent. I had often wondered, if the church bells were not meant to terrorise us. The resonating sound was worse than the peal of thunder in the obnubilation.

The horrendous contrivances that were utilised by the inquisitors were imposing in their usage and effectiveness. The rack was where the limbs were slowly pulled apart, the water torture, where the victim was forced to ingest water poured from a large jar, the strappado, where the victim's hands were tied behind their back involuntarily, and the body was suspended by the wrists. All of these inhumane objects were enough to stir trepidation in my mind and the core of my soul. By revealing these methods of torture to the reader, it is my intention to emphasise the malicious activities that were performed within the prison. A place where the cold winds would reach the recesses of the sturdy walls that would conceal the abominable acts done in the self-righteousness of religion.

I had counted my days of being imprisoned, so that the world outside of the Alcazar would know of the unfathomable tragedies committed in this wretched place. I had contemplated the course of my fate and its uncertainty deeply. I was immune to the madness that had accompanied the revelries of the denizens, but death was becoming a normal occurrence to witness. I could not be blind to the artifices used by the inquisitor, who was determined to please the audience in the plaza, with unparallelled gore and terror. I would be awakened during the night to the awful nightmares that were consuming me, and be a witness to the distressing image of the accused people, who were burnt to the stake, as accurst victims of a zealous wrath exhibited.

The things that I had discovered were of an evil portent. Nothing could have prepared me, for the consequences that had ensued thereafter. To the judges of the inquisition, there was no sympathy expressed for those they had condemned. To them, the prisoners were sentenced to the harrowing perils of their burdens. Hope was something that had daunted on my mind constantly, but reality had unmasked my dwindling aspirations that were fading by the passing minute. I had learnt that in my duration at the prison, there were countless things that could be not be taken for granted or forgotten with the change of thought. Prison was an ironic place that had offered me a great measure of reflection, but at the cost of the freedom that I had sought. I was living in a period of time that was corrupted, by the imperant inquisition of the Catholic Church.

The prisoners besides me were mostly condemned to a lingering duration of imprisonment, or an immurement that had led to their agonising death. Either way, the injustices imposed upon them were unfair and brutal, but these were the conditions that we as prisoners were forced to comply with their adherence. I was not married and had no children. Perhaps for that reason, my time at the prison was not that unbearable than the others, who left behind a wife, husband or children of their own. The men and women who were imprisoned were separated by thick rows of adamantine walls. I had commiserated for their appalling treatment, and I had managed to survive in prison, because my fortitude and conviction were unyielding, despite the apparent moments of incertitude and impotence. I sparingly knew what was, a fresh light of the sun or a fainting glimmer of the moon. It was facile to be lost in the darkness and distance of time.

Each prisoner had a unique story to tell and circumstance to explain at length. However, what had linked us to each other was the terrible admission that we were all prisoners trapped and doomed to our ominous sentence passed by the inquisitor. I had written letters to my brothers, informing them of the situation that I was confronting, and to not commit the same act of defiance that I had committed ignorantly. I did not want them to meet the same fate that I had met. Even though I was not the eldest of the brothers, I had known what it was to endure adversity during my imprisonment. Córdoba had become the next city to bear the intolerance of the inquisition. Seville would follow in the succession of cities to be imposed, the draconian measures of a merciless chastisement.

The prison had been given the name of "La tormenta," which meant "The storm". It had a disdainable reputation that was achieved for the innumerable acts of torture that were performed, and the echoes of the tortured souls were heard like a blustery storm that was on a rampage. The fear of death was ingrained in the minds of all of the prisoners, who had listened to the horrible cries of these men and women of torture. The putrid flesh of those that had died in prison was fed to the dogs or crows that gathered outside, waiting for a barmecidal feast. Suicide was rampant amongst the men and women, who had become delusional or too susceptible to reality. They had preferred to take their own lives than to be reduced to scant ashes at the stake that remained of their bodies.

The veil of secrecy was concealed by each prisoner that had succumbed to the eventuality of death. The inquisition had enabled the inquisitor to utilise threats against us and our family members, if we had resisted or failed to repent for our supposed sins as heretics. It was wiser to believe that our destiny would be controlled by the actions of the inquisitor than to accept that he would relinquish his immense power and avarice. Only the Spanish Monarchs could take away all that of which he had been given under his title and position. He was a loathed man, who would revel in the misery of others. His disparagement towards us was noticeable. At first, the people who had cheered for the inquisition and its divine punishment for witchcraft or the rejection of the Anointed One had found themselves, maliciously accused and imprisoned thereafter. Betrayed by those who they had called, friends, acquaintances or family.

The methods that the throng of these people within the frenzy would evoke, would be used against them, and in several occasions be the definite cause to their deaths. It was impossible to not be affected by the inquisition in Córdoba. The city had embraced an insidious tyrant as the inquisitor and forsaken the ideas that once had ruled in harmony that was respect, between Jews, Muslims and Christians for established centuries. This harmony has lasted in the city during Al Andalus, and until its recapture by the Christians. Hitherto, there are the vestiges of the abnormal shed of blood that were smeared in the streets of Córdoba. A blood that had washed away with the passing of time, but had not cleansed the sins of the reconquest. No god could erase these types of sins that were provoked under the banner of his divine name.

The eerie sounds of the drops of rain would remind me of the continuous tears that had flooded the Guadalquivir River by the weeping mothers, and the lightning and thunder would remind me of the violent wrath of the inquisition that spared few of its intolerance. The imposition of the inquisitor was what had dictated the course of action to be taken. Diego Rodríguez Lucero was said to have gloated with his victories, upon the burnt ashes of his victims. It was a madness that was simply uncontrollable and unrelenting in its pursuit. Córdoba would not escape his tyranny. It would be forced to bear witness to the calamities and abuse that this man would commit in the name of his religion. All those individuals that were against him were considered to be his declared enemies.

I had spent many of my days of solitude, reflecting on the serious nature of my imprisonment. I had experienced the abhorrence of tortures applied and survived. Perhaps, it was attributed to my will to live, or my conviction to not allow myself to die. Whatever be the case, my life would no longer be the same, as it was before. The breath of freedom was one that I had yearned with a passion, and what was anticipated of its reality was merely a transient aspiration that would fade into the winds that blew over the breadth of the city. As a non-believer in the Christian god, I was to serve as an example of my heresy. Innumerable men and women had faltered to the act of contrition and atonement, but I whose only crime was my disbelief was doomed to the punishment of the inquisition. This was my supposed sin that I had failed to adhere. Despite the fact that I did nothing to merit my condemnation. Nor was I a depraved man in my demeanour.

I had a lot of questions to ask the men who were the judges of the inquisition, but there were few answers that were given, as a sign of their righteous clarity and wisdom. Many women and men that were murdered—yes murdered by the inquisition were not, because of what they said against the Catholic Church, but for the affiliation of their creed exploited by the appointed leeches of the church. The Jews were the first to be punished, then the Muslims. Others like me, who were disbelievers due to our non-conformity with the Christian god were as well punished for the crime of heresy. Witchcraft or paganism was used to blame those like me, who had professed more in the teachings of philosophy than religion. The false morality that the inquisitor had practised and preached to the citizens of Córdoba was exacted upon us the prisoners, with a daunting vengeance demonstrated.

As prisoners, we were only instructed to read the Bible and repent for our sins daily. However, I had managed to collect writing material, such as parchments and ink to write my thoughts and reflections. I had plucked one of the feathers of a pigeon that had entered my cell at one time, so that I could write. My intention was to narrate the horrors that I had witnessed and the disturbing nature of the inquisition. I know that I was not the first to document these appalling things that were occurring at the prison and to others, who were already condemned to death. I had accepted the notion that humanity was to be blamed for the inquisition. I thought of Socrates, who was of no fault, except that imposed upon him by his foes wrongfully. How he was forced to drink the poison of the hemlock, and he did with a stoic valour.

The mornings and nights had progressed into unbearable moments of depravity, whereupon the torturers of the inquisition with their new contrivances that were brought would deliberately attempt to break the volition of the prisoners. Not only would these tormentors of the inquisitor punish, but they would also rape with violence the women with a merciless revelry. Many of these victims would remain anonymous to the annals of history and erased forever. I had seen street dogs treated better than these prisoners. The century had begun with the sins of the previous century. The Córdoba of the Romans, the Visigoths and the Moors was tainted, by the heartless memories of the inquisition. While the Catholic Church grew richer, many of the residents of Córdoba grew poorer.

I was told that the city would be eventually purged of all of its profaned heretics. It was difficult to know the hour of one's death. What was decreed only was the day. Mine was still uncertain. I had strongly believed that since I had no followers or was a viable threat to the Catholic Church like the Jews and Muslims who had more influence than I, that I was not a priority. My life still was in the control of the vitiated inquisitor. And I knew that he could change his mind, at any moment. The little light that I was afforded was a lit torch that kept me warm at night, and during the cold days of the morning. It was not uncommon to see the pale faces and horrified expressions of the prisoners, who had experienced the torment of the torture chamber, as they passed by my cell. The howling of the dogs was the signal of the procession that would accompany the prisoners to their nightmare at La Plaza de La Corredera.

One day, I would be stirred by one of the guards, who would escort me to the torture chamber. A device was set up, and it was a massive pendulum with a trenchant blade that could slice human flesh apart without difficulty. The callous inquisitor himself was present, when he had selected a few of the prisoners to be the infaust ones to experiment, his new method of torture. I had counted five men before me, who were selected too. At the end of the experiment, I was the only one to have survived from amongst the others. My survival would not be because I was spared, but because the blade would get stuck and be rendered inoperable. The recollection of this event would be always remembered in my mind, not for surviving the ordeal, but for witnessing the horrid nature of the death of the others, at the hand of the swaying pendulum. The spine-chilling experience was to convince me of my fragile presence in the prison.

I had been strapped to a wooden table, helpless to escape. I was under the pendulum that swayed above me like a menacing executioner. My heart had beaten fast, and the perspiration dripped down my face quickly. The man that was in charge of the pendulum had worn a black mask to hide his identity. I could not forget his dark and penetrating eyes of truculence, along with his Mephistophelian laughter. They were unforgettable in their characterisation. Gradually, the pendulum began to be lowered and had well-nigh reached my flesh, until it had got stuck. I was released and returned to my cell. That night the haunting images of the death of the others were impossible to remove from my mind. The barbarity demonstrated in that dreaded chamber of the pendulum was unmatched to anything thing I had ever seen in the entirety of my life.

The crimson bloodstains, the surreptitious secrets, the corroded walls drapped within the mould and rust, the grinding bolts, the rotating and tightening steel contraption, the vile repression, the hollow bones and skulls of charcoal ashes, and the traces of human vestiges were the signs of a horrible manifestation of death and torment. I was inclined to believe that the evil that men had professed in religion was caused by mankind who blindly imposed the errant interpretations of their beliefs upon their helpless victims. It was facile to select a scapegoat than it was to admit to one's mistakes. The fatal notion of that contrast was seen in the actions committed by men of power, who wielded over the disjointed voices of the oppressed that had been emerged in the misery of their isolation.

I would be spared the inflicting agony of the pendulum, until it was my time again to be put under its swaying blade of horror I had suspected. For the nonce, I was saved. It did not convince me of my good fortune, but more, it had caused me to think about the gross indecency of the inquisition. The hardship of my daily life was not surviving the hellish tortures of the prison, but witnessing in its totality, the grave effects of its inhumanity. I had moments in my privacy, when I had contemplated suicide. Perhaps it was a better option, for my possibilities of being released had seemed unrealistic and improbable. My admission was not founded on the rejection of hope. Nor was it the bitterness that was consuming me. It was more of the inavoidable circumstance of my detention.

Verily, no man knows what prison is, until he has walked in the footfalls of the shadow of a prisoner. A philosopher is wise, because he has reaped the knowledge that bestows wisdom on him. There are men with consciousness, as there are men without consciousness. Those that seek to destroy and defeat the ideology of which they fear will always be resolved to be inspired by the falsehood of religion. The things that had initiated the inquisition were based on the fallacy of a creed that had considered itself morally just than unjust. I was deemed a reprobate and my heresy was fabricated by men of influence within the Catholic Church. My rights were negated as was my voice of reason. Who from amongst the crowd of onlookers would speak on my behalf? The judges of my condemnation were deliciating in sins, whilst I was to be categorised as the face of sin.

The deafening cries of the prisoners that were audible to my ears were beginning to be silenced, by the terror of the torture chamber. Every day a victim was chosen to be led to the chamber or taken to the plaza to be burnt to death. It was enough to humble or frighten a person. The only escape to the madness for some was indeed suicide. Had I not been a survivor and firm believer of life I would have already crossed unto the road of no-return to be embraced by its unique darkness. It was said that to be an acquaintance of death was easier than to be a lasting acquaintance to another prisoner. The face of death was more memorable and ineffaceable. Sadly, prisoners came and went. When I was afforded candles, I had often found myself staring into the depth of the flame that was lit. It had served to remind me of the delicate nature of my precarious situation.

The crow of the cock in the early morning was synonymous with the throes of death. The priests that were in charge of eliciting confessions from the prisoners were dressed in dark robes and had cowls that covered their heads. To the prisoners, they knew that they had come to seal our fate. Their holy water was much more parlous than the water that were forced to drink from the well of the prison. The word iniquity, however foreign to the tongues of some people was the vice that was employed by the inquisition. I was indeed a sinner conceived in the eyes of the inquisitor, but his sins were deadlier in their retribution and hostility. At first, the mad populace had an uncontrollable thirst for the scent of bloodshed. With time, that thirst would turn into distrust of the inquisitor and justice for the imprisoned souls.

I had understood that my predicament was no more direful than another prisoner. Nor was my determination more meritorious than another prisoner. To assume that I was at an advantage would be to ignore my disadvantage. To believe that I was fortunate would be to be blind to my condition that was unfortunate. The books of philosophy had taught me to endure my suffering, but I was human and susceptible at times, to the unsettling episodes of my human nature. I had learnt quickly that I could not put my trust in any of the guards or priests that visited the prison. I could only confide in my conviction, but I could not demonstrate before them, my fragility so candidly. They had homes to return to at the end of the day, whilst I had none that was still in the possession of my name.

One day, I had been visited by one of these priests who preached the gospel and twisted each word to please their whims. He had come to convert me into a Christian. I had allowed him to preach to me. As I did, I had noticed the contradictions expressed in his words. Here he spoke of his god, and yet he had condemned me and the others, who were not of his creed, without learning about Judaism, Islam or Philosophy. He knew that I was acquainted with the teachings of Socrates, Plato, Thales, Aristole and the Stoics. To the members of the inquisition, these men were pagans and not worthy to be revered. However, as I had mentioned to the priest, Aquinas had invoked the teachings of philosophy. I had given him examples of others. Our discussion would last for an hour, until he had sated his curiosity and left thereafter.

As the years had passed, so did my dishevelled and haggard appearance. I had lost weight and my mental faculties were beginning to wane gradually. The only leisure that I had discovered was my writing. This had kept me sane and had reanimated my vitality, during my challenging bouts of depression and murk. Córdoba was still in the centre of the inquisition. It would witness more deaths and more betrayals. The expulsion of the Jews and then the Muslims would tarnish the historical legacy of the city. The fall of Granada occurred in 1492. The fervour of the inquisition was a product of the hysteria that was created by the Catholic Church. The betrayal perpetrated on the Jews and the Muslims was one that had exceeded the established relation between the three major faiths.

The cruelties of the tortures had persisted and so did the manacles of oppression. The foul stench of death was a familiar odour to me, as was the hunger seen in the eyes of the imprisoned men and women, who did not eschew their needs. I had heard said that man is reduced to being an animal, when another man has reduced himself to that level of bestiality. How ironic is that statement. How little do we learn the lessons of that morality. The inquisitor was not a man to be reasoned with. He was more the instigator and the executioner. Every victim of his self-righteous crusade was mostly to him anonymous in name, but not in his or her belief. He had delighted more in destroying the so-called infidels of Christ than saving their souls. To be defiant before him was to defy his authority.

Untold prisoners had detested his presence. I had begun to be familiarised with his effective ploys. I had never met such an implacable man of power than him ere. He had the control that could alter the course of the life of any prisoner that he desired to destroy, including mine. His prestige was of a man of surquedry, and constructed on the foundation of lies and sheer duplicity. His stare was incomparable, as was his attitude towards the prisoners. Repent, he would say and find the Lord, but those were hallowed words with an inauspicious meaning. All that he wanted was to be glorified and reverential like his god. Power in life gets one as far as the control over the powerless shamelessly. In the end, it does not avoid the eventuality of one's demise. The inquisitor's smirk that was constantly expressive would result in a grimace of agony. He would be betrayed by the mad populace that he had incited like a wildfire.

In the back of my mind was the thought of how did the world change, from our days of civility to the days of cruelty? Córdoba was once a genuine place of tolerance than intolerance. The libraries of the city were threatened by the inquisition. Many books of philosophy and other religions were burnt. Ancient scholars were effaced or rebuked for their content. The worse of this senseless crusade was the fact that the men who had professed to do divine retribution were essentially, the men who were unaccountable for the promulgation of their sinful actions exposed. The reconquest of Spain had altered the perception of the future, and it had brought with it, the vivid consequences of the victor over the defeated. Europe would be a place, where the forces of the inquisition would impose their doctrine with supremacy.

The lessons of life had taught me the grievous burdens that I had to confront, and I had learnt that to understand them, I would have to endure the lingering effects of their preponderance. The treatment that I had to bear along with the other prisoners was indicative of the indignation that was stirred by those individuals who were against the Catholic Church. The dastardly deeds that were enabled by the edicts of the inquisition were the cause to the inflammable ire of the inquisitor. I had never experienced, such an apprehension of violence and taunting with mockery. If there ever was a particular man who had epitomised the embodiment of terror, it was him. He alone would command others to be emboldened in their acts. Those who had defied his authority would face the consequence of their actions.

At the end of the month, I had faltered to the worrisome state of emaciation. I was wan and cadaverous in my appearance and expressions. My rations of food were reduced considerably, as they were distributed amongst the prisoners, due to the massive number of new prisoners that had entered the Alcázar. The difficulty in that acceptance was significant and my situation was plagued then, by insurmountable guilt. Not because I was alive, but because I had seen others perish at the hands of the inquisition, and I was feckless to prevent their deaths. The rats were becoming more audacious in their behaviour towards me. I could sense that they were waiting for me to die, so that they could finally taste my flesh and bones. I had witnessed a dead prisoner's flesh next to my cell be gnawed, and his bones bitten by these ingordigious rats.

It was impossible to erase the evocative images in my head of ghastly things that were unpleasant and inhumane in my contemplation. The events that had unfolded in the prison and with the prisoners who were sent to their demise had truly affected my perception of life and death. I felt the weight of my weakness and was beginning to think that I was succumbing to some type of malady that was consuming me from within. Was it a fever that was running rampant throughout the prison? A contagion that I had not experimented before? I had seen and heard numerous cases of imprisoned men and women, who regrettably, had yielded to the irrepressible effects of illnesses that were common in the epoch that we were living. I was no exception to the rule. There had existed the fear of the recurrence of the infamous Black Death. The inescapable thought was sufficient to make people shiver, with a sign of consternation.

As my condition had worsened, my fainting hope for liberation was rapidly fading. That option seemed more unreliable in its feasibility. No doctor was sent to cure me or give me medicine. A guard would enter one day and tell me that I was lucky that my illness had prevented me from being burnt to the stake on that specific day. It was my appointed date of death, unbeknownst to me. However, I would not die as they had originally planned for me. The inquisitor would be apprised of my condition, and he would visit me unannouncedly. He stood before me, as I sat down next to a wall watching him. He was dressed in dark robes and had a singular cowl, but he would remove it to speak to me directly. He had addressed me with contempt and morbidity.

His incisive wit was expressed with his gestures, as he told me plainly that I would meet the same terrible fate of those before me, who were the victims of his inquisitorial madness. I had tried not to show my fragility or apprehension in his presence. I did not want to give him that selfish satisfaction that men of power demonstrate against their defeated foes. His ego was already full of vanity and contempt. The only remaining quality that was still evident to me was my genuine pride. He had decided to be lenient with me, although I knew it was merely a tactic employed by him. He told me that if I had repented of my sins and had embraced Christianity, then I would be spared of my misery. He had offered me wine to drink and meat to eat. He knew that I was thirsty and hungry, but he was testing my resolution.

He was adamant about his words professed, and he had expected me to capitulate to his despicable bribery like others. His action was no generosity that was offered, without receiving anything substantial in return. I had rejected his cross and told him as I looked into his eyes would the Christ that he worshipped be, as brazen and corrupted as he was? This had enraged him, and he had instructed the guards in my cell that upon the following morning, I would be burnt to the stake for my heresy, regardless of my condition. He would leave me, but before he departed, he said one poignant utterance of words. He had told me that my ashes would be kept in an especial urn in his private chamber for his amusement. If there ever was a devil in disguise, it would be him. No man was so devious enough to seek pleasure from the misery of others than him.

That night before my appointed date of death, I had spent it writing in secrecy, the final pages of my account at the prison. When I had finished, I put the parchments inside one of the recesses of the walls of the cell, hoping that one day, someone from the outside world would read the horrid details of not only my imprisonment, but the wretched brutality that was inflicted upon the prisoners. I had to unmask the horrors of the torture chamber. I knew that the inquisitor would not change his mind and that I was sentenced to die. There was no recourse of appeal for me. He who had condemned me, had circumvented the laws at will. Even though, I was a born citizen of Andalucia, I was treated with utter disdain. My rights were dismissed, as was my voice to defend myself.

It was not mere defiance that I had stirred, but the principle of my belief in philosophy. I who could attest to the atrocious conditions of prison and the draconian measures of punishment, had determined to be the impassioned voice for the others who were imprisoned or were murdered by the inquisition. I had thought about Socrates, as he was close to confronting his death. I do not know, whether ghosts exist in this actual world of mortals, but if they truly do, then this place of hell would be the ideal place to be haunted by them. My whole duration as a prisoner was a continual nightmare that began, with the first day I had stepped inside the prison. No man who knows his day of death could be prepared for that eventuality to occur. Nor could he assume its absolute horror.

On the 9th of November of the year 1506, I had awakened to the vociferous sounds of an incited mob that had suddenly attacked the premises, without notice. They had freed more than 400 prisoners. I would learn thereafter that the mob was tired of the bloodshed that had taken the innocent lives of many citizens of Córdoba and the corruption of the vile inquisitor, who was the main culprit of the depravity that was displayed unjustly in the city. He had fled like a coward through the back door of the prison that was the Alcázar to escape. One of the members of the mob would spot the guards and inform the others of their presence. They would ultimately kill all that were seized, hanging their listless bodies from one of the tall towers to be witnessed.

I would be discovered in my cell and taken to an infirmary, whereupon I would recover from my illness. I was one of the fortunate ones to have walked out of that prison alive. In time, I would regain my status and property, but many others did not, once they were freed. I had sworn that I would never leave Córdoba, nor forget the faces of the prisoners that had perished in the cimmerian shade, amidst the sanguinolent puddles. Every fresh breath I had taken was one that I cherished. I did not take for granted my freedom, because I knew that I could be in danger once more, if I was not conscious about my surroundings. Before I had left the prison, I managed to take with me, all the material I had written. I could not forsake my fellow prisoners. Nor would I allow their stories to be easily forgotten in the ill-starred pages of history. As for the inquisitor, he would be captured and imprisoned afterwards for his corruption. His infandous acts committed would vilify his notoriety. His imprudence would lead to his untimely downfall.

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