In the latter part of the 15th century Spanish citizens who were not of the Catholic faith were subjected to the Inquisition. This is the fictional narrative of Yeshua Mendoza, a young man of the Jewish faith, following his arrest and incarceration.

I was led down stone steps. When we reached the bottom I was handed over to three men, rough-hewn, unsympathetic, of such low birth that I looked at the retreating backs of my previous guards as if I was watching the departure of friends. Thereafter, without any kindness, I was strapped into a solid chair. Both my hands were tightly bound either side of the chair; my footwear was removed. Every part of my body capable of movement was secured – even my head so that I could only look or see straight ahead. The three men moved away, still horribly silent though I could hear them doing other things about which my frenzied mind could only conjecture.

In front of my limited field of vision, a door opened. The squat figure that limped towards me might, himself, have been a victim of some terrible accident, so deformed was his appearance. Yet, as he drew closer, I could see that his face was not disfigured by disease, but by animosity. He reached my chair and leaned across my body to stare straight into my face. As he did so his hand grasped my genitals so tightly that I gave a sharp cry of pain. Immediately he jumped back, as if he too had suffered pain. The stench of his breath sickened me. He began to chuckle, a sound totally lacking any humour. He walked round to my rear and leapt on to the back of the chair, grasping a handful of my hair so tightly that once again I called out in pain.

“Well, well. We aren’t going to have so much fun with this pig of a Jew are we? He is too scared already. Breaking him will be so easy.”

With a bitter feeling of shame I realised that he was right. I was not just scared. I was terrified. How could I stand up to pain? Even mere discomfort frightened me. I was a scholar, a gentleman, with no real experience of deliberately inflicted pain. How would I face up to torture? I did not want to find out. I opened my mouth to speak, to confess, to say whatever it was that was expected of me, but to my horror, an oily rag was stuffed into my mouth so tightly that I very nearly choked.

“Not so fast, my friend! I must be allowed my little bit of fun first.”

He walked back to face me.

“How do you like the little tit-bit in your gob, Jew? I rubbed it in some pig fat, especially for you.”

I tried to move. I tried to writhe. I tried to spit the rag from my mouth. Nothing happened. All I managed to do was to make ineffectual, whimpering noises.

“Good boy, good boy,” said my tormentor, patting my cheeks. “Just relax while I get about my business.”

He moved again from my field of vision and I could hear him tinkering with metal tools and muttering to himself. I was bathed in sweat and in my terror prayed to God, Blessed Be His Holy Name, to rescue me. Then I felt something grasp the nail of my small finger. Before my body had time to stiffen or react, a horrible searing, tearing, numbing pain erupted from my hand. My back arched as far as it was able to and the hot, blinding sweat poured everywhere. I could not cry out or even gasp. I was in a state of sheer terror. I knew a fingernail had gone and tried to prepare myself for the next. I could no longer see clearly. There was too much sweat in my eyes. From a distance now, it seemed, I heard his voice murmuring “Good, very nice, very nicely done…”

The next nail was worse than the first, as was the third nail worse than the second. After that I lost count. All around was pain mixed with shame, for I had soiled my clothing. When I thought that I would surely expire, the rag was ripped from my mouth and I gave the longest scream ever and merciful blackness swept over me.

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