Once upon a time…

Please forgive the use of such an overexploited phrase. Alas, I am but an uncultured storyteller, lacking the wit and inspiration of such authors as are Homer, Terencius and Dante. No, this is no epic tale, merely a story to make the evening more enjoyable, along with full bellies, toasting, cheering and the vapors of wine and ale floating in the air.

Like many of its kind, this is a story with no author, it is one of thousands you hear as you travel aimlessly down the many roads that cross the land with no destination in mind. It probably started out as an old wife's tale. I beg forgiveness once more, for what you are about to hear may differ greatly from the original version. These tales change so much as they pass from mouth to ear. And the human memory is so treacherous, if one detail escapes the mind, it is quickly replaced by imagination. Therefore, the words coming out of my mouth might be pure fiction by now. Enough, I am trying even my own patience with this preamble! And I am certain most of you would rather be in bed, between the firm legs of a wench, instead of hearing this nonsensical babble. No more dallying! Let us begin.

Italy is where this story takes place, although I do not recall the precise location. I believe it was north, very close to the French border, but this is unimportant. This town I speak of lived under a perpetual shadow of fear, it had been years since anyone had reason to smile, for they were ruled by a magistrate whose cruelty eclipsed that of Nero, who witnessed with glee as his mother was disemboweled in front of him by his own command. Like many men who are invested with authority in order to protect the common people by the proper application of the law, this one abused the people beneath him. Rules were harsh and executions were nearly a daily occurrence. One had to thread cautiously when walking down those streets. Punishment applied even if you were but a visitor, with no more than a mockery of a trial. It is true that strictness maintains peace and order, but this magistrate obtained delight in seeing rivers of blood and tears. I must say, this is one of the reasons I never stay at one place for longer than a day or two, I would dread paying allegiance to such a beast.

Before continuing, I believe an example of the magistrate’s excesses is in order. Once, two noblemen decided to spend a pleasant afternoon by going out on a hunting trip, to kill foxes whose fur they wouldn’t wear, and pheasants whose meat they wouldn’t eat. Alas, the wasteful diversions of the rich. Mayhap heir fate was not so undeserved. Along the way they were caught by heavy rain, and only one was able to return. Rumors began to spread, and he ended up being accused and found guilty of treason and murder, the magistrate sentenced him to be taken out into the woods where he would be beheaded. The beasts and birds would finish the job by picking his remains to the bone.

As condemned man and executioner proceeded to carry out the sentence, they received a tremendous and pleasant surprise as they entered the wild. The lost friend was hurrying along to greet them! He was cold and hungry, but alive. Quickly, the three returned to the magistrate to inform him of this discovery. But he would not listen to reason, logic or compassion.

"Tomorrow, you three will be hung in the village square," he sentenced in a cold voice. "You," he told the first man, "for returning alone and starting all this. You," he told the one that had been lost, "for causing this mess with your negligent absence. And you," he told the executioner, "for disobeying my sacred command." Truly a man with a heart of stone, if there was in fact one beating in his chest. And such atrocities went on for years, until Fortune decided to turn her wheel and bring him down.

It came to pass, the magistrate was granted a visit by an old friend of his, a very wealthy magnate. Following the customs of the wealthy, a banquet was thrown, one of sinful opulence. Do the viands grow scarce? We shall simply raise the tax a little more.

The magnate noticed that his friend was so immersed in the celebration that he was now making the tenth toast on a full glass of wine. Knowing how unhealthy this could be, and concerned for his friend’s welfare, he dared give a friendly suggestion.

"My friend, I too hold tribute to Baccus every now and then, wine is good and well, taken in moderation. But the quantity you are consuming, you poison yourself slowly! Alcohol taken in such amounts turns the limbs heavy and clumsy, the brain ceases to function properly and eyesight becomes blurry and shortened."

"You are wrong," the magistrate spat with venom-coated words, "and I shall prove it to you now." Encouraged by the devil and hurt pride, he drank what he had already downed a hundred times fold, then ordered for his bow and quiver to be brought. And there, before the eyes of his court and guests, shot an arrow towards the magnate's daughter, a child no older than ten!

"The very center of her forehead," the magistrate boasted sadistically, "Tell me. Does it seem to you that my grip, brain or sight are failing?" The magnate and his wife could give no response, for the terror and sorrow they felt were much too great.

Among the terrified witnesses was a kitchen maid, appalled like the rest by that one more display of cruelty. Her pulse was jittery the rest of the night, she yearned for the party to end so she could hurry home.

The moment she arrived she embraced each of her children, bathing them with tears, grateful that they were alive. The husband noticed the uneasiness in his wife, and asked her to reveal the cause, which she did without hesitation. I know what you are thinking, how the restless flickering of the female tongue always stirs up trouble, spreading news like a brushfire. Place a piece of information in their brains and it will slip right out through their mouths. Come now, let us be fair, such spectacle simply cannot remain unsaid for long.

The maid relayed the incident, but what she told was quite different from the original event. For the impression was so great, some facts were forgotten and others embellished. The man was filled with shock, then anger. He immediately called his neighbor to relay the story, then the neighbor told the miller, who in turn told the blacksmith, then the skinner and so on. And each time the tale was repeated, a new gory detail was added. By the time each villager was informed, the magistrate’s banquets had become satanic orgies, where children were slain, their flesh eaten and their blood drank by their very parents, as they looked upon with laughter while fornicating with whomever happened to stand beside. That very night, pitchforks, scythes, hammers and torches were gathered, and the people marched towards the magistrate's house.

Wrath, thou art the deadliest of sins, for while your six brothers and sisters affect individuals, your influence expands among hundreds of people like the plague. And the strength you grant is much to be feared. The town was furious, and their feeling was justified, for the yoke of tyranny had been at their necks for much too long. A man can stand high taxes, loss of his lands or even his life. But the death of an infant, having their children threatened, such is intolerable.

It is easy to assume what happened next, so why prolong the story any more? Oh, my dear listeners, please don’t spoil the fun. There is no poetry to be found in cold hard fact. But I will suggest that some of you leave now, for you may not be able to stomach what happened next. Ah, you wish to stay, good, but do not blame me for your nightmares later on.

Like tyrants everywhere, the magistrate believed everything was well in his land and slept soundly. Imagine his shock when he awoke to the sound of his gate being breached, and the sight of all those people invading his bedroom. Were there no guards at his service? Yes, but money does not buy true loyalty. The minute they saw the mob approach, sensibility spoke out and most of them escaped. A few remained for the love of their master, not the magistrate, money. Their ambitious souls expected rewards for their false bravery, a bag of gold for each head brought. The only metal they received was cold steel through their equally cold hearts.

The magistrate had no defense, the people fell upon him like a swarm and the torment commenced. First they set fire to the bed he occupied, burning away his hairs and turning his skin to charcoal. Now he looked as black and wretched as his soul. Then he was painfully dragged to the courtyard, where each of his limbs was tied to his four Arab stallions, pride and joy of his stable. The horses were whipped and they pulled with all of their might. The shrieks of pain went on for minutes, until his two legs and left arm were torn away among strings of blood. The spectacle that followed was, oh, so exquisitely dantesque. The remains of the magistrate were held upon pikes ten feet long, and paraded through the streets. Shout ‘hurrah’, the monster has been slain. The screams of joy and consumed vengeance were so loud, the magistrate’s agonic pleas remained unheard. Indeed, the pathetic creature was still alive! And survived for three more days after being thrown down the gutter, where maggots, rats and other vermin finished him off. And all this ordeal, which I have just described to you, was but a preamble of what Satan had in store. What sort of torture could the prince of darkness be utilizing? I have no way of knowing. Not yet at least, mayhap I will get the chance to ask him. Does anyone care to join me?

I shall not ruin this tale, any more than I already have, by adding a moral at the end. If there is a lesson to be learned, I am certain you are bright enough to figure it out by yourselves. I shall leave you now, for I cannot hold against my fatigue much longer, so I bid you goodnight. I trust you will sleep well, after all, patrons as fine as yourselves have no reason to fear retaliation as you lay down on your beds. Correct?