The Chancels of Mainz

By Russell Hemmell

In late 16th century Germany, the witch-hunt trials are engulfing the country.

Young, brilliant, and eager to prove himself, Inquisitor Hermann De Vylt is hellbent on his holy war against the forces of evil.

But when his world is turned upside down by the death of a noblewoman accused of witchcraft a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luna Press Publishing
• Release date: Feb 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781913387860

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The Chancels of Mainz

Russell

Hemmell

LUNA NOVELLA #10

Text Copyright © 2022 Steph P Bianchini

Cover © 2022 Jay Johnstone

First published by Luna Press Publishing, Edinburgh, 2022

The right of Steph P Bianchini to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The Chancels of Mainz ©2022. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or oth- erwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owners. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

www.lunapresspublishing.com

ISBN-13:978-1-913387-86-0.

To Fiorella.

One

If forgers and malefactors are put to death by the secular power, there is much more reason for excommunicating and even putting to death one convicted of heresy.

(Thomas Aquinas,

Summa Theologica II-II, Q.11, Art. 3)

Raffaello’s famous rooms in the Vatican, painted in a jubilation of colours and forms that defied the gravity of the holiest place in the Christendom, welcomed his arrival. Many visitors would have been duly impressed by the artistic mastery and the richness of the surrounding decor, but Hermann De Vylt was not among them. He bowed in front of his hierarchic superior before kissing his pastoral ring in a sign of devotion, but his eyes couldn’t stop glaring at the scandalous, almost lascivious images on the walls. Women with such carnal, terrestrial beauty should have not been allowed out of the brush of any painter, let alone appear in the Holy Chambers. Was it even art?

That impudence and lack of modesty made him blush, and he was quick to avert his stare from that indecent depiction. Tridentine Council or not, the Roman Curia had not changed since his last and only visit to date. Martin Luther was a heretic, sure, and he was rightly burning in Hell, but, unfortunately, he also had a point.

How was your trip, Brother Hermann? Archbishop Raffaele Riario gestured for Hermann to walk with him across the vaulted corridors toward the gardens.

Safe, Your Excellency.

Good. Have you visited any interesting places on your way down from Rhineland? There are so many beautiful cities in Italy, full of art and history.

I was most pressed to reach my destination.

The Archbishop opened his arms in an exaggerated display of mercy. How laudable the zeal. Our brothers in the Germanic Holy Roman Empire still have a clear sense of priorities, even when they are as young as you are. I hope you’re not too tired.

Riario was a tall man, with dark, shining eyes and thin, pale lips. His face was severe, almost stern, and yet Hermann had the impression the prelate was somehow mocking him.

They had reached, in the meantime, a spacious room with a view on the Vatican gardens, and the Archbishop pointed to the chair in front of a wooden desk. Sit, please.

I am fine. Hermann hesitated for a moment before deciding to accept the invitation. At least Riario’s office was remarkably sober, with nothing shameful displayed on its walls. He sat, clasping his prayer beads between his hands. Have you read my report, Excellency – really read, I mean?

That the Archbishop, in charge of the Dominican orders in the German territories still under the Catholic Church’s jurisdiction, had not taken him seriously had been Hermann’s lingering suspicion for months, due to the old man’s replies to his increasingly alarming reports about demons and coven activities in Mainz. But it couldn’t possibly be; the Roman Inquisition was renowned for its lack of humour and tolerance, especially when orthodoxy was at stake.

So maybe it was his fault, Hermann’s fault: Riario, coming from such a noble and distinguished Italian family, didn’t trust a 21-year-old Alsatian-born, German-educated Inquisitor at his first assignment. He had probably been too soft, and sloppy in his evidence gathering. Now the case was going to be withdrawn from him and, with that, the best chance he had to be given access to Rome and—

I did. All of it. More than once.

Hermann blinked, surprised, but recovered quickly. He looked again at the Archbishop. Perhaps you did, and yet you didn’t change your mind or even grant my requests, Hermann was on the point of saying, before reining in his tongue. Nothing to be gained from a direct confrontation. Italians could be very stubborn.

You’re wondering why I didn’t let you proceed with the trial until you had more evidence, which you’ve not been allowed to collect with the usual means, Riario said with a light tone.

I—

And you’re probably angered at me and at this system for the unbearable bureaucracy that asks for such a procedure when a few dozen hapless peasants from a remote village in Mainz’s surroundings is all that it is about. Isn’t it, Brother Hermann?

Again, that tone, so soft that you could grease the wheels of your old carriage with it.

Your Excellency—

Riario stood up and went to the credenza, producing a transparent container and two glasses. Spirit, Hermann decided, hands nervously rattling off the prayer beads but forcing himself not to flinch.

From your expression, I must assume you don’t drink.

Indeed not, Excellency.

The Archbishop sat down, drank up the glass he had poured, then filled it up again. I can see you’re burning with the urge to pledge your case. Speak up, then. Tell this old, lecherous, sin-ridden man what he didn’t understand from your report.

Hermann’s mouth made a wide O, like the gaping mouth of Hell. Then, forcing himself out of surprise (the Roman churchmen did know irony, after all), he produced the original version of his report. The full version, not expunged by all the details his direct superior in Mainz had thought well not to send over, infuriating and pushing Hermann to the decision of making that time-consuming and dangerous trip.

I can see Your Excellency likes quipping. He put a heavy volume on the table, with more force he would have liked. I don’t know what the Prior have sent over to you. I know what he has shown me, and even if that is what you’ve received, it does not convey the real thing. We’re facing a mortal threat. Heresy. Abomination. An intolerable menace we have to fight with force.

Is it?

I have been following this up since last summer. Almost one year by now. He opened the manuscript, pointing at the long passage in Latin just below the delicate miniatures on the page. This mysterious sect has been in existence in Rhineland for decades, from what we know, and about fifty years ago they moved just outside Mainz, in a village so small that it didn’t even get a name. One of my informants said they call it NMT, even though nobody knows what it means. They perform strange rites at given times of the year. I have retrieved suspicious plants – rue, asphodel, aconite and many others – in wreaths and garlands at specific locations. And there’s something I doubt you’re aware of. Hermann made a dramatic pause and stood up. Time to use his rhetorical ability to impress on his superior the severity of the issue. I have secretly ordered excavations in the old graveyard of Mainz, located just beside the village. The one the city abandoned after the Peasants War, you know? And what I’ve found out…oh God. Hermann crossed himself twice, shuddering for the sheer horror of that discovery. We found bones. Human bones! Small bones, too: children’s bones.

What else are you supposed to find in a graveyard, Brother Hermann?

One abandoned and deconsecrated for more than a century?

Riario’s expression didn’t change. We – the Church – abandoned it. The village inhabitants apparently did not.

You don’t understand… Hermann shook his head with energy before realising he was behaving disrespectfully. But he couldn’t stop himself. "They don’t bury people there. They sacrifice victims to the devil during their Sabbaths, and these are their remains. It is well known babies are the favourite targets of those heretics, and there’s a detailed procedure described in the Malleus Maleficarum, which I have commented upon in my notes. I wasn’t able to observe it personally yet, but—"

You seem convinced those peasants are worshippers of the Light Bearer. The high prelate raised his hand in a gesture of authority. You have taken a few of them in for questioning.

Yes.

You mentioned in your report they’ve acknowledged performing rites in their interrogation.

They did, yes.

And that the Light Bearer suggested to them the details of the procedures, together with the formulas to use for producing the incantations, albeit they weren’t unable to repeat them.

They didn’t mention Satan openly, but— Hermann’s eyes opened wide, remembering those eventful moments —but they’ve admitted some of the minor deeds and—

Has the doubt of putting in their mouths words you wanted to hear ever crossed you, Inquisitor? The Archbishop took the report from Hermann’s hands. Here. You said you found evidence of scripts in an unknown-to-you language. This means no Latin, no Greek, not even Hebrew. You went to the extent of copying one of them, which your superior has duly sent over but cautioned about.

The language of Satan, Hermann almost spat out, crossing himself again with shaking hands, even though he wasn’t sure out of fear or horror.

In that case, that would have been Aramaic.

What—?

I’m sure you know your Scripture. In the Gospel, this is the way the Serpent talked to Our Lord Jesus Christ. Riario’s voice had no sarcastic undertones, but his eyes were lit by an insulting irony. I reckon he might speak to his contemporary servants in the same way.

Was it Aramaic? Hermann asked, already knowing what the Archbishop was going to reply. No, it was not, obviously…You’re playing with me, Excellency. But this is no laughing matter.

You’re right, Inquisitor. This is no laughing matter. They look to me an artistic endeavour, albeit primitive, instead of a diabolical invocation. You know why? If those signs were a language, as you pretend, they’d belong to one that has been long forgotten by now. I am a scholar in this field, and it reminds me of the ancient language of pyramid-shaped form used by the fabled Assyrians, for the little we know about them. Then he stopped. Those people you denounced in your report are ignorant German peasants. They can’t read. How for the glory of Our Lord could they write in a language the world has lost any knowledge of?

You see! You see! This is a demonic sign. Satan speaks all languages of the world.

May the Virgin Mary enlighten the minds of her sons, because they’re blind and deaf. He sighed out loud. "I might be now in