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Aldo Bellini sat by the window, sorting through the herbs and berries he had gathered in the nearby forest. Giulio Sabbadin sat beside him, occasionally handing him whatever Bellini asked for. The monk yawned, rubbing his eyes. He had done too much today.
“I’m going to sleep, Giulio,” he said to the knight. “If anyone wants to speak to me, tell them I’m asleep.”
“Understood,” the knight nodded and went back to studying the wooden tablets marked with plant symbols. Lately, he had enjoyed spending his time asking Aldo about wild berries. Bellini always answered his friend’s questions with pleasure.
Bellini lay down on the slightly creaking bed. The smell of herbs that filled the little room was soothing. His hands smelled of mint — the scent seemed unusually strong.
Darkness fell upon him like a heavy blanket. The familiar herbal scent changed to dust, rot, and, it seemed, blood. Aldo flinched when he realised that in his dream he was standing on cold stone that dug into his heels. Bellini winced and looked around.
“I don’t like this place…” he murmured, glancing about.
From somewhere came a low voice:
“Brother Aldo, we have waited so long.” The voice pressed against his temples, and Bellini bit his lip, trying to ignore the pain.
Goffredo di Tedesco appeared, shuffling slightly across the cold floor. He wore the black cassock he almost always had on. Around his thick neck hung a dagger‑cross, which knocked dully against his clothes.
“Did you think you had hidden well enough?” Tedesco asked, his eyes glinting dangerously in the dark. “Did you think I, the head of the Inquisition tribunal, was a fool?”
“You are mistaken,” Bellini’s voice was respectfully quiet. “But I am no heretic. I am just an ordinary herbalist monk.”
Goffredo chuckled and took a heavy step forward. In the darkness the inquisitor’s bulky figure began to take shape.
“Ordinary monks, Aldo, do not shelter just anybody. They drive such vagrants away. The Church does not like stragglers, nor those who hide them from the eye of Mother Church. That is why we must hammer the truth into those who dare to defy the Church itself.”
Aldo shrank back, his back hitting the cold wall. “Lord, have mercy,” he whispered, but his voice broke. “This is a dream. I must wake up.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing his cell, the smell of mint, Giulio’s quiet voice. But when he opened his eyes, Tedesco stood even closer. The brand glowed red‑hot, radiating heat, and Aldo smelled burning skin – his own – even though it had not yet touched him.
“Prayers will not help,” the inquisitor sneered. “Here, I am the voice of God.”
With the last of his strength, Aldo prayed under his breath: “Our Father, who art in heaven…” The words came out tangled; his tongue went numb. He tried to pinch his arm – no pain. Only cold and the stench of decay.
Tedesco produced something like a red‑hot branding iron. He gripped it firmly with rusty tongs, but for now did not try to sear the monk’s face.
Aldo pinched his nose and cheeks sharply, slapped himself. But there was no sound.
“I am very sorry,” the inquisitor said, “but, I am afraid, here my rules apply, Aldo. I am not ready to let an offender of the Church go.”
Aldo opened his mouth like a fish thrown onto dry land, his legs buckled, and he fell into darkness.
“Aldo?” A rough voice – Sabbadin’s – tore him from the dream. “Aldo, you were screaming in your sleep.”
Bellini woke with a start and shut his eyes against the bright light. He was drenched, as if he had been in a river, and he was trembling.
“Aldo? Are you ill?” The knight clumsily felt his forehead. “You’re soaking wet.”
Bellini sighed. The fear was fading, and his sleeping chamber was regaining its real shapes. His gaze fell on Giulio, who was himself dishevelled, trying to smooth his black hair. Without thinking about what had happened, Bellini pressed himself against the man’s chest, needing to feel something real.
“Don’t worry, Giulio,” the monk tried to reassure them both. “It was only a dream. I must have overdone it yesterday. That’s why I get such horrors. I should drink some chamomile tea.”
Sabbadin quickly rose and brought a small clay jug of the brew. The monk took a few sips, calming down. The knight sat beside him, tensely scanning his friend for any sign of trouble.
His hands smelled of mint again – not dust and blood. Goffredo di Tedesco had not visited them at all, nor sent his men. Somewhere in the distance birds chirped, and a hunter’s dog barked.
“I don’t think I’ll sleep today,” Aldo sighed. “Perhaps I’ll check the brews for impurities or tidy up the cell. All right?”
Giulio nodded silently and added:
“Just don’t overwork yourself. You look like you’ve been through a wolf attack,” the man said with a grim chuckle. “And take care of your health. I don’t want you dying of some fever.”
“I’ll try,” Aldo gave a weak laugh. “There’s a little barley porridge left from supper. Want some?”
Giulio nodded and went to help the monk clear the table. The night was over, taking the nightmare away with it. And perhaps that was what mattered most.