rope-maker-turned-hangman found his vocation on the scaffold in Sykae. There he could smell fear and death, and the life and love he had at home tasted even sweeter. When the old hangman died, the young rope-maker took his place.
Now he stood in front of the prisoners, ready to weigh them up, measure their necks, get the job done, but hisstomach was rumbling, then griping, then churning. He left the four condemned young men standing in line, two having wet themselves in terror, one in shock and the last still defiant, still screaming true Blue abuse at the Greens. Leaving the Prefect’s guards to keep watch, the hangman ran out to the courtyard and threw up his breakfast, all of last night’s meal, and everything else until all that was left was bile and that still coming in a thin, bitter stream. He vomited until he was giddy and then, cursing his appetite and the mackerel and its roe, he went back to the prisoners’ holding cell.
The crowd outside were louder now. The hangman began again, measuring the men whose last moments were in his care and he did so with shaking hands, eyes unfocused from the sweat dripping down his brow.
One of the Greens looked at his executioner and laughed, ‘Brother, you don’t need to do the job if it’s making you sick. My friends and I will happily give you the day off.’
He turned to his fellow prisoners for confirmation, getting a weak smile from one, a whimper from another, stoic silence from the last.
The hangman shook his head, ‘I do my job, friend. The how and why are not part of it. Sorry.’
‘Fair enough,’ answered the Green. ‘Can’t blame a man for trying.’
The hangman smiled gently, used to both the sullenly frightened and the terrified talkers. ‘I never do,’ he said.
The rope was heavy around the neck, resting on the shoulders. The hangman asked for forgiveness, the prisoner gave it, or not, was crying too much to give it, or spat in his eye in rage, or stood deaf and mute in the silence of shock. The eyes were covered. The rope was tightened, a thick coil of it, forcing the prisoner’s chin up, the better to snap the neckmore cleanly – that part of the process to be quick, painless if possible, if the interminable build-up, endless anticipation could ever be called painless. For each prisoner every second was as long as his life – and as short. The sentence was read aloud again, as it had been by the Prefect, but now in the hangman’s stumbling mutter. Then the prisoner’s name was called, a wail wrenched from his wife in the crowd as she fainted, the scuffle as family picked her up, a yell of bitter fury from the prisoner’s brother, the sentence progressing anyway, as it always did. The rope tightened, the trapdoor dropped, a neck stretched, the prisoner jerked, his eyes bulging, body straining, one final ejaculation of life, and then the neck bones snapped apart. Done.
Once the first Green was cut down, tension began to rise. Back across the water of the Golden Horn the Palace shone in a cold afternoon sun which would soon set. The whispers began before the hangman raised the second length of rope – the Emperor is Blue, as is his wife, she who was once Green, who the Greens famously denied. Is this a trick? Do the powers-that-be mean to hang only Greens and save the Blues from the noose? A chant formed in the throats of those waiting, ready to break into full voice. Then the second prisoner was brought forward and a moan went up from the Blue side of the crowd. He was theirs. The Greens were briefly satisfied, the Blues downcast. The muttering continued: it had come to this, their own Emperor allowing such brutality, merely to make a show of his impartiality, the state’s impartiality. The people were not impartial, they were furious.
The rope was placed around the man’s neck, the spectators became more agitated, more uneasy, their cries were louder, loud enough to be heard over in the Palace. The faction leaders shook their heads,
Now he stood in front of the prisoners, ready to weigh them up, measure their necks, get the job done, but hisstomach was rumbling, then griping, then churning. He left the four condemned young men standing in line, two having wet themselves in terror, one in shock and the last still defiant, still screaming true Blue abuse at the Greens. Leaving the Prefect’s guards to keep watch, the hangman ran out to the courtyard and threw up his breakfast, all of last night’s meal, and everything else until all that was left was bile and that still coming in a thin, bitter stream. He vomited until he was giddy and then, cursing his appetite and the mackerel and its roe, he went back to the prisoners’ holding cell.
The crowd outside were louder now. The hangman began again, measuring the men whose last moments were in his care and he did so with shaking hands, eyes unfocused from the sweat dripping down his brow.
One of the Greens looked at his executioner and laughed, ‘Brother, you don’t need to do the job if it’s making you sick. My friends and I will happily give you the day off.’
He turned to his fellow prisoners for confirmation, getting a weak smile from one, a whimper from another, stoic silence from the last.
The hangman shook his head, ‘I do my job, friend. The how and why are not part of it. Sorry.’
‘Fair enough,’ answered the Green. ‘Can’t blame a man for trying.’
The hangman smiled gently, used to both the sullenly frightened and the terrified talkers. ‘I never do,’ he said.
The rope was heavy around the neck, resting on the shoulders. The hangman asked for forgiveness, the prisoner gave it, or not, was crying too much to give it, or spat in his eye in rage, or stood deaf and mute in the silence of shock. The eyes were covered. The rope was tightened, a thick coil of it, forcing the prisoner’s chin up, the better to snap the neckmore cleanly – that part of the process to be quick, painless if possible, if the interminable build-up, endless anticipation could ever be called painless. For each prisoner every second was as long as his life – and as short. The sentence was read aloud again, as it had been by the Prefect, but now in the hangman’s stumbling mutter. Then the prisoner’s name was called, a wail wrenched from his wife in the crowd as she fainted, the scuffle as family picked her up, a yell of bitter fury from the prisoner’s brother, the sentence progressing anyway, as it always did. The rope tightened, the trapdoor dropped, a neck stretched, the prisoner jerked, his eyes bulging, body straining, one final ejaculation of life, and then the neck bones snapped apart. Done.
Once the first Green was cut down, tension began to rise. Back across the water of the Golden Horn the Palace shone in a cold afternoon sun which would soon set. The whispers began before the hangman raised the second length of rope – the Emperor is Blue, as is his wife, she who was once Green, who the Greens famously denied. Is this a trick? Do the powers-that-be mean to hang only Greens and save the Blues from the noose? A chant formed in the throats of those waiting, ready to break into full voice. Then the second prisoner was brought forward and a moan went up from the Blue side of the crowd. He was theirs. The Greens were briefly satisfied, the Blues downcast. The muttering continued: it had come to this, their own Emperor allowing such brutality, merely to make a show of his impartiality, the state’s impartiality. The people were not impartial, they were furious.
The rope was placed around the man’s neck, the spectators became more agitated, more uneasy, their cries were louder, loud enough to be heard over in the Palace. The faction leaders shook their heads,
Similar Books
