Martin Luther crept out of his front door. He was being
watched, that he knew. The Pope had spies everywhere. The eve of All Saint's Day, October 31, 1517; this would be
the day that they would take notice of his fears, of his criticisms.
The ideas were set, they had
been printed and were to be posted on the on the door of the Castle Church of Wittenberg, as it was done according to university custom.
His was a protest of
thought, but a protest against simony and indulgences. There was no way to gain
admission to heaven other than through the lord. He would show them that he was
right and that their practices must end.
It was daybreak and there
were a passing few in the square as he made his way with the parchment rolled
up, nailsand hammer concealed in his habit.
At the door, a few watched,
knowing that some priest was doing something. They were here at the turning
point, of that he was sure. He could hear them breathing, their mutterings, and
their discontent as he took out the hammer. Then their silence as he held the
first nail. Hammer poised over it.
He turned and saw their
silence made flesh. Ten, maybe more, black cloaks, Dominican Friars edged
towards him from the periphery of the square: appearing like shadows form the
doorways, from the shadows. They were masters of concealment, masters of
deceit.
They had known, he was
betrayed.
Luther took the parchment in
his hand and held it aloft. He would tell the people and they would tell their
children and their neighbours, someone would take what he had written and read
it and know he was right. The people of Wittenberg scattered, not daring to
look him in the eye.
He bellowed his words.
‘I charge the church…’ his
cry cut short with a twang of a crossbow. He looked down and saw the bolt
protrude from his chest before he ever felt the pain. It was an explosion
through his bones and sinews. He lost breath, his raised arm drooped limply to
his side, the parchment fell to the floor and covered the slowly growing pool
of red.
He sunk to his knees. He
hadn’t realised three more had struck him. His chest, his torso pegged out in
the Stations of the Cross. The dark figures continued to move closer. He tried
to move his arms,his legs, to breathe, but nothing was working. He tried to
speak, to say something, maybe a final word, a last plea would be carried from
his dead tongue to others through a sympathiser amongst them.
He opened his mouth.
‘Nothing?’ A dark, Castilian
voice came from a hood not three metres in front of him, ‘no final words
heretic?’
Luther tried to communicate,
tried to force his words upon those who would not hear them, but all he could
speak with were his closing eyes, saddened that he had come so far and yet made
so little difference. He felt his weight fall forward.
‘Burn him’ he heard as he
fell, ‘and his followers. Let god sort them out.’
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