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Confession

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Nakedness is essential.
Aside from the practical matter of leaving the flesh exposed for torture, it increases the subjects sense of helplessness & vulnerability.
Witch hunters would first show the accused the instruments of torture, describing in vivid detail how each was applied. Then, the accused would be stripped. The, the torture began.

PS: I love historical movies too.
 
It is all about trafeoffs, you have to convince her that being slowly tortured to death is preferable to more sessions in the torture chamber.
Of course after the confession one should continue for a little while, just so she understands that recanting her confession would be a very bad mistake.
Then let her rest for a while so her performance in the execution platform is up to the expectations of the attendants.
 
Primus pilus said:
She is pushed into the inquistion chamber ahead of her interrogator. She had been quite beautiful when they arrested her, the darling of the town, pursued by many suitors. But now her fine clothes have been replaced with rags, filthy, torn. Her dark hair is matted, tangled, flecked with straw from the sparse covering on the stone flagged cell floor. Bones sharp above her hollowed cheeks. Her eyes are sunken, dark, tired.

View attachment 216275

She had been chained, naked, to a ring in the wall for three days, fed but a little coarse bread and some foetid water, forced to piss and shit in front of the gaoler in an unemptied bucket, to clean herself with handfuls of the straw when the fear wrenched her bowels. Kept awake. She knew this was their way. Humiliate her, start to break her. No questions, not yet.

She was given a ragged dress to cover herself, no underthings, her wrists tied tight behind her back and forced ahead of the interrogator to the Inquistion Chamber. She cannot bear to look around but she senses torment here and she feels the heat from a brazier.

Her interrogator gives her a hard shove between her shoulders and she sprawls, face first onto the stone floor at the feet of a red-robed Cardinal. The Inquistor, seated at a dark wooden table topped with papers and a black leather-covered bible, flanked by two black-robed priests.

She struggles to her knees, blood dripping down her cheek from a cut where the bone struck the hard stone floor, and her eyes follow up the red robes to the savage hawk-like face.

The Cardinal speaks, a cold, hard voice. "Barbara Moore, you are charged with heresy, the willful and persistent rejection of articles of faith by a baptized member of the church. The penalty is death."

"We have evidence, witnesses to your apostasy. But we must have your confession. Will you give it willingly?"

The woman shivers as fear grips her but she shakes her head. "I am innocent, never a heretic. I love my God and His Church."

"Then you leave us no alternative. We will extract your confession under duress." And the Inquistor nods to the interrogator to begin his work.
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Barbaria1 said:
My God...what is happening to me?....who could possibly have made such false charges against me? ... and they must be serious charges if even the Cardinal (he is so ugly and harsh looking) has taken an interest. I am cold, and frightened... my body aches...I am half naked, exposed ....I feel sick ... my cheek is bleeding ... I brush the blood oozing from my cut cheek with the back of my hand...should I beg for mercy? .... Please, your holy eminence, hear me out....this must be a case of mistaken identity ... or someone who bears a grudge against me has reported falsely about me ... I am no heretic, I am a faithful god-fearing woman...you have to believe me, please. Return my clothing to me and let me walk out of here. I will be forever faithful and always abide by the teachings of the Church. I promise. Please!! Please!! Noooooooooooooooooo. Unhand me.....nooooo.....sob ..... please, please!!!
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The interrogator responds with a curt bow to His Eminence and drags the woman to a post. He cuts away the ragged dress leaving her only partially covered by a grubby shift. Her wrists are freed for a moment then tied to a rope and hauled above her head as her body is stretched against the rough wood.
Barb Bare Breast (B&W).jpg
Barbara can smell his rotten breath as leans close. “Think on confessing woman, while I prepare my tools. His Eminence must have one before you are found guilty and put to death and I will deliver that.........true or false.....as I am paid to do.”

Outside a crowd has gathered. They had seen the red-robed Cardinal and his assistant priests arrive in the afternoon They knew Barbara Moore had been arrested days before and taken to the cells under the church. The townsfolk could only guess her fate but they were familiar enough with the Cardinal to have some idea. They had also seen a wagon, driven by a short, muscular, hard-looking man, arrive an hour behind the Cardinal’s coach. Its load was covered by sacking and they knew well enough not to look nor to watch as it was unloaded into the church under the cover of the night.

A few had seen the priests walk the short distance from the inn that morning but only a few brave souls had followed. Slowly more joined as numbers gave a feeling of safety, no one wanting to stand out amongst others.

Inside the church the Cardinal spoke quietly to his priests. “We need witnesses to her confession from the town. Bring me three who will attest that her confession is true.” One of the black-robed men rises and walks down the aisle. The second follows.

The crowd in the square below the steps watches as the heavy timber doors of the portal open and most try to shuffle behind their fellows, seeking anonymity. “His Eminence requires three volunteers as witnesses to a confession.” He points to a tall man, “You”, a comely young woman of perhaps 20, “You”, and an older, though still-attractive, heavy-breasted woman, “You.”

They are reluctant to move but are quickly pushed forward by their fellows and, slowly, climb the stairs and follow the priest through the portal and into the nathex. As they follow one priest up the aisle, the second falls in behind them, cutting off any ill-considered retreat.

The three shudder at what they see in the dim light of the north transept. The red-robed Inquisitor at his table, the interrogator with his frames, a windlass and dangling ropes, his rack, a Judas cradle, a bench with the harsh iron and leather tools of torture, a brazier filled with the glowing red of hot coals. A sinuous plaited leather whip on his shoulder. And, between the two men, the dark-haired Barbara Moore, barely covered and stretched against a post.

As the witnesses approach they bow to the Cardinal and His Eminence points them to a bench seat just a few yards from the hanging Barbara. “You have been chosen as witnesses to a heretic's confession. You have a solemn duty to God to watch her interrogation and to hear her confess. Are you willing?” Knowing they have been given no choice each nods, shaken at what they see, at the thought of what they will watch.

With all now readied, the interrogator stands once more beside the sobbing Barbara Moore.
 
Hanging by my wrists, with just a scant shift to cover my nakedness. My arms ache and I close my eyes so I don't have to look at the witnesses, whom I recognize immediately. They are friends, but under these circumstances I doubt they will defend me, and quite probably may enjoy watching my suffering. I also don't want to look at the numerous instruments of torture all around me.... I can only sob and shake uncontrollably and wish this was just a nasty dream.
 
Barbaria1 said:
Hanging by my wrists, with just a scant shift to cover my nakedness. My arms ache and I close my eyes so I don't have to look at the witnesses, whom I recognize immediately. They are friends, but under these circumstances I doubt they will defend me, and quite probably may enjoy watching my suffering. I also don't want to look at the numerous instruments of torture all around me.... I can only sob and shake uncontrollably and wish this was just a nasty dream.
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Oh Barb, you are going to suffer so much. How does it feel to know that you are innocent, yet punished? That your dignity will be stripped from you in front of friends and neighbours? That whatever you say, whatever you do, you will be punished?
Lucky girl :D

Now, as to confessions, I'm a simple soul. And I like nice body shapes.
That's one reason I like crux.
I've always thought that a body with some nice tension on it is quite attractive, it enhances the lines.
So, when it comes to confessions, I think it is hard to go past a good racking. The rack is ideal, the victim is quite helpless, the physical damage can be slight or extreme, the ordeal can be increased or decreased as required. It can go on for an indefinite time. A victim can be lightly stretched and then left for a time, in extreme but not life threatening discomfort. They can be questioned, displayed, used as a warning or example to others undergoing questioning. How degrading to find that your own ordeal, your suffering, is reduced to the state of a footnote in someone else's story. The rack also provides a launch pad for numerous other torments.
 
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darkside99 said:
What is the best way to extract a confession from a heretic?
How long should it take to get her to confess her guilt?
Should she be clothed or undressed?
By what means should the execution be carried out?

All ideas and comments welcome:

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Unreal that a nun would have been convicted by drinking hemlock. That is since Socrates a sacral suicide only for important men. The show in this part of film moreover is great, all costumes and movements. Also their faces are impressive.
 
phlebas said:
Oh Barb, you are going to suffer so much. How does it feel to know that you are innocent, yet punished? That your dignity will be stripped from you in front of friends and neighbours? That whatever you say, whatever you do, you will be punished?
Lucky girl :D

Now, as to confessions, I'm a simple soul. And I like nice body shapes.
That's one reason I like crux.
I've always thought that a body with some nice tension on it is quite attractive, it enhances the lines.
So, when it comes to confessions, I think it is hard to go past a good racking. The rack is ideal, the victim is quite helpless, the physical damage can be slight or extreme, the ordeal can be increased or decreased as required. It can go on for an indefinite time. A victim can be lightly stretched and then left for a time, in extreme but not life threatening discomfort. They can be questioned, displayed, used as a warning or example to others undergoing questioning. How degrading to find that your own ordeal, your suffering, is reduced to the state of a footnote in someone else's story. The rack also provides a launch pad for numerous other torments.
Click to expand...

I agree with what Phlebas has written here. The fact that the physical damage can be regulated to be light and still provide hours of suffering is as he says one of the advantages of the rack ... prolonging the pain and terror while not destroying the victim for further tortures makes the rack a good starting and softening up technique, and if the victim's will to resist is weak it may be enough (we hope not) to elicit a quick confession. And a quick confession is no need to stop...after all, once she has confessed she can be forced to divulge names and conspiracies.
 
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and in any case, even when I'd confessed, I'd expect to be punished for having taken so long...
 
Fox-on-Cross said:
Unreal that a nun would have been convicted by drinking hemlock. That is since Socrates a sacral suicide only for important men. The show in this part of film moreover is great, all costumes and movements. Also their faces are impressive.
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The hemlock scene, although nicely done, does come across as unrealistic. Historically heretic nuns (witches) would either be hanged or burned at the stake.....
 
There have been in monasteries procedures enough to get rid of troublesome members.
They ware a walled state in a state with own rules.
A cachot without light, scarce food and drink, and rats.

The dementia præcox Juan, son of Philip II, was send to a monastery and disappeared for ever.
 
Barbaria1 said:
Hanging by my wrists, with just a scant shift to cover my nakedness. My arms ache and I close my eyes so I don't have to look at the witnesses, whom I recognize immediately. They are friends, but under these circumstances I doubt they will defend me, and quite probably may enjoy watching my suffering. I also don't want to look at the numerous instruments of torture all around me.... I can only sob and shake uncontrollably and wish this was just a nasty dream.
Click to expand...
He can see that Barbara recognises the townsfolk called forward as witnesses to her confession and he wonders about them. Did the tall man pursue you? Did he want to fuck you? Does the comely young one lust after you? Did you pursue the older woman’s husband and did she denounce you? Humiliate her more first, in front of them all.

The interrogator cuts Barbara free from the post and forces her in front of the witnesses. “Strip yourself of your final modesty.” She sobs, “no, not that. Not in front of the priests and the people. I am innocent. No.” Then she screams as his whip carves a stipe across her back and, reluctant, she obeys and allows the grubby torn shift to slide down her body.
He would like to break her slowly. Take her to the edge on the rack, keep her suffering, play with her, enjoy the sadism he knows lies within him. But he is paid only for three things, her confession, her scourging and her execution. In other places he would be paid by the torture, paid to entertain the crowd but not here. He has two days. He must extract her confession this day.

What works quickly to set the breaking process? What creates unbearable pain? Torture her shoulders. Yes. He drags the naked, dark-haired woman to the centre of the transept where ropes dangle from the beams. He binds her wrists tightly behind her back and attaches a rope to the binding, pulling her arms back, bending her forwards as she tries to escape the pressure in her shoulders.

Then she hears a click, click, click as he turns the windlass with a wooden pole and a pawl drops into its slot. At each click she feels the pressure grow in her shoulders, wrenching her arms upwards until she is slowly lifted. Onto her toes, then off the stone floor. All her weight on those muscles, those tendons, those ligaments that hold her shoulders together.
image.jpg
She kicks but it makes the pain worse and she forces herself to stay still. Excruciating pain. She is crying, sobs wracking her body.

The clicking stops and she hangs, a yard above the floor. Then a short drop, just a foot, but her weight tears at her shoulders as she is pulled up short on the rope. She screams, long, piercing as ligaments tear. He lets her hang for a minute then the clicking again, winching her higher, further upwards now. Then the drop again, further this time, 3 feet 4 feet, and she screams again as more ligament, tendons and muscle tears under her own body weight. Her sobs are now groans. Deep, guttural. She is suffering.
image.jpg
Then the clicks again, click, click, click and she is raised again, a full two yards. As she hangs, pain searing through her abused shoulders, she tenses as best she can for that next plunging drop. He waits, watching her. The lets her go almost to the floor. The longer drop tears more deep flesh and she feels shoulders dislocate. An awful, burning pain. Screaming. And he lets the rope go dumping her pain-wracked body on the cold stone floor.

The interrogator crouches beside her and lowers his head close to her ear. “Confess, woman. It will not get any easier.”
The Inquisitor cranes his head to hear her reply. “No. No. I am innocent. I pray to God, believe me.”

"Then your interrogation will proceed. Continue."
 
Primus pilus said:
He can see that Barbara recognises the townsfolk called forward as witnesses to her confession and he wonders about them. Did the tall man pursue you? Did he want to fuck you? Does the comely young one lust after you? Did you pursue the older woman’s husband and did she denounce you? Humiliate her more first, in front of them all.

The interrogator cuts Barbara free from the post and forces her in front of the witnesses. “Strip yourself of your final modesty.” She sobs, “no, not that. Not in front of the priests and the people. I am innocent. No.” Then she screams as his whip carves a stipe across her back and, reluctant, she obeys and allows the grubby torn shift to slide down her body.
He would like to break her slowly. Take her to the edge on the rack, keep her suffering, play with her, enjoy the sadism he knows lies within him. But he is paid only for three things, her confession, her scourging and her execution. In other places he would be paid by the torture, paid to entertain the crowd but not here. He has two days. He must extract her confession this day.

What works quickly to set the breaking process? What creates unbearable pain? Torture her shoulders. Yes. He drags the naked, dark-haired woman to the centre of the transept where ropes dangle from the beams. He binds her wrists tightly behind her back and attaches a rope to the binding, pulling her arms back, bending her forwards as she tries to escape the pressure in her shoulders.

Then she hears a click, click, click as he turns the windlass with a wooden pole and a pawl drops into its slot. At each click she feels the pressure grow in her shoulders, wrenching her arms upwards until she is slowly lifted. Onto her toes, then off the stone floor. All her weight on those muscles, those tendons, those ligaments that hold her shoulders together.

View attachment 216994
She kicks but it makes the pain worse and she forces herself to stay still. Excruciating pain. She is crying, sobs wracking her body.

The clicking stops and she hangs, a yard above the floor. Then a short drop, just a foot, but her weight tears at her shoulders as she is pulled up short on the rope. She screams, long, piercing as ligaments tear. He lets her hang for a minute then the clicking again, winching her higher, further upwards now. Then the drop again, further this time, 3 feet 4 feet, and she screams again as more ligament, tendons and muscle tears under her own body weight. Her sobs are now groans. Deep, guttural. She is suffering.
View attachment 216995
Then the clicks again, click, click, click and she is raised again, a full two yards. As she hangs, pain searing through her abused shoulders, she tenses as best she can for that next plunging drop. He waits, watching her. The lets her go almost to the floor. The longer drop tears more deep flesh and she feels shoulders dislocate. An awful, burning pain. Screaming. And he lets the rope go dumping her pain-wracked body on the cold stone floor.

The interrogator crouches beside her and lowers his head close to her ear. “Confess, woman. It will not get any easier.”
The Inquisitor cranes his head to hear her reply. “No. No. I am innocent. I pray to God, believe me.”

"Then your interrogation will proceed. Continue."
Click to expand...

From 2.32m......

 
Primus pilus said:
He can see that Barbara recognises the townsfolk called forward as witnesses to her confession and he wonders about them. Did the tall man pursue you? Did he want to fuck you? Does the comely young one lust after you? Did you pursue the older woman’s husband and did she denounce you? Humiliate her more first, in front of them all.

The interrogator cuts Barbara free from the post and forces her in front of the witnesses. “Strip yourself of your final modesty.” She sobs, “no, not that. Not in front of the priests and the people. I am innocent. No.” Then she screams as his whip carves a stipe across her back and, reluctant, she obeys and allows the grubby torn shift to slide down her body.
He would like to break her slowly. Take her to the edge on the rack, keep her suffering, play with her, enjoy the sadism he knows lies within him. But he is paid only for three things, her confession, her scourging and her execution. In other places he would be paid by the torture, paid to entertain the crowd but not here. He has two days. He must extract her confession this day.

What works quickly to set the breaking process? What creates unbearable pain? Torture her shoulders. Yes. He drags the naked, dark-haired woman to the centre of the transept where ropes dangle from the beams. He binds her wrists tightly behind her back and attaches a rope to the binding, pulling her arms back, bending her forwards as she tries to escape the pressure in her shoulders.

Then she hears a click, click, click as he turns the windlass with a wooden pole and a pawl drops into its slot. At each click she feels the pressure grow in her shoulders, wrenching her arms upwards until she is slowly lifted. Onto her toes, then off the stone floor. All her weight on those muscles, those tendons, those ligaments that hold her shoulders together.
View attachment 216994
She kicks but it makes the pain worse and she forces herself to stay still. Excruciating pain. She is crying, sobs wracking her body.

The clicking stops and she hangs, a yard above the floor. Then a short drop, just a foot, but her weight tears at her shoulders as she is pulled up short on the rope. She screams, long, piercing as ligaments tear. He lets her hang for a minute then the clicking again, winching her higher, further upwards now. Then the drop again, further this time, 3 feet 4 feet, and she screams again as more ligament, tendons and muscle tears under her own body weight. Her sobs are now groans. Deep, guttural. She is suffering.
View attachment 216995
Then the clicks again, click, click, click and she is raised again, a full two yards. As she hangs, pain searing through her abused shoulders, she tenses as best she can for that next plunging drop. He waits, watching her. The lets her go almost to the floor. The longer drop tears more deep flesh and she feels shoulders dislocate. An awful, burning pain. Screaming. And he lets the rope go dumping her pain-wracked body on the cold stone floor.

The interrogator crouches beside her and lowers his head close to her ear. “Confess, woman. It will not get any easier.”
The Inquisitor cranes his head to hear her reply. “No. No. I am innocent. I pray to God, believe me.”

"Then your interrogation will proceed. Continue."
Click to expand...
I would so like to suffer like this
 
Primus pilus said:
The interrogator crouches beside her and lowers his head close to her ear. “Confess, woman. It will not get any easier.”
The Inquisitor cranes his head to hear her reply. “No. No. I am innocent. I pray to God, believe me.”

"Then your interrogation will proceed. Continue."
Click to expand...

Continue?? Oh my god, no!!!!!!! The pain in my shoulders from what he just finished doing to me is unbearable. I don't want this to continue. I don't want to suffer anymore; I just want him to go away and leave me here on the floor. My eyes dart wildly from one instrument of torture to another; there are so many of them arrayed around me in the room ... this dreadful, dreadful room where so many have suffered at the hands of a cruel and unforgiving Church. I did no wrong, why don't they believe me? Why do they stare at me like that? So many of them .. the priests of the town, the Cardinal in his flaming red robes and little red slippers, the mayor and the constable.....and worst of all the three townspeople ... people I know ... they all seem to be reveling in my naked wretchedness, terror and pain. I can see it in their eyes...they are all aroused, sweat on their brows, leaning forward, hands at their crotches, eager for the executioner to drag me up off the cold floor and subject my nude body to ever more of his wicked skills.....
 
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