Dawn was breaking. He was preparing to say Mass as he did every morning, even though he was in hiding, even though there was no one to hear it. He had heard their horses clatter on the cobbled courtyard and their rough, soldiers’ voices. He hoped his hosts would not be too badly treated, but after all, they were only doing God’s work. They would get their reward in heaven. Slowly and deliberately he carried on vesting, repeating the familiar gestures with their comforting symbolism. Boots drummed on the wooden stairs. He placed the stole about his neck and waited for the door to burst open.

The soldiers pushed him down the stairs, as if he offered resistance. When he stumbled, they laughed and kicked him to get up. He let his eyes turn inwards and thought of Jesus on the way to Calvary and forced his growing terror to be silent. He was a priest of God, these ruffians would pay for their sins unless they repented. Repentance of unbelievers was, fortunately, unlikely.

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