“Thus, you will begin the treatment.” Brother Tranquillus yawned and examined his club, a well-worn and polished piece of oak wood. “And if you successfully pray for the favour and intercession of Saint Dymphna, your lunacy and madness will leave you and, God willing, you will return, cured, to the healthy bosom of society. Dymphna is famed among the saints for her kindness, so your chances are good. But don’t stop praying. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Then God be with you.”

The canon of the Holy Sepulchre left, climbing up the creaking staircase that wound around the wall and ended somewhere high up at a door, a solid one judging by the sound of it opening and closing. Scarcely had the echo booming through the stone well died out than Scharley stood up.

“Well, brothers in torment,” he said cheerfully, “greetings, whoever you are. It looks like we’ll be spending some time together. Admittedly in prison, but still. So perhaps we could get to know each other?”

Just like an hour before, he was answered with clanking and the rustling of straw, snorting, a quiet curse and a few other words and sounds, mostly vulgar. But Scharley wasn’t discouraged this time. He strode over to one of the straw pallets, of which a dozen or more were located by the tower’s walls and around the ruined pillars and arcades dividing up the space. The darkness was slightly eased by light shining from above through some tiny windows at the very top of the tower. But Scharley’s sight had become accommodated by now and some things could be seen.

“Good morrow! I am Scharley!”

“Oh, get thee gone,” snapped a fellow from his pallet. “Pick on your own kind, madman. I’m of sound mind. Normal!”

Reynevan opened his mouth, quickly closed it and opened it again. For he saw what the man wanting to be regarded as sane was doing, which was the energetic manipulation of his genitalia. Scharley cleared his throat, shrugged and continued on his way, towards the next pallet. The person lying on it wasn’t moving, if you didn’t count a slight twitching and strange contractions of his face.

“Good morrow! I am Scharley…”

“Bbb… bbuub… bweh-bweeeh… Bweeeh…”

“As I thought. Let’s move on, Reinmar. Good morrow! I am—”

“Stop! Look where you’re treading, lunatic. On my drawings. Are you blind or what?”

Geometrical figures, graphs and columns of digits were scrawled in chalk on the rock-hard dirt floor among wisps of straw, being pored over by a grey-haired old man with a pate as shiny as an egg. Graphs, figures and digits also completely covered the wall above his pallet.

“Oh.” Scharley stepped back. “Excuse me. I understand. How could I forget? Noli turbare circulos meos.”

The old man raised his head and grinned, showing blackened teeth. “Scholars?”

“You could say that.”

“Then take your places by the pillar. The one with the omega carved upon it.”