“Your problem, Father Filip,” he began, his voice grinding, “is a lack of respect and trust towards your superiors. To possess individuality and one’s own opinion is, indeed, laudable, considerably more praiseworthy than dull, ovine obedience. However, there are certain matters where one’s superiors are absolutely right and infallible. Some believe they can interpret the Holy Father’s decisions according to their own whims. But that is not the way! Roma locuta, causa finita. Which is why, my dear Father Filip, if the Church superiors tell you what you should preach, you are to comply. Even if your individuality protests and screams, you are to comply. I see you wish to speak. So speak.”

“Three-quarters of my parishioners,” mumbled Father Granciszek, “are rather slow-witted, I’d say, pro maiori parte illiterati et idiote. But to the other quarter, I cannot say what the Curia instructs in my sermons. I do say that Hussites are heretics, murderers and degenerates, and that Žižka and Koranda are devils incarnate, criminals, blasphemers and iconoclasts who face eternal damnation and infernal agony. But I can’t say they eat babes in arms, or that they share their wives among them. Or that—”

“Do you not understand?” the canon interrupted him sharply. “Do you not understand my words, Father? Roma locuta! And for you, Wrocław is Roma. Preach what you are told to, about their common wives and their sodomy, how they eat babes and boil monks alive, and tear out the tongues of Catholic priests. If you receive such a directive, you will teach that when Hussites take communion from a goblet, hair sprouts from the roofs of their mouths and dogs’ tails from their backsides. I’m not joking—I’ve seen the relevant documents in the bishop’s chancel. As a matter of fact,” he added, looking with slight sympathy at Granciszek cowering before him, “how do you know they don’t grow tails? Have you been to Prague? To Tábor? To Hradec Králové? Have you received communion sub utraque specie?”

“No!” The parish priest almost choked on his breath. “The very thought!”

“Excellent. Causa finita. And this audience. In Wrocław, I’ll say that a reprimand sufficed, that you won’t cause any more problems. And now, so you won’t have the impression of a vain peregrination, you will say confession and do the penance the confessor demands of you. Father Felicjan!”

“Yes, Reverend?” replied the canon’s secretary.

“Prostration before the high altar in Saint Gotthard’s Church for the entire night, from Compline to Prime. The rest I leave to your own discretion.”

“May God keep you—”

“Amen. Farewell, Father.”

Otto Beess sighed and held out an empty goblet towards a seminarian, who immediately poured claret into it.

“No more petitioners today. Come with me, Reinmar.”

“Reverend Father… Before… I have a request…”

“Yes?”

“I was accompanied on my journey by a rabbi from Brzeg—”