“Several were left alive,” said Berengar Tauler, nodding. “It was a closely kept secret, carefully hidden from Žižka. The matter of the Adamites’ sexual freedom was then common knowledge. Female Adamites, so ran the rumours, made love after stripping naked and simply adored orgies, particularly in groups, nothing gave them greater pleasure than group sex, with several men on one of them. Well, if that’s how they like it—”

“You needn’t finish,” said Reynevan through clenched his teeth.

“But I will. For one of the women who was saved, the last alive, is serving drinks here.”

“Marketa,” confirmed Amadej Baťa. “Said to be the favourite, the pet, of the Adamite Burján. Huncleder bought her from the Taborite brethren when they grew tired of her. Now she is his. His property. Entirely and for ever. Until death.”

“When she joined the sect, she burned her bridges.” Tauler noticed Reynevan’s astonished expression. “There was no way back. The sectarians were disowned by their families…”

“And Picards are still being hunted down,” added Scharley, sounding indifferent. “Almost every day they expose and burn somebody after torturing them. The wench must do what Huncleder orders for she’s at his mercy. She’s only alive thanks to him.”

“Alive?” Reynevan turned his head. No one reacted.

The red-haired girl called Marketa charged their cups. This time, Reynevan watched her more attentively. This time, as she filled his cup, she looked up. He didn’t see in her eyes what he had expected: pain, shame, humiliation, a slave’s anxious docility. The eyes of the red-haired girl were despoiled by measureless apathy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something that surprised him even more.

Samson Honeypot had stopped carving.

“Well, gentlemen and brethren,” said Huncleder, getting up from the table. “Time to divert yourselves after your hard work. Servants, push the benches together! Move yourself, Jeřábek! Hey, wenches, draw the wine and serve it! And may I remind our guests that you have to pay for the diversion. To feast one’s eyes on this spectacle you must part with a florin or a Hungarian ducat. Or its equivalent in value, which means thirty groschen. No one who parts with the sum will regret it! The prospect is worth even ten ducats, I vouch!”

Soon all the guests were sitting in a makeshift auditorium, with the oak table they had been playing on in front of them.

Several candle holders were placed on the table to provide illumination. Suddenly, one of the servants began to rhythmically beat on a drum. The hubbub subsided.

Marketa emerged from a side room. The drum fell silent.