“The New Era!” he yelled. “Man shall cast his idols of silver and his idols of gold to the moles and to the bats! Saith the Lord God: turn yourselves from your idols; and turn away your faces from all your abominations!”

He swung and the club shattered the painted board. One of the boys giggled foolishly.

“Thou shalt not make thee any graven image!” the preacher roared, striking more paintings with the club. “Of any thing that is in Heaven above! Or that is in the Earth beneath! Or that is in the waters beneath the Earth!”

The Expulsion from Paradise was reduced to matchwood, a triptych of the Annunciation was split and fell from the wall and The Adoration of the Magi was broken in two. Saint Hedwig, luminous and misty like the works of the Master of Flémalle, was chopped up. Krejčíř destroyed them with abandon as the sound of wood splintering echoed around the church. He turned his frenzied assault onto some murals and smashed the faces of cherubs on a frieze. And then he saw a sculpture. A painted wooden figure. Everybody saw it. And was dumbstruck.

It stood, head slightly bent, gathering in its delicate hands the drapes of a robe whose every carved fold sang a paeon to the sculptor’s artistry. Arched backwards slightly, but proudly, as though wanting to display her swollen belly, the pregnant Madonna looked down on them with carved, painted eyes, and Gratia and Agape shone from them. The pregnant Madonna smiled, and in her smile the artist had expressed greatness, glory, hope and the light of dawn after the black of the night. And the words magnificat anima mea Dominum, uttered softly and with love.

Magnificat anima mea Dominum. Et omnia quae intra me sunt.

“No sculptures!” bellowed Krejčíř, raising the club. “No statues! I will punish the carved images of Babylon!”

No one saw him move, but Samson was suddenly standing in front of the figure, shielding it from the preacher, barring the way to it with his arms spread in the shape of a cross.

What is he doing? wondered Reynevan, seeing Tauler’s horrified expression and Scharley’s face frozen in a grimace of resignation. What the hell is he doing? It means suicide to challenge an Orphan preacher… In any case, Krejčíř is, by and large, right… In the New Era, idols and graven images will not be honoured, they will not be bowed down to. Risking his life for a sculpture carved from a lindenwood log? Oh, Samson…

The preacher took a step back, astonished, but quickly recovered his composure.

“Would you shield an idol? Defend a graven image? Do you mock the words of the Bible, O blasphemer?”

“Find something else to smash,” Samson answered calmly. “Not this. You may not.”

“May not? May not?” Foam appeared on Krejčíř’s lips. “I will… I will… Forward, children! Have at him! Kill!”