1600年,罗马。春天临近了。 宗教裁判所的囚房。几个穿着红色、黑色或白色长袍的人围在一条板凳四周。板凳上捆着一个头发又长又脏、胡子像野草、衣服破成一片片的人。在他脚下,有一锅热腾腾的油,一个穿黑衣服的人把油一勺勺地泼到他的脚上,每泼一下,他就抽搐一下。 布鲁诺昏迷过去了,到晚上,他才醒过来,脚上像有几千把刀在剜割着。 “不,我不反悔!”他轻轻地、坚定地说,“哪怕像塞尔维特一样被他们烧死。我认为胜利是可以得到的,而且要勇敢地为它奋斗。” 1600, Rome. Spring is approaching. Referee’s cell. Several people in red, black or white robe encircled a bench. Stool tied with a long and dirty hair, beard like weeds, clothes broken into pieces of people. There was a hot pot of oil under his feet, and a man in black poured a spoonful of oil onto his feet, and every time he splashed, he twitched. Bruno died in a coma, and at night he woke up, cutting his feet like a few thousand knives. “No, I do not regret it!” He said softly and firmly, “Even if they were burned to death like Servetti, I think victory is available and we must fight bravely for it.”