On a spring afternoon in 1573, a 19-year-old named Frantz Schmidt stood in the backyard of his family home in Bavaria, sword in hand, preparing to slay a stray dog. This was not just some cruel random act of violence — it was a career test, the final step in Schmidt’s journey to becoming a professional executioner. He had already graduated from decapitating pumpkins. Now, he would move on to people.

We know of these intimate aspects of Schmidt’s life as a Medieval executioner, from start to finish, thanks to his surviving diaries, which offer a rare glimpse into one of the most reviled professions of medieval Europe.

Executioners were the enforcers of justice, yet their role placed them in an uneasy position. They were feared, shunned, and forced to live at the margins of society. Yet, without them, the law would crumble.

“Forget that image of the hood and them being anonymous and sadistic,” Harrington said. “They would have seen themselves as law enforcement officials.”

A Job No One Wanted

In the Middle Ages, lawlessness was rampant. Thieves, murderers, and heretics roamed the streets. But justice, when it came, was swift and brutal. The death penalty was the solution for many crimes, and executioners were tasked with making sure that justice was seen, heard, and remembered.

“They really liked to make a public spectacle,” Joel Harrington, a historian at Vanderbilt University, told Live Science. Harrington explained how executions served as a public warning to others.

But an executioner wasn’t exactly something medieval children dreamed of being when they grew up. Rather, it was a detested job and very few people would volunteer for it. In fact, it was almost never a choice.

Often, the duty passed down through generations, creating what Harrington called “execution dynasties” that spanned Europe. Sons would inherit the job from their fathers, which they would pass on to their sons like a curse.

Schmidt’s father had been randomly chosen for the job by a Bavarian prince, and now it was Frantz’s turn to carry the weight of the family legacy. Once marked, there was little hope of escape.

This entrapment meant that some families, over generations, became synonymous with the role. These dynasties spread across Europe, their names forever linked with death and punishment.

Yet, despite their importance for the state in maintaining the rule of law, executioners were outcasts. They lived on the edges of town, socially isolated from those they served. Marriage, for example, was often confined to their own kind, as no respectable family wanted to be linked to the grim work of the executioner.

Straddling the Line Between Respect and Fear

Frantz Schmidt’s diaries, revealed in Harrington’s book The Faithful Executioner: Life and Death, Honor and Shame in the Turbulent Sixteenth Century, reveal a paradoxical world. Executioners like him had to be skilled at their work. A botched execution — too many swings of the axe or a messy beheading — could spark a riot among the crowd, and sometimes the furious spectators would attack the executioner. In some cases, an executioner could face imprisonment or be stripped of his wages for failing to carry out his task cleanly.

Yet these men were more than instruments of death. Schmidt himself had aspirations beyond the block. He longed to be a doctor, treating far more patients than he executed.

“He had many, many more patients he healed than people he executed,” Harrington said.

Medieval executioners — maybe not that surprisingly given the nature of their jobs — often had a deep knowledge of human anatomy. Their understanding of the body made them not only effective executioners but also sought-after healers. Ironically, people who shunned them in public would seek them out in times of illness, when no one else could help.

Still, executioners existed in a strange twilight. The act of taking a life, even in the name of justice, was seen as corrupting. Joseph de Maistre, an 18th-century philosopher, once reflected on the executioner’s role with morbid fascination: “This head, this heart, are they made like ours? Do they not have something odd or foreign to our nature? Is he a man?”

Contrary to myth, executioners were rarely hooded. There was no need to hide their identities — everyone knew who they were. In some regions, they even wore special clothing to signify their grim role, ensuring they were visible, even off-duty.

More Than Dealers of Death

For medieval executioners, death was not the only business. In many cities, their duties expanded far beyond the scaffold. They were tasked with overseeing torture, cleaning cesspools, managing stray animals, and even taxing prostitutes and lepers. These unsavory tasks helped make ends meet since executions, while public and highly visible, were infrequent. In fact, many executioners supplemented their income by working as knackers, meaning they were in the business of disposing of dead animals.

The grim work of execution and the dirty tasks no one else would take on cemented their status as social outcasts. So, they were essential, yet untouchable. In Japan, executioners came from the lowest social caste, and in the Ottoman Empire, only Roma gypsies could serve as executioners. Their brutal methods (which included impaling) were feared by all.

Despite this, some executioners managed to break through the barriers of their social status. Schmidt himself became the official executioner of Bamberg, a prestigious and well-paid position that afforded him a comfortable life. He lived in a large house with his family and earned a generous salary.

But his success could not erase the stigma attached to his profession. He spent his later years petitioning the authorities to release his children from the family’s grim legacy — and he succeeded, ending the “family curse”.

Frantz Schmidt’s story is just one of many that paint a fuller picture of the medieval executioner. For all the gruesome nature of their vocation, executioners were, in the end, a reflection of the times in which they lived: brutal, unforgiving, and deeply conflicted.

And while society may have needed them to maintain order, the men behind the blade bore a far heavier burden—the curse of a job that no one wanted but they could never escape.