The Beggar King

7

REGENSBURG

NOON, AUGUST 20, 1662 AD

Do you have any idea what might be detaining your amico?”

Silvio Contarini gallantly offered Magdalena his arm. She hesitated briefly, then permitted the Venetian to guide her through the narrow Regensburg streets, while she towered over him by at least a full head.

“To be honest, no,” she said uncertainly. “Perhaps he just stepped out for a breath of fresh air. I only hope nothing has happened to him.”

“Didn’t you say he likes coffee?”

Magdalena nodded. “Coffee and books, yes, he’s addicted to both.”

“Then I know a place where Simon could be.”

Silvio guided her along a wide paved avenue with oxcarts and coaches rumbling by. He took care to walk on the outside to shield her from the occasional splashes of mud from passing vehicles. The hangman’s daughter couldn’t help but smile. This man was a real cavalier! She decided to allow herself to feel like a lady, at least for a short time-to give herself over to the care of her diminutive companion.

The two soon reached the city hall square. Across from the magnificent building was a neat, freshly whitewashed gabled tavern, complete with glass windows, bright stucco work, and a newly thatched roof. Patricians in wide trousers and tight-fitting jackets paraded in and out alongside brightly made-up women with broad-brimmed hats and elaborate pinned-up hair. Silvio tugged at Magdalena’s sleeve impatiently, pulling her toward the entry.

“You don’t believe they’ll let me in, looking the way I do!” she whispered, horrified. “I look like a despicable chambermaid!”

The little Venetian examined her uncertainly. “That may in fact be a problem. Take this,” he said, handing Magdalena his cloak. Only then did she notice that a small dagger was tied to the inside of the Venetian’s belt, its handle inlaid with rubies.

“Later we’ll find you some clothes more befitting your beauty,” Silvio said resolutely. “We can’t allow a bella signorina such as yourself to go running around looking like a washerwoman.”

Magdalena pulled the wide, much too warm woolen cloak over her shoulders until only her face and her shaggy black hair were visible. She could only hope that no one noticed her shoes. She also realized that after the previous night’s events, she no doubt had a strong odor.

“Oh, God, I can’t do it…”

“Come now!” Silvio nudged her into a lavishly furnished taproom filled mostly with elderly gentlemen and flashy young ladies at their sides. The Venetian found two free seats and snapped his fingers. Shortly thereafter a smartly dressed maid appeared, curtsied several times, and set out a steaming pot of coffee and two cups.

“As far as I know, this is the first coffeehouse in the whole German Empire,” the Venetian said, filling Magdalena’s cup to the brim. “At least I haven’t heard of any other. And believe me, I would hear of it.” He slurped his coffee with great relish. “If your friend likes coffee as much as I do, it’s quite possible we’ll find him here.”

Magdalena gazed around at the guests, though she knew in advance it was wasted effort. “Nonsense!” she whispered. “How would Simon know about a place like this?”

The Venetian shrugged. “So be it. At least the two of us will have the chance to get to know each other better now.”

Chuckling, Magdalena took a sip of the hot, stimulating drink. “Admit it, you set this up. You wanted only to be alone with me.”

“Would that be a crime?”

The hangman’s daughter sighed. “You are incorrigible! Very well, then,” she said, leaning toward the Venetian, “tell me about yourself. Who are you?”

“Let’s just say I’m a frequent and welcome visitor in this establishment who is always scrupulous in paying his rather exorbitant bills,” Silvio said with a grin.

Then all at once he turned serious. “This city is very important for la vecchia Venezia, you know,” he continued. “Especially now, when representatives from all over the world are here to discuss how to proceed against the Turks.” He raised his cup solemnly. “The Moslems gave us this marvelous drink, but unfortunately they now wish to do us the dubious honor of exporting their religious beliefs as well. Thus, my doge, in his infinite wisdom, decided I should take up residence as his permanent ambassador in the mightiest city of the German Empire.”

“You are the representative of Venice in Regensburg?” Magdalena gasped. “But why then are you living at the Whale? I mean-”

Silvio waved her off. “No, no, I don’t live there, but-come si dice-the boredom!” He rolled his eyes theatrically. “All these smartly dressed ambassadors, always the same old conversations… politics, ugh! This evening, again, I have to host another mindless ball.” He folded his hands as if in prayer. “D’una grazia vi supplico, signorina! Lend me the honor of your company at the ball. It will be my only light in these dreary hours! You’ll be my salvation!”

Magdalena’s laugh stuck in her throat.

Seated at a neighboring table, a man in a dark cloak had pulled his hood far down over his face, but the hangman’s daughter was nevertheless certain he was watching them. In contrast to the other guests, the stranger was neither smoking a pipe nor drinking coffee. He sat hunched over as if he had become part of his chair.

“The man opposite us,” she whispered, assuming an icy, forced smile to avoid attracting suspicion. “Don’t look now, but I believe he’s watching us.”

Silvio raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

“Believe me, I’ve had some experience with this sort of thing as of late. This stranger isn’t the first one in my life I’ve caught spying on me.”

“If that’s the case…” The Venetian ambassador placed a few silver coins on the table and slowly stood up. “We’ll leave by the back door. If he follows us, we’ll know you’re right.”

Nodding and greeting people amiably as they passed, the pair crossed the crowded room to an inconspicuous door. They hurried up a staircase to the floor above, ran along a dark corridor, and finally arrived at an opening so tiny it seemed more like a window than a door. Silvio pressed the door handle and nudged Magdalena onto a ramshackle balcony. A ladder led down into a back courtyard stacked with old boxes and barrels. The Venetian put his finger to his lips and pointed down. Magdalena sensed Silvio was well acquainted with this escape route. Her heart pounding, she began to descend the rungs behind him.

Just as they reached the courtyard below, the man in the black cloak appeared on the balcony above them.

Their pursuer’s hood was still pulled over his face as he leaned over the railing and stared down at them like a hawk eyeing its prey. Magdalena had no time to get a closer look, though, for in the next instant he was clattering down the ladder. The last several yards he took in a single leap, spreading his cloak around him like wings. When he landed, he turned and started toward them quick as a shadow in the dark, a long, narrow rapier glinting in his hand.

Screaming, the hangman’s daughter jumped behind a stack of crates. From her hiding spot she watched in horror as Silvio drew his dagger and attacked the man. The stranger was poised for attack, his rapier in front of him, ready to lunge at any moment. Without the slightest sound, Silvio rushed forward, his dagger circling in the air, but the man skillfully sidestepped him, then thrust upward with his rapier, slicing the silk sleeve of Silvio’s coat clean off.

Magdalena was shocked to see blood dripping from the tear in Silvio’s jacket and noticed he was limping slightly. It couldn’t be long before the stranger attacked straight on and plunged his rapier into Silvio’s chest.

And I’ll be next…

Frantically, Magdalena looked all around until her gaze fell on a huge wine barrel, almost as big as a man. She ran toward it and shoved as hard as she could. It seemed empty. Groaning, she pushed against its damp staves with all her strength until it teetered a moment, then tipped over with an earsplitting crash. It rolled toward the stranger, gaining momentum, as he cursed and struggled to jump aside. But it was too late-the barrel bowled him over and burst against the opposite wall, sending splinters flying through the air.

The stranger remained motionless on the ground for a moment, then struggled to get up, groping for his rapier, which had landed nearby. Before he could pull himself together, however, Silvio had seized Magdalena by the arm, drawn her to the door of an adjacent house, pushed her inside, and slammed the bolt closed. When the stranger arrived at the door, he started banging furiously on the other side.

“Grazie!” the Venetian panted. “That was close. You were right; we really were being followed.”

They ran through the house and out the front door into the street, where the usual traffic-wagons, coaches, and pedestrians, all chattering and complaining-streamed by slowly. It was as if the pair had entered a wholly different world oblivious to the danger lurking just a few steps away. Most people didn’t even turn to glance at them.

At the next street corner Silvio stopped, leaning against the wall of a house to examine the rip in his jacket and the blood on his finger, which he eventually licked off.

“Santa Madonna!” he panted. “What in the world have you gotten yourselves into?”

The hangman’s daughter shrugged. “Unfortunately I don’t know that myself. I don’t know who this man is or why he’s following us. He may be the very same man who last night…” She hesitated.

“What do you mean, last night?”

Magdalena shook her head. She decided for the time being not to tell the Venetian anything about their break-in at the bathhouse. “Nothing. I’m probably just seeing ghosts.”

Silvio touched the bloody tear in his jacket again.

“Well, it certainly looks like I need a new jacket.” He grinned and pointed at Magdalena. “And so do you.”

The hangman’s daughter looked down at herself. She’d lost Silvio’s cloak in the scuffle. The coarse linen dress she wore underneath was tattered, and her bodice was splattered with red wine. She looked as if she’d just barely escaped a barroom brawl with a gang of prostitutes.

“You’re right,” she replied, embarrassed. “But I have no money to-”

“Money? What would you need money for?” Silvio interrupted. “We’ll find something nice for you at my house. After all, you can’t possibly come to my ball this evening dressed like that.”

Magdalena hesitated. “You… you really meant what you said before? You want me to come to this ball with you?”

“Mama mia! Why should I be joking? A beautiful woman such as yourself is an honor to any house!”

The hangman’s daughter had to laugh. Almost all the parties she’d ever been to were held in the market square or empty barns. There were sausages, sauerkraut, and beer, and maybe a few musicians to strike up a dance tune with a fiddle and castanets. The prospect of attending a ball was about as foreign to her as an invitation to paradise.

“I’m-I’m afraid I’ll make a terrible fool of myself,” she stammered. “I wouldn’t have the first clue what to say-or do…”

“Your smile says more than a thousand words. Now, say you’ll come!”

The chivalrous Venetian took Magdalena by the arm and led her through the streets of Regensburg as if she were the elegant wife of some wealthy patrician.

A few moments later the hangman’s daughter stood with Silvio before a massive building on the bustling cathedral square. Above an entrance as wide as a barn door two stories rose up, each with a row of shimmering glass windows. The bays, pointed arches, and dormer windows gave the building the appearance of a noble country estate, while its size almost reminded Magdalena of the Regensburg city hall.

“This mansion belongs to you?” Her jaw dropped.

“No, no!” Silvio demurred. “I only rent quarters here. A patrician was kind enough to make some rooms available to me. Come along. I’ll give you a tour. There’s a room in here I know is certain to be to your liking.”

The Venetian led Magdalena through the entryway into a shadowy courtyard. Fragrant flowers and plants sprouted from marble tubs and buckets along the gravel walkway, and wild ivy grew along the stone walls. Gaily colored birds chirped from a silver cage hanging from one of the rafters. Magdalena felt as if she had entered the Garden of Eden. She timidly fingered some kind of bright yellow fruit that dangled from the sun-dappled branches of a tiny tree in a corner.

“Those are lemons,” Silvio explained. “In my homeland they grow in every garden. I’m trying to grow them here, but the German winter will kill most of them.” He sighed. “When it’s cold, I grow especially homesick for my beloved Venice.”

“Do all the houses in Venice look like this?” Magdalena asked cautiously.

Silvio smiled. “I have friends there who decorate their villas in gold and travel in silver gondolas. I myself consider that pretentious, but if you live in the richest city in the world, it’s tempting to begin to think you’re better than others. Follow me, please.”

They ascended a broad staircase flanked by banisters and marble statues. In contrast with the stench of the city, the air here was redolent of fruit and mint and filled with the soothing sounds of a harp nearby. Curious, Magdalena stopped in front of a small sculpture of a handsome young man smiling down at a girl holding an apple out to him. Inside his marble back, rats, snakes, and toads scurried about.

“What is that?” she asked the Venetian.

Silvio shrugged. “A gruesome statue. I should have it removed-it doesn’t fit in very well among the beautiful figures here. But come now. I’ll take you to my dressing room. It would be preposterous if we couldn’t find something suitable there for la bella signorina.”

At that moment a maid approached them with a neat bundle of fresh laundry. She curtsied and lowered her gaze, and though Silvio seemed not to have even seen her, Magdalena could feel the maid assessing her out of the corner of her eye. Her mouth pinched, she turned up her nose in disgust. Apparently she considered Magdalena just another of the loose women whom the master of the house liked to bring up to his room-nothing more than a cheap streetwalker.

I can’t really blame her, Magdalena thought, hurrying past the girl as quickly as possible.

They passed through an ivy-covered gallery, coming at last to a chamber with high, almost church-like windows. At first Magdalena was blinded by the light streaming through them, but once her eyes adjusted to the brightness, a small miracle appeared before her eyes.

Am I dreaming? How is this possible?

It seemed there were at least a dozen other women standing beside her, all around the room, all with the same dirty linen dress and the same disheveled black hair. Dumbstruck, Magdalena realized she was in fact staring at herself. The walls were covered by six-foot mirrors, which reflected her image over and over. Between the mirrors enormous, ceiling-high wardrobes were flung open, full of frilled garments, velvet gowns, and other splendid clothing. Some clothes had been carelessly tossed off and draped across a round table in the center of the room and over the chairs and gleaming inlaid wooden floor. Each piece must have been worth more than Magdalena’s father earned in an entire year.

“I beg your pardon,” Silvio said. “I wasn’t sure yesterday what they-that is, what I should wear, so I made a bit of a mess. My servants were supposed to have cleaned this up.”

Magdalena didn’t even seem to hear him. She stepped into the middle of the room and began to spin around, faster and faster. Around her, dozens of Magdalenas danced, an entire dancehall full of her, which seemed to go on and on, a dancehall where she alone was the centerpiece.

The only mirror the hangman’s daughter had ever seen was the small, cloudy pocket mirror her father had given her mother when they were first married. The old thing was cracked, and it distorted Magdalena’s face so much that she’d put it aside in disgust more than once. Until today all she’d ever seen of her own face and body was what she’d been able to make out in her quivering image in the waters of the Lech. Now she could see for the first time what others saw when they looked at her. Awestruck, she passed her fingers through her black hair, tracing the lines of her eyebrows, nose, and lips.

Am I beautiful?

The hall of mirrors in the Venetian’s house was the most impressive thing she’d ever seen.

“I ordered these mirrors specially from Venice,” Silvio explained, dreamily passing his hand over a smooth silvery surface near the door. “Nowhere else on earth can you find such quality. I’m happy you like it,” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “But now we must find something for la bella donna to wear.”

The Venetian strode confidently toward one of the wardrobes. As he opened it, Magdalena, who was having difficulty tearing her eyes away from her reflection, saw countless women’s dresses hanging in neat rows, as if they’d never been worn before-broadly tailored skirts, narrow bodices with puffy sleeves, dainty pointed bonnets, cloaks lined in ermine, and velvet jackets with fur collars.

“I have lady visitors on occasion,” Silvio admitted. “And I’ve ordered some clothing so that the signorine can feel at home here with me. Take your time to look around, and perhaps you’ll find something that suits you.”

It was clear to Magdalena who the ladies were who visited this house, and she was tempted to turn back right then and there and return to the Whale. Simon would certainly be waiting for her, and this farce would finally come to an end.

On the other hand…

Magdalena’s gaze wandered back to the mirrors and to the magnificent colorful clothing. Never in her life had she seen such skirts, much less worn anything so splendid. Perhaps she and Silvio could just send a message to Simon, telling him that all was in order and she would be back at the Whale that evening-or first thing in the morning at the latest. Why shouldn’t she browse around here a while and enjoy herself?

But then her conscience intruded on the fantasy. What about her father then? He was languishing in his prison cell while, like a cheap streetwalker, she let herself be tempted by the prospect of a night of dancing in the arms of Regensburg’s rich and powerful men. How could she possibly…?

Powerful men?

Magdalena turned to the Venetian ambassador.

“Tell me, Silvio. At the ball tonight,” she asked casually, “just who will be in attendance?”

The Venetian grimaced. “Ah, the usual. Some ambassadors; some merchants with their overweight, garishly made-up wives; some important patricians from the city council. If the city treasurer shows up, I’ll probably have to waste some time discussing Regensburg’s ridiculous mountain of debt. Madonna, it’s going to be an awful bore!” He fell dramatically to his knees in front of Magdalena. “Please! Grant me the favor of your company, I beg you!”

Magdalena tilted back her head in cool deliberation. “Who knows? That may not be such a bad idea after all,” she said. “Surely these gentlemen have some interesting things to say.”

With only the briefest hesitation, the hangman’s daughter reached for a small red velvet jacket with lace sleeves trimmed in fur, and a wide hoop skirt. Why not marry pleasure and practicality? If anyone could help her father, it would be the men attending the ball tonight. She might even discover a few things that would otherwise remain strictly the province of the innermost circles of power.

Magdalena’s gaze wandered back to the mirrors. Before her stood a proud woman, a woman determined to fight.

Tooth and nail, if that’s what it came to.

Shortly after nightfall Nathan finally had news from the free-men.

All day Simon had been cooped up in the catacombs, caring for his destitute wards. He’d scraped scabies from the heads of three children, splinted a trembling old man’s broken leg, treated countless festering wounds with arnica, prepared packets of dried blueberries for patients with dysentery, and pulled five rotten teeth. After all that work he was more than a little happy when the beggar king finally informed him the freemen were willing to meet him down at the raft landing that evening. Nathan agreed to act as his guide, with the qualification, however, that Simon would continue treating Nathan’s crew of beggars, at least for the next few days.

The two set out, passing again through winding subterranean corridors before finally emerging into the cellar of a tavern. The tavern keeper didn’t seem surprised in the least when Nathan and his companion appeared out of thin air from behind a stack of firewood. Simon had to assume the man was aware of the beggars’ secret passageways, but when he asked Nathan about it, the beggar king replied in a disparaging tone.

“When there isn’t enough room in the hospitals or among us down below, some of my brothers have to stay in lousy inns like this one,” he said as they stepped out the back door. “That bastard demands two hellers a night, and if they don’t pay, he reports them to the city.” Then he winked. “But if the bailiffs throw us out at Jakob’s Gate, we come right back in by Peter’s Gate. Just like fleas-there’s no getting rid of us.”

From this point on, the moon illuminated their way through back alleys. No shadows leaped at them from dark corners, nor were any suspicious sounds to be heard behind them. The medicus felt certain that with Nathan by his side he was as safe as if he were home in bed in Schongau. Only a lunatic would dream of attacking the beggar king.

As they walked along, Simon thought constantly of Magdalena. When the beggars brought his medical instruments to him that morning from the Whale, they also brought news that Magdalena had disappeared. Simon was still not seriously concerned, though; it was quite possible she’d just gone out for a stroll around town or was making inquiries into the murders. Just to be sure, a beggar was waiting to intercept her at the Whale and bring her to the catacombs. But what if the guards had already seized her for arson? And then, of course, there was another possibility that tormented Simon…

Perhaps she was simply out enjoying herself with that puny Venetian!

This wasn’t the right moment to indulge in jealous fantasies. Before them the wharves of the raft landing appeared. He was surprised to note that the place was deserted at this hour except for some rats scurrying across wet planks. From the Danube the stench of fish, algae, and decay rose up, and alongside the wharves, rafts bobbed lazily up and down in the water, their boards creaking as the languid current knocked them against the posts. Music and laughter echoed from nearby taverns-evidently the sounds of raftsmen tying one last one on before early-morning departures.

Just then they heard footsteps behind them, and Nathan pulled Simon out of sight behind some wine vats stored on the dock waiting to be loaded onto another vessel. A few moments later two guards came into sight, halberds slung over their shoulders, unshaven faces exhausted and red from alcohol. They looked bored as they sauntered from one end of the landing to the other.

“Damn it! What are they doing here?” the beggar king cursed. “I don’t pay the outlandish bribes so these village idiots can come around here looking for a lady friend for the night!”

Simon looked at him with consternation. “You paid a bribe-”

“Why else do you think it’s so quiet around here?” Nathan interrupted. “Two silver pennies for the pier warden to put his men down for a nap. But just for half an hour, so please be quick!”

No sooner had the two guards rounded the next corner than Nathan took hold of the astonished medicus and, crouching, ran with him toward another group of barrels next to the warehouse. The containers were positioned so that a small passage ran between them, one not directly visible from the raft landing. At the end of the passage they came upon a crate as tall as a man, old and smeared with tar; a tangle of nets spilled out of it. It smelled so strongly of rotten fish that Simon instinctively put his hand over his nose and started to gag. Paying the stench no heed, Nathan raised the lid with a creak.

“Follow me, keep a low profile, and pull the lid shut after you.”

Horrified, Simon watched the beggar king pull himself up to the edge of the crate and climb inside. There was a clattering sound, and then only silence. Simon peered inside in disbelief to discover that Nathan was nowhere to be seen.

What the devil…?

“Damn it all to hell, where are you?” The voice of the beggar king echoed strangely from very far away, farther in any case than the crate was deep.

Simon heaved himself over the edge, climbed inside, and closed the lid as instructed. Everything went pitch black at once; the foul odor of fish and guts rose around him as if he’d landed inside the belly of a whale. The medicus felt some matted nets under his feet and, as he groped around, discovered that one hung down farther than the rest. Carefully he crawled forward on his knees, patting the ground beneath him as he went, until he came upon a hole no wider than a man’s hips through which the end of the long net dropped. The net served as a sort of rope ladder leading down into bottomless darkness.

Hand over hand, Simon made his way down the slimy rope ladder until he felt solid ground beneath his feet.

In front of him Nathan held a burning lantern in his hand and grinned. “I almost thought you’d gotten yourself tangled in the net like a fat carp,” he whispered. “Now come along.”

They hurried down a narrow corridor hollowed out of the damp earth that was so low in places Simon had to duck to avoid hitting his head. Here, too, the stench of fish and algae reigned, but a fresh breeze blew in from somewhere in front of them, and water dripped from the ceiling onto Simon’s collar.

“An old escape tunnel crossing under the Danube,” Nathan explained. “It runs all the way over to the Upper Wohrd, the island in the middle of the river, and then past that to the north riverbank, where the Electorate of Bavaria begins.” He giggled. “The bailiffs are flabbergasted about how we manage to smuggle so many goods across the river when customs are so strict on the bridges. If we wanted, we could clean out the whole city.”

The beggar stopped so abruptly that Simon almost ran into him. His eyes glinted coldly, out of place on his otherwise friendly face, and his golden teeth flashed in the lantern light as he whispered.

“If you should ever betray our tunnel, you’d best know that we’ll find you. Wherever you are. We treat traitors to our cause to slow deaths. Think of human leather…”

“I-wouldn’t even dream…” Simon stuttered.

“So much the better,” Nathan said, and continued walking. “I don’t distrust you, but I have to make sure you understand.”

Again he giggled, and the medicus followed him with a sigh. Simon couldn’t quite figure Nathan out: one minute he treated him like a friend, and in the next his manner was cold and calculating.

Who’s to say he’s not just leading me into some trap? Simon thought.

When they arrived at the end of the corridor, another rope ladder led up through a narrow shaft. Again Nathan went first and, after arriving at the top, pushed a large black object to the side. Surfacing behind him, Simon recognized it as a rotting wooden fishing boat that lay hidden in underbrush not far from the shore.

The medicus took a deep breath of the fresh night air and looked around. By the light of the full moon he spotted a lowlying grassy island that stretched up and down the Danube. To one side he could make out the Stone Bridge in the moonlight where it connected to the island by a dam. Nearby were several large warehouses and other buildings attached to crumbling jetties that led down to the dark, rushing current. Mill wheels revolved, clattering and squeaking, causing something to pound inside the various buildings like the snore of a mighty giant.

“The mills on the Wohrd,” the beggar king whispered reverentially. “Do you hear that? The sound of the future! It will never cease to astonish me what man is capable of.” He pointed at the rattling and whirring wheels that, like enormous machines, cut furrows through the river along the shore. “Sawmills, paper mills, textile mills, and naturally the large grain mill. Do you see the house over there with the gabled roof? The largest mill in all of Regensburg! The freemen are expecting you there. I’ll stay here and wait for you.”

Simon hesitated. “Why don’t you come along?”

Nathan made an apologetic gesture. “They told me in no uncertain terms to stay outside. They’re a bit fussy about their anonymity. To be honest, I don’t really want to know who they are. It would only bring me grief. Now go before they grind you to bone meal in their millstones.” He gave Simon a last wink before he disappeared into a nearby bush.

Once the medicus had looked all around and noticed nothing out of the ordinary, he started walking past piles of logs and wooden shacks toward the towering mill. An enormous water wheel was attached to the front, extending into the Danube and turning with an earsplitting clatter. From inside the building the pounding and rattling mill mechanisms were so loud they drowned out nearly every other sound.

At the back of the building Simon finally discovered a door left slightly ajar. Inside, soft moonlight filtered through tall windows, illuminating sacks of grain, worm-eaten wooden tubs, and old millstones stacked high on either side of the entryway. Narrow paths wound between the sacks and into the dark interior, while farther back a millstone as big as a wagon turned with that dreadful grinding sound. Simon could feel a fine, soft dust beneath his feet as he groped his way along the widest path through the building.

“Hey, is anyone here?” he called out, feeling instantly foolish. Who would ever hear him over all this racket?

Or maybe nobody is supposed to hear me, Simon thought with growing fear.

The deafening noise suddenly ceased, and silence reigned in the cavernous room-a silence almost more troubling than the grinding and pounding of the machines. The only thing audible now was the soft sound of grain trickling to the ground.

Simon stopped to reach for the stiletto hanging on his belt. “Whoever you are, come out now! I don’t much care for this game of hide-and-seek.” He tried to speak firmly, but his voice cracked at the end.

A small light flared up in the corridor on his right and started moving toward him. On his left, too-in front of and behind him-more and more lights materialized. Simon blinked as at least a dozen men with lanterns approached, all of them wearing brown cowls and hoods with only narrow slits at the eyes. Unhurried, they approached the medicus until they’d cornered him between two sacks of grain.

Simon looked around frantically like a trapped animal. There was no escape!

Slowly, ever so slowly, one of the men approached and, once he stood directly in front of the medicus, removed his hood.

Instinctively Simon raised his stiletto. Only at the last moment did he realize that the man before him was no stranger at all.

Chandeliers sparkled, bathing the ballroom in a flickering light. A small band of flutes, fiddles, trumpets, and a harp played a French dance while the ball guests moved in unison. Laughter and chatter filled the room, while a diminutive turbaned Moor passed around jellied hors d’oeuvres and kept the guests’ glasses brimming with cold white wine from the Palatinate.

Magdalena leaned against the wall between two tall porcelain vases, observing the festivities in a tight-fitting bodice with a plunging neckline, a red velvet fur-trimmed jacket across her shoulders, and a hoop skirt to match. Her black hair, ordinarily so unruly, was pinned up in a delicate bird’s nest, and her feet suffered in tight shoes. Whenever she went to fetch smoked eel or a quince pastry from the lavish buffet, she felt as if she were walking on broken glass, and it was difficult to breathe under the many layers of heavy material. How could all these so-called fine ladies squeeze themselves into such clothing night after night?

Even though Magdalena was less than comfortable, she did seem to make an impression on the men. More than once, one or another patrician or ambassador glanced at her. Silvio made it clear from the outset, though, that the beautiful stranger was under his personal protection, and whenever he could, he tried to be near her, exchanging small talk.

Magdalena quickly realized that this ball was only superficially about socializing. Its real purpose was politics, and thus Silvio was busy most of the time discussing business alliances, foreign exchanges, and, above all, the approaching congregation of the Reichstag. The patricians and minor nobility flocked to him like moths to a light. Though most loomed over him by more than a head, the little Venetian was the focal point of nearly every conversation. With his wide petticoat breeches, form-fitting jacket, and wavy black hair, he exuded an aura of power that others eagerly soaked up.

The few women there not only steered well clear of the hangman’s daughter but sent mean-spirited glances her way. In their eyes Magdalena was just some prettied-up mistress the Venetian had likely picked up on the street. Only Silvio’s presence sheltered Magdalena from their ugly words-a fortunate thing, as the hangman’s daughter would likely have scratched the pale, made-up faces of any of the fine ladies who dared insult her.

Magdalena sighed and continued sipping from her wineglass that was almost as thin as parchment. She hadn’t learned a single thing that might help her father, and increasingly she felt like just some pretty painted doll placed amid vases as decoration. Just what had she expected? Here she was, nibbling on partridge wings caramelized with honey while her father languished in prison! It was time to put an end to this act.

She was about to hurry toward the door when someone leaned against the wall next to her and raised his glass in a toast. The elderly gentleman with thinning hair and a pince-nez seemed strangely out of place in his simple black frock coat and old-fashioned ruff, especially in the midst of all this finery. Having overheard his conversations with Silvio, she already knew he was none less than the Regensburg city treasurer. In their negotiations concerning sweet Vin Santo and Venetian ravioli, the men had mentioned sums of money that took Magdalena’s breath away.

And the very man who had just requested an additional credit of five thousand gold ducats now stood next to her and asked, “Have you tried the sweet almond paste? It’s called marzipan. Divine!” The gentleman gallantly filled her glass with wine from a glass carafe.

Magdalena managed a smile. “If I’m honest, I don’t care so much for sweets. I’d prefer a decent roast goose.”

The treasurer chuckled. “Silvio Contarini already told me you’re a real interesting woman. May I ask where you come from?”

“Oh, from around Nuremberg,” Magdalena said, picking the first place that came to mind. “A relative of mine is the valet for the Elector’s cavalry captain.”

“I wasn’t aware the cavalry captain had a valet.”

“Well, only since very recently,” the hangman’s daughter explained without batting an eyelash. “His wife always complained that he never took off his boots, even in bed-that he went around looking more like his own horse’s groom.”

The treasurer frowned. “But doesn’t the Elector’s cavalry captain live in Munich?”

“He’s moved. In Nuremberg there’s more-uh-forest for hunting. You understand…”

Good Lord, what am I saying? Magdalena thought in despair. Is there a hole somewhere around here I can crawl into?

“Hunting can become a real passion. I hunt quite a bit myself.” The patrician raised his glass to her with a smile. Magdalena had a growing suspicion the treasurer was toying with her. Had Silvio perhaps told him who she really was?

Or had he learned it from someone else?

As the treasurer continued speaking, he looked absent-mindedly out one of the large windows. “Perhaps this cavalry captain just developed a distaste for city life, particularly now in the summer, when it stinks to high heaven and your clothes stick to your body-and then there’s the constant, even imminent, danger of fire, as well.” All of a sudden he looked at Magdalena straight on. “I expect you’ve already heard of last night’s conflagration?”

The hangman’s daughter’s halfhearted smile froze on her face. “Of course. Who hasn’t?”

“An awful affair.” The old man nodded deliberately and regarded Magdalena through his pince-nez like an exotic beetle through a magnifying lens. “The word is that it was set by two arsonists-a man and a woman. We have quite good descriptions of both, and it looks as though the responsibility’s fallen to me to deal with this wretched business. As if I don’t have enough on my plate already… But here, I’m going on and on!” The treasurer instantly transformed into a kindly old man again. “I haven’t even introduced myself yet. My name is Paulus Mamminger; I’m responsible for the financial matters in our great city.” He made a small, stiff bow.

“Certainly an important job.” Sweat was streaming down Magdalena’s back now and surely seeping through her bodice. Her desperate attempt to keep up proper formal speech sounded ridiculous, even to her own ears, and she harbored no doubts the treasurer must have seen through her long ago.

Mamminger sighed and sipped from his glass. “At present not a soul in the council envies me this job. The coming Reichstag is costing us a fortune! And alas, I can’t find enough suitable lodging for the ambassadors and noblemen!” He shook his head, giving way to a long pause.

“And why has the kaiser summoned a meeting of the Reichstag at all?” Magdalena finally asked in an attempt to keep the conversation moving. “I’ve heard it’s about the war with the Turks. Is that true?”

The treasurer grinned. “Child, where have you been hiding? Of course it is! The kaiser needs money to wage war on his most hated enemy. We don’t want those heathens laying siege to Vienna again, do we? So, Kaiser Leopold is passing the collection plate around, and we Regensburgers are stuck with the expense of playing host yet again to spoiled noblemen from all over the empire.”

He sighed deeply, and Magdalena nodded in understanding.

“Just yesterday the Palatine Elector’s quartermaster came to visit me,” he continued, “and His Excellency is insisting on moving here into the Heuport House. But this is the residence of the Venetian ambassador, and he refuses to give up his home for anyone. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to speak with him? Contarini just may listen to you.”

“I fear it’s a hopeless case.” Armed with a plateful of chocolates, Silvio had approached them unnoticed. He now placed an arm around Magdalena’s sweaty shoulder and offered her some sweets. “Dear Mamminger, you’ll never persuade me to abandon this wonderful domicile,” he said with a smile. “Unless la bella signorina somehow persuades me to settle in Schongau with her.”

Mamminger frowned. “Schongau? What do you mean, Schongau? I thought-”

“I’ll leave you gentlemen to yourselves now,” Magdalena said, curtsying awkwardly, as if she were a bit tipsy. “The wine has gone to my head-I need a bit of fresh air, I’m afraid.” She held her hand in front of her mouth and yawned, then stepped gingerly in the direction of the exit, still deflecting the mean glares of the other women.

Head held high, she strode through the door and swaggered down a broad stairway into the deserted courtyard. Only then did she allow herself to collapse, exhausted, on a bench and take some deep breaths. No doubt the women were all in a tizzy now, gossiping viciously about the clumsy country wench. Outside, here under the stars, she could at least have a bit of peace.

Almost reverently, Magdalena looked around her at this little bit of paradise in the midst of the city. Scattered among the rosebushes and lemon trees were juniper bushes trimmed into geometric figures. As tall as a man, they looked like mythical creatures in the light of the full moon. None of the guests had ventured into the garden, so the sounds of laughter and music sounded far off. Somewhere in the bushes a nightingale was singing.

Despite her idyllic surroundings, Magdalena was close to tears. Mamminger seemed to suspect something, and it was quite possible that at that very moment he was telling Silvio all about it. What was she doing here anyway, amid all these vain old goats? She wanted to be back with Simon, back in her little world of Schongau, with its faded half-timbered houses, cheap taverns, and down-to-earth farm folk. Only then did it occur to her she could never again return to Schongau; she would never again hear the sometimes gentle, sometimes scolding voice of her mother or stroke the cheeks of her peacefully sleeping siblings. Schongau was at the other end of the world, and her father was here in Regensburg, rotting away in a dark hole, awaiting execution.

A bitter taste rose in Magdalena’s throat. If only Simon were here with her! What would he say if he saw her made-up this way, in a hoop skirt and velvet jacket? The sordid mistress of the Venetian ambassador, a painted doll…

Her sobs were cut short by the sound of something creeping along the garden wall very close by.

Instinctively she slid down from the bench and crouched behind a juniper bush. From there she watched a black figure emerge from the window of a neighboring house and slip almost silently into the garden. When the stranger turned around to face her, she almost cried out.

It was the man from the coffeehouse, the same man who’d torn the Venetian ambassador’s jacket and from whom they’d just barely escaped with their lives. As before, he wore a broad cloak with a hood drawn far down over his face and a rapier dangling at his side. His fluid movements reminded the hangman’s daughter of a spider deftly closing in on a fly caught in its web.

Magdalena was about to turn and run when she realized the man hadn’t even noticed her. He looked around warily before sitting down on a bench, as if he was waiting for something, and kept nervously scanning the broad staircase that led up to the patrician’s house and the ballroom.

Magdalena backed farther onto the dewy lawn behind the juniper bush. She was so close to the bench that she could hear the man breathing.

As the cathedral bells struck midnight, a shadow descended the stairway. Magdalena lifted her head for a moment and froze.

It was the Regensburg city treasurer!

Paulus Mamminger walked purposefully toward the stranger and sat down beside him.

“We don’t have much time,” he whispered. “Contarini will become suspicious if I stay away too long. What’s so urgent that we can’t communicate in the usual way?”

“It’s about the girl,” the stranger said, slightly hoarse. “I think she knows something.”

“Why do you think that?”

“She was at the bathhouse with the medicus. I saw them both there myself.”

Magdalena’s heart skipped a beat. He barricaded them in the well! And he set the fire! The men’s voices were now so low she could hardly hear either of them, so she crept closer to the bench inch by inch.

“How could the girl have found anything more in the bathhouse than we did?” Mamminger wondered.

“I don’t know. It’s just a suspicion, but if she really does know something, it won’t be long before Contarini learns of it, too, and then-”

A juniper branch cracked beneath Magdalena’s foot, and though she froze, it was too late. The stranger had heard something.

“What was that?” he whispered, and stood up. Like a beast of prey trying to detect a scent, he turned his head in all directions.

“Damn you!” Mamminger whispered. “If someone has been eavesdropping on us, then God help you! I should never have agreed to meet with you here!”

“Wait.” The stranger walked slowly toward the juniper bush behind which Magdalena crouched, trembling. Step by step he drew closer.

When he was nearly on top of the bush, Magdalena jumped up and threw a handful of pebbles in his face. Cursing, he swiped at his eyes, and in the ensuing confusion Magdalena ran toward some rosebushes growing up a wooden lattice on the wall of a nearby house.

“Damn it! That’s the girl! Stop her!” Mamminger cried, but the hangman’s daughter had already climbed up the shaky trellis of roses and wild raspberries to an open window. Ignoring the sound the red jacket made as it ripped and the thorns digging into her hands, she scrambled over the windowsill and tumbled into the room behind. Breathless, she saw she’d landed in the servants’ quarters. Next to a battered wooden table and a chest was a narrow bed with a girl in it, a nightcap pulled down over her head. The girl sat up, rubbed her eyes, and when she saw the hangman’s daughter began to scream.

“Excuse the interruption. I’m on my way out,” Magdalena mumbled as she ran to a door on the opposite side of the room and onto the balcony behind it. The pitch of the screaming intensified behind her, and the sound of heavy steps followed. Her pursuer was close on her heels.

Magdalena carefully lowered herself over the balcony and jumped the last few yards down. Her landing, broken by a bed of turnips and lamb’s lettuce, was surprisingly soft. Without turning around she ran through the fresh garden soil, her pointed heels sinking into the damp ground like plowshares.

Damned women’s stuff! Didn’t I tell Silvio these tiny shoes would kill my feet?

She stopped for a moment to remove her shoes, then continued on, barefoot. The stranger had to be just a few steps behind her by now; she could hear his boots slurping as they sank into the wet ground. She tramped across the vegetable garden, dashed through a small orchard, and finally arrived at a little gate in the wall.

It was locked.

Desperate, Magdalena threw herself against the warped, rotting wood. The gate gave way with a crash, and she slipped through to find herself at a forking narrow lane. On a whim she ducked behind the open gate and held her breath. She listened in stunned silence as the stranger crashed through the gate and paused briefly before dashing off again. His steps echoed down the dark lane until she couldn’t hear them at all.

Magdalena waited a bit before emerging from behind the gate. She ran in the opposite direction-it didn’t matter where, just away from this place, away from the stranger, the ball, the smug nobles and patricians-all of whom seemed like traitors. Away from Silvio.

In her tattered red dress, bare feet, and velvet jacket reduced to rags, she looked like an angel cast out from heaven.

Amid the sacks of flour in the mill, Simon let the stiletto slip from his hand as he stared back at the robed man before him. His mouth gaping, it was a while before he could speak.

“You’re here… with the freemen?” he stuttered. “But why-I mean how…?”

The Regensburg raftmaster tossed his hood to the ground.

“Yes, it’s me,” Karl Gessner replied. “You won’t give a man peace until you learn the truth. But don’t say later I never warned you. You’ve still got time to turn back.”

Simon shook his head in silence.

“That’s what I thought.” The raftmaster sighed, giving a sign to the other hooded men that they were no longer needed.

“Leave me alone with the doctor for a while,” he told them. “I hardly believe he presents a danger to us.”

“But master,” one of the hooded men stammered, “you removed your hood. The man might betray you. Shouldn’t we-”

“He won’t betray us,” Gessner interrupted, finding a seat on a bag of flour. “If what the beggar king told me is correct, then he’s on our side. You may go now.”

The men bowed and left the mill, murmuring. Simon sensed they weren’t all in agreement with their master.

“And so you’re the leader of the freemen?” the medicus said, impressed. “The Regensburg raftmaster? I expected to find a gang of outcasts, lawless…”

“Murderers and scoundrels?” replied Gessner, finishing his thought. “That’s what the patricians say, but the truth is something else.” He motioned for Simon to take a seat alongside him on one of the gray linen sacks. He pulled out a bottle from under his coat, took a long swig, and handed it to the medicus. Although Simon sipped cautiously from the bottle, he burst into a coughing fit. This was high-proof liquor. All the same, he took another deep gulp. After all the frightening things that had happened, he badly needed something to calm him down.

“To the councilmen we’re no more than a gang of criminals,” the raftmaster continued. “But really they’re the bandits.”

“What do you mean by that?” Simon asked.

Gessner stood up and began pacing among the towering sacks of grain.

“Do you see this?” He slapped his palm on one of the bulging linen sacks. “This is good flour-harvested by farmers, ground by millers, and made into bread by bakers. It’s a tremendous job that we workers do every day. We break our backs for it, and all profit goes to line the pockets of the fat merchants!” He spat into the flour dust. “In other cities the workers at least have a voice in their Inner Councils, but not here in Regensburg. Over the centuries patricians have forced us out of the council and taken all the important offices for themselves. Fifty families determine the fate of thousands, and for the last few years now only Protestants have been allowed citizenship!” The raftmaster had worked himself up into a fury. “Is that just?” he demanded, kicking over a pile of wood.

“Regensburg doesn’t even have a mayor anymore!” Gessner continued angrily. “They simply abolished the office because it was filled by popular vote. Now the treasurer rules the council, and he’s one of their own. In Regensburg money rules, not the people! And all that after we fought a long and bitter war to free ourselves from the duke and the bishop. The Free Imperial City of Regensburg-ha! We could be free, but instead we allow ourselves to be led around by the nose like a flock of sheep.”

Gessner had come to the end of his speech. For a long moment there was silence, and then Simon cleared his throat.

“And what do your freemen intend to do about it?”

The raftmaster shrugged dismissively. “In England a while back they beheaded their king and founded a republic. The people won’t let themselves be bossed around so easily anymore.”

“So-revolution? Is that what you want?”

Sighing, the raftmaster sat down on the flour sacks beside the medicus and took another deep swig from his bottle. “We’ve tried peaceful means, believe me,” he said softly. “We pleaded with the council to negotiate, but derision and punishment are all we got. Three years ago the patricians hanged some of our best men for treason and displayed their impaled heads at the city gates. Since then we’ve been working in secret, but my men have grown very afraid of being found out. Most of them have families.”

“I’ve heard that the bathhouse owner Andreas Hofmann was also a freeman,” Simon replied. “Is that why he was killed?”

Gessner nodded. “Hofmann was my deputy. The patricians must have found out and cut his throat, and his wife’s, too, as a deterrent to the rest of us. But they needed a scapegoat, so-”

“And that was the Schongau hangman,” Simon interrupted.

The raftmaster laughed despondently. “He ran right into their trap! The alleged letter from his brother-in-law, the forged will-it was all a setup!”

Simon bit his lip. “Is there no way to save him?”

“I’m afraid there isn’t.” Lost in thought, the raftmaster fingered the red kerchief he wore knotted around his throat. “The patricians will have the Schongau executioner put to death as quickly as possible, if only to cover up the murders of Hofmann and his wife. The only hope we have now is to find some clear proof to present to the council.” Gessner looked at Simon questioningly. “Nathan told me you went to the scene of the crime. Did you notice anything suspicious?”

Simon cursed himself. He should have known the beggar king would talk. On the other hand, it didn’t seem to matter much now that the raftmaster knew about their break-in. He decided to let Gessner in on everything.

“Hofmann’s pharmacy was thoroughly ransacked,” he replied. “But that may just as well have been a couple of guards hoping to find some coins and jewelry. What is certain is that someone tried to kill us while we were inside. We were nearly burned to death in there.”

Gessner furrowed his brow. “Those were no doubt a few of the patricians’ henchmen trying to cover their tracks. They were probably afraid you’d find something.” The raftmaster sighed. “In any case, things look bad for your hangman.”

“But we can’t allow this to happen!” Simon exclaimed, standing up and pacing the floor. “Jakob Kuisl is innocent! We have to prove it!”

“And in so doing, prove the patricians’ guilt?” Gessner laughed aloud. “Forget it. Nobody takes on Mamminger and his henchmen and walks away unscathed, unless he has absolute and incontrovertible proof. Go back home if you don’t want to wind up like a drowned rat in the Danube. That would be the best thing for you and your girl.”

Simon clenched his fists. “Didn’t you just speak of resistance? Of struggle?” He had to rein in his rage now. “Didn’t you just say you wouldn’t tolerate the patricians’ rule any longer? And now you’re backing down! This isn’t the way truly freemen act!”

The raftmaster’s eyes became narrow slits. “Be careful how you speak to me, little doctor,” he said. “You’re talking about things you don’t understand. Leave the battle to those who know how to fight it, you runty little quack!”

A short, ominous silence followed. Then Gessner smiled again, and his temper seemed to abate. “The time is coming, trust me.” The raftmaster laid a powerful, tattooed arm around Simon’s shoulders. “It’s possible then that we’ll need the help of people like you.”

The raftmaster stood up and clapped his hands. Two hooded men emerged from behind the sacks where Gessner and Simon were just sitting; clearly they had been waiting there the entire time.

“If you and your girl insist on staying in Regensburg, concern yourselves with the poor and don’t meddle in things you can’t change,” Gessner said, turning toward the exit with his guards.

Without another word, he disappeared among the sacks of grain, and the clattering and grinding resumed as the mill lurched to life once more.

Magdalena wandered aimlessly through the narrow city streets. She didn’t want to return to the Venetian’s ball, and the hooded man was probably waiting for her at the Whale. He’d likely discovered by now where she was staying. Where could she possibly go?

Scared, she kept running along until the rows of houses on either side ended and the starry night sky opened above her. Without realizing it, Magdalena had ended up in the cathedral square. Like the fingers of an enormous, admonishing god, two steeples rose up into the night sky, towering over an architectural profusion of bays, turrets, balustrades, columns, and gargoyles. On the broad staircase leading up to an entrance some fifteen feet above, a number of dark figures loitered, evidently intending to camp out on the worn stone stairs overnight. Otherwise, the square was empty.

All at once the hangman’s daughter felt extremely weary. Her feet hurt from running, her dress hung around her in tatters, and she’d cast off the red velvet jacket as she ran. She looked like a cheap whore fleeing her last customer after a couple of hours of hard work.

Without giving it another thought, she headed toward the steps of the cathedral in search of a spot where she could spend the night. More than once she had to step over snoring people huddled close together to ward off the cool night air. Some who were still awake eyed her distrustfully-beggars clothed in rags, many with soiled bandages on their feet and arms. Others had poorly healed stumps for legs and hobbled around on crutches. As Magdalena passed by, they scuttled toward her like huge beetles.

“Hey, pretty one,” one of them simpered. His face was pitted with deep pockmarks, and he was missing his right leg. “How about doing an old soldier a favor and warming him up a bit? I’ll give you some of my wages for it.” He shook a little tin plate containing a few rusty coins.

“Leave her alone, Scarface,” a toothless woman next to him chimed in, grinning at Magdalena through several layers of grimy rags. “The lady’s much too fine for the likes of you. Aren’t you, darling? You’ll put out only for them fancy city guards.” She cackled like a hen and thrust her hips suggestively. “Haven’t you heard it’s dangerous here in town these days for pretty whores like yourself? The reaper’s makin’ his rounds, pluckin’ up your kind and draggin’ them off in his cart.”

Magdalena cursed herself for thinking she’d find a place to sleep around the cathedral, but now it was too late to run away. If she showed so much as a hint of fear, she didn’t doubt these creatures would descend on her like a murder of crows. So she moved on silently.

“Stay here with us where it’s safe!” the old soldier cawed hoarsely. “There’s no harm in it. If I throw in another kreuzer, maybe you could keep the two of us warm at the same time. What do you say, Karl?”

A young fellow with a dumb stare giggled like a child as spit drooled out of the corner of his mouth. “Cou-cou-could be, Pe-Pe-Peter,” he stuttered, sidling over to Magdalena on his knees.

“One more step, dummy,” the hangman’s daughter warned him, “and I’ll slash your face so good you’ll look like your pockmarked friend here. Now go away!”

“No way, darling,” the veteran said. “Here’s your chance to make some money.” He reached for her dress and tried to pull Magdalena toward him-a miscalculation, as he learned all too soon. The hangman’s daughter kicked the stump of his leg so hard he collapsed, whimpering and rolling around on the cathedral steps.

“She’s attacked Peter Pockmark!” the old woman cried. “She’s stuck a knife in his chest, the little slut!”

“Nonsense!” Magdalena shouted. “All I did was-” A brass plate struck her in the face, sending her staggering backward. Out of the corner of her eye she could see three more beggars running down the steps toward her now, swinging their crutches like halberds and not looking the least bit hobbled or lame. Magdalena leaped over Peter Pockmark, who still lay groaning on the steps, and ran through the cathedral colonnade. Perhaps she’d come across a doorway and find refuge inside the church.

She ran past stone columns, saints, and gargoyles. At every turn someone seemed to lie in wait, and she could hear footsteps rapidly approaching from all directions. She found a narrow doorway, but just as she grasped the door handle, she felt the heavy weight of a hairy arm on her shoulder. She spun around, prepared to fight to the bitter end, but a voice whispered in her ear.

“Don’t move an inch, girl. I’ll take care of this.”

In front of her stood an older man with a bandage over his right eye, whom Magdalena instantly recognized as the blind beggar Simon had cured in the city square.

“I’ve been looking for you all night,” he whispered, eyeing her reproachfully from head to toe. “The way you look, it’s high time I found you. Your friend is worried sick.”

He’ll be even more worried when I tell him all I’ve been through these last few hours, she thought.

Meanwhile, Reiser turned to face the motley band that had gathered at the side door ready to attack the hangman’s daughter with crutches, stones, and rusty plates.

“Listen up! This girl is one of us!” Reiser shouted. “She belongs to the young medicus who’s already done so much to heal many of our brothers and sisters. And she stands under the personal protection of the beggar king-so leave her alone!”

“She-she nearly killed Peter Pockmark,” the old woman retorted in a faltering voice. “And she offended us, the fresh whore!”

A murmur went up in the crowd, accompanied by a handful of stones that flew through the air.

“The little slut ought to be glad we’re looking out for her!” replied a hunchbacked man on crutches. “Especially these days with a monster on the loose snatching up whores and ripping their bodies to shreds. She can at least lie down with us a while in thanks. It’s only just!”

“You want to explain that to Nathan?” Reiser snarled, glaring at him menacingly. “Do you want to tell him what’s just and what’s not?” He turned then to the others. “Shall I tell Nathan you’ve no more interest in obeying his orders? Shall I do that?”

The hunchback cringed and crossed himself. “We didn’t mean it that way. We just thought-”

“Now then-seems there’s no problem after all.” Reiser took the astonished Magdalena by the arm and led her slowly down the stairs. “I’m taking this girl to Nathan now,” he informed them in a booming voice, “and I do hope no one attempts to interfere.”

The beggars muttered and grumbled but stood aside, forming a passage just wide enough for Magdalena and her rescuer. Disgusted, the hangman’s daughter noticed some of these wretched creatures licking their lips and gesturing obscenely, but no one moved an inch from his place as they passed.

“All right now, back to bed with you all,” Reiser said to the crowd once the two of them had made their way down to the cathedral square. “And be quick about it before the guards come and drive you out of here with their pikes. Whoever’s feeling sick or in pain can come to the guild house tomorrow, and the doctor will take care of you all, provided you keep your hands off his girl.”

The old beggar pulled Magdalena into a narrow lane. For a time she could still hear the mumbling crowd behind her, and then the nightmare was over.

At that same moment, just a few blocks away, Satan was forcing Katharina’s thighs apart, digging into her back with his claws. For more than a week now she’d been awaiting her fate in a daze. She’d long since lost the ability to distinguish between dream and reality.

Katharina felt sharp needles pierce her flesh; she could smell her own blood. She punched and she clawed, but the hairy, foul body bore down on her, pinning her to the ground until a searing pain spread between her legs. She could almost taste the oily, musky sweat of a rutting goat trickling down her body. For a single moment she opened her eyes to see three black-robed priests in her cell, pointing at her.

Unchaste woman…lustful woman…woman cursed by God…

Their eyes flashing like embers, the men metamorphosed into a trio of nude virgins before her eyes as they approached her, smiling. When one of them pulled back her lips, Katharina discerned the sharp fangs of a she-wolf.

“No! Go away, get away from me! You’re nothing but an evil dream!”

The virgins, the priests, and the devil vanished, and all that remained was an empty room with a sweat-soaked Katharina lying on the cold floor. An itching sensation began to spread over her body, growing ever more intense until she had to rub her body against the wall like a wild boar. She couldn’t suppress a giggle.

Like a wild sow in the woods… I’m turning into a wild sow. Soon I’ll grow a snout and…

Her laughter became uncontrollable, convulsive; she struggled for air until she finally collapsed, the laughter turning to sobs that became softer and softer until they finally died away. For a single moment Katharina could think clearly again, and she struggled desperately to hold on to her reason, which she could feel gradually slipping away.

Is this purgatory? Am I dead?

There was a creak as the hatch opened and gloved hands delivered another round of delicacies-wine, white bread, veal still pink inside and drenched in a steaming cream sauce, with a side of dumplings and sweets dripping with honey.

Or is this paradise?

The eye stared at Katharina until she sopped up the last of the thick sauce with the warm bread. Then its owner turned and ascended the stairs, whistling.

The experiment was progressing nicely.