The Beggar King

10

REGENSBURG

EARLY MORNING, AUGUST 24, 1662 AD

Simon buttoned up his tattered jacket to ward off the cool night air that was worst now as dawn was breaking. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, but the scene around him remained bleak as before.

A trio of drinking buddies next to him were snoring so loudly it sounded as if they were trying to saw through the bars of their drafty dungeon. Two of them were presumably traveling journeymen who’d spent far more than they could afford that night making the rounds of the city taverns. They wore ragged trousers and linen shirts but had apparently forgotten their hats at the last tavern. Purses fastened to their belts hung down weightless and empty. Simon guessed that after a lash or two of the whip, the two day laborers would be banished from the city in the morning, but that would be all. These traveling journeymen offered very little to interest the crowds that would start arriving at city hall square before long. The city guards rounded up such specimens every night of the week.

The third reveler was a different story. To all outward appearances he looked like a Franciscan monk whose brown frock was pulled tightly across a remarkably fat belly. Innumerable blowflies flitted about his fresh tonsure and greasy, flushed cheeks, feeding on sweat that streamed down his face despite the cool morning air. In his pudgy hands he held a dirty linen sack that he pressed to his chest from time to time like a nursing infant, murmuring something incomprehensible in his sleep. Each time he was about to belt out another snore, his whole body quivered as if he were in the throes of death. Then, at other moments, he stopped breathing altogether, only to start in again all the more violently minutes later.

Of these cellmates Simon hated the fat monk the most.

The medicus had tried again to convince the guards not to lock him up, but they just laughed and wished him a pleasant night’s rest. Now he sat on a hard wooden bench, wedged between the two snoring workmen, and watched night slowly recede from the square. From time to time one of the journeymen’s heads would fall onto Simon’s shoulder and he would smack his lips peacefully, no doubt dreaming of the expensive roast goose he had enjoyed for dinner the night before-probably the last he’d have for a long time, Simon imagined. The medicus couldn’t bring himself to waken the journeyman, so he just pushed the workman’s head back gently.

Simon closed his eyes again and tried to concentrate-not easy given the loud snoring all around him. In no more than an hour shopkeepers would start opening their doors, maids would stroll across the square, and every person who passed would have a look into the House of Fools. Simon was sure it was only a matter of time before someone recognized him as the bathhouse arsonist. The description of him and Magdalena had been rather precise, and the guards surely possessed a warrant by now. Simon considered cutting his finger with his stiletto and rubbing blood over his face in the hope of passing himself off as the unfortunate victim of a barroom brawl. But he couldn’t change his height or his clothing, and those alone were probably enough to give him away.

Unless he had something else to wear.

Simon glanced again at the two workmen and the fat Franciscan, who still clutched his linen sack like a doll.

The linen sack!

Simon’s heart began to pound. He could at least turn that into a hood, and-who knows? — perhaps there was more clothing inside it! The medicus rose quietly and stepped toward the monk, who lay like a corpse on a bench across from him. Inch by inch he gingerly reached for the sack in the Franciscan’s arms. Although Simon fumbled with it, he felt the bundle coming free. He’d almost extricated half the sack from the monk’s grip when he heard a deep snarl.

Simon froze as the monk’s bloodshot right eye opened and glared back at him suspiciously.

“Are you trying to take my wine away, you damned son of a bitch?” the cleric growled. “That’s wine for mass, the blood of Christ. If you do that, they’ll boil you in oil, you damned heretic…”

The eye closed and the man resumed snoring loudly. Simon exhaled, waited a while, and then reached out confidently a second time.

Now the monk’s fingers closed around Simon’s wrist like a vise and pulled him close. The stench of wine on the monk’s breath almost knocked the medicus out.

“No one steals from Brother Hubertus,” the monk bellowed. “No one, do you hear?”

Looking for all the world like an overgrown bat, the Franciscan rose up and hit his head on the low top of the cage.

“Ouch, damn!”

Only now did the monk seem to comprehend where he was. Looking at his cellmates, then onto the city hall square, he let out an endless stream of curses. “In the name of the unholy trinity, that goddamned band of blockheaded bailiffs has locked me up again! Worthless philistines!” He shook the bars of the cage so hard Simon thought he might actually tear them apart at any moment. “Only because I tried to lead those poor stray virgins back into God’s grace!” he continued.

“Virgins?” Though he was afraid, Simon couldn’t resist asking.

The Franciscan, evidently Brother Hubertus, looked back at the medicus with some irritation, as if he’d only just now noticed him. Apparently he’d already forgotten Simon’s botched robbery.

“Yes, virgins!” he barked. “They hang around the brothel down at Peter’s Gate waiting for someone to come and read the Bible to them.”

Simon nodded sympathetically. “And you were so selfless as to take on that thankless job.”

A grin broke across the brother’s face. “What was it Saint Augustine said?” He began in a professorial tone, though his tongue was still too thick to pronounce some of the words. “‘If you suppress prostitution, capricious lusts will overthrow society.’” Hubertus shook his finger. “We cannot therefore hinder the prostitutes, but we can still bring them closer to God.”

Simon chuckled. “A noble undertaking and a necessary one. I remember Thomas Aquinas saying, ‘Remove prostitutes from the world-’”

“‘And you will fill the world with sodomy,’” Brother Hubertus interrupted. He nodded his fat head in agreement. “I see you’re a true scholar. Very few know this passage by the great Dominican. May I inquire what brings you to your unfortunate present situation?”

The medicus saw his chance but paused a moment before answering. “I was engaged in a passionate dispute concerning our Savior’s poverty and the trenchant observations of Wilhelm von Ockham when the night watchmen came and rudely interrupted us. My disputatious interlocutor was able to flee, but the bailiffs caught me and locked me in this drafty hole.”

The monk shook his head in indignation. “And thus scholarship goes to the dogs! We must continue this conversation at my house.”

Simon eyed him with astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

Brother Hubertus was already knocking loudly on a door that led into the city hall. The two workmen continued snoring, unperturbed.

“Just let me take care of it,” the monk said. “I know these barbarians.”

After a while a key turned in the squeaky lock and the scrawny night watchman stuck his nose through the doorway.

“Have you slept it off then, Brother Hubertus?” He grinned.

“Don’t be fresh, Hannes”-the monk shook his finger-“or there will be consequences, believe me. I’ll talk to the bishop about this.”

The night watchman sighed. “That’s what you always say, but you know just as well as I do that we have the right to detain even honorable society if they defy the curfew and-”

“Yes, yes, very well,” replied Brother Hubertus, nudging the bailiff aside and pressing a few coins into his hand. “You don’t have to preach it from the rooftops. And he’s coming with me,” he said, pointing to Simon.

“Him?” The night watchman gave Brother Hubertus an astonished look. “But he’s nothing more than a lowlife drifter; he’s not even from around here. You can hear it in the way he talks.”

“And I can hear when someone has nothing inside his head but stinking straw like you. He’s a learned man, but you numbskulls don’t have any understanding of that.”

“Ah, I see, a scholar.” The night watchman looked skeptically at Simon. “I’ve seen this scholar somewhere before, but I just can’t remember-”

“Nonsense,” Hubertus interrupted. “The man is coming with me, and that’s that. Here, this is for your expenses.”

He put two more coins in the bailiff’s coat pocket and led Simon into a guardroom adjacent to the House of Fools. The scrawny night watchman, grinding his teeth and glaring, wouldn’t take his eyes off the medicus.

“It’ll come to me,” he mused, then drew close to Simon again. “Don’t show your face around here again, scholar,” he sneered. “Next time you won’t be stuck with a fat monk who believes your blatherings. Then we’ll take our clubs and beat the learning out of you.” He smiled smugly and waved goodbye to the monk, who was already storming through another door and out of the building.

“Until next time, Brother Hubertus.” The night watchman sighed. “It was nice doing business with you.” With that, he glared at Simon and ran his index finger across his neck in warning.

The medicus staggered into city hall square where tradesmen were just opening up shop. In the east the sun was rising over the rooftops of Regensburg.

Magdalena ripped the Venetian’s shirt in two and began washing the blood from his chest. Silvio lay on a four-poster bed that took up half an enormous bedroom on the second floor. Here, as in the dressing room, mirrors were hung throughout the room, as well as paintings of biblical scenes with all sorts of fat little cherubs-all framed in what appeared to be pure gold.

“Santa Maria, I think I’m in heaven,” the Venetian sighed, closing his eyes. “This must be paradise, and you must be an angel sitting at my side.”

“Just hold still, damn it!” Magdalena cursed, dabbing the wounds with a wet cloth. “Or you’ll really be seeing angels soon.”

Silvio was injured below the right nipple. Although a rib had, fortunately, deflected the blade, the wound bled profusely, as did the cut on Silvio’s left upper arm.

Magdalena went about her work in silence. She found some fine fustian in a bedroom trunk, which she tore into long strips to bandage Silvio’s chest and forearm. To help him recover from his loss of blood, she also heated some water on the hearth in the main room, then added honey and the juice of the little green and yellow fruits she found in Silvio’s garden. She poured the steaming brew in a cup by the bed, but the Venetian just shook his head in disgust when Magdalena handed it to him.

“I prefer a strong Tokay,” he said. “You’ll find an excellent vintage over there in the cupboard-”

“Oh, no,” Magdalena objected. “This is a sick visit, not a little tryst. If you don’t do exactly as I say, your little angel will fly right away. Understood?”

Silvio sighed meekly and opened his mouth so that Magdalena could spoon-feed him the concoction. Between doses he pummeled her with questions about what had happened since her sudden flight from his garden a few days back. Magdalena refused to answer at first but, upon further consideration, decided to let Silvio in on at least some details. As the Venetian ambassador, he could be a powerful ally in her attempt to free her father. She was, simply put, in no position to reject such help.

“My father…” she began haltingly. “He’s locked in the city dungeon for two murders he didn’t commit.”

Silvio looked at her questioningly. “Do you mean the murders of the bathhouse owner and his wife that the whole town is talking about?”

Nodding, Magdalena recounted the remarkable events of the past few days-their arrival in Regensburg, the break-in at the bathhouse, and the cryptic letter naming a certain Weidenfeld.

“And now you believe this Weidenfeld cooked all this up just to see your father hang?” Silvio inquired incredulously between spoonfuls of the warm brew.

Magdalena shrugged. “The beggars believe the patricians had both Hofmanns killed because my uncle was one of these freemen, but that seems too simple. Then there’s the letter the hangman’s boy brought me, which isn’t from my father at all. Somebody’s trying to pay him back for something.”

Silvio leaned back in the bed. The loss of blood had weakened him, and his face was still as white as wax.

“I’d be glad to help you,” he whispered. “But I don’t know what I can do.”

“What do you know about Mamminger?” Magdalena asked abruptly.

“Mamminger?” Silvio looked surprised. “The Regensburg city treasurer? Why do you ask?”

“He’s involved somehow,” Magdalena replied. “He met with this murderer, in your own garden.”

The little Venetian whistled through his teeth. “Paulus Mamminger, ringleader of a conspiracy to murder? I miei ossequi, signorina. My compliments! When that gets out, heads will roll in Regensburg, and I don’t mean your father’s.”

Magdalena nodded excitedly. “Exactly. Can you find out more about Mamminger? You have influence with the city council, don’t you?”

Silvio sat up in bed, twirling his mustache. “I’ll see what can be done. But let’s not talk anymore about politics; let’s talk instead about… amore.”

He pulled Magdalena to him and kissed her gently on the cheek.

The hangman’s daughter recoiled as if bitten by a snake and gave the Venetian a firm slap in the face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted. “Do you think you can just buy me with gowns and balls and connections? I’m a midwife, not a prostitute.”

Silvio’s face blanched a shade whiter.

“Signorina, I beg your forgiveness. I thought the two of us-”

“Signorina nothing! If you think I’m your mistress, you’re making a big mistake. I may be the daughter of a hangman-a dishonorable and dirty person who hauls shit away from the streets-but I’m no whore. Remember that, you drunk old Venetian ass!”

She stood up and marched to the door, her hair flying behind her. Holding the door handle, she turned around and glared at him, her eyes flashing.

“Drink a glass of that stuff three times a day, you understand? And call one of your mistresses to help you change that dressing by tomorrow morning at the latest. I hope it hurts like hell when she tears it off your skin. Get well soon!”

She slammed the door and left Silvio staring open-mouthed at his own dumbstruck image in the mirror.

His brown robe billowing behind him, the Franciscan monk walked along so fast that Simon had trouble keeping up. Hubertus stopped only now and then to take a drink from his wineskin and share his latest philosophical musings with the medicus.

“Naturally Wilhelm von Ockham was correct in asserting that Jesus and his disciples owned no property,” he panted, wiping red wine from his lips. “But just think what that means for the church! If the shepherd had no money, then his followers should have none either. All the pomp and ceremony would be nothing but idolatry!” He pointed at the magnificent facade of the bishop’s palace, which they were approaching now. Directly adjoining the Regensburg cathedral, it was a little empire to itself, surrounded by high walls separating it from the city, the kaiser, and the Elector.

“Hasn’t the church also done much good with its money?” Simon gasped, trying to keep pace with the fat monk.

Brother Hubertus gestured dismissively. “A huge collection of paintings framed in gold but gathering dust in the monastery archives? Altars and statues so magnificent they overwhelm the beholder? For my part I’d rather be outside with the simple folk. God resides in the whorehouses, as well! But try telling the bishop that! Oh, well, at least he’ll let you argue with him without burning you at the stake.”

The Franciscan strode toward a tremendous archway flanked by two of the bishop’s halberd-wielding soldiers. He looked back impatiently at Simon, who hesitated at the entrance.

“What’s the matter?” Hubertus inquired. “You wouldn’t decline a breakfast of freshly boiled sausage and a mug of cold beer, would you?”

Simon’s stomach growled, reminding him that it had indeed been some time since he’d eaten last. And so, with trepidation, he followed the Franciscan monk. What did he have to lose? Magdalena was probably having a fine time with that little fop, so he might as well take his time dining at the bishop’s residence. The danger of being recognized was no doubt lessened in the company of a Franciscan monk. Besides, Simon was curious what position Hubertus actually held in the church; whatever it was, the fat monk seemed to have quite a reputation in town.

Greeting Brother Hubertus with a nod, the guards allowed both men to pass through. The Franciscan returned their greeting with a smile.

“From this point on, we’re safe from the city guards,” he said conspiratorially. “This is the bishop’s territory, with its own court and prison. That lousy gang of night watchmen can’t do anything to us here.”

“Really?” A faint, almost imperceptible smile spread over Simon’s face. His unexpected visit to the bishop’s residence was taking a new turn. “Suppose a-let’s say a thief or an arsonist were to seek refuge here?” he inquired cautiously.

“Then the bishop would probably grant him asylum,” Hubertus replied. “If only to annoy the city. But the guards out there keep a damn close watch to see that no suspicious person enters here. Otherwise things could get out of hand.”

“Naturally.” Simon nodded.

They passed beneath a stone archway and found themselves in a finely cultivated, shady inner courtyard extending a full five hundred feet to the east and surrounded by stately buildings. To one side the cathedral loomed over the bishopric walls, and the entire area looked like the inside of a fortress. Brother Hubertus quickly crossed the courtyard and, after turning left, came to a stop in front of a heavy wooden door. The air was filled with an unusual odor that Simon couldn’t place at first-sweet and heavy, like old beer that had been in the sun too long.

The Franciscan pulled a large key from his robe, unlocked the door, bowed slightly, and gestured for the visitor to enter. “My empire. Please make yourself at home.”

Simon entered a room whose vaulted ceiling rose up out of sight. From several huge copper vats steam rose toward the ceiling. Wooden barrels, each inlaid with the bishop’s coat of arms, were stacked high along the walls, and in the room’s center stood a hot brick oven with a huge copper pan on top. The air was so humid the medicus’s shirt instantly clung to his body.

“A brewery…” he said, astonished.

Brother Hubertus nodded proudly. “The bishop’s brewery. We had it built just this past year atop the ruins of an ancient Roman gate. And I venture to say that we brew the best damn beer in all of Bavaria.”

“And you are…” Simon began.

“The bishop’s brewmaster,” Hubertus finished for him. “And incidentally the best damn brewmaster the bishop could find. His Excellency loves beer, especially mine.” Grinning, he poured them each a mug from a wooden keg. “Perhaps that’s the reason I can take a few more liberties than the other servants. The bishop would give up his Sunday mass before his morning pint. Cheers!”

He held up his foaming mug as Simon tasted the beer, his eyes widening in pleasant surprise. The beer was excellent-cold and smooth, with just the perfect hint of hops.

“Good, isn’t it?” The Franciscan winked. “Wheat beer, but don’t tell a soul. In Bavaria only the Elector is allowed to brew it. But why should he alone have the privilege of such an excellent brew, hmm? It’s a sin not to share.” He took another deep gulp and burped loudly.

“But have a seat and tell me what brought a scholar like yourself to Regensburg.” Brother Hubertus gestured to a rickety table and two stools alongside a steaming kettle. “I must tell you that when I’m not brewing beer, I like to dabble in other sciences and theories: Wilhelm von Ockham, Thomas Aquinas, but the worldly scholars, too, like Bacon and Hobbes.” He sighed. “I’m surrounded here by drunken fools! It’s good to talk with a like-minded individual. So what brings you here?”

Simon sipped his beer and decided to tell the truth, at least in part.

“I’m a medicus in search of employment,” he said.

“Aha, I see, a medicus.” Deep folds appeared on the fat monk’s brow. “And where did you study, if I may ask?”

“In… Ingolstadt.” Simon didn’t mention he’d broken off his studies after just a few terms-out of laziness, a gambling addiction, and debt.

“It’s not easy to establish a position for oneself among the guilds as a doctor,” the medicus continued after a short hesitation. “The old ones drive off the new ones. I’m waiting to be tested by the Regensburg collegium.”

“Do you have references?”

“I… well…” Simon fumbled nervously in his jacket pockets as if he could magically produce such a document. Though no miracle, he did feel a disgusting, granular lump in his coin purse.

The powder from the alchemist’s cellar!

In all the excitement he’d never gotten around to examining it more carefully, and now he lacked the necessary instruments and books to do so anyhow. He’d never be able to solve this riddle with what he had to work with in the beggars’ catacombs.

Then an idea came to him. He pulled out his little leather purse and handed it to Brother Hubertus.

“Unfortunately I don’t have any references with me, but the venerable members of the guild assigned me a little task prior to my examination.” Simon adopted a scholarly air. “By next week I’m supposed to identify this powder. Do you have any idea what it could be?”

The monk poured a bit of the powder into his huge hand and sniffed it.

“Hmm,” he replied, scratching his bald head. “A musty smell, bluish, mixed with ash…”

“At first I thought it might be burned flour,” Simon continued. “But I suspect it’s something else now.”

Hubertus nodded. “It is. I have a hunch, too.”

“You know?” Simon jumped up from his stool. “Then tell me, please!”

The Franciscan placed the pouch back on the table. “Not so fast, young friend. It would be a pity if I was mistaken and caused you to fail the collegium.” He shook his head, thinking. “Besides, it’s your test, not mine. I’ll do you this favor, but I’ll need a little time.”

“How long?” Simon asked impatiently.

Hubertus shrugged. “One or two days. I just want to be certain. In the meantime I look forward to an intelligent, scholarly discussion or two.”

Simon shook his head. “I can’t wait that long.”

The monk sipped his beer thoughtfully, then brushed the foam from his lips. “You’re welcome to stay here with me for the time being. I have a room next to the brewery that’s empty, and now that it’s summer I don’t have much to do around here. I’m always happy for the company. Besides”-he winked-“didn’t you yourself say that it’s a week until your examination? So don’t be so impatient. I’m a thorough person-and not just in brewing beer.”

Simon sighed. “All right, I’ll wait, just not here. You do promise to tell me as soon as possible, don’t you?”

Brother Hubertus grinned broadly. “You have the word of the bishop’s brewmaster.”

He opened a drawer in the table and extracted a stained piece of paper, ink, and a goose-quill pen.

“I’ll prepare something in writing for you, so that the next time you come to visit you can get past the guards. We don’t want those dolts to leave you standing there.” Brother Hubertus scribbled a few words on the paper, placed the bishop’s seal on it, then rolled it up and handed it to Simon.

“Anyone who falls out of favor with me also falls out with the bishop. Those fools have figured out that much at least. Without his beer His Excellency grows irritable. But now let’s have ourselves a taste of those boiled sausages.”

He went over to a steaming kettle, opened it, and pulled out a chain of plump pink sausages. As steam enveloped the monk, he looked as if he were standing on a cloud.

“A brewer’s kettles are good for all sorts of things, aren’t they?” Hubertus inhaled the scent of tightly packed sheep intestines. “So tell me, what do you think of this fashionable new rascal Descartes?”

Jakob Kuisl woke to the sound of pebbles crunching. He sat up, in pain, with no idea at first where he was. Except for a small crack of light that grew brighter and brighter on the other side of the room, everything around him was black.

With the pain, memories came flooding back. He’d escaped; the Regensburg executioner had brought him to this dungeon under the brothel at Peter’s Gate. Were bailiffs standing just outside, ready to carry him back to his former cell? Had that woman Dorothea betrayed him?

A stooped figure entered the little room. It was Philipp Teuber, who set a large sack down in a corner, groaning.

“Everything’s still calm out there,” he said. “No doubt they’re keeping your escape a secret for now and accusing one another for the slip-up.” Teuber laughed softly. “An escape from the city hall dungeon! That hasn’t happened for hundreds of years! But the shock will pass quickly, and the big manhunt will no doubt begin today, so it’s best for you to stay here the next few days and lie low.”

“I’ve got to find Magdalena…” Kuisl whispered, trying to stand, but the pain in his legs was so crippling he slid down the wall with a moan.

“First you’ve got to get better,” Teuber said, rummaging through his bag, then pulled out a knuckle of pork, some bread, a piece of cheese, and a corked jug of wine. “This will help you get your strength back. Let’s have a look at your leg.”

While the Regensburg executioner rubbed Kuisl’s lower thigh with salve, Kuisl bit into the pork knuckle, letting the fat run down into his beard. After days of watery soup and moldy bread, the tough meat seemed like manna from heaven. He could already feel strength returning to his abused body.

“My son found your daughter and gave her the letter,” Teuber said as he rubbed Kuisl’s legs.

Kuisl stopped chewing. “How is she?” he asked. “Is she in trouble?”

Teuber laughed. “It’s funny you ask.” He shook his head with a grin. “Things are evidently going very well for her. My son met her in the company of a medicus and several beggars down by the burned-out bathhouse. It seems they’ve discovered something.”

“And where is she now?”

The Regensburg executioner shrugged. “I don’t know, but if she’s in with the beggars, I’ll learn of it. I’ve thrown my fair share of them into the stocks, then either burned them or beaten them and driven them out of the city. But I’ve also let a few of those poor bastards escape, and they owe me.”

“Damn! What the devil did you put in this ointment?” Kuisl asked, turning up his nose. “It stinks like bear fat that’s sat out for three years.”

“A family recipe,” Teuber replied. “If you think I’m going to reveal the ingredients, think again.”

The Schongau hangman tried to grin despite his pain. “I’d rather drink dandelion soup for a year than try out your recipe, you old knacker. In Schongau I don’t even rub down cattle with stuff like that.”

“I’ve already figured out that of the two of us, you’re the bigger smart aleck,” Teuber grumbled. “Now turn over so I can have a look at your arm. Does it hurt bad?”

Kuisl took a long swig of red wine before answering. “What a stupid question! You wrenched it from the socket! Now, horse doctor, show me that you can at least do something useful and shove it back into place.”

“If I were you, I’d take another swig first, so the guards down at Jakob’s Gate won’t hear you scream.”

“Not necessary.” Kuisl bit his lip.

“Or perhaps wedge a piece of wood between your teeth?”

“You son of a bitch,” Kuisl cursed. “Just do it.”

The Regensburg executioner grabbed Kuisl’s left arm and pulled hard. It crunched and cracked like a tree branch snapping. Kuisl grimaced and ground his teeth a moment, but otherwise an almost eerie silence prevailed. Finally, Kuisl rolled his shoulder cautiously, then nodded approvingly. With just one strong tug, Teuber had set the arm back in its socket.

“Good job, Teuber,” Kuisl whispered, blanching as he leaned against the wall and beads of sweat ran down his face. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”

“You’ll have to go easy on the arm for a few days,” his colleague reminded him. “I’ll leave the ointment here for you. Be sure to rub some of it on every day…”

“Yes, yes, fine.” Kuisl turned aside and took a deep breath. “I myself know what I have to do. I always have.”

As silence spread through the room, only the Schongau hangman’s deep breathing was audible.

“Do you still believe someone set you up?” Teuber asked at last.

Kuisl nodded, staring at the wall in front of him. “Some bastard from years ago. He covered the walls of the cell with the names of old battlefields, so this must go all the way back to the war. He knows every battle I fought, and he knows my wife.” He pounded the wall with his good arm. “How the hell does this devil know my wife?”

And where have I heard the name Weidenfeld? The thought flashed through his mind. Damn it!

“You were a mercenary?” Teuber asked. “Why didn’t you stay a hangman? I’ve heard about you Kuisls. You’re a tough breed. A whole tribe of executioners all over Bavaria bears your name. Why didn’t you just stick with what your father taught you?”

Kuisl was silent a long time. Not until the Regensburg executioner stood up and made ready to leave did he begin to speak.

“My father is dead,” he said. “They killed him when I was fourteen. They stoned him to death because he showed up drunk to perform an execution one time too many.” Kuisl stared off into space. “It was the third time he was unable to handle his sword and turned the scaffold into a bloodbath. His drinking before every execution finally did him in.”

A shadow passed over his face.

The onlookers’ shouts… A single ear lying on the ground in front of the scaffold… Father staggering, falling as the crowd swallows him up… Mother at home crying for days until Jakob can take it no longer… He follows the sound of the drummer without once looking back…

“Hey, are you still in your right mind?” Teuber grabbed the Schongau hangman, who appeared to be drifting into unconsciousness. Like a wet dog, Kuisl shook his head vigorously, trying to drive away bad thoughts.

“I’m all right. Just need a little sleep.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “The damned war. I just can’t get it out of my head.”

Teuber looked at him, lost in thought. “Kuisl, Kuisl,” he said at last. “Whoever is behind this affair has been more successful than he can imagine. There is an agony in your eyes greater than any rack could inflict.” He sighed as he rose to his feet. “I’m going to leave you alone now. Try to sleep, and tomorrow I’ll bring you some food and drink.”

Stooping, he left the little room and rolled the barrel in front of the entry behind him, where Kuisl still lay in darkness.

Though he could see nothing, his eyes were wide open.

The master baker Josef Haberger lay stretched out on a wooden bench, moaning with pleasure.

Daily dough-kneading made his muscles as stiff as old leather, and it was high time he paid Marie Deisch in the bathhouse another visit. No other woman in Regensburg was so skilled in handling a hard-working man’s worn-out muscles. Her hands were as strong as a butcher apprentice’s and as tender as a tight-lipped whore’s. Now, Haberger grunted and closed his eyes as Marie’s nimble fingers moved up and down his back.

“To the left,” he moaned. “The shoulder blade. Those damn dough troughs are so heavy they’ll pull me into the grave yet.”

Marie’s fingers scurried up his back again and, with a few targeted blows, began loosening the most painful places.

“Here?” the bathhouse worker asked in her deep, throaty voice. As big around at the hips as a medium-size wine barrel, she could leverage that heft behind her movements.

Haberger grunted in satisfaction. He loved strong women, women he could grab hold of, sinking into their warm, tender breasts like a pillow as they made love. His own wife was a bony, anemic shrew whose ribs stuck out like knives and who hadn’t been intimate with him since he fathered their last son five years before. But who needed a spouse when you had Marie Deisch? Haberger was glad to pay a half guilder every week for his trip to the bathhouse, which included bloodletting, beard trimming, and cupping with leeches. When he was young, there were many more of these blessed institutions in Regensburg to choose from, but the curses of French disease and sullen Protestants had turned these paradises on earth into temples of sin, and only a handful of bathhouses remained.

And now that the Hofmann house on Wei?gerbergraben was gone, there was even one fewer…

The massage diverted the master baker temporarily from worries that had pursued him like demons the past few days. But now, with his eyes closed and the soft hum of the bathhouse woman in his ears, they returned. He felt as if his heart were in a vise and knew that the best massage in the world wouldn’t relieve this pain.

They’d gone too far; that much was clear. The plan was not only dangerous but megalomaniacal, and if they weren’t careful, they would bring the whole city down around them. The bathhouse owner, Hofmann, had been right in trying to convince the others of the plan’s madness and, then, in simply refusing to go along with it. But what good had it done? He lay dead in Saint Jakob’s Cemetery now, a putrid sack of maggots, just like his wife, the fresh little bitch. It was probably she who put the idea of stopping it into his head.

But they couldn’t be stopped.

After Hofmann’s death Haberger made a mistake that he regretted now more than anything else in his life. In despair he pointed a finger at the others, accused them of murder, while they met him with silence, letting his accusations ricochet off them as off a rock wall. At that moment he realized he’d crossed the line. Their convictions were cast in stone, and they would carry out the plan to its bitter end.

With or without him.

It quickly became apparent that with his rash assertions he’d become a liability, and now he imagined assassins around every corner, the clicks of crossbows behind every door. Death could be waiting for him under his bed or in the privy. Still, they needed him! They couldn’t do without him… or could they? No, not without the most important master baker in the city with customers at city hall, at the Reichstag, and among the most important patricians.

In retrospect the whole plan seemed an outrageous, scandalous crime, a crime so devilish that everyone involved would roast in hell forever. Haberger considered turning on the others, but his fear of their vengeance was too great. And besides, what would happen to him when everything finally came to light? He heard that traitors were often hanged before they were gutted and quartered. Could the same fate await him?

Preoccupied with his fears, he didn’t notice that Marie had stopped humming. Her fingers, too, had disappeared. Surprised, Haberger was about to get up when he felt hands on his back again. He sighed in relief. The bathhouse worker had likely just gone for some more olive oil and was now preparing to massage the right shoulder blade. Haberger closed his eyes and tried to suppress bad thoughts and concentrate only on the present massage.

The hands worked their way up his back until they reached the shoulder blades again. For an instant Haberger had the premonition that these hands were somehow stronger than before, that they lacked Marie’s delicate, feminine touch and their grip on him was harder.

Much harder.

As if they were trying to mash his muscles to a pulp.

“Thanks, Marie,” Haberger moaned again. “But that should be enough. I can’t feel anything in my shoulders anymore.”

The hands didn’t stop, though, but moved higher until finally they reached Haberger’s throat.

“What the devil…?”

Haberger tried to stand up, but unrelenting muscular arms forced him back down to the bench. When he attempted to scream, he felt fingers tighten around his neck, squeezing the life from his body bit by bit.

The master baker quivered and flailed about like a fish out of water. He tried to slip free, but the strong arms held him down, pressing him hard against the wood like a piece of raw meat. His face turned red first, then blue; his tongue stuck out of his mouth like a slug; then, with a final gasp, he collapsed.

Just before the world went black, Josef Haberger glimpsed right before his nose an arm with powerful protruding sinews. He saw close-up-almost as if magnified-a mass of curly hair, and he smelled sharp manly sweat.

Strange. I don’t feel pain anymore, Haberger thought.

Then he passed into a dark tunnel ending in ethereal light.

Still enthused by his conversation with Brother Hubertus, Simon left the bishopric around noon with the beer-stained invitation from the bishop’s brewmaster in his pocket.

They had discussed Descartes, whose Discours de la methode he read as a university student in Ingolstadt. Simon was especially taken with the revolutionary idea that a rational explanation could be found for everything. The Franciscan had kept Simon’s glass brimming with cool, splendid wheat beer, and the medicus felt tipsy now as he wondered how Descartes would have solved the double murder in Regensburg. Presumably the philosopher would have found a simple answer for every riddle. Sighing, Simon had to admit he didn’t have Descartes’s divine intelligence. Just the same, he tried to order his thoughts-though the accursed alcohol kept getting in the way.

All that beer, however, had one benefit: Simon had temporarily forgotten his quarrel with Magdalena. But now the nagging thought returned that the love of his life was possibly still hanging around with that Venetian dwarf. But then again she might have returned to the catacombs by now, worrying herself sick about him. It served her right! What business did Magdalena have in the dressing room of that vain fop? Simon looked down at his torn, hastily patched jacket, his shredded breeches, and muddy boots and had to admit he himself wished he could spend half a day in a filthy-rich ambassador’s dressing room. But for an unmarried girl that was completely inappropriate! And who knew what else the two had been up to amid all those mirrors, linens, and clothing? Whatever the case, everything would have to be cleared up tonight.

The marketplace at the cathedral square was filled with noisy, chattering market women, cursing stable boys, churchgoers deep in conversation, and blase patricians. Although the medicus assumed he wouldn’t attract undue attention in the bustling crowd, he pulled up his jacket collar and lowered his eyes nevertheless. He didn’t want to give the bailiffs a second opportunity to identify him as the Wei?gerbergraben arsonist.

Despite his three or four mugs of wheat beer, Simon tried his best to concentrate. There had to be some connection between the Hofmann murders and the trap set for Magdalena’s father, something he just hadn’t thought of yet, a logical scheme that would bring together all the disparate and bizarre little incidents. Simon hoped fervently that Brother Hubertus could help him analyze the strange powder. By now the medicus was convinced it wasn’t just burned flour. Perhaps it was the key to solving the other riddles.

A bathhouse owner as rebel and alchemist… What was Hofmann experimenting with anyway?

Simon suddenly realized there was yet another person he hadn’t spoken with about the matter: the raftmaster, Karl Gessner! The bathhouse owner, like Gessner, had been a leader of the freemen, so it was quite possible Gessner knew something about Hofmann’s alchemical experiments. When they last met on Wohrd Island, Gessner hadn’t said anything about it, but perhaps that was only because Simon hadn’t brought it up.

The medicus decided to pay a visit to Gessner at the raft landing. While there was some danger in going down to the Danube, where so many city bailiffs were afoot, he was willing to take the risk.

Simon turned around, hurried northward past the bishop’s court, and entered a labyrinth of small lanes. Finally, between two buildings, he spotted the river flowing lazily by. At the noon hour there was almost no activity on the raft landing. Most freight had been unloaded in the early morning, and the raft attendants and laborers were dozing now in the shadows of crates, bales, and barrels, waiting for the sweltering noon heat to pass. A single rope hung down from a wooden crane over the Danube, swaying calmly back and forth in the breeze. The air smelled of fish, river water, and freshly cut firs, and the stench of the city was not quite so strong here. Simon felt he could breathe freely for the first time in a long while.

He asked one of the dozing workers where he might find the raftmaster and was directed to Gessner’s office in a small building next to the lumber-loading dock. As he strolled along the fortified jetty, Simon noticed for the first time just how vast the Regensburg harbor actually was. This stretch of river that ran along the city wall extended from the boat landings east of the Stone Bridge almost as far as the western boundary of the city. On his way down to the lumber dock Simon passed the wine-loading dock, dotted with respectable middle-class inns; salt-storage depots as big as barns; and innumerable mooring posts encrusted with mussels. Finally, huge piles of boards and timber came into view. A dozen day laborers were busy stacking planks and wet pieces of driftwood, some as long as a yard, that they had fished out of the Danube. Not far from here stood the raftmaster’s house-a low, lopsided shed built directly onto the jetty that looked as if at any moment it just might collapse.

Simon was about to knock on the door when he noticed it was already ajar. He carefully pushed, and it swung inward without a sound, revealing a rough-hewn table covered with an assortment of stained documents in the middle of a pleasantly cool room. Shelves built into the back wall overflowed with sealed, rolled parchments. But there was no sign of Gessner.

Simon was turning to leave when he heard a sudden clatter, a loud crash like the sound of a crate falling. The noise came from the other side of the shelves; evidently there was another room somewhere behind the office, a kind of storage room, he supposed, but inaccessible from the office directly.

Was there perhaps an entrance around the back of the building? Puzzled, the medicus left the way he came in and walked briskly around the little house. Gessner had to be working in the adjoining room, and when he finished stacking his crates, he’d surely be able to answer a few friendly questions over a glass or two of wine. All of a sudden Simon felt incredibly thirsty. The heat was bringing on a hangover-Brother Hubertus’s wheat beer must have been stronger than Simon first assumed. He had to get out of the sun, now! Where was the other damned entrance? Could he have overlooked it? To be sure, he walked around the building again, with the same result.

There was no other entrance.

Simon hurried back inside. Only now did he realize that the size of the little office didn’t correspond to the exterior dimensions.

It was considerably smaller.

Simon held his breath, listening closely. He could definitely hear the muffled sound of crates being moved around.

What in the world…?

As Simon cautiously approached the wall on the other side of the room, he noticed a gap between two shelves. He reached in, pulled on one of the boards, and to his surprise the entire left wall-with its shelves and everything on them-swung silently away, revealing a windowless room piled high with crates and sacks. Gessner stood with his back to the entrance, building precarious towers of some large containers. By the light of a lantern on the floor Simon could see that some of the crates had been opened. Inside, dried brown leaves were gathered into bundles and tied with fine thread. The medicus instantly recognized the bundles’ scent as one he knew so well from the Schongau hangman’s house, though Simon had never before smelled it as strongly as here.

Tobacco.

Now Gessner turned around, his look turning quickly from frank astonishment to outright anger. “What in hell’s name are you doing here, you nosy little quack?” he snarled, reaching for a hatchet on his belt. “I don’t recall having invited you.”

“Uh… excuse me,” Simon stuttered, “I was looking for you, and the door was open…”

“Certainly you don’t mean this door.” The raftmaster pushed him rudely aside and slammed the wall of shelves shut behind him. The darkness in the room was now almost palpable, mitigated only in part by the small lantern on the floor. By its flickering light Gessner’s otherwise sympathetic features now appeared very threatening.

“You’ll keep this little secret to yourself, won’t you?” the raftmaster whispered. “One hand washes the other, as they say. I told you about the patricians’ plans, so you won’t say a word about this room. To anyone. Understood?”

Simon nodded eagerly. Despite his fear, he couldn’t resist looking around with curiosity. When Gessner noticed Simon’s gaze, he reached into a box for a few of the brown, curled leaves. He crushed them between his fingers and held his hand out to Simon to smell.

“Expensive West Indian tobacco,” the raftmaster said, taking a seat on one of the large wooden crates. With an impatient gesture, he motioned for Simon to do the same. “There’s no better ware to smuggle right now. Tariffs are higher than ever, and therefore so are my profits.” He shrugged apologetically. “A Regensburg raftmaster struggles to make ends meet. Taxes are eating me alive, lumber thieves steal the privy seat right out from under my ass, and just two years ago a blasted flood washed my whole house clear away. So, I’ve had the new one built to order, so to speak, exactly the way I wanted.” He winked, gesturing toward the wooden partition.

With a sudden creaking sound, the secret door opened a crack. In the dazzling sunlight Simon could make out only the outline of a very large figure.

“Is everything all right in there?” a deep voice barked.

Gessner raised a reassuring hand. “We have a visitor, big fellow. But don’t worry. I’ve got it under control. You may leave.”

“You sure?”

The raftmaster nodded impatiently. “Yes, I’m sure.”

With another soft creaking sound, the door closed again. Gessner reached into another crate and fished out a bottle of brandy, which he proceeded to uncork with his teeth. He took a long swig before offering the bottle to Simon, whose hangover had started bothering him again.

“No, thanks,” the medicus mumbled. “My head… is a bit thick today.”

The raftmaster shrugged and took another slug.

“This is contraband, too,” he muttered, licking his lips. “But tobacco is better-easier to stash away, and there’s more profit in it.”

He cast a suspicious side glance at the medicus. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are? If I hadn’t recognized you right away, you’d be nailed up inside a barrel, floating down the Danube by now. What are you doing here, anyway? Didn’t I tell you you’d be better off back in your little Bavarian cow town with that little girl of yours?”

Simon sighed deeply. “As it turns out, that girl of mine just happens to be the daughter of the Schongau hangman, who’s due to be hanged, broken on the wheel, or even drawn and quartered right here in Regensburg. Magdalena is hell-bent on doing everything to save him.”

“And you, too, I suppose? This girl has you on a pretty tight leash.” Gessner grinned and poked Simon in the chest. “But you can forget about all of that-Kuisl is as good as dead.”

“There may still be a way out,” Simon said. “Something’s not quite right with your assumption that the aldermen are behind all this.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Gessner said. “It’s obvious. The patricians want their revenge on us, the freemen, so they had Hofmann stabbed to death and went looking for a scapegoat. And then Kuisl came along at just the right time.”

“All this trouble to get the Schongau hangman to Regensburg-the letter, the forged will, the trial. Why would the patricians do all that, cook up something so elaborate?” Simon persisted. “Just for revenge?”

“So what do you, in your infinite wisdom, think happened then?” Gessner asked peevishly.

Simon shrugged. “I don’t know. Someone who’s obviously trying to get revenge on Kuisl must have set this all up. I have no idea who-perhaps it’s this Weidenfeld who keeps sending these cryptic letters… or perhaps some other complete lunatic. Who knows? But there are still a few things I don’t understand. Did you know, for example, that Andreas Hofmann had a secret alchemist’s workshop?”

“An alchemist’s workshop?” Gessner frowned.

The medicus nodded. “We found a secret room in his cellar where some kind of alchemical experiments were taking place. There were traces of a strange-smelling bluish powder that unfortunately, just like everything else down there, has by now been reduced to ash. Did you know about this room?”

The raftmaster was silent for a long time; he took a long swig of brandy before finally replying. “Hofmann actually was dabbling in alchemy,” he said. “I wasn’t aware of the secret room, but I suspected something of the sort. For years Andreas had been in search of this…” He paused briefly. “Well, of this stone they’ve all been trying to produce.”

“The philosopher’s stone,” Simon whispered.

Gessner nodded. “Exactly. He thought he was getting close to being able to turn iron into gold. Naturally, none of us believed him, and truthfully we even made fun of him a bit. It was just such a crazy idea, though perhaps there really was something more to it. A few days before he died he was hinting that he would very soon be a very wealthy man-”

“So maybe that’s what happened!” Simon leaped out of his chair and paced the little room excitedly. “Hofmann is on his way to creating something very valuable in his workshop-perhaps the philosopher’s stone even. Whatever it is, the Regensburg patricians are very eager to get their hands on it. They question him, but when he doesn’t give them what they want, they kill him and his wife-or have them killed. It’s a delicate matter-there may even be others we’re not aware of, all of whom are after the same thing. So the aldermen have to see to it that not even the slightest suspicion falls on them. That would explain why they lured Kuisl to Regensburg. They have to ensure everything looks like an ordinary robbery-murder. The whole thing really has nothing to do with the freemen at all!” Simon was worked up now. “Once the Hofmanns are dead, the patricians have the whole house ransacked. But they can’t find the philosopher’s stone, because Hofmann hid it down in his workshop!”

“So?” Gessner asked curiously. “Where’s this stone now?”

Simon settled back down on the crate and sighed. “We’ll probably never find out. Perhaps the stone is still down there; perhaps Hofmann hid it somewhere else. The bathhouse is no more than a heap of rubble and no one’s going to find anything there now. But I’m sure the strange powder has something to do with it.”

The raftmaster thought it over, nodding as he fumbled with his red bandanna. “You may be on to something, and I just may be able to find something in those ruins yet. I have my sources…” He fingered his jet-black beard. “If I learn anything, I’ll let you know. Are you still staying at the Whale?”

Simon shook his head. “That was too dangerous… for various reasons. No, for now we’re living with the beggars guild.”

“The beggars guild?”

“I have an agreement with the beggar king,” Simon replied curtly. “I heal his sick, and in return he guarantees our safety.”

“Hmm,” Gessner mused. “Not that it’s any business of mine, but does the beggar king know about the alchemist’s workshop?”

“We told Nathan about it,” Simon replied. “Why do you ask?”

The Regensburg raftmaster clicked his tongue. “If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t trust him further than I can spit. Nathan will do anything for money. How else do you think he and his people can tramp about here in Regensburg without anyone bothering them?”

“Do you think…?”

“I don’t think; I know. More than once I’ve seen Nathan turn someone over to the city officials or pass information to the guards. And you’d better believe some people would pay a pretty penny for such a stone.”

“I never thought of that.” Simon frowned. “Perhaps you’re right and we should really consider a change in our accommodations.”

“You could hide out here at my place, if you like.” The raftmaster pointed behind him. “It’s as safe in here. No one will ever find you.”

“Thanks, but I think I have an even better solution,” Simon replied in a soft voice as he stood up.

“As you wish.” Gessner opened the bookshelf door. Light streamed into the room, nearly blinding Simon, who could only stand still for a moment, blinking.

“If you hear any news, by all means let me know,” the raftmaster said as he stood there bathed in the sunlight. “And as far as this room is concerned-” He pulled Simon close. “-you know nothing. Clear?”

Simon felt Gessner’s hot, brandy-soaked breath on his face. “My lips are sealed. Promise.”

“Good,” Gessner replied, patting the medicus on the shoulder. “Perhaps I’ll send you a crate of tobacco. Do you smoke?”

Simon shook his head with a smile. “Not me, but I know someone who would be more than happy with such a gift. First, however, we’ve got to save his life.”