The Beggar King

11

REGENSBURG

NOON, AUGUST 24, 1662 AD

The stuffy air in the brothel’s hidden room was keeping Kuisl from getting the sleep he very much needed. Teuber had left him only a few hours ago, but the Schongau hangman felt as if he’d been in this hole an eternity. It didn’t stink of urine or excrement like the cell in the city hall, but there was no light here and no air, just Jakob and his thoughts.

He sighed and groped around him on the floor until he finally found a solid object. A carafe of wine! He almost knocked the vessel over but at the last moment was able to grab hold of it. Carefully he brought it to his lips, and as the cool, invigorating liquid wet his parched palate, fresh strength seemed to flow through his body. The wine was watery but nonetheless strong and numbing enough to make him drowsy.

Just as he was drifting off to sleep, a scraping sound echoed outside the room. The wine barrel blocking the entrance was being pushed aside, and by the light of the lantern the Schongau hangman saw Dorothea’s face, dripping with sweat. The fat procuress, who had evidently moved the makeshift barricade aside all by herself, was peering down at him now with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity.

“Just wanted to make sure you were still here,” she whispered. “And since you are, it couldn’t have been you then after all.”

“What?” Kuisl croaked, lifting himself to a seated position against the cool, damp wall of the tiny chamber. “What couldn’t have been me?”

“The murder in the bathhouse this morning,” Dorothea replied. “Or did you have something to do with it?”

Kuisl blinked in the harsh light of the lantern. “This morning? I don’t understand… Lisl and Hofmann… that was days ago…”

“You ninny,” the procuress replied. “I don’t mean Hofmann’s bathhouse but the bathhouse on Hackengasschen Street. The master baker, Haberger, was strangled there, and the bathhouse mistress, Marie Deisch, was found in a wooden washtub with her throat slit. So it really wasn’t you?”

The hangman shook his head silently.

“From the looks of you it’s actually pretty hard for me to imagine it,” Fat Thea said. “I don’t think you could even cut your own throat right now.” She placed the lantern on the floor and entered the dark chamber. “Lots of people sure would be happy if they could find someone to blame for all the murders happening around here of late. My girls don’t even dare set foot in the streets since this stranger’s been out on the prowl.”

“What stranger?” Kuisl asked hesitantly.

Fat Thea gave him a suspicious look. “Are you truly that dumb, or is this an act? For the last few weeks prostitutes have been disappearing all over the city. You must have heard about that!”

Kuisl shook his head, and the procuress sighed deeply.

“No matter,” she continued. “All hell has broken loose over in the garrison. Every bailiff in Regensburg is out looking for you now, and the city gates are so well guarded you’d think the devil himself were on the loose! They want to pin all the murders of the last few weeks on you. It’s like they’re hunting a wild animal!”

“How do you know all this?” Kuisl whispered.

“One of the soldiers at Peter’s Gate let me in on it,” Dorothea replied. “They tried to keep your escape under wraps because they were so embarrassed, but now, after Haberger’s murder, all the bailiffs are on full alert. The public still doesn’t know anything; the bailiffs are probably trying to avoid a general panic. But word is sure to spread fast. They’ll be inspecting every last mouse hole, and I have the council coming here tonight, damn it all to hell!” She kicked the wall so hard that some of the plaster came fluttering down, then took a deep breath and glared at Kuisl with her one eye.

“I promised Philipp that you could stay here, but I didn’t say for how long. It’s bad enough I’ll have a house full of aldermen and soldiers tonight, but now I have a monster living in my wine cellar, too.” She hesitated a moment. “It’s too risky. You can stay tonight, but you’ll have to leave in the morning. I’ll pack up a few things for you-clothing, bread, everything you’ll need. Can you walk?”

Kuisl nodded. “I can manage.”

Dorothea sighed. “Don’t be angry with me, but I have a daughter-you understand-and…”

“I have a daughter, too.” The hangman sighed. “I understand. Tomorrow I’ll be gone.”

“Good. Then we’ve said all there is to say.”

The procuress went out into the cellar and returned with a cold piece of roast and a full jug of wine.

“Here,” she said. “It’ll help you get your strength back. You can put these new clothes on now. They may be a bit snug, but they’ll do.” She tossed him a little bundle. “Linen shirt, trousers, and simple leather shoes; you’ll look just like any other ordinary stable hand. Leave your old rags here, and I’ll bury them.”

“God bless you.” Kuisl bit into the roast greedily.

Fat Thea sat and watched him eat. “What’s your daughter’s name?” she finally asked.

The hangman hastily swallowed a mouthful of food. “Magdalena. A real devil of a girl. If I ever see her again, I’m going to give her one hell of a whipping.”

Dorothea smiled. “Just as long as you don’t slit her throat.”

Lost in her own thoughts, the procuress took a sip from the jug of wine she had brought the hangman. “Don’t be too strict with your daughter,” she said, with some concern. “Growing children are like foals. If they’re not given room to run, they’ll lash out in every direction.”

“That’s no excuse for her to go gadding all about this godforsaken city with her good-for-nothing sweetheart and leave her mother and our children all alone at home, the ungrateful little brat.” Kuisl wiped his hand across his mouth. “The little ones are likely crying their eyes out while the fine mademoiselle is making a show of herself around town.”

But his real fear went unspoken: that Magdalena might at this very moment be in the hands of some lunatic, a lunatic bent on torturing her to get revenge on him.

Dorothea whistled softly through her teeth. “Magdalena seems like a real little minx. What sort of mischief has she gotten herself into?”

“Well, at the moment she’s trying to save me from the gallows,” Kuisl said. “I only hope nothing’s happened to her-her and that daft charlatan.”

Curled up in the subbasement of the catacombs, Magdalena stared morosely at the flickering oil lamp in front of her.

Shadows darted across the ancient foundation stones that still bore a few faintly legible Latin inscriptions. Simon once told her that long ago the Romans had built a settlement on this spot. Over the course of many centuries the city had grown up around these ruins: the Jewish quarter was established on this spot, and after the Jews were driven out, Neupfarrplatz, or Neupfarr Church Square, with its Protestant church, had been built. Here, deep underground, buried in its history, Magdalena felt as if she could hear the heart of Regensburg beating, and beating so loudly it drowned out the anxious pounding of her own heart. In this place she felt as safe as if she were in her mother’s womb.

Mother…

Magdalena closed her eyes. How could she have left her mother and the twins all alone, all for the sake of a tawdry dream of a new life in this strange city? Magdalena had been thinking only of herself, and of Simon, and now she’d failed everyone. Her father was still wasting away in a death cell, the victim of some conspiracy. Soon the Regensburg executioner would haul him up onto the scaffold, and she and Simon would be forced to watch the hangman break his bones. What would Mother say when Magdalena finally returned home?

Could she ever go back?

Magdalena’s thoughts also lingered on Simon. Where in the world could he be, and was he still angry at her on account of the Venetian ambassador? What had caused her to snap at him like that? Once again she’d bolted from him like a wild mare. Why couldn’t she control her temper?

After her second visit to Silvio’s house, Magdalena knew she would never fit into his glittering, gaudy world. There was an insurmountable wall between Silvio’s life and her own, and she had now experienced firsthand the city’s cruelty, how mercilessly it dealt with anyone who didn’t belong. There were the citizens and then there was everyone else-the human dross, the beggars, whores, and street performers, the knackers and the hangmen…

She would always belong to the dregs of society.

Someone came running down the crumbling staircase now, startling Magdalena out of her reverie. She was just about to extinguish the light to hide in the darkness when she recognized the figure standing before her. Simon! She leaped up and ran toward him.

“Simon! I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

Not until that moment did she notice the grave expression in his eyes. She stopped in her tracks. “What’s happened?”

With his finger to his lips, Simon led her to the farthest corner of the old Roman vault.

“Forget everything that’s happened up till now,” he whispered. “There’s something much more important we’ve got to deal with. We have to get out of here, tonight if possible.”

“What are you saying?” Magdalena’s voice echoed through the room.

Simon cringed, clapping his hand over her mouth. “For God’s sake, be quiet!” he gasped. “I have the feeling that all of Regensburg is conspiring against us now.”

In a whisper he told Magdalena of his meeting with Gessner and of his suspicion that Nathan was in league with the city. He also told her about the philosopher’s stone.

She listened with a furrowed brow. “So you think my uncle really did discover this stone?” she asked at last, a bit skeptical. “But isn’t it just some fantasy the alchemists peddled to their princes and sponsors to ingratiate themselves with them?”

Simon shrugged. “Who knows? The stone is more a symbol than a real object. Paracelsus wrote about it; I attended a medical lecture on it at the university in Ingolstadt. Some people really believe some substance exists that can transform base metals into gold or silver, while there are others who speak of a powder that, when mixed with wine, will bestow health and eternal life. Aurum potabile, liquid gold, is what they call it.”

“So it’s a medicine…” Magdalena nodded thoughtfully. “That’s something a bathhouse owner like Hofmann could really have used.”

“Do you remember the mountains of burned flour down in the alchemist’s workshop?” Simon asked. “I’ve been thinking it over; I’m pretty sure it wasn’t flour. It may have been the very powder Mamminger was looking for. I pinched a sample as we were leaving.” He pulled Magdalena close to him. “We have to get away from here. I get the feeling Nathan’s been sounding us out for a while now. Do you remember how he insisted on coming with us into the cathedral? After that he disappeared, just like Mamminger and the murderer. And he was eavesdropping on us down in the catacombs as well. Gessner’s right! We can’t risk having Nathan follow us everywhere, only to have him call the bailiffs when he thinks we’re getting too close.”

“But where do you want to go?” Magdalena asked. “Don’t forget we’re still wanted for arson. There’s no place up there where we’d be as secure.”

Simon grinned. “I know a place where the guards can’t get to us.”

The hangman’s daughter raised her bushy eyebrows. “And where would that be?”

“The bishop’s palace,” Simon said, triumphant. “I even have an invitation.” The medicus reached into his pocket and fished out the beer-stained document Brother Hubertus had given him and waved it under Magdalena’s nose. Before she could say a word, he went on.

“I met the bishop’s brewmaster this morning-a wise, well-read monk. I left the powder in his care so he could examine it.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Magdalena had to get hold of herself to keep her voice from rising. “You gave the only possible piece of evidence we have to a complete stranger? Why didn’t you just scatter it to the winds from the balcony of city hall? No doubt you also told this bishop’s servant about the alchemist’s workshop!”

Simon raised his hands, trying to calm her down. “Don’t worry. He doesn’t know a thing. And, that said, I’m not going to ask about all the things you may have blabbed to that old Venetian goat. You trust your dwarf just as much as I trust my fat brewmaster. Understood?”

“Keep Silvio out of this, will you?”

“Silvio? Aha!” Simon sneered. “At least we have the first two letters of our names in common. But never mind that…” He turned serious again. “I think Brother Hubertus would have no objection to our lodging at his place. Nobody will think to look for us in the bishop’s palace.”

“And how do you think you’ll…”

Magdalena broke off when they heard footsteps on the stairs. Torchlight filled the doorway, but it took a while for them to recognize Nathan’s dimly backlit face. The beggar king wore such a broad grin that his golden incisors sparkled like crown jewels, even in the half light.

“Ah, there you are, my dears,” he said. For a brief moment Magdalena feared Nathan had been eavesdropping on their entire conversation and had come over only because he wanted to silence them. Instead, he just stood stock-still, his hand extended cordially.

“I’ve looked for you everywhere,” he said, sounding somewhat peeved. “I was worried when I didn’t see you leave the cathedral this morning.”

“Oh, but we left,” Magdalena replied curtly, trying to conceal her initial fear. “The one who never showed was you!”

Nathan cocked his head to the side. “Then we’ll have to blame the damned morning fog. Who knows?” As he turned to leave, he said, “Upstairs there’s a little boy with a very high fever and a cough. Could the Herr Medicus have a look?”

Simon nodded silently, and together they climbed the crumbling narrow stairway up to the rooms above. Nathan lit the way for them with his lantern, pausing at every low doorway to bow slightly and wave Magdalena ahead of him. Such gestures had just recently seemed witty, even comical, to her; but now she found them obsequious and insincere.

“Our brother Paulus rescued an abandoned barrel of brandy from the street,” Nathan told them with a grin as they hurried through the passageways. “It was just standing there in front of the Black Elephant Tavern. In his boundless mercy Paulus decided to take the barrel in. If you hurry, there may still be a drop or two left.”

When the beggar king rounded a corner and disappeared, Simon pulled Magdalena close.

“This is our chance!” he whispered. “Once they’re all drunk, we’ll pack our things and clear out.”

Nathan’s face suddenly reappeared from around the corner. A glint of suspicion shone in his eyes. “Why are you whispering?” he snapped. “We don’t have any secrets between us, do we?”

Magdalena put on her sweetest smile. “Simon was just telling me how nice it might be to be alone together tonight. I’m sure you don’t want to know the details.”

“Young lovers!” the beggar king exclaimed, rolling his eyes theatrically toward the ceiling. “They’re always thinking of just one thing. But first you’ll have to fill me in on what happened this morning in the cathedral.”

“Later, later,” Simon replied. “The little sick boy comes first.”

He squeezed Magdalena’s hand, and together they hurried through the narrow, crumbling corridors and archways toward the large subterranean hall. The beggars’ catacombs didn’t feel so much like home anymore.

After countless hours in near total darkness, Jakob Kuisl had the feeling the roof was closing in on him. This room was slightly larger than his cell in the dungeon, but he still felt as if an iron vise were clamped around his chest, squeezing him tighter and tighter.

Kuisl was a man reared on sunlight and forests. Even as a child, he’d never been able to endure being cooped up. Sunlight and green moss, birdcalls and the rustle of pines and beeches-all these were as essential to him as the air he breathed. It was in the dark, then, that the shadows of the past lurked. In the dark the Great War reached long, shadowy arms out to seize him…

Blood trickling down onto the furrowed field like a light summer rain, the screams of the wounded, the muffled sound of cannon fire, the sharp odor of gunpowder… Germans, Croats, Hungarians, Italians, Frenchmen, Spaniards, all united in a shrill, monstrous chorus. In the vanguard, men with pikes over five paces long; behind them, musketeers and dragoons, sitting high atop their horses and thrashing away at the surging mob in front of them.

He is Jakob, the hangman’s son, the man with the two-handed sword. In his pack he has stowed a certificate validating his mastery of the longsword. As a “double mercenary,” he receives twice the pay of an ordinary soldier. A sergeant, their leader.

He is one of them.

When they are encamped before the gates of the city, the surrounding countryside is like a festering wound. The villages are scorched and deserted, the farmers are dead or have long since fled into the forests and swamps. His men now and then capture a ragged figure and hang the poor wretch by his feet over the fire. Where are your cattle? Out with it! Where have you stashed your silver? Where are the women? Speak! They force a tube down the farmer’s throat and fill it with urine and feces until he chokes. Spit it out! Talk! Die, you bastard! They take whatever they lay their hands on, then set the shabby cottages on fire.

How often has he watched this from afar? How often have his men ridden back into camp with bloodstained coats and a mad light in their eyes? He never asks. He keeps silent because that’s war. Because men have a gnawing hunger and a desire for women, and the long wait inflames them. Because he knows they respect him only for his strength and his courage. Because he fears punishment… Because…

Because he’s afraid?

Kuisl couldn’t take it anymore. He had to get out of here. Gasping, he struggled to his feet and leaned against the barrel blocking the low entrance. It was just yesterday that Teuber had wrenched Kuisl’s shoulder back into its socket. It throbbed now with pain, and the wounds on his arms and legs felt as if they were on fire. From outside the room he probably could have rolled the barrel aside, but from here all he could do was try to push with all his strength against the hundred-pound barrier. He braced his legs and bore down with his bandaged back against the wooden surface, biting his lip to avoid crying out in pain.

There was a soft scraping sound, and a crack of faint light appeared between the barrel and the wall.

Again the hangman pressed against the wooden barrier until the crack was at last wide enough to slip through. On the other side he collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily as the room around him began to spin. He closed his eyes and waited until his dizziness subsided.

The effort of moving the wine barrel had robbed him of much of the strength he’d gathered in the past few hours. But at least he was able to get to his feet and walk around unassisted now. He stood up straight and looked around the damp cellar. A smoking torch near the stairway cast a dim light over the room. Lined up along the walls among wine casks were barrels of sauerkraut. Smoked sausages and legs of pork hung from the low ceiling, and dried cherries, onions, and withered apples from the previous year lay in straw-filled baskets. Kuisl took an apple and bit into it.

It tasted wonderful.

While the hangman ground the apple’s flesh in his teeth, he pondered his next move. Outside it was probably night now. He could walk straight up the stairs, out the front door, and disappear into the darkness. But how far would he get once he was out there? If Fat Thea was right, if Kuisl was actually being sought for two more murders, every bailiff in the city would be looking for him. The gates would be under strict surveillance. He could possibly flee across the Danube; Kuisl was a good swimmer and the summer current wasn’t as strong as in springtime. He might even be able to break out over the city wall. But something held him back; something kept him from fleeing at once.

Magdalena.

Where was she hiding? Could she already be in the clutches of this madman? Was he torturing her now that his adversary had escaped? Kuisl couldn’t leave this city until he knew Magdalena was safe.

He felt warm juice running down his pant leg. Unwittingly he’d crushed the apple to a pulp in his palm.

He heard a sudden commotion from the ground floor above. Someone was pounding on the front door. The voice of Fat Thea answered.

“Yes, yes, gentlemen! Please be patient! My girls are absolutely wild to get their hands on you. No one’s going anywhere, believe me!”

Kuisl cringed. The aldermen! He’d completely forgotten about them. He heard the door creak softly and shortly thereafter, laughter and a loud chorus of voices. The procuress hadn’t lied. It did seem in fact as if half the town council had joined the party.

“Come right on in, gentlemen!” Fat Thea’s voice boomed from the top of the stairs. “There’s something here for everyone. Hey there, girl, let’s take it upstairs, please; there’s nothing of interest downstairs anyway.”

The hangman instinctively withdrew as he heard footsteps on the cellar stairs, but the sound receded soon and was lost in the upper reaches of the house. Evidently someone had just taken a wrong turn.

After a while he heard giggling and shouting upstairs, indicating the girls were receiving their guests now. There was a sound of breaking glass and of doors opening and closing, a sign that the men were withdrawing to the rooms with their playmates. Kuisl was just about to hide behind the wine barrel again when he heard someone knocking on the front door-no doubt a late arrival.

“Just a moment, I’m coming!”

Fat Thea opened the door to greet the new arrival.

“Oh, what an honor!” she purred. “I haven’t seen you here for a long time.”

“I’ve been rather busy of late,” the man replied. “I hope you haven’t forgotten the whip.”

“Of course I haven’t, silly boy. But this time don’t hit so hard, you hear? Or it will cost you a guilder extra. The girls have complained.”

The man chuckled softly to the sound of coins dropping into a purse.

“Then here are two more guilders right off,” he whispered. “Because believe me, this time it’s going to hurt. There’s a rage in my belly, and it’ll take more than one girl to fix that. Let’s go.”

As he crouched on the cellar floor, the Schongau hangman’s blood froze. Only after the stranger’s footsteps began to fade away did Kuisl’s mind spring back to life again.

He knew this voice. He knew it better than his own by now. He’d heard it all too often these past days and nights, even in his nightmares.

It was the voice of the third inquisitor.

Just after dusk Simon and Magdalena tiptoed through the subterranean hall, around the beggars, who had drunk the barrel of brandy down to the last drop and were now sprawled all over the cellar floor, sleeping it off. Every now and then one would moan and roll over in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent. Simon threaded his way through a litter of gnawed bones, smashed cups, and pools of vomit, careful not to stumble over any of the beggars. Nathan was slumped in a corner, his chin to his chest, cradling a clay mug. For a moment Simon thought the beggar king might still be awake, but then, with a long rattling snore, he toppled over and lay motionless on the ground.

“Quick,” Magdalena whispered. “Let’s get out of here. Who knows when one of them will wake up?”

Simon squeezed her hand. “Just a moment.”

He hurried over to the curtained niche that had served as a sick bay the past few days and began to pack his medical utensils. Meanwhile Magdalena kept a nervous eye on Nathan, who was twitching in his sleep, licking his lips now and then. At some point he reached across the floor as if in search of the clay mug that had slipped out of his hand.

“Hurry!” she whispered. “I think he’s coming to!”

“I’ll be right there.” Simon was frantically gathering his books and stuffing them into the bag when a heavy volume of Dioscorides slipped from his sweaty fingers and fell to the floor with a crash.

“Damn!”

Bending down to retrieve it, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that one of Nathan’s eyes had opened a crack. He seemed to be dreaming, but Simon had the feeling the eye was staring at them disapprovingly. The next moment Magdalena was by Nathan’s side, placing the mug back gently into his hand. Murmuring, Nathan clutched it to his chest like a doll, rolled onto his side, and was soon snoring away calmly and evenly.

“Your damned books!” Magdalena whispered. “One of these days I’m going to make a bonfire of them. Now move!”

Simon hefted the heavy sack onto his shoulder and groped his way toward Magdalena, who was waiting for him impatiently by the exit. They ran along the narrow corridor until they came to the stairway leading up to the rear courtyard. As they hurried up its slick, moss-covered steps, they heard a sudden cry behind them-Nathan! Evidently he’d pulled himself together and had followed them.

“Hey, wait, where are you off to?”

Simon and Magdalena didn’t reply but continued on up the steep staircase. When the beggar king realized they intended to flee, he sprinted after them.

“What in God’s name is this all about?” he shouted. “Is this any way to say goodbye to your friends?”

Despite his drunken state, Nathan was astonishingly fast. He raced up the stairs, taking several steps at a time, and just managed to catch Magdalena by the hem of her skirt. Instinctively the hangman’s daughter kicked Nathan square in the face with her left foot. An awful crunching sound was followed by a shriek of pain. Magdalena had apparently knocked the two golden teeth right out of her pursuer’s mouth.

“Damned hangman’s bitch,” Nathan shouted, his voice sounding strangely garbled. “You’ll pay for this! My teesh, my bschootiful teesh!”

His curses turned to a wail as he stopped to gather the broken pieces of his precious teeth from the floor. Simon and Magdalena took advantage of the extra time to push a moldering cart in front of the opening.

“Sorry!” the hangman’s daughter called meekly. “They were crooked anyway. Simon will make you a new set, I promise!”

Outside, night had already fallen but clouds concealed the stars. The pair climbed over piles of foul-smelling garbage, then ran through the back courtyard toward a narrow passageway.

Soon they’d disappeared in the dark little streets of the city.

Jakob Kuisl stood motionless in the middle of the brothel cellar.

He was certain that his nemesis was directly above him! The third inquisitor had disappeared into one of the rooms upstairs and was amusing himself there with the prostitutes.

There’s a rage in my belly, and it’ll take more than one girl to fix that.

Kuisl would never forget that voice.

What now? His enemy wasn’t alone up there. No, half the city council kept him company, along with some soldiers from Peter’s Gate and a number of noisy prostitutes. If Kuisl went upstairs now, he’d almost certainly be caught.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what would happen after that. The bailiffs would drag him back to his cell in chains, and this time darkness, torture, and ultimately the scaffold would be inevitable. On the rack he’d probably be forced to confess who had helped him escape, and every turn of the crank would bring the Regensburg executioner closer to his own demise.

And my daughter will be helpless, at the mercy of this madman…

Kuisl knew he didn’t want to risk all that, but he also couldn’t stay here, not with the devil incarnate having his way with the girls just two floors above him. The sound of those voices alone would drive him mad.

And so he had to leave, at once. But where could he go? The only refuge that came to mind was the house of the Regensburg executioner. Aside from Teuber, there was no one in Regensburg he trusted. Perhaps he could stay in the hangman’s house long enough to assure himself of Magdalena’s safety.

Kuisl tried rotating his newly adjusted shoulder and stretched his back. He still felt as if he’d fallen from the roof of a house, but thanks to Teuber’s bandages and the ointment, the pain wasn’t so bad. If he didn’t run too quickly, if he paced himself along the way and hid in doorways and niches to rest, he’d make it to Teuber’s house all right. Fortunately the executioner had mentioned the name of his street in the course of one of their conversations. He’d even boasted about his pretty house, his wife, and his five darling children. Now Kuisl would have a chance to meet them.

Carefully placing one foot in front of the other, the hangman groped his way up the stairs until he was standing at the heavy front door. Softly he pushed back the bolt and looked out into the cloudy night. Despite the pleasant cool temperature, the air still reeked of garbage and sewage, but the scents of wheat, meadows, marshland, and forests were here as well. Soon he’d be out in them again.

He was just about to step out into the street when he heard a door slam upstairs.

“Hey, Thea, more wine! This cheeky tart here drank it all up herself. I’ll wring her neck for that.”

The door upstairs slammed shut again, and Kuisl held still with his right foot on the doorsill.

It was that voice again, the voice from his nightmares.

As if compelled by a mysterious force, he closed the door and tiptoed up the stairs. He had to see him; he had to look this man in the eye, if only for a moment, or the ghosts of the past would never release him.

After two dozen steps the spiral stone staircase ended in a white plastered foyer illuminated by a single torch. Four doors opened onto the foyer, and behind each one giggles, shouts, and soft moans could be heard. Another stairway led up to the third floor, where some raucous celebration was taking place.

Kuisl hesitated. The voice had definitely come from the second floor. The man he was looking for was behind one of these four doors.

Evidently Fat Thea hadn’t heard the stranger’s call, as neither she nor any of her girls had brought a fresh pitcher of wine. Carefully Kuisl put his ear to the first door. He could hear labored breathing and short, shrill cries, but no one was speaking.

He turned to the next room and put his ear again to the thin wooden door. He couldn’t quite make out what was being said-a lovers’ oath, perhaps? This couldn’t be the man he was after, could it?

As Kuisl tried to catch a glimpse through the keyhole, the door swung open and smacked him right in the nose. Reeling, the hangman fell backward.

“Who the hell…?” The young man stood over him with his pants around his ankles and his shirt open so that his pale, hairless potbelly jiggled above Kuisl’s head. The man’s thinning ashblond hair tumbled down over his face, and he gasped for air like a big fat fish out of water.

“I must have the wrong door,” the hangman mumbled, straightening up. “No offense intended.”

Kuisl realized he didn’t exactly look like a drunken alderman-drunk perhaps, but by no means a smug, well-fed patrician about to have an orgasm. But perhaps this client was tipsy enough himself not to notice that.

The man closed his mouth and stared back in fear at the man in front of him. His pale face was an expression of pure terror.

“You-you-are Kuisl, aren’t you?” he whispered.

Blood dripping from his nose, the hangman grew silent. This much was certain: this character before him wasn’t the third inquisitor; his voice was different. In fact, he might have been a rather decent fellow, unlike the man Kuisl was seeking. Still, there was something familiar about him. It was finally his Bavarian accent that gave him away.

It was Joachim Kerscher, one of the two other inquisitors.

“Oh, for the love of the Virgin Mother, please don’t hurt me,” Kerscher stuttered, awkwardly trying to hide behind the thin wooden door. “I’m just an ordinary councilman. I didn’t approve of the torture, believe me. Why did you flee…? We were going to-”

“Who was the third man?” the hangman snarled menacingly.

“The third?” Kerscher had retreated almost completely behind the door now, and only his pallid face peered out through the crack. “I don’t understand-”

“The third inquisitor, jackass!” Kuisl whispered through clenched teeth, holding his bloody nose. “Who was it?”

The hangman took a deep breath. The pain in his shoulder, the burning in his arms and legs, the shooting pains in his back-this all came back now like a hammer blow. He felt suddenly sick to his stomach.

Kerscher nodded obsequiously. “The third inquisitor, of course. Such a bastard. I can understand why you’d want to get back at him. It was-”

At that moment a piercing scream came from the floor above.

Kuisl turned to find Fat Thea coming down the stairs with a pitcher of wine, which slipped from her grasp and shattered on the floor.

Suddenly it felt to Kuisl as if the entire house were beginning to sway beneath him. Everything seemed to happen at once-the pitcher breaking, the commotion on the floor above, the doors opening all around him like portals to hell. Men stared at him, but their faces were strangely blurred, and they all seemed to be shouting at him at once. Was he shouting, too? Kuisl couldn’t say. Everything around him had become a muffled roar.

He shook his head to clear his mind a bit. Someone approached and tried to grab him, but Kuisl flung the figure aside like a rag doll and stumbled toward the stairs. Out! He had to get out, he had to get away from here before he collapsed once and for all. Again he felt someone grab him by his injured shoulder. The hangman crouched, rolling the man over his back and sending him tumbling down the stairs, screaming.

Kuisl could hear himself scream, too; he raged like a wounded bear backed into a corner by a pack of hunting dogs. Again he reached out with his good right arm and pulled one of the men close, smashing the man’s nose against his forehead. Kuisl felt the man’s warm blood on his face and heard him howl as he tossed him aside like a straw puppet. His pain and fear lent him one last burst of energy before unconsciousness threatened to overcome him.

Half crazed, he staggered down the steps, kicked the front door open, and dashed out into the fresh air. He inhaled deeply, and immediately his mind began to clear. Holding his throbbing shoulder, he hobbled toward a low wall and climbed over. On the other side he collapsed in a garden overgrown with thorny blackberries and wild rosebushes.

Kuisl was finished. Leaning against the crumbling wall, pricked on all sides by thorns, and raging with pain, he waited for his pursuers to find him and drag him back to his cell.

He closed his eyes and listened as the sound of excited voices approached.

Among them he heard the voice of his most hated enemy.

Simon and Magdalena heard the shouts just as they were sneaking across the cathedral square.

Catching their breath, they pressed their backs against the front of a patrician house and watched as a dozen city guards rushed past, heading south toward Neupfarr Church Square. Only a few minutes had passed since they fled the catacombs. Could Nathan already have betrayed them to Mamminger? Was the city treasurer’s power so great he could summon the entire city guard in an instant, just to pursue them?

Simon heard alarm bells begin to ring all over town, as if all of Regensburg were being called to Easter mass. The beggars had told him that each quarter of the city kept its own company of guards-a civilian militia called upon only in times of war or fire or other grave catastrophe. The militias were summoned to duty by the ringing of church bells. When another dozen soldiers came running from the old grain market through the cathedral square, the medicus feared the worst.

“Where could they all be headed?” Magdalena whispered, pressing herself even closer to the wall as the bailiffs marched south, just a few yards away. “They can’t all be looking for us, can they?”

Simon shrugged. “I don’t think so, but I also don’t see any signs of fire, and it’s unlikely war’s broken out. Perhaps they’re going to smoke out the beggars’ hideaway. That’s more or less the direction they’re headed.”

“Something’s fishy here,” Magdalena muttered, taking Simon’s hand and leading him out onto the now-deserted cathedral square. “Come on; let’s follow them and see.”

“That’s much too dangerous!” Simon said. “Believe me, the bishop’s palace is the only safe place for us right now. We’ve got to find the fastest way-”

“Oh, come now,” Magdalena interrupted. “Life’s dangerous. Let’s go.”

Simon followed her with a sigh as the haven of the bishop’s residence disappeared behind them in the darkness. They turned into Judengasse Street, which ended in Neupfarr Church Square with its austere Protestant church. Just as they were about to step out into the open square, they noticed a group of perhaps thirty city bailiffs at its center, gesticulating wildly toward the south. The shrill alarm bells were still ringing, and many citizens had by now opened their shutters to gape at the spectacle below from the safety of their balconies.

“I have to know what the guards are up to,” Magdalena whispered. “Let’s creep up a little closer.”

Simon knew his friend well enough now to sense it was pointless to argue. She had a wrinkle in her brow that meant there was just no stopping her. So he knelt down beside her on the dirty cobblestones spattered with horse manure, knowing it would ruin his last decent pair of trousers. Under the cover of darkness they crept toward the light of the torches.

The men in front of them were not trained soldiers but common citizens, some still in nightshirts and bathrobes beneath hastily donned cuirasses. Their hair was disheveled, their faces pale and frightened. In their hands they held rusty pikes, daggers, and crossbows that seemed like survivors from an earlier century. They were bakers, carpenters, butchers, and simple linen weavers, and to judge by their appearance, the last thing in the world they wanted to do was stand here in the middle of the night, listening to a speech by the captain of the guards.

“Citizens, listen up!” a bearded, elderly man exhorted them. In contrast to the others, he looked at least halfway battle-tested. In his right hand he clutched a halberd over ten feet long with a point that glittered menacingly in the torchlight. “As many of you perhaps already know, the Schongau monster, the throat slitter and bloodsucker, broke out of his cell last night. But that’s not all. Yesterday, the murderer strangled Master Baker Haberger and gruesomely slaughtered Marie Deisch in her own bathhouse-”

An anxious whisper spread among the men, and the commander of the guards raised his hand for silence.

“Fortunately the man has been found. He’s lurking somewhere down by Peter’s Gate, and with your help we’ll send him back to hell today once and for all! Three cheers for our strong and mighty city!”

The old officer had evidently expected some enthusiasm-or at least a response-but the men in the crowd before him remained strangely silent and whispered among themselves.

Then a young boy in a stained old mercenary helmet raised his hand hesitantly. “Is it true that the monster bites his victims’ necks and drinks their blood?”

The old officer, who hadn’t expected that question, stood still for a moment with his mouth open. “Ah… as far as I know, he used a knife, but-”

“They say this Kuisl is a werewolf, that he turns into a beast at night and eats little children,” someone else added. “He’s already ripped apart five prostitutes and drunk their blood. How are we going to hunt a demon like that with our rusty old swords and crossbows? He’ll probably just take wing and fly away!”

Those standing around him clamored in agreement. At the crowd’s edge a few anxious men seemed about to turn around and go home.

“Nonsense!” The captain pounded his halberd on the ground as a call to order. “This Kuisl is a man like any other, but he’s a murderer. And for that reason we’ll capture him today and bring him to justice. Do you understand? It’s your goddamned duty as citizens!” His threatening eyes wandered over the assembled company of pale, unshaven men. “You can, of course, buy your way out of this obligation, but believe me, I’ll check with the president of the council to see that you pay dearly.”

The citizens didn’t seem convinced, but they permitted the captain to divide them up into groups.

“Turmeier and Schwendner, you’ll go over to the Ostner Quarter,” he began in a voice accustomed to giving orders. “Poeverlein and Bergmuller, you’ll take the Wittwanger Quarter. The rest of you…”

Magdalena stopped paying attention now and turned to Simon, who had listened to the captain’s speech with his mouth as wide open as hers.

“Thanks be to the saints above! Father actually managed to escape!” the hangman’s daughter whispered. “But now they want to charge him with two more murders!”

Simon frowned. “And if he really…? I mean maybe this master baker got in his way, or-”

“And he slaughtered the bathhouse mistress for good measure?” Magdalena snorted. “Sometimes I believe you really think my father is some kind of monster. I don’t believe a single word of what that pompous guard said! As long as my father’s here in this city, they’ll accuse him of practically anything!” Lowering her voice, she added, “He’s probably hiding in a shed or a vacant lot somewhere. It’s very likely he’s injured. We’ve got to help him at once!”

“And how do you intend to do that?” Simon replied quietly. “We don’t know where he’s hiding any more than the guards do. Do you plan to run around calling for him by name?”

Magdalena thought for a moment; then her face lit up with a smile.

“That’s not such a bad idea,” she said. “Listen, this is how we’ll do it.” In a hasty whisper she explained her plan.

Jakob Kuisl sat against the low, crumbling wall, trying to fight off an impending blackout. The fresh air had revived him, but he’d reached the end of his strength. His escape from Peter’s Gate had required every last ounce of it, but he’d shaken his pursuers, at least for the moment. The men had run right past him. Among their voices he heard that of the third inquisitor and for a brief moment considered jumping up and strangling him with the one good hand he had left. Thank God he was too weak to try.

Now he was crouched in an overgrown lot somewhere in Regensburg, trying to pull himself together. All was not lost. He could still go to Teuber’s house if only this damned dizziness would pass!

When the alarm bells sounded, Kuisl knew at once they were for him. Bailiffs in every quarter would be alerted and in no time would be after him like dogs after a young fox. He tried to stand up but collapsed again immediately. On the third try he finally managed to pull himself halfway upright and set off, carefully placing one foot in front of the other.

Kuisl climbed over the lowlying wall overgrown with rosebushes and tried to orient himself. He knew that Peter’s Gate, which rose into view over the rooftops, was in the southern part of the city, and that Teuber’s house therefore had to be to the north, in the Henkersgasschen, or Hangman’s Lane. Beyond this he knew nothing. Until now he hadn’t given a single thought to how he might find the hangman’s house. He could hardly ask someone for directions, and there were no street signs in this damned city. The only option he had was to wander the streets in the hope that his nose would lead him there.

What a bloody ridiculous plan!

Kuisl cursed his own stupidity. Why hadn’t he questioned Teuber more closely about the location of his house? All Kuisl could do was hope he might run into a shady character like himself in the middle of the night who might take pity on him and help him out.

And turn me over to the bailiffs at the first opportunity…

Hunched over and peering in every direction as he went, the hangman slunk through the part of town neighboring Peter’s Gate. The houses here were small and low, the gardens untended, and he came upon house after house that had been reduced to ashes-evidence of the Great War and the last Plague, a few years ago. When the inhabitants went off to the former-or succumbed to the latter-their homes had fallen to ruin. From where he was he could hear the alarm bells still ringing and far-off shouts that signaled pursuit.

They were hot on his trail; he didn’t have much time left.

Just as Kuisl was seeking a hiding place next to a nearby house, two guards turned a corner and headed toward him. The men, armed with halberds, seemed just as surprised by him as he was by them. The younger of the two was so taken aback that his helmet fell off; the other reached nervously for an ancient wheel-lock pistol with a patina of verdigris that hung from his belt. Kuisl could only hope the weapon wasn’t loaded.

“Over here! Over here!” the younger one shouted, “We got him! The monster is right here!”

The older man fumbled with his pistol, which had snagged on his belt. When a shot rang out, the man shouted and fell to the ground, clutching his right boot and wailing. He’d shot himself in the foot.

Kuisl took advantage of the general confusion to run back out into the street, but he didn’t get very far before two more bailiffs appeared from the other direction. One shouldered a crossbow at eye level. A moment later a bolt whizzed by, just a hair’s breadth from Kuisl’s right ear.

The hangman decided to risk it all: shouting at the top of his lungs, he ran toward the two newly arrived guards in the blind hope that the second man had neither a loaded crossbow nor a pistol. The bailiffs awaited him with their pikes pointed straight ahead, and Kuisl detected a mixture of fear and bloodlust in their eyes.

“Everyone to the Pfaffengasse!” one shouted. “He’s in the Pfaffengasse! Over here! He’s-”

Kuisl gathered all his strength and, with a single leap, soared headlong over the pikes, landing a punch in the face of the screaming guard that knocked the man down like a felled tree. The other dropped his spear and pulled out a large hunting knife. He lunged for the hangman, but Kuisl bucked like a wild horse. With a kick to the gut, the man collapsed, moaning.

The hangman turned to discover more and more guards streaming into the lane. Panicked, he spotted a low archway on his left that seemed to lead off into a narrow path. Without a moment’s hesitation, he fled through the archway and down the path, arriving soon at an interior courtyard surrounded on three sides by tall buildings.

A dead end.

Turning around, Kuisl saw three or four bailiffs approaching through the archway with their halberds raised. Cold smiles played across their lips, and their eyes gleamed. They were clearly now in no hurry. They had cornered their prey at last, and now they’d finish him off.

Someone tossed a torch into the middle of the courtyard, casting a larger-than-life shadow of Kuisl on the wall behind him. In the flickering light the hangman made an easy target.

A crossbow bolt splintered on the plaster wall behind him, then another. Out of the corner of his eye the hangman looked all around for a way out. There wasn’t a single door in sight; the windows were all on the second story and therefore out of reach, with no trellises or trees to climb. In one corner of the yard a two-wheeled oxcart was parked and loaded with hay. The cart had a heavy, waist-high shaft with iron fittings. The hangman hesitated. Then an idea hit him.

The hay…

Doubled over, he ran toward the wagon as arrows rained down around him like hailstones. With his good right arm he grabbed the wagon shaft and turned the vehicle so that the rear was now facing the soldiers. Kuisl knew his strength was about to give out; this was his only chance.

Taking a deep breath, he ran to the middle of the courtyard, grabbed the burning torch from the ground, and threw it at the cart. In a flash the dry hay was ablaze, and the wagon an enormous fireball. Disregarding the brutal heat, Kuisl picked up the shaft again with his good arm and pushed with all his might. The burning wagon rolled backward toward the guards-the only way out. The bailiffs screamed and leaped aside, but burning hay bales fell on them, setting their hats and jackets on fire.

The wagon now began to gain speed. At last Kuisl reached the archway and headed straight for the narrow exit.

I have to make it… Oh, stubborn, irascible God, please, for Magdalena’s sake…

The wagon squeezed through the exit and rolled out into the Pfaffengasse. Kuisl gave the cart a final shove so that it veered to the left, crashing into a doorway, where it exploded. Burning hay and glowing splinters rained down as the flames began to spread.

Wheezing from the smoke, the hangman ran down the Pfaffengasse, looking back one last time. By now the fire had spread to the building’s ground floor and the shop window on the floor above. Everywhere citizens were shouting and running to the public well with buckets to get water. In spite of his pain, Kuisl couldn’t suppress a grin. This would keep the guards occupied for a while at least.

The hangman ran on a few yards, finally turning into a little side street, where he found a pair of old splintered barrels. One of them lay on its side, and with the last of his strength Kuisl folded up his legs and squeezed himself in so that he was no longer visible from the outside. Numbed by his fever and the wine fumes inside, he felt half dead as the shouts of the crowd gradually moved away. He closed his eyes and resisted the urge to fall asleep. He had to get out of here, at once. Where was Teuber? Where was his house, the safe house of the executioner, his friend…?

When Kuisl heard singing, he thought he was dreaming at first. The song was definitely not of this world, but from a time long ago.

Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home…

He listened in astonishment. The singing wasn’t coming from just anywhere, but from the street to the immediate left of where he was hiding. And it was no figment of his imagination but reality, pure and simple.

Your house is on fire, your children will burn…

Now the voice was right beside him, both off-key and very familiar.

“Do you really think we’re going to find your father this way?” Simon complained. “So far we’ve only managed to avoid being hit by a chamber pot-twice. And frankly, your singing leaves something to be desired.”

“It’s not about how well I sing, just that I’m singing,” Magdalena snapped. “The main thing is it’s loud enough for Father to hear me.”

Simon laughed. “Well, loud you are, all right. You’re even drowning out the alarm bells.”

They were moving slowly south from Neupfarr Church Square, winding through little side streets. Three times already they’d encountered bands of armed city guards, who on any other ordinary night and without a second thought would have thrown Magdalena and Simon into the House of Fools for disturbing the peace. But the pale, anxious guards were otherwise occupied now and simply peered intently at the strange couple before setting off again. Simon and Magdalena could hear the shouts of guards from every direction and then a far-off but very loud explosion.

“Let me think,” Magdalena whispered, already going hoarse from singing Hans, Hans, has fancy pants… The night of winter’s over… “I’m running out of songs. Can you think of another one?”

As a child, the hangman’s daughter often sang with her father. Now she hoped he might recognize her voice and the songs she chose. In this way, at least, she looked a lot less suspicious than if she were running around calling out his name. For the watchmen, as well as the curious onlookers who stared out at them from behind shutters, she looked like just another drunken prostitute staggering through the streets with a client.

Magdalena was struggling to think of another song when her face brightened in a flash.

“I have one more,” she said. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner!”

She started singing a lullaby her father always hummed to her just before bed. And as she did so, memories of her father passed through her mind in fragments.

The scent of sweat and tobacco as he bends down to me. Piggybacking on the shoulders of a giant who protects me from an evil world-strong, invincible, the god of my childhood…

Tears ran down her cheeks, but still she kept on singing.

“Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home…”

Suddenly a ghost emerged from a rotten wine barrel in the gutter and staggered to its feet. The enormous figure wore tattered trousers and a bloodstained linen shirt, its arms and legs covered with bandages and its face dusted with cinders. Magdalena knew at once who stood before her.

“Father, my God, Father!” she screamed, nearly hysterical, not giving a single thought to whether guards might be nearby. Quickly she covered her mouth with her hand and whispered, “Holy Saint Anthony, we’ve really found you. You’re alive!”

“Not for much longer if you keep on singing like that,” Kuisl replied as he staggered toward his daughter. Only now did Magdalena realize how severely wounded he was.

“We have to… get away… from here,” he stammered. “They’re… on our… trail. The third inquisitor…”

Magdalena frowned. “The third inquisitor? What are you talking about, Father?”

“I thought he’d caught you,” he said in a low voice. “He knows you and the name of your mother. The devil is out for revenge.”

“It’s got to be a fever,” Simon said. “Hallucinations that-”

“Weidenfeld!” Kuisl shouted through his pain. “He’s out for revenge!”

“My God!” Magdalena put her hand over her mouth again. “There’s that name again. Who’s this damned Weidenfeld?”

The alarm bells were still ringing, and over them the guards’ voices sounded suddenly much closer than before, only a few streets away now. A window opened directly above the little group, and a toothless old man in a nightcap glared down at them suspiciously.

“Quiet, goddamn it! You good-for-nothing drunks! If you want to have a good time, take your woman somewhere else!”

Simon grabbed the nearly unconscious hangman by the shoulder and led him quickly behind the barrels.

“The bishop’s palace,” he whispered to Magdalena, who knelt down next to him. “We have to go there and ask the church for asylum. That’s our only chance! We certainly won’t make it out of town tonight.”

“And do you really think the bishop will grant asylum to a suspected murderer?” Magdalena asked skeptically.

Simon nodded enthusiastically. “Asylum in the church has been sacred since time immemorial! Only the bishop has the power to make and enforce laws on lands belonging to the church, so once your father makes it there, the city guards are powerless.”

“Isn’t that just wonderful!” Magdalena rolled her eyes. “The bishop himself, rather than the city, will have the personal privilege of breaking my father on the wheel. What a relief!”

“At least we’ll gain some time,” Simon replied. “I’m sure once we know what your uncle’s alchemical experiments were all about, we’ll get a better handle on what the big secret is. Then maybe we can start to prove your father’s innocence.”

“And if not, then all this will have been for naught!” Magdalena shook her head. “Out of the question! My father’s free now. Why would I put him right back in danger again?”

“Just look at him!” Simon pointed at Kuisl, who crouched behind a wine barrel, his head hanging down to his chest, breathing heavily. “We’ll be lucky if we can even make it to the bishop’s palace. But if we do, at least your father will get the care he obviously needs.”

All of a sudden the voices of the guards sounded very close, their footsteps pounding on the hard-packed clay soil. Magdalena watched as two of them charged around the corner and into the narrow lane. She held her breath; she could feel her exhausted father leaning hard against the barrel, and the barrel itself was now threatening to topple under his weight. Mustering all her might, she hugged her father close, hoping to keep both him and the barrel upright. The bailiffs raced past and soon disappeared in the darkness.

“Very well,” Magdalena whispered. “We’ll do as you say. But if they harm so much as a single hair on my father’s head, you’ll be sleeping alone for many years to come!”

Simon smiled. “Believe me, that’s the last thing on my mind at this point. Come on, now; let’s wake the sleeping giant.”

They gave Jakob Kuisl a few brisk slaps in the face until he came at least partway to, then each took an arm and led him away.

“We’ll get you to the cathedral square as fast as we can,” Simon whispered. “I hope the people will just figure we’re lugging a drunk friend home.”

“Get… your… hands… off me,” the hangman growled. “I can… walk by myself.”

“Don’t make such a fuss, Father,” Magdalena said. “It’ll do you some good if you let your daughter help you out a bit from time to time. You’re not a young fellow anymore.”

“Snotty little… bitch.” Kuisl gave up, collapsing into Simon’s and Magdalena’s arms. The hangman’s daughter doubted he had any idea what they planned to do with him.

“Let’s go now!” Simon urged. “Before the guards show up again.”

He and Magdalena stumbled through the dark city, shouldering the hangman’s dead weight between them. Kuisl collapsed again and again, forcing them to stop each time. Twice they encountered guards too busy to be bothered by a trio of revelers as they frantically poked their torches into every last nook and cranny in search of their convict. They had better things to do tonight than be distracted by a handful of drunks.

After an anxious quarter-hour Simon and Magdalena finally came to the deserted Krauterermarkt Square, where the entrance to the bishop’s palace was located. They were disappointed to find that the doors, nearly fifteen feet high, were locked.

“Damn!” Magdalena said. “We might have expected something like this.”

From a distance the heavy, iron-studded portal seemed about as inviting as the gates to hell. It rose above them darkly, ending at the top in a pointed arch and alcove displaying several coats of arms. In the left wing of the door they spotted a small porthole, also shut tight.

“How do you intend to get in?” Magdalena asked. “Just knock?”

“You forget I have an invitation from the bishop’s brewmaster.”

“Yes, for yourself. But does it include permission for a hangman’s daughter and a fugitive murderer?”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Must you always be so petulant? Before, we followed your plan; now, we’re going to follow mine. Is that all right?”

“So, then, what is it exactly you intend to do, smart aleck?”

“Let’s put your father down somewhere first. My arms feel like they’re about to fall off.”

They carefully led Kuisl to a little recessed area between two houses where he would be invisible to most passersby. The hangman’s face was ashen, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, but he was somehow able to keep more or less upright against the wall.

“Do you think you can walk a little ways by yourself?” Simon asked.

Kuisl nodded, teeth clenched, as the medicus quietly explained the plan. Then Simon approached the portal and gave a few loud knocks.

It was a while before they heard shuffling steps on the other side. With a creak, the porthole opened on the pinched, unshaven face of a bishop’s guard.

“There’d better be a good reason for knocking on my door at this godforsaken hour,” the guard growled, “or you just may be living out the rest of the summer in our modest little dungeon. Without water.”

Gravely Simon produced his invitation from the brewmaster. “His Excellency Brother Hubertus has summoned me here,” he said, without batting an eye. “He’s expecting me right away.”

“Now?” The soldier scratched his lice-ridden scalp. “After midnight?”

“I’m Simon Fronwieser from the Spital Brewery,” the medicus improvised. “Your brewmaster is having problems with the fermentation of the wheat beer, and if we don’t do something about it right away, the beer will taste like horse piss by tomorrow and your bishop will be high and dry.”

The guard frowned. The thought of being held in any way responsible for the irascible bishop’s thirst made him queasy.

“Hey, Rupert!” he shouted to someone behind him. “Wake that fat monk in the brewery. He has a visitor.”

Suddenly they heard hundreds of boots marching toward them from the direction of the cathedral square. A large contingent of guards was returning to their quarters. Simon could only imagine what might happen were they to discover him here.

“Ah, would you mind opening the door?” the medicus asked. “It’s drafty out here, and I could stand to get off my feet.”

“Hold it,” the soldier barked. “The monk will be here in a moment.”

They could now hear distinct voices approaching from the south. Simon turned his head to see at least a dozen bailiffs armed with pikes advancing toward them from the cathedral square.

“What difference does it make if I wait out here or wait inside?” He offered a strained smile. “Besides, I have a stomachache. The mashed peas I had for lunch must have been a bit rotten, so just open the door and-”

“Silence, I said!” the guard interrupted. “First we’ll see if the brewmaster in fact knows you. Many others have made their way here before you, hoping for asylum.”

Now the city guards were no more than thirty paces from Simon.

Maybe they won’t recognize me, he thought frantically. But they’ll ask questions nonetheless. A man, all alone in the middle of the night, before the door to the bishop’s palace-that’s suspicious in and of itself…

“I’d really like to know what in hell is going on out there,” the guard said, poking his head out the porthole for a better look. “All that shouting and the bells clanging-as if the Turks were at the city gates. Well, we’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.”

Now some bailiffs were in fact approaching the bishop’s palace. One soldier pointed his long pike at Simon and shouted something to the others. The men seemed to be moving more quickly now in his direction. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Should he run? If he did, he’d have squandered his last chance.

“Hey, you there!” cried one soldier, hurrying toward him. “What are you doing there by that door?”

Just then a familiar voice boomed out from inside the palace. “Simon Fronwieser! Have you come to make confession or are you just dying for another sip of my heavenly wheat beer?”

The medicus took a deep breath. Brother Hubertus had finally gotten out of bed.

“I have good news!” his voice thundered from behind the porthole. “I now know what the powder of yours is! But let’s discuss that in peace over a mug of beer or two. Good Lord, won’t you damned numbskulls let my friend in?”

His last words were directed at the bishop’s guards, who finally slid back the heavy bolt and opened the gigantic portal.

“Now!” Simon cried suddenly. “Run!”

At this instant several things happened all at once.

Two figures emerged from the shadows on the other side of the square. Magdalena had explained to her father that as soon as Simon called for them, Kuisl would have to run for his life. He managed to pull himself together enough to run in great strides with his daughter toward the open portal. Simon, meanwhile, leaped over the threshold and pushed aside the guard, who struggled desperately to shut the door again as horrified city bailiffs approached from the right, crossbows loaded and pistols drawn as it dawned on them that the hangman was here.

“The monster!” one shouted. “The monster is trying to escape into the bishop’s palace!”

Bullets and arrows crashed into the masonry, and armed men ran shouting toward the portal with pikes and halberds raised. The bishop’s guard had by now freed himself from Simon’s grip and with his colleagues was trying to push the door closed. Magdalena watched the opening narrow as she ran toward it. The door was closing inch by inch, slowly yet inexorably. At the last moment she and Kuisl slipped through into the courtyard and fell gasping to the ground.

The heavy door crashed closed, and from without came angry shouts and insistent pounding.

Brother Hubertus stood gaping over the tangle of people at his feet, which slowly began to unravel itself.

“What in God’s name is this all about, Fronwieser?” he asked, pointing to Magdalena and her father, who lay panting at the doorsill.

“Grant… us… asylum,” Simon whispered with his last bit of strength. “Jakob Kuisl… is innocent.”

Then a bishop’s guard delivered a blow that knocked him out.