The Beggar King

4

REGENSBURG

AUGUST 19, 1662 AD

The hangman kicked the iron-plated door so hard that the cell walls shook. Like a caged animal, he’d been pacing for hours, stooped over in the tiny chamber. His thoughts circled with him as he paced.

They’d been holding him in this dungeon for five days now. The room was made entirely of wood, an almost perfect cube built so low that Kuisl couldn’t stand upright inside it. Aside from a tiny hatch that opened once a day so that a foul-smelling soup and some bread could be passed to the prisoner, the room had no windows, and the darkness was so complete that even after hours in it, all he could make out were vague outlines. Fastened around Kuisl’s right ankle, a chain clanked as he trudged from one corner of the cell to the other.

The only piece of furniture was a hollowed-out wooden block that served as a toilet. A while ago, in a fit of rage, he’d picked it up and heaved it against the wall, a deed he now regretted, as the stinking contents had splashed all over the cell and had even managed to soil Kuisl’s cape. Never in his entire life had the Schongau hangman felt so powerless. He was convinced by now that someone had set a trap for him, a trap he’d stumbled into like a clumsy oaf. Whoever had so gruesomely murdered his sister and her husband was now attempting to frame him.

It made no difference that he declared his innocence when the guards entered the bathhouse, that he swore on his soul he’d only just discovered the two bodies moments before. The verdict had been decided at the outset, a fact that became amply clear when he saw the captain’s smirk. Now everything came into focus-his hasty arrest at the gate, his feeling of being watched, the unlocked door to the bathhouse. They had laid the bait and he’d taken it.

But why?

Ever since the Regensburg city guards had locked him in this cell, he’d been racking his brain to understand just who might be behind this conspiracy. He didn’t know a soul in the city, and presumably people here didn’t even know that Lisbeth Hofmann came from a hangman’s family in Schongau. Or could this be some kind of payback for his impudence toward the constables at Jakob’s Gate? Was it merely an accident that he crossed paths with the malevolent, scar-faced raftsman?

He was roused from his thoughts by loud footsteps echoing down the corridor outside his cell door. In the little window next to the door appeared the face of the captain with the shiny cuirass. “Well, country boy,” he said, twirling his mustache and smiling. “Have we softened you up a bit? A few days in this cell always does that to a person. And if not, the hangman has his own special ways of loosening your tongue… so to speak.”

When Kuisl didn’t answer, the captain continued. “In the meantime we’ve questioned the witnesses and inspected your pack.” He shook his head with feigned severity. “I don’t know much about herbs, but what you have in there is a bit more than a man might need for a cough, don’t you think? Opium, night-shade, hellebore… What were you planning to do with all that? Poison the whole city?”

Kuisl had been crouching in a corner so that the captain couldn’t see his face in the dark. “Those are medicinal herbs,” he said. “My sister was sick, as I’ve told you a hundred times. Her husband wrote me a letter, and I came here from Schongau to help her.”

The soldier furrowed his brow. “You don’t actually look like a physician, not even like a bathhouse owner. So, what are you?”

“I’m the Schongau hangman.”

There was a short pause; then the captain spluttered. He laughed so hard, in fact, that it sounded as if he might choke. “The Schongau hangman?” he gasped. “Ha, that’s a good one! Really good. We’ve never hanged a hangman here!” It took him a while to calm himself down again.

“Be that as it may…” he said, wiping a few tears from his eyes. In a flash his voice was cold and biting again. “You must know what’s in store for you, hangman, if you don’t confess soon. Believe me, the Regensburg hangman is a tough one and has brought many others much tougher than you to their knees.”

Kuisl folded his arms and leaned back. “Even if you break every last bone in my body, I’ll still be innocent.”

“Well, then, what do we have here?” The captain held a sheet of parchment up to the little hatch. “We found this letter upstairs in the bathhouse attic. Hofmann’s last will and testament. He had no children or surviving relatives, and upon his death a certain Jakob Kuisl from Schongau was to inherit everything. Your name is Kuisl, isn’t it?”

Blinking after being in the dark so long, the hangman stepped into the dim light to get a better look at the sheet. The parchment was embossed with a red seal, the bathhouse coat of arms. The handwriting was erratic, as if it had been written in a great hurry.

“You can’t possibly believe this rubbish, can you?” Kuisl said. “I’ve never even met this Hofmann fellow, and the last time I saw my sister was years ago. So why should I inherit anything? This scribbling is something you put together yourself. Give it to me!”

He thrust his hand through the hatch, but the captain pulled the parchment away just in time.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” he snarled. “To destroy the evidence! Now let me tell you a story. You knew your brother-in-law ran a successful bathhouse, and you knew about the will. You were having money problems, so you came to Regensburg. Maybe you pressed your sister for money, but she wouldn’t give you any, so you helped yourself. As a hangman you know only too well how to stick a pig.”

“Rubbish,” the hangman whispered. “Lisl is my sister. I would never so much as touch a hair-”

But the captain wouldn’t be interrupted. “You killed her, then began plotting your getaway,” he continued, “perhaps back to Schongau. There you could have safely waited until the postal coach arrived bearing the news of your sister’s tragic death. A savage robbery-murder-how very tragic indeed-but no one would have suspected you. Who would ever have known you’d just been to Regensburg? But you hadn’t reckoned you’d be controlled as you came through the city gate, and I saw right away that there was something fishy about you, country boy-”

“Dirty lies!” The hangman pounded his fists against the reinforced wooden door. “You’re nothing but dirty gallows birds, all of you! Tell me, how much did they pay you for locking me in the tower overnight? Who ordered you to take me prisoner in the bathhouse? Who? Say something!”

The alarmed captain’s face disappeared from the window for a moment. When he reappeared, he was smiling again.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally said. “Whatever the case, the investigation has concluded now, and the paperwork is complete. The city council will probably meet tomorrow morning to determine your fate. In Regensburg we make short shrift of scoundrels like you.” The watchman’s eyes wandered over the excrement-splattered cell walls. “I hope your stay in our lovely city dungeon has given you time to reflect. The hangman is already polishing his pincers. But why am I telling you this? You know all about these things, after all. Have a nice day in Regensburg.”

He winked at Kuisl, then walked away with a merry whistle.

Despairing, the Schongau hangman leaned back against the wall, then fell into a dejected heap in the corner. Things were not looking good for him. From experience he knew it was only a matter of days before torture would begin. According to age-old law, a suspect could be sentenced only once he’d made his confession, so the Regensburg hangman would use every means at his disposal to compel a confession from Kuisl. First, he would show him the instruments of torture. If this didn’t induce a confession, he would apply the thumb screws and remove Kuisl’s fingernails one by one. Finally, he would tie hundred-pound stones to his feet and hoist him up, arms bound behind his back, until his bones sprang from their sockets and cracked. The Schongau hangman knew the routine well; he’d performed it a dozen times himself. But he also knew that if the suspect wouldn’t confess in spite of all this, they’d let him go.

At least what was left of him.

Kuisl lay down on the dirty wooden floor, closed his eyes, and prepared himself for his long journey through the world of pain. He was sure that if he confessed, he would be broken on the wheel, at the very least. Probably they would hang him first, slit his belly open, and pull the guts from his body.

His gaze wandered over the dark cell walls, where innumerable prisoners had carved not only their names but their pleas, prayers, and curses into the wood. The captain had failed to fully close the little hatch in the door, so a small sliver of light fell across the words. Every inscription told a story, a fate, or gave testimony to a life that had no doubt ended much too soon and too painfully. His gaze stopped at a message just one line in length, a message carved deeply, apparently with a knife.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name…

Kuisl frowned. It was strange to see the words here, of all places. It was just the first line of a silly old mercenary’s song, but to the hangman the line said volumes. A muffled roar sounded in his ears. Long ago the words had been banished to the furthest reaches of his mind-almost forgotten entirely-but now, as he read the inscription, it all came rushing back.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name…

Images, sounds, even scents overwhelmed him-the smell of gun smoke, booze, and decay, a droning chorus of men’s voices, the rhythmic marching of feet.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name

From God above his power came.

The memory struck him like the blow of a hammer.

…The foot soldiers’ ballad resounds through the city, though individual words are impossible to discern-a low thrum, like the sound of a thousand insects. The nearer Jakob comes to the market square, the louder it grows. He can feel his heart pounding as he sets eyes on the crowd before him-day laborers, tailors, cobblers, greedy adventurers, and penniless wretches. They’re standing in a long line that snakes around the entire square, ending at a large, battered wooden table. Behind the table sits an officer with a big book, noting the names of new recruits. Drummers and fifers stand in tight formation behind the table, while brandy flows freely and anyone who is still able to sing is singing.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name

FROM GOD ABOVE HIS POWER CAME.

HIS BLADE KEEN AND STEADY

To mow us is ready…

Slowly, very slowly, the book swallows the line until finally Jakob stands before the officer, who considers him with a smirk, chewing a wad of tobacco and spitting brown liquid onto the pavement.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Jakob Kuisl.”

“And how old are you?”

“I’ll be fifteen this summer.”

The officer rubs his nose. “You look older. And damned strong, too. Ever been to war?”

Jakob shakes his head, silent.

“War’s a bloody affair. A lot of honor, a lot of death. A lot like a slaughterhouse. Can you stand the sight of death, hmm? Bodies hacked to pieces, severed heads… Well?”

Jakob remains silent.

“Very well,” the officer says with a sigh. “We could use a boy to carry supplies, or perhaps you could play the drums. Or-”

“I’m here to join the infantry, sir.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want to fight-with a longsword.”

The officer hesitates, then breaks into a broad grin. His grin turns into a soft chuckle, then to an outright laugh, louder and louder until he turns around at last to his comrades. “Did you hear that?” he cries. “The young sprout wants a two-hander. Hasn’t even run a pike up a farmer’s ass in his life, and he wants a two-hander!”

The crowd roars. Some of the fifers stop playing to point at the big, pimply, clumsy boy whose shirt and trousers are much too small for his shapeless frame. Jakob is growing too fast; his mother says he’ll soon be able to spit on the heads of everyone in Schongau. But Schongau is far away.

Now the young man picks up a dirty bundle of linen covering a long and narrow object, which he handles as if it contains the kaiser’s own scepter. He lays it out on the table carefully and removes the wrapping.

Inside is a sword so long it reaches to the boy’s chest. With a short cross-guard and no point, its blade glints in the sun.

The crowd’s jeers die down to a murmur as all eyes turn to the weapon. The officer bends down over the longsword and runs a finger along the blood groove.

“By God, a genuine executioner’s sword,” he whispers. “Where did you get this? Did you steal it?”

The boy shakes his head. “It belonged to my father, and to my grandfather and great-grandfather before him.”

Jakob carefully wraps the weapon back up in the dirty, bloodstained linen. His words sound reverent and unusual from the mouth of a snot-nosed fifteen-year-old village boy who wants to enlist.

“My father is dead. Now the sword belongs to me.”

Then the hangman’s son walks down the silent ranks of infantrymen until he reaches the yoke, a horizontal pike supported by two halberds set in the ground.

An old ritual of mercenary foot soldiers: whoever passes through commits himself to war.

Jakob Kuisl was still lying on the floor of his cell at the Regensburg city hall, staring at the inscription on the wall.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name…

He got up at last, reached for a pebble on the floor, and began to scratch away the inscription.

Letter by letter.

At that moment Magdalena was farther from home than she’d ever been in her life.

Blissful, she stretched out on the hard planks of the river raft and looked up at clouds passing over her like white dragons. For the first time in a long while she was happy. The waves slapped rhythmically against the heavy boards, the raftsmen’s shouts sounded far-off, and only Simon, humming softly beside her, seemed real. The medicus was leaning on a wine barrel, staring dreamily across the water at the passing riverbank. His face was still black and blue from the Berchtholdts’ beating, but at least he could open his eyes again. From time to time he spat cherry pits in a wide arc into the water. When one struck the helmsman by mistake, he turned around and shook his finger playfully at Simon.

“If you keep that up, I’m going to have to dump you both into the Danube. Then you can swim all the way to Regensburg for all I care.” He shook his head. “The river is no place for children and lovers-this is a place for work.” He was grinning again, likely thinking back on how he’d met his own wife.

Magdalena picked up a cherry and let the soft, juicy flesh dissolve in her mouth. Schongau was so far away! Less than a week ago they’d fled to the ferry landing in the middle of the night, carrying no more than a sack and a bag. Heaviest were Simon’s medical instruments and a few books he couldn’t bear to part with. Other than that, they brought only a few changes of clothes, a little food, and two blankets. Everything else they left behind: their past, the satirical verses, the paternalism, their secret rendezvous, and the constant fear they might be discovered.

They’d traveled down the Lech past Augsburg in the direction of Donauworth, then along the Danube on a raft transporting cloth and salt to the Black Sea. Along the way they’d passed the university city of Ingolstadt, where Simon had once studied; the little city of Vohburg; and finally the infamous Weltenburg Narrows, where the raft was whisked through whirlpools like a mere leaf blowing along the surface of the water. The steady movement and changing landscape gave Magdalena a feeling of greater freedom than she’d ever known before.

Away from home at last…

But a shadow passed over her face when she thought of her mother and the twins. She’d kissed the sleeping children farewell before closing the door to the house behind her for the last time. The letter she left for her mother was brief and tearstained, but never in her life had Magdalena felt so clearly that she was doing the right thing. Had she stayed, there surely would have been no end to the hectoring-the townspeople’s prejudices were just too deep-and eventually one or another zealot would actually set fire to the house. Master Baker Berchtholdt would see to it that she never had a moment’s peace.

Magdalena could only hope that her mother saw things the same way.

Ultimately, it wasn’t a question of whether they would leave, but of where their journey might take them. In the end it was Magdalena’s aunt who helped them make up their minds. Magdalena admired Aunt Lisbeth Kuisl for her courage in leaving everything behind. Magdalena could be just as strong herself! If her aunt was still alive, she would certainly understand. Magdalena would simply wait until her hardheaded father had left; then she’d knock on Lisbeth’s door, her aunt would open the door and embrace her, and Simon would be given a position as Andreas Hofmann’s assistant at the bathhouse. He could bleed the guests and treat their minor ailments. That would be a start, and who knows? With time Simon might even go on to become the Regensburg city surgeon. A new life would open up for them, a life in which no one would know she was a hangman’s daughter.

But suppose her aunt had died in the meantime, of some kind of growth that even Magdalena’s father couldn’t cure?

She shook her head, trying to drive away these sinister thoughts. She wanted to enjoy the moment. Only the dear Lord knew what the future held.

“We’re here! Magdalena, we’re here!”

Simon’s cries roused her from her musings. She sat up to see Regensburg emerge behind the next bend in the river-a silhouette of buildings, bridges, and churches gleaming in the af ternoon sun. An imposing defensive city wall began at river’s edge and extended, with its redoubts and outbuildings, far inland to the south. Beyond the wall towered the cathedral, the city’s landmark. Bells chimed across the water as if in greeting.

With loud cries the raftsmen prepared for landing, tossing ropes and issuing commands. To the right, beneath the city wall, was a harbor vaster than anything Magdalena could imagine, almost half a mile of jetties and piers where boats and rafts were moored, bobbing up and down. Men hurried about, lugging barrels and cases, disappearing into the storage sheds that lined the city wall. Downriver an imposing stone bridge spanned the Danube, connecting the Free Imperial City with the Electorate of Bavaria. On the Bavarian side Magdalena could make out charred ruins from the Great War; even the suburbs to the south of Regensburg had apparently burned.

With a heavy thud, the raft docked at one of the many wooden piers. Simon and Magdalena shouldered their bags, waved farewell to the raftsmen, and took their places in a long line of laborers and travelers winding their way toward the city gate at the end of the Stone Bridge. The air was laden with scents-spices, brackish river water, fish, and fat sizzling over an open fire. Magdalena was hungry. The two had eaten nothing but cherries since that morning. She pulled Simon over to a little food cart set up with tables and benches behind the bridge. For a few kreuzers they bought some smoky sausages dripping with fat and a small loaf of bread. Sitting on a pier, they let their legs dangle over the side.

“And now?” Simon asked, wiping the fat from his lips. “What’s your plan?”

“What’s our plan, you mean,” Magdalena corrected him with a laugh. “You forget we’re in this together.” She shrugged and took another bite of her greasy sausage. “I suggest we set out for my aunt’s house right away and see if my father is still there,” she said with a full mouth. “After that, we’ll just have to see what happens. Come on, let’s go!” She wiped her hands on her skirt and reached for her sack.

But it was gone.

A few steps away Magdalena noticed a gaunt figure about to disappear in the crowd with her sack under his arm. She jumped up and took after him.

“You blasted thief!”

Simon joined the chase, and together they ran through the crowd, bumping into travelers disembarking from their rafts, arms loaded with crates and sacks. Magdalena heard shouts and splashing behind her but had no time to turn around. The thief was already almost out of sight. Her dress fluttered behind her like a flag in the wind as she desperately tried to catch up with him. That bag contained everything connecting her to her home in Schongau, including a little faded portrait a peddler had once made of her mother. She mustn’t lose it!

The thief was running along the edge of the landing now where, away from the crowds, he could run faster. Simon had chosen the same path and was right on the man’s heels, followed close behind by an angry, cursing Magdalena. As they approached a line of storage sheds, the thief made a sharp turn toward a stack of logs and crates. On the other side a narrow lane crowded with carts, carriages, and people led into the city. If the thief got that far, they would certainly lose him!

At just that moment Simon stumbled over a rope on the ground and fell to his knees as Magdalena rushed past him.

“Stop, thief!” she shouted. “Stop him!” But the few raftsmen and dock workers standing among the stacks only glanced at her indifferently.

The haggard thief swung the sack over his head triumphantly as he clattered onto a pile of logs. Just as he reached the top, a figure appeared from the right. He had jet-black hair tied into a ponytail, and the muscles on his tanned upper arms rippled like little balls under his skin. He grabbed the bottom-most log with both hands and pulled it out from under the stack with one powerful tug. The logs on top came loose and started to roll, crashing down in all directions.

The thief teetered briefly like an acrobat on a rope, then fell with a cry and lay pinned between the logs, moaning.

The black-haired man reappeared from behind the piles where he’d taken refuge from the avalanche. Magdalena at first guessed he was in his early thirties, but as he drew closer, she could see he was considerably older. Folds had formed around the corners of his mouth and piercing blue eyes, lending him a mature and stately appearance. He wore a simple leather waistcoat over his bare upper body; his only adornment was a red cloth knotted around his neck. In his enormous hands Magdalena’s sack dangled like a little toy.

“I believe you’ve lost something,” he said, tossing the bag to Magdalena. “And as far as this fellow is concerned…” Grabbing the nearly unconscious thief, he dragged him to the edge of the landing. “A cold bath sometimes works wonders.” With a wide swing, he threw the howling man into the Danube. When the man resurfaced, he floundered until the current carried him away at last.

“Don’t worry,” the man said. “He can swim. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to cool off this hothead. He’s just a little miscreant with whom even the hangman doesn’t want to dirty his hands. But I won’t tolerate thieves on my wharf. It’s bad for business.”

With a smile he approached Magdalena and held out his hand. A few tattoos adorned his muscular upper arm, among them some kind of sea monster emerging from a wave.

“My name is Karl Gessner,” the man said with a broad grin that revealed nearly perfect white teeth. “I’m the city raftmaster. Sorry that your stay in Regensburg has gotten off to such a bad start, but at least you have your bag back.” He pointed to Simon, who had finally gotten up and came hobbling over. “I hope your friend didn’t get those bruises on his face around here. You’re probably new in town and looking for work. Is that right?”

“It’s possible,” Simon said abruptly.

The raftmaster grinned. “I can sense that from three miles away, against the wind. If you wish, you can earn a few kreuzers from me today. Here on the docks there’s always something to do. Lugging crates, caulking boats, tying logs together for the rafts…” Gessner whistled through his fingers, and several laborers came running over at once to help him restack the fallen logs.

“Thanks, but-” Magdalena began, but Simon interrupted.

“Believe me, that wouldn’t be a profitable deal for you,” the medicus replied, wiping the dirt from his trousers. “My hands are more suited to holding a pencil or a pair of tweezers than heavy barrels. But if one of your workers happens to have an infection in his leg or stomach pains, we’d be happy to show our appreciation for your kindness.”

Gessner clicked his tongue. “A traveling barber, then! Well, I’d advise you to watch that the guards don’t catch up with you. They don’t much care for quack doctors.”

“Simon is no quack doctor,” Magdalena said firmly. “He studied in Ingolstadt.”

“All right, fine, I didn’t mean to offend your friend,” the raftmaster said, trying to calm things down. “A physician with medical training is always welcome here. Perhaps I even have something for you…” He shook his head from side to side, thinking. “There’s a tavern not far from here. It’s called the Whale, and it’s just the right place to go if you’re new in the city. That’s where everyone in Regensburg goes who’s looking for work. I’ve even seen traveling bathhouse journeymen there. Just say that Raftmaster Gessner sent you and you have my recommendation.” He winked. “I can trust you, can’t I?”

Simon raised his hand solemnly to give his word. “I swear we’re not quacks-you have our word on that.” He smiled and bowed slightly. “Our deepest thanks. It’s always a blessing when a person has someone he can trust in a strange city.”

“Maybe we’ll meet again sometime at this-uh-Whale,” said Magdalena, tossing her sack over her shoulder after checking to see that nothing was missing. “But first we’re going to visit my aunt. She’s the wife of the bathhouse owner Andreas Hofmann. You don’t happen to know her? I hear she’s seriously ill.”

The blood drained instantly from Gessner’s face, and his whole body seemed to turn to stone. For a moment he was speechless.

“You-you-are…?” he stammered.

Magdalena looked at him anxiously. “Is there something wrong?”

It took a moment for the raftmaster to get a hold of himself again. When he pulled himself together at last, he laid his hand on Magdalena’s shoulder. “You’ve chosen an unfortunate time to come to Regensburg.” The words came out slowly and ominously. “It’s said that your aunt…” He faltered.

“What’s wrong with my aunt?” said Magdalena, pulling away from the raftmaster. “Out with it!”

Gessner shook his head sadly. “I don’t know all the details-perhaps it’s best you have a look for yourself. Josef!” he waved one of the laborers over. “Take these people to the Wei?gerbergraben. Right now!”

The man nodded and turned to leave. Again Magdalena tried to get the raftmaster to talk, but he turned aside, busily hammering heavy nails into a barrel.

“Come on,” said Simon, nudging her gently. “We’re not going to learn anything more here.”

Magdalena turned away, her mouth set, and followed Simon and the workman as they disappeared down a narrow lane. As they left the dock area, though, they heard the raftmaster’s voice behind them.

“God be with you!” Gessner called after them. “And remember the Whale! Perhaps you’ll find someone there who can help you.”

A few blocks away the harsh reality awaited them.

As the two breathlessly approached the bathhouse, they could see right away that something wasn’t right. The entrance was blocked with a heavy chain and guarded by a grim-faced watchman, halberd in hand. Curious onlookers were milling about in the street, whispering to one another, while their close-lipped guide cleared out without another word to Simon or Magdalena about Lisbeth Hofmann.

The hangman’s daughter tapped one of the bystanders on the shoulder and pointed at the building. “What happened in there? Why is everyone standing around gaping?” she asked as casually as possible, though she couldn’t keep her voice from trembling. A white-haired old man in front of her had a sparkle in his eyes that betrayed something had happened here and, thank God, it hadn’t happened to him.

“The bathmaster and his wife,” he whispered. “Found in a pool of their own blood. It happened almost a week ago, but the house is still under guard. There’s something strange going on here.”

Magdalena’s face went ashen. “Are the bathhouse people dead, then?” she asked hoarsely, as if she didn’t already know the answer.

The man giggled like a child. “Dead like two old nags at the slaughterhouse. They say the blood ran ankle-deep in there. Must have been an awful mess.”

Magdalena struggled to compose her thoughts. “Well…” she stammered, “do they know who’s responsible?”

The old man nodded enthusiastically. “They caught the fellow!” he squeaked. “Hofmann’s brother-in-law, a bear of a man, a real monster. They say he came from somewhere near Augsburg… Never heard of the place before, myself.”

“Was it perhaps… Schongau?” Simon asked in an undertone.

The old man furrowed his brow. “Schongau… yes! Do you know the murderer?”

Magdalena shook her head quickly. “No, no, that’s just what somebody told us. Where have they taken this… monster to now?”

The old man stared at them with increasing suspicion. “Well, of course, to one of the dungeons by city hall. You’re not from around here, are you?”

Without answering, Magdalena pulled Simon by the sleeve into a small side street away from the bathhouse, where the old man was already starting to spread rumors among the onlookers about the strangers who apparently knew the monster.

“I’m afraid your father’s in real trouble,” Simon whispered, looking warily in all directions. “Do you really think that-”

“That’s rubbish!” Magdalena said angrily. “Why would my father ever do anything like that? His own sister! It’s absurd!”

“So now what do we do?”

“You heard it yourself. He’s somewhere in city hall,” Magdalena replied curtly. “So we’ll go there; we have to help him.”

“Help? But how do you imagine…” Simon started to say, but the hangman’s daughter had already set off down the fetid, narrow lane, tears of rage and grief running down her cheeks.

Her dream of a new life had been cruelly shattered before it had even begun.

A dark figure broke away from the crowd in front of the bathhouse and silently followed the two newcomers. No onlooker would later recall someone crouched in the shadow of a nearby house, only steps away from Simon and Magdalena, someone as unremarkable as a wall or a parked cart-motionless, ever present, and unnoticed by all.

The man had long ago perfected this ability, lurking in the alcoves and doorways of burned-out cities, biding his time. He had feigned death on the battlefield only to slit the throats of foolish profiteers who tried to loot corpses of their weapons, clothing, and coins. He was a master of deception and, even more than that, of metamorphosis. He’d been living as someone else for so many years now that he was in danger of losing himself completely in this other identity-the identity of someone who had long been dead.

But then the past had come knocking at his door, reminding him who he really was. The burning desire for revenge returned and filled him with new life.

The hangman had returned…

It wasn’t part of the plan that the hangman’s daughter would also stay in Regensburg, but it wasn’t without a certain irony. The man closed his eyes briefly and chuckled softly to himself. Had he believed in God, he would have uttered a prayer of thanks and donated a twelve-pound candle to the church.

Instead, he simply spat on the pavement and picked up the trail again.

The square in front of city hall was full of idlers this Sunday afternoon, as well as the pious who were streaming from the cathedral as mass came to an end. And then there was the usual crowd of beggars. It hadn’t been hard for Simon and Magdalena to find this spot. Basically they let themselves be carried along by the current of the crowd that streamed down the wide paved road from the Wei?gerbergraben and deposited them directly in front of the new city hall.

The three-story building had been partially finished just the year before, and the plaster gleamed white in the hot midday sun. To its left towered an even higher building with painted glass windows and richly decorated oriels. Through the wide portal came group after group of mostly older men, garbed in costly and, in some cases, rather exotic robes and deeply engaged in conversation. Snippets of sentences reached Simon and Magdalena in strange dialects they could only partially comprehend. So this, then, was the famous Reichssaal-the Imperial Hall, where the rich and mighty met with the kaiser to determine the destiny of the German Reich and to confer on how best to manage the ever-present and ever-increasing danger posed by the Turks. The raftsmen mentioned that the meeting would take place a few months from now, and apparently preparations were already under way.

Magdalena nudged Simon and pointed to a narrow doorway between the Reichssaal and the new city hall, where two watchmen stood guard with halberds. The gate behind them stood open, but the two bailiffs shared an expression as watchful as it was surly. And behind the gate was a dark archway.

“Look!” the hangman’s daughter whispered. “The dungeon next to the city hall. That must be what the old man meant!”

Simon shrugged. “And what now? Push our way past the guards, knock down the doors to the dungeon, and smuggle the hangman out in your little travel bag?”

“You idiot!” Magdalena replied. “I just want to talk to him and find out what happened. Perhaps then we can figure out how to help him.”

“And just how do you propose to do that? They won’t let anyone in there.”

Magdalena, who seemed to have calmed down somewhat, flashed him a devious grin. “We need someone to distract them while I have a look around in there. Can you do that?”

Simon looked at her in disbelief. “You’re asking me to…”

She grinned again and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re always quick on your feet; just think of something.”

Then she headed briskly for the door, where the guards were already eyeing her expectantly.

“Have you got the monster locked up good and tight?” she asked them blithely. “Down in the Wei?gerbergraben, the most blood-curdling stories are going around. They say the man is as big as a tree and tore the heads off the bathhouse owner and his wife like they were nothing more than chickens. What’s going to happen if he gets out, eh?”

The guards’ expressions went from attentive to boastful. “Let that be our concern, woman,” one of them replied gruffly. “We’ve put all kinds of rascals in here under lock and key.”

“Really?” Magdalena pursed her lips and batted her eyelashes. “Uh, like who?”

One of the guards puffed out his chest. “Well, you’ve probably heard of Hans Reichart, the swine who robbed and murdered five townfolk-stabbed them in the back, no less. We chased that shameless bastard all over city, but in the end the hangman got him on the wheel and impaled that broken bag of bones on a stake. As a reward, we each got to keep one of Reichart’s fingers.” The watchman held up his left hand and crossed himself superstitiously. “No one’s so much as stolen a kreuzer from me since.”

Magdalena swallowed hard. It was clear her father risked a similar fate.

“I wish I’d been there for the chase,” she said finally. “You’re both such big, strapping fellows.” She winked and ran a finger down the breastplate of one of the guards, with a quick but suggestive glance downward. “Up top, I mean, of course.”

The soldier grinned back. “You’re welcome to have a look down below, you know.”

At that moment laughter and noise erupted nearby, and with a sigh, the guards broke off their brief flirtation and turned their heads to watch as a young man climbed onto a cart and began loudly extolling the virtues of some elixir.

“Dear citizens of Regensburg, step up and taste my newest miracle cure! This theriaca is brewed from dried snake meat and a secret mixture of exquisite herbs I myself gathered in cemeteries by the light of the full moon. It works wonders for cases of infertility, toothache, and stomach pain. On my honor, I swear it will give sight to the lame and make the blind walk again.”

“Stay here, girl,” one watchman growled, beckoning to his comrade to follow. “Let’s see what all this racket is about before I get to tell you about how I worked over Schaidinger not long ago, a dirty dog who robbed the offertory box.”

“Oh, um… wonderful,” replied Magdalena, smiling grimly as the determined watchmen headed toward the cart.

Beads of sweat on his brow, Simon waved about a little bottle he’d hastily removed from his satchel: a harmless cough syrup containing ivy, sage, and honey, which was all he’d been able to find on short order. When he noticed how Magdalena had engaged the two watchmen in conversation, he couldn’t think of any other way to create a diversion than to climb up on a cart and start making ludicrous proclamations. Simon had seen the itinerant quacks and mountebanks in Schongau, and during his student days in Ingolstadt. These self-anointed miracle doctors crammed their carts full of bizarre ingredients like scorpion oil, elephant fat, and pulverized stardust. In spite of, or perhaps because of, their exotic antics, these men were the highlight of every local carnival.

And indeed, it didn’t take long for a group of curious onlookers to gather around Simon in the city hall square, all of them laughing and shouting.

A rotten head of cabbage just missed him as it flew past his head. “Hey, quack,” one called, “how about you give some of your miracle drug to the bathhouse owner whose gut was slit wide open? Perhaps he’ll come back to life!”

With a stiff grin, Simon shook his head, keeping an eye on the two officious watchmen who approached as Magdalena slipped through the narrow doorway.

“I would never dare interfere in God’s mysterious ways,” he cried out, his voice cracking. “When the Lord calls us, we are obliged to follow. It’s not up to us to bring back the dead, were it even in my power to do so!”

Good God, what is this nonsense I’m spouting! Simon thought. I can only hope that Magdalena is in and out in a hurry.

“Hey, you!” The two bailiffs had finally reached the cart. “Get down this instant! Who the hell do you think you are, hawking your magic brew on a Sunday in front of city hall? Don’t you know that around these parts quackery is against the law?”

“Quackery?” shouted Simon, tearing at his hair in feigned outrage. “I am a medicus with university training who has come upon hard times. Permit me at least to demonstrate my art.”

“Nothing doing,” one of the guards replied. “You’ll come down right now, and into the stocks you’ll go until morning. That’ll purge this nonsense from your head!” He pointed at a stone column smeared with rotten fruit and excrement off to the side of the square adjacent to the market tower.

Simon’s face turned a shade whiter. Magdalena, I’ll never forgive you for this…

“Just give him a chance!” a bystander chimed in. “Maybe he really is a medicus, and if he isn’t-well, you can still give him a good thrashing.”

After a moment’s consideration the soldier nodded. “All right, then, it’s Sunday and the people want some entertainment; so come on, doc-show us what you can do.”

The other bailiff appeared to have been struck by an idea and, with a broad grin, waved for someone in the crowd to approach. “What good fortune! We’ve got a patient for you right here.”

Ducking, Magdalena hastened through the gate, which was slightly ajar, and entered an expansive vault whose low ceiling was so covered with soot and dirt it was pitch black. A few cannons stood rusting in the corner. On her left she spied the wooden gate of a cell that turned out to be empty. Farther back, in a room next to a pile of cannonballs, a few soldiers were sitting around playing dice.

When Magdalena attempted to breeze by, one glanced up and glared. “Hey, girl,” he cried. “What are you doing here?”

Magdalena curtsied and looked demurely at the ground. “The two gentlemen at the gate said I could have a look at the bathhouse monster.” Feigning embarrassment, she fumbled with her bodice. “Is it true that at the full moon he changes into a werewolf, with fur and teeth and all that?”

“Who told you that?”

“The-the two gentlemen, upstairs, just a minute ago.” Like a stupid farm girl, Magdalena drew little circles in the dirt with her right toe and pouted. “And they said I should come back at night sometime so I could see it-I mean, see how he changes.”

The man laughed and winked at his comrades. “Sure, girl, go ahead and have yourself a look! And when the big bad wolf growls at you, we’ll come and save you.” He pointed toward a corridor on the left where a door stood open, then picked up the dice again. “You’ll find the monster back there-just be careful he doesn’t bite you.”

She curtsied again as the other guards laughed, then entered the dark corridor. Looking around frantically, she saw a few sturdy doors with iron fittings. Which one is it? She didn’t have much time. The guards would no doubt come after her soon enough, most likely with an invitation to join them in one of the cells for a little fooling around. She didn’t even want to think about what might happen after that.

“Father!” Magdalena whispered, knocking against the wooden walls. “Can you hear me? It’s me, your daughter!”

There was a clatter behind the middle door, and finally Jakob Kuisl replied.

“Magdalena! Good Lord, what are you doing here in Regensburg?”

The hangman’s daughter pressed her forehead against a small hole beside the door no bigger than the palm of her hand. In the dim light she could see her father’s head, his shaggy, matted beard, and the whites of his eyes gleaming out of a dark face. The stench of rot and excrement nearly took her breath away.

“I’ll tell you about that some other time,” she whispered. “Simon’s with me. Now tell me what’s happened to you and how I can help. The guards will come back at any moment!”

“Good Lord, who gave you two permission to just get up and leave Schongau!” Kuisl cursed. “Your mother’s probably worried to death, and surely Lechner’s hopping mad with nobody home shoveling the shit! When I get out of here, I’m going to give your ass such a whipping that-”

“Papa,” Magdalena whispered, “you really have more important things to worry about. So tell me what happened!”

“It was a trap,” Kuisl whispered once he’d calmed down. “Someone killed Lisl and her husband and wants to pin the murder on me now.” Quickly he reported what had happened since he’d arrived. “I don’t know what dirty bastard did this to me,” he finally muttered, “but by God, when I find him, I’ll break every last bone in his body.”

“But you’ve got to get out of here first,” Magdalena replied.

She looked around frantically for a key, but in vain. Finally she began to rattle the door handle.

“Quit that,” her father said. “I can’t get out of here, unless you can prove before the awful inquisition begins that someone else bloodied his hands with this dirty deed; then perhaps they’ll put off the torture.”

Magdalena frowned. “But how do we do that?”

Her father’s mouth was now very close to her ear-she could smell his familiar scent, sweat and tobacco.

“Go to my brother-in-law’s house and try to find some kind of clue,” he whispered. “Anything. I’ll bet the culprits didn’t try very hard to cover their tracks. Why should they? They’ve already got their suspect in custody.”

Magdalena nodded. “And if we don’t find anything?”

“Then your father will meet his Maker. The Regensburg hangman, so I hear, is savage.”

There was a lengthy pause; then voices sounded from just outside the dungeon gate.

“I think someone’s coming,” Magdalena whispered.

Kuisl pushed his fingers through the little hole and pressed his daughter’s hand so hard she almost cried out.

“Quick now,” the hangman said, “Get out!”

The hangman’s daughter took one last look into her father’s eyes before she turned and hurried down the corridor. Just as she was about to set foot in the vaulted anteroom, the watchman she’d been speaking with stepped in front of her.

“Well? Is the werewolf sprouting fur?” He ran his hands over her bodice and pushed her back down the long hallway. “Do you want to have a look at my fur?”

Magdalena pointed back down the hallway. “But-but the monster isn’t there anymore. The door to the cell was just standing wide open.”

“What the devil?”

Pushing her aside, the watchman ran toward the cells. In a flash Magdalena was in the sooty vestibule again. From there she could see sunlight streaming in through the open gate. Without slowing down, she fled past the astonished guards still playing dice and hurried toward the exit, then out the front gate.

When she finally reached the city hall square again, she could see that Simon had gotten himself into a mess of trouble.

Inch by inch, the point of a needle closed in on a wide-open eye. The beggar’s head quivered, but the strong hands of the guard held him, vise-like, while two other guards pinned his arms to his sides. The old man had stopped whimpering and just stared in pure horror at the needle about to pierce his eye. There was no escaping now.

“Good God, keep still, man,” Simon whispered, trying to focus fully on his quivering target. “I can help you, but only if you don’t move.”

Sweat streamed down the medicus’s face as the merciless August sun burned down on the marketplace. The onlookers’ boisterous cries had quieted now to a tense murmur. What they were witnessing here was better than the usual cheap theater traveling hucksters had to offer, especially since no one knew how this drama might end.

The watchman had spotted old Hans Reiser in the crowd and selected him as the ideal candidate for the self-proclaimed medicus to demonstrate whether he really was a master of his art or just some pathetic quack, as most onlookers suspected. For years old Reiser had been shuffling around the square with milky eyes. He was once a well-respected glassblower, but his trade had almost completely destroyed his eyesight. Now he was nothing more than a grumbling old man, without money or family-a blind old dotard whose presence at city hall increasingly irritated the watchmen.

The old beggar suffered from the gray stare-a disease of the eye in which the afflicted has the sensation of seeing the world as if through a waterfall, thus giving the condition its Greek name: cataracts. The pupils, gray in color, looked like two marbles. The operation could only benefit the watchmen: either Reiser would be cured and wouldn’t annoy them anymore, or he would die. That would bring them relief as well-and as for the medicus they could prosecute him for quackery and hang him and be done with it.

All in all, a perfect solution.

Simon knew he’d never live to see next week if he didn’t heal the beggar right here and now in the middle of the city square. Whether Magdalena managed to find her father was of secondary importance at the moment. He tried to put everything else out of his mind and concentrate only on the incision he was about to make. The needle was now just a few tenths of an inch from the pupil, and the beggar’s eye stared up at him like the moon, round and full. The medicus knew that removing a cataract was one of the most difficult of all medical procedures, and it was for this reason-as long as anyone could remember-that it was performed mostly by traveling barber surgeons, who could be far, far away by the time complications developed. Simon himself had performed the operation only twice in his life. It involved inserting the needle sideways into the white of the eye and pressing the clouded lens to the bottom of the eye. Just one slight tremble, the tiniest false move, and the patient could go blind, and even die as the result of subsequent infection.

When the needle pierced the eye, the beggar jerked and screamed. A second incision followed in the other eye. This time Reiser whimpered but held still, his defiance broken. Simon held the needle against the eye for a while to keep the lens in place, then, as he withdrew it, staggered backward. The back of his shirt was soaked, and sweat was streaming down his face. Only now did he notice that a hush had fallen over the crowd.

“I’ll put a dressing on it now,” Simon said, his voice weak. “You’ll have to wear it a few days, and then we’ll see whether-”

“Good Lord!” Reiser interrupted Simon as he held his hands up to his face and shouted with joy. “I can see again! By God, I can see again!”

The raggedy beggar stumbled across the square, grasping wildly at passersby. It did in fact appear he’d been cured of his blindness, even though his plodding movements suggested he’d not yet regained his sight completely. Elated, Reiser ran his hands over every face within reach, grasping at coattails and the brims of hats. Many backed away in disgust-some even pushed the beggar away-but Reiser didn’t lose heart. The old man staggered over to his savior, missing him twice in his attempt to embrace him. He finally managed on the third pass, pulling Simon firmly to his breast.

“You-you are a sorcerer!” he cried out. “Look, everyone, see for yourself-this man can work magic!”

“I… don’t think that’s the right word,” Simon whispered, but Reiser dashed across the square again, embracing complete strangers as he continued pointing at Simon. “This man is a sorcerer, a real sorcerer! Believe me!”

The medicus cast a cautious glance at the watchmen, to whom this word alone gave the sudden opportunity-in spite of his successful operation-to seize him and send him to the gallows. Might this be enough to have him burned at the stake?

At this very moment Simon caught sight of Magdalena as she sneaked out through the main gate and waved at him furtively. He feigned a move in one direction, then dashed off in the other, disappearing into the crowd.

“Stop the sorcerer!” the guards shouted behind him. “In the name of the kaiser, stop him!”

Simon knocked over a vegetable stand, sending cabbages rolling across the pavement and tripping up one of the guards. Another guard crashed into a maidservant and became entangled in a brawl with some indignant bystanders. Simon darted into a narrow alley leading away from city hall and toward the cathedral. Panting, he leaned against the side of a house to catch his breath. When he turned to pick up his things, he noticed he’d lost one of his two bags, the one containing most of his clothing, including his new petticoat breeches and his French-tailored jacket! At least he’d managed to hold on to his books and medical instruments.

Just as he was about to slip into the shadows of the narrow alleyway, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He started, then turned around to face a grinning Magdalena.

“Didn’t I say you can’t be left alone for a minute?”

The hangman’s daughter gave him a kiss on the cheek and nudged him gently in the direction of the cathedral. They could still hear angry shouts and curses from the city hall square.

“It would be best if we don’t show our faces here again for a while,” she whispered, now in a serious tone. “We already have enough problems as it is!”

Simon nodded, still panting. “I say we take the suggestion of the raftmaster and go looking for that peculiar inn. It looks like we’re going to need a cheap place to stay for a while.”

“The Whale!” Magdalena rolled her eyes. “What sort of cheap tavern do you think it’ll turn out to be?” She turned to leave. “I only hope it doesn’t stink of fish.”

As they rounded the next corner, a shadow followed. Dirty boots slid almost soundlessly through the dung- and trash-filled lane, almost as if they floated on air.

Hunched over, Jakob Kuisl moved from one end of the cell to the other. It was just four paces wide, but he had to keep moving if he wanted to keep his thoughts running.

Outside he could hear excited voices, shrill shouts and cries. Something seemed to be going on out in the market square, and Kuisl could only hope the tumult had nothing to do with Magdalena and Simon. Why-damn it-were the two of them in Regensburg at all? Had they set out after him because something had happened in Schongau? The hangman shook his head. His daughter would certainly have told him if that had been the case. Most likely his impudent girl had gotten it into her head to pay her sick old aunt a visit and take in a bit of the city life in Regensburg. The Schongau clerk, Lechner, would certainly be looking for Magdalena! It was her job, after all, in her father’s absence, to cart manure from the city streets, and she would be lucky if they didn’t throw her in the dungeon when she returned home for shirking her duty. And that cock of the walk Simon along with her! But Kuisl himself would most certainly be the first to give his daughter a good whipping.

The hangman paused at the thought that he might never again be in a position to reprimand his daughter, because it was here in Regensburg that he would die. Really, it was an act of providence that Magdalena and Simon had followed him-they were his only hope now of escaping death on the gallows. Besides, his anger at his reckless daughter was at least a welcome distraction from his memories. Though he’d scraped the writing off the wall, the old mercenary song took him back to a time he would rather have forgotten. But the seed of remembrance had been sown, and in the darkness and idleness of this cell his thoughts kept returning to the past.

Each time he reached the far end of his cell, his gaze fell on the blank space where the line from the song had been etched, and memories flashed through his mind like lightning-the murder, the violence, the brutality all came back to him now.

Instinctively, Jakob Kuisl began to hum the beginning of the song:

There is a reaper, Death’s his name…

HIS BLADE KEEN AND STEADY

To mow us is ready…

The hangman listened to himself hum it, but the tune sounded as if it were coming from the mouth of another man.

He bit down hard on his lip until he tasted blood.