The Beggar King

5

REGENSBURG

AUGUST 19–20, 1662 AD

The eye stared in cold as marble-unblinking, motionless, and dry-without betraying the slightest flicker of emotion. At times Katharina believed no being existed behind this eye; that instead an evil, monstrous doll was observing her like a caged bird or a beetle scampering back and forth inside a jar.

Katharina couldn’t recall how long she’d been imprisoned in this room. Five days? Six? Or more? There was no window for light to enter, only a small hatch in the door through which a gloved hand supplied her with food, drink, and white candles in exchange for her chamber pot. Her only contact with the outside world was through a small fingernail-size hole above this hatch, and though Katharina had tried and tried, all she could see through it was a dark, torch-lit corridor. Now and then she could make out the sound of soft music in the distance, though it wasn’t the kind of music she knew from fairs and church festivals, but solemn and ceremonial, composed of trumpets, harps, and reeds.

It sounded to Katharina a little like the music of angels.

She’d discovered the eye would visit her at regular intervals. Sometimes the visit was announced by shuffling and scraping at the door, and very rarely she would hear the sound of feet dragging or a soft, melodic whistle. But more often than not, only a prickling sensation between her shoulder blades alerted her that, when she turned around, the eye would be there again, staring at her, cool and curious.

Long ago she’d given up calling for help. At first she’d cried, cursed, and screamed until all that remained of her voice was a reedy squawk, but when she realized that this did no good and just made her hoarse, she curled up into herself like a sick cat and retreated far inside her head, where recently everything seemed jumbled together-horrible visions, visions of people impaled on stakes and tortured, of decapitated bodies and the corpses of infants with contorted limbs, of green long-necked monsters throwing helpless souls into vats of boiling oil. But there were also wanton images: naked young boys and tender young girls who caressed her in her dreams, fairy-like creatures who held her high in their arms and carried her to the mountain peak of Brocken, where she joined both men and women in wild orgies.

Sometimes Katharina would cry and laugh at the same time.

Whenever her thoughts came briefly into focus, she tried to remember what had in fact brought her here. She’d been hanging around behind the old grain market, heavily made-up the way men liked it, with brightly colored hair and a full flowing skirt that she had only to lift to service her clients. Katharina knew her work wasn’t without risks. In contrast to many other prostitutes, she worked without a madam. Her friends bought protection from Fat Thea or someone else and paid a pretty penny for it, but Katharina worked alone. If the guards caught her, she would be thrown into the stocks in the city hall square, then whipped and chased out of town the very next day. It had happened to her twice already, first when she was only fifteen years old. Now in her early thirties, Katharina was an experienced prostitute and knew how to avoid the bailiffs. And if she got caught-well, she could always bribe them with her body.

But now misfortune had visited her at last, a nameless misfortune, a misfortune that she could never have imagined in even her worst nightmares.

The man had worn a black coat and a hat drawn over his face. His voice was refined and pleasant, not like one of those crude raftsmen whose breath stank of booze as he nailed her like a board to the wall. She knew this man had money to spend. He led her to a hidden doorway and pulled out a little silver bottle. The warm liquid inside tasted sweet like wine and went down as smooth as honey. The next thing she could remember was falling onto a bed in a strange room where the man covered her body with a thousand kisses. It hadn’t been unpleasant. On the contrary, for the first time in a long while she’d felt desire welling up inside her again. When she finally came to much later, she was still lying in the same room, but with a pounding headache now. Her gums felt as if they were on fire.

There was no doubt the stranger had provided generously for her. In one corner of the room stood a bed made up with white linens, and in the other corner, a chamber pot. A table had been prepared with cheese and white bread on silver platters and wine in a fragile glass goblet. Never before in her life had she tasted white bread-it was heavenly, without husks, grit, or hard kernels. In the following days she was fed more white bread and other delicacies-sausages, sliced ham, creamy butter… As time passed, Katharina began to suspect she was being fattened up like a goose, but she kept right on eating, as it was her only diversion amid the endless, monotonous hours, the only way she could drive away the tormenting thoughts.

Where am I? What does he intend to do with me?

Once again Katharina felt a tingle creep across her back. She turned around and looked directly into the eye.

It was studying her. Something scraped along the outside of the door.

It was time for the next course.

Avoiding the main streets, Magdalena and Simon made their way through a labyrinth of narrow lanes and shadowy back courtyards piled high with rubbish and excrement. The squalid children and hapless, wounded veterans of the Great War who occupied these places stared out at them as they passed. Old soldiers leaning on crutches, some with horrible scars and burns on their faces, held out their hands as the two strangers hurried by in silence. Everywhere, mangy, scraggy dogs roamed the streets, snarling at them in packs. This was the other face of Regensburg, the dirty underside that had nothing whatsoever in common with the clean paved streets, the stately parliament building, the cathedral, and the towering houses where the patricians lived. This was a place of poverty and disease, where the daily battle for survival was waged.

More than once Simon thought he saw a figure peering at them from around a corner, someone pursuing them, lying in wait for just the right moment to plunge a dagger into their ribs or snatch their few belongings. But oddly enough the beggars and the wounded left them alone. Simon was sure this had less to do with him than it did with Magdalena, whose steady gait and fierce gaze showed possible thieves and muggers she wasn’t an easy target. They could sense that the hangman’s daughter was one of their own.

“If this tavern doesn’t materialize soon, I’m going to die of thirst right here in the middle of the street,” Simon lamented, wiping the sweat from his brow. Again he cursed himself for having eaten that salty, greasy sausage down by the river.

The heat continued to build palpably in the narrow lanes. Several times already they’d asked halfway reputable-looking passersby for directions to the Whale. Each time they’d been sent off in a different direction, and now they found themselves somewhere behind the cathedral, supposedly just a stone’s throw from the elusive tavern.

“Surely it can’t be much farther,” Magdalena said, pointing ahead to a broad boulevard spanned by tall stone arches. “Those must be the arches they told us about. We just need to turn right here, and we’ll be there.”

As they walked, the hangman’s daughter briefly recounted what had happened to her father. A few words were enough to give the medicus cause to worry. Was it really possible someone had framed the hangman? And if so, why? Simon wasn’t especially enthused about Kuisl’s idea to go looking for clues at Hofmann’s house. He dreaded the thought of breaking into the bathhouse that night. What if someone caught them? No doubt they would be deemed the hangman’s accomplices, thrown into the very next cell, then led to the gallows alongside him. But the medicus knew he wouldn’t be able talk Magdalena out of it. Once the hangman’s daughter had set her mind to something, there was no turning back.

At last they emerged from the labyrinth of narrow lanes and turned right, into a wide paved boulevard with huge stone arches overhead. Nestled discreetly between two warehouses stood a lopsided, two-story gabled house that looked as though it had been standing there since time immemorial. Above the entrance dangled a rusty metal sign depicting a whale and a man leaping from its mouth.

“Jonah and the whale,” Simon said, nodding. “This must be it.”

Magdalena tried to get a look inside, through a sooty bull’s-eye windowpane, but even though it was the middle of the day, it was as dark as the grave inside. “It doesn’t exactly look inviting,” she ventured.

“It doesn’t matter,” replied Simon, reaching for a small bronze fish that served as a door knocker. “The raftmaster seems to know his way about town, and his word clearly carries some weight. I think we ought to try it. We do need a cheap place to stay, since my savings can’t last us much longer than a few more days.” He pounded vigorously on the door.

For a long time they heard nothing. Just as Simon was about to suggest they look for somewhere else to stay, the door opened a crack and a long pointed nose appeared, attached to a haggard old woman with stringy hair and remarkably bad breath.

“What? What do you want?”

“We’re… looking for lodging for the next few weeks,” Simon replied hesitantly. “Karl Gessner sent us, the Regensburg raftmaster.”

“If Gessner sent you, you must be all right,” the old woman mumbled as she shuffled back inside, leaving the door wide open behind her.

Simon cast a cautious glance inside the taproom. Hanging from the wood-paneled ceiling was a giant stuffed catfish that stared back at him with mean eyes. Despite the summer heat, a tile stove with a bench built around it rumbled away in a far corner. The chairs and tables in the room were old and scuffed, and except for Simon and Magdalena, not another living soul seemed to be staying there. What fascinated Simon most, however, was the shelf that lined the opposite wall, holding objects he never would have expected to find in such a place: books.

Not two, or three, but dozens of them, all bound in leather and apparently in mint condition.

He entered the tavern alongside Magdalena and walked directly to the books. He knew at once he’d feel at home here.

“Where-where did you get all these?” he asked the old woman, who had disappeared behind the bar again and was polishing glasses with a dirty rag.

“My dead husband. Before he married into my family, dear old Jonas worked as a scribe down at the ferry landing, drafting documents for the rivermen. He could never get enough books.” She looked at Simon suspiciously. “I’ll bet you’re a bookworm, too. I could use someone like you at the present.”

“I-don’t understand,” Simon stuttered.

The tavern keeper’s widow gave a condescending nod toward the bench by the stove. Only now did Simon and Magdalena notice someone lying there, snoring loudly. The stranger wore wide baggy trousers, a frilled white shirt whose lace collar was spattered with red wine, and a tightly fitted purple jacket whose silver buttons gleamed brightly in the dark room. The man’s legs, stretched out on the table, were shod in freshly polished leather boots whose bucket tops reached almost down to the sole.

Damn! That outfit must have cost a fortune, Simon thought. I always wanted boots like that!

“Ask the Venetian,” the landlady replied. “He comes here for the books-and for the wine and women, of course.”

Simon took a closer look at the man passed out on the bench. He didn’t look like a penniless drunk. On the contrary, the unconscious man looked well-to-do, right down to his cleanly clipped goatee. His black hair fell in curls across his shoulders, his fingernails were manicured, and his cheeks had a soft pink hue. Just as Simon was about to turn away, the Venetian opened his eyes. They were dark, almost sad, as if they’d read more than their fair share of tragedies.

“Ah, ma che bella signorina! Sono lietissimo! Che piacere!” he said, still a bit woozy, then sat up, smoothing the wrinkles out of his jacket. Simon was just about to bow when he realized that the man was addressing not him but Magdalena. He stood up from his seat by the stove, took Magdalena’s hand, and brushed it with his lips. Magdalena couldn’t suppress a giggle. She never would have thought it possible, but the Venetian man was even shorter than Simon. Just the same, all of the Venetian’s nearly five feet positively pulsed with pride and nobility.

“May I introduce myself?” he asked in almost perfect, unaccented German. “Silvio Contarini from the beautiful city of Venice. I must have dozed off.” He bowed slightly, and Magdalena noticed with astonishment that his hair slipped forward as he did so. Evidently he was wearing a wig.

“Gambling and whoring till the wee hours of the morning,” the tavern keeper complained from behind the bar. “You and your cronies guzzled two gallons of my best muscatel last night.”

“Perdonate. Is this enough?” The Venetian slid a few shiny coins across the bar, which the old woman quickly pocketed. Magdalena was aghast. The man had just paid as much for wine as her family spent in a whole week.

“Do you like books?” he asked Magdalena, pointing at the shelves behind him. “Do you perhaps know Shakespeare?”

“Actually,” Simon now chimed in, “we’re more interested in medical texts.”

Silvio turned around in surprise, only just now noticing there was another person in the room. “I beg your pardon?”

“You know, Scultetus, Pare, Paracelsus, and so forth. You’ve probably never heard of them.” Simon reached for his bag and turned to the innkeeper. “May we see the room now?”

Without waiting for Magdalena, he stomped up the narrow stairway. Silvio looked at the hangman’s daughter in astonishment. “Is your friend always so… surly? These bruises all over his face! He must get into a lot of scrapes, yes?”

The hangman’s daughter laughed. “Actually no. He loves books, just as you do. He’s had a bit of a rough day is all. We’ve had a long journey, you should know.”

The Venetian smiled. “Yet not so long as mine! Ma che ci vuoi fare! What brings you to Regensburg?”

“My… father.” Magdalena hesitated. “We come from Schongau. My aunt lives here, or rather, she lived here… and we wanted to pay her a visit, but…” She waved her hand. “It’s too complicated to explain in a few words.”

Silvio nodded. “Then perhaps another time, over a glass of wine.” Reaching abruptly into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a little book, which he handed to Magdalena.

“If you like, read this, poems by a certain William Shakespeare. I translated them into German myself. Tell me frankly what you think of them.”

Magdalena graciously accepted the little leather-bound book. “But how can you be so sure we’ll meet again?”

Silvio smiled. “I’m sure we shall. I come here often. Arrivederci.” He bowed politely and pranced out of the room.

Puzzled, Magdalena gazed after him for a while before climbing the narrow stairway up to the room where Simon was already lying on one of the flea-infested beds, staring up at the ceiling.

The hangman’s daughter grinned. “Is it possible you’re the tiniest bit jealous?”

Simon snorted. “Jealous? Of the dwarf?”

“Right. He’s the same height as you, you know.”

“Very funny,” Simon snapped. “In case you didn’t notice, the man was made-up like a woman. And he was wearing a wig.”

Magdalena shrugged. “Perhaps. I’ve heard that in France, at court, all the men wear wigs now. Doesn’t look half bad.”

Sitting up, the medicus looked at Magdalena as if she were a naughty child. “Magdalena, believe me, I know people like him. It’s all a facade-fine clothes, witty repartee, but nothing at all behind it!”

With a sigh, she lay down next to Simon and pulled him to her with both arms.

“Strange. That sounds somehow rather familiar.”

Late in the evening the gatekeeper Johannes Buchner strolled through the narrow city streets enjoying the mild summer air. Periodically he tossed a leather purse full of guilders in the air so the coins jingled like castanets. The lieutenant had been saving up for the coming Sunday, when he and a few friends had a game of dice planned for the back room of the Black Elephant. High stakes, big payoff-that was the way Buchner liked it.

Even as darkness fell, he had no fear for his safety. He was, after all, the head watchman at Jakob’s Gate, and the riffraff knew him well. Beggars, thieves, and whores knew better than to trifle with him. Unlike many of the other guards for whom duty at the gate was just another annoying civic responsibility to be performed as a matter of course, Buchner was a trained soldier paid by the city. Besides, anyone who dared assault a city guard risked meeting his end on gallows hill with his guts spilling out. But not before Buchner’s colleagues worked him over; by the time they were through with him, the poor bastard would wish he were dead already.

The lieutenant’s route took him from the city hall square all the way to the wine market near the Danube. Buchner mulled over the exciting events of the past week. The trap set for that Bavarian had worked perfectly! When the man first approached him at Jakob’s Gate, Buchner knew at once that this would be a profitable venture, even though he was surprised that such an influential person would want anything to do with someone as vile as an executioner. But that wasn’t really Buchner’s concern; the payoff was decent enough, and the man had made clear he wouldn’t tolerate any questions.

Even though the man hadn’t given his name, it was of course clear to Buchner who stood before him. As a longtime commander of the city guards, he knew who wielded power in this city. The man had promised him a whole purse of guilders just for seizing the Schongau hangman at Jakob’s Gate and releasing him at the agreed-upon time the following day. An armed contingent was to follow the stranger in secret, and a surprise would be waiting for them all at the bathhouse. When the guard finally saw what the surprise was, he had to hand it to his client. You really had to be careful not to make an enemy of a man like him.

Buchner whistled as he turned into the narrow Wiedfanggasschen Street, driving off a handful of whimpering strays with a few well-aimed kicks. A prostitute, cheaply made-up and haggard, winked at him from a street corner. For a moment the lieutenant considered spending the money he’d come by so easily not on wine but on women-then he thought better of it. In the last few weeks prostitutes had been disappearing left and right in Regensburg; the only ones who still dared to venture out into the streets were almost all old shrews.

“Get out of here before I put your bony frame in the pillory,” Buchner said in a threatening voice, spitting at her.

With a suppressed giggle, the prostitute sauntered off, but not without first offering him a view of her bare, boil-scarred backside. Soon enough Buchner was alone again in the narrow street, and though he’d served as night watchman in this city for thousands of hours, the sudden silence gave him an eerie feeling.

You’re getting old, Buchner, he thought. Letting yourself get spooked by a whore? It’s time for a mug of wine, or-

Thinking he caught sight of something moving out of the corner of his eye, he made an abrupt about-face, prepared to show a purse snatcher just what he was up against. No doubt the robber would turn on the spot and flee.

“Who dares approach the city guard-”

The knife plunged into the small gap between his cuirass and armpit and cut straight through to his heart. As blood spurted from his mouth, he stared back at his attacker in disbelief.

“But… why…?”

His knees buckled and he sank to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut. One final twitch, and he was still. The coin purse slipped from his limp fingers.

The murderer bent down to feel for the gatekeeper’s pulse, then for good measure slit his throat. At the latest, his colleagues would discover their commander’s stiff corpse the next morning, another tragic victim in a growing wave of crime in Regensburg. His attacker wiped the hunting knife on Buchner’s cloak and, contented, sauntered off with the purse of guilders, humming softly to himself. It was simply not worth the risk of having some garrulous bailiff foil his plan, especially now that this girl had appeared on the scene. No one suspected she’d show up in Regensburg looking for her father. Now what was he going to do about her?

The man decided the matter could wait a while. The hangman’s daughter wasn’t going anywhere, and the more pressing matter now was to dispose of some of the evidence. All would be taken care of, all in good time…

Smiling, he fingered a matchbox in his coat pocket. Soon enough all his worries would vanish like a puff of smoke.

Simon and Magdalena waited until the night was as black as the bottom of the Danube before heading downstairs to the tavern of the Whale. With considerable reluctance, the medicus had finally agreed to Magdalena’s plan to search the bathhouse for some clue that might exonerate Jakob Kuisl.

As he descended the creaking stairs, Simon noticed with astonishment that the tavern, empty just a few hours before, was now at full capacity. Every table was occupied with weatherworn raftsmen and craftsmen smoking their pipes, but more well-to-do citizens were there, too, with their lace collars and sparkling buttons. Laughing loudly and gossiping, they rolled dice as wine flowed so freely that the scrawny server could barely keep their steins full. A dark cloud of tobacco smoke enveloped the men, many of whom held women in their laps: garishly made-up and giggling, groping their patrons’ crotches as they licked their dark, wine-stained lips.

At his usual spot in back by the stove, the Venetian reclined, staring dreamily at the chaotic scene around him and sipping his wine now and then. He was the only one in the room with a leadcrystal glass in front of him.

“Ah, la bella signorina and her brave protector!” he exclaimed in greeting as Magdalena and Simon entered. “Have you abandoned your love nest in order to devote yourselves to the joys of the night? Sit with me, signorina, and tell me whether you’ve read my little book yet! I’m-come si dice-dying to know what you think of it.”

Simon shook his head coldly. “Sorry, we have other plans for tonight.”

Silvio Contarini winked at them. “For that you could have just stayed upstairs, no?”

Magdalena smiled and pulled away. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to stick your nose into other people’s business? Enjoy your wine, and we’ll see you later.”

“But what about my book?” he called after them. “The poems? Via piacciono questi versi?”

“I’ll wipe my backside with your book tonight,” Simon replied softly, closing the door behind them.

They were immediately engulfed in silence; only the muffled sound of laughter could be heard through the thick windowpanes. A warm breeze was blowing a moldy odor off the Danube.

“Simon, Simon.” Magdalena shook her head with mock severity. “Can you please be a little more polite? Or I might be tempted to believe you’re jealous!”

“Oh, come now!” Simon stomped ahead. “I just can’t stand it when someone uses such cheap tricks to seduce a woman!”

“Cheap?” Magdalena grinned, catching up to him. “You’ve never written me any poetry. But no need to worry; the Venetian is much too short for me anyway.”

They avoided the large square in front of the cathedral and hurried westward through the stinking, narrow back streets. At this hour it was so dark in Regensburg that they could barely see their hands in front of their faces. Simon had brought along a little lantern from the Whale that he held under his jacket; this at least threw faint light a few yards ahead. They didn’t dare risk any more light, as it was long past curfew, and if the watchmen caught them, they would no doubt both wind up locked in a cell and spend the next day in the stocks in the city hall square. Moreover, the light attracted thieves and murderers, who even now were no doubt lurking in doorways and around dark corners, looking out for drunks on their way home from the taverns and hoping to relieve these poor, besotted souls of their purses, their sterling silver buttons, and their finely polished boots.

Just as he had earlier that day, Simon imagined a robber skulking around every corner: once when he heard the sound of pebbles crunching just a few yards behind them, and later when he heard the faint sound of footsteps. In a narrow passage where the houses were built so close they almost touched, a legless beggar reached for Magdalena’s skirt; she rid herself of that nuisance with a single well-placed kick. But otherwise, except for a handful of drunks they encountered, all was quiet.

After a good quarter-hour that seemed infinitely longer to the medicus, they finally reached the Wei?gerbergraben. Along the road a canal flowed gently and emptied into the Danube, and before them the bathhouse loomed up out of the darkness. A tired watchman clutched his halberd in the entryway, looking as if he might just collapse at any moment.

“Now what?” Simon whispered. “Shall we ask the guard if we can have a look around?”

“Idiot!” Magdalena scolded. “But it is strange, isn’t it, that they’re still guarding the house? After all, the murder took place a while ago.” She stopped to think for a moment. “Let’s see if we can enter from the courtyard in back-nobody will see us that way.”

Simon grabbed her sleeve. “Magdalena, think about it: if they catch us inside, they’ll draw and quarter us along with your father! Is that what you want?”

“Then you can stay outside.”

Magdalena broke away and slipped through a little alleyway barely wider than her hips that separated the bathhouse from the neighboring building. With a sigh, Simon followed.

They climbed over slimy heaps of garbage and a foul-smelling mass of something that on closer inspection turned out to be a pig carcass. Dozens of rats scurried about. A few yards in, a hole appeared in the wall and, behind it, what seemed to be a back courtyard.

Simon’s gaze wandered over a mildewed wooden tub, some nondescript piles of junk, and a newly built well. Behind this was a small garden with pots of soil neatly arranged in rows. A small door gave entry to an outbuilding.

Magdalena hurried over to it and shook the handle gently. It was locked.

“Now what?” Simon whispered.

The hangman’s daughter pointed to a window that appeared to open into the bathhouse. The shutters were open a crack.

“Looks like my uncle wasn’t especially cautious,” she said in a soft voice. “Or somebody’s been here before us.”

The shutters creaked as she pushed them aside, then she boosted herself up and into the building. “Come on,” she whispered to Simon before disappearing into the darkness inside.

Having crawled in behind her, Simon held up the lantern to illuminate the cavernous room in which they found themselves. It seemed to extend all the way to the front of the building and was divided into niches, each containing a wooden tub. Fresh towels were stacked on shelves all along the walls, and next to them stood rows of vials filled with fragrant oils.

Magdalena stopped short. The tub directly next to her was still filled with water, and dark spots spattered the ground in front of it. She bent down to run her finger along the floor, and in the light cast by the lantern she could see her fingertip was red.

“So this is where my aunt and uncle were murdered.” She wiped the sticky substance on her skirt. “Right in the bathtub, just as my father said. Look, you can still see the drops there.”

Slowly she approached a far window that overlooked the back courtyard and motioned to Simon. By the light of his lantern he could see a bloody handprint on the windowsill.

It was the handprint of a man of about medium build, certainly not of Jakob Kuisl, who had what were probably the biggest hands Simon had ever seen in his life.

The medicus shrugged. “The print could be from one of the guards who removed the corpses.”

“What, out the back window?” snapped Magdalena. “Nonsense! The murderer entered the house back here, killed the two of them, and escaped again the same way. The size of the handprint proves it wasn’t my father!”

“Nobody will believe that in court,” Simon said, resuming his inspection of the room. By now his curiosity had gotten the better of his fear. He pointed to a door hidden at first glance behind one of the niches. “This seems to lead somewhere.”

He pressed the door handle and found himself standing in a room with a brick oven. Stained copper kettles as big as slaughterhouse vats were arranged on the oven, and alongside it wood was piled high enough to burn a witch. A narrow stairway led to the second floor through a ceiling black with soot.

“The heating chamber,” Magdalena said with an appreciative nod. “Aunt Lisbeth didn’t exaggerate when she wrote my father that their bathhouse was one of the largest in the city. With all this hot water, the entire Regensburg city council could probably splash around in the tubs all day long, all of them at once. Look.” She pointed to a circle of stones in the floor that surrounded a hole. A chain passed through the hole, allowing a damp wooden bucket to draw water from a well below. “Their very own well!” The hangman’s daughter sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to have something like that at home in Schongau. We’d never have to haul buckets up from the river again!”

She took a yard-long stick from the woodpile, wrapped it with brushwood, and fashioned a torch to illuminate the dark space below. Meanwhile, Simon ventured up to the second story, where he found two additional rooms. In one, apparently the Hofmanns’ bedroom, stood a large bed and an open chest. Peering inside, Simon realized someone had already rifled through it. An empty folder lay on top of tattered linens along with a crumpled set of Hofmann’s Sunday best. The medicus assumed the folder had once contained the bathhouse owner’s official papers, which the guards had seized as evidence.

Now Simon turned to the other room, and what he saw from the doorway stopped him in his tracks. It looked as if some evil spirit had wreaked havoc there. Over the fragrant reed-covered floor bouquets of dried herbs had been scattered and trampled. Shards of glass littered the floor, too, apparently broken cupping glasses. To his left, one shelf had been overturned and another held only a single bronze mortar; everything else had been hastily knocked to the floor. By the dim light of his lantern Simon saw a hopeless mess of torn parchments, tattered book bindings, leather purses ripped at the seams, and heaps of pills crushed to powder-all strewn across an enormous oak table that spanned the width of the room.

The medicus picked up a pill and sniffed the powder. It smelled strongly of alum and resin. Clearly this was Andreas Hofmann’s treatment room. As bathhouse operator, he also tended to his patrons’ little aches and pains.

Simon frowned. Why in God’s name would the guards have made this mess? Had they been looking for something?

Or had someone else come back here after they’d left?

He picked up a tattered book from the floor and leafed through it, a conventional herbarium depicting various kinds of grain. The pages with illustrations of rye, wheat, and oats were dog-eared and marked with red ink.

“Simon, come quick! I’ve found something!”

Magdalena’s stifled cry roused Simon from his thoughts. He put the book aside and hurried downstairs, where the hangman’s daughter was standing hip-deep in the well, pointing down excitedly.

“See for yourself! There are iron rungs built into the wall leading down! And I hardly believe my uncle was climbing down the well to fetch water. There must be something else down here.” She continued climbing downward until she disappeared into the darkness.

“Upstairs I found-” Simon began, but Magdalena interrupted him with an astonished cry.

“I was right! There’s an entrance here just a few rungs farther down. Hurry and come down!”

Queasy, Simon climbed down after her, arriving in just a few feet at a hole in the wall the size of a wagon wheel. He stumbled through, into a low chamber roughcast in white limestone. Inside, barrels, crates, and moldy sacks stood along the walls. Magdalena was already at work ripping open a number of them by the dim light of the lantern. She wore a disappointed look as she held up a few dried apples for him to see.

“Damn! The cellar is nothing more than a storage room!” she said with disappointment.

Simon thrust his stiletto into one of the barrels and stuck his finger inside. He tasted sweet, heavy red wine.

“Malvasia,” he said, smacking his lips. “And not bad. At home only the fine burgomasters get stuff like this. Perhaps we should take a little keg for ourselves…”

“Idiot!” Magdalena cursed. “We’re here to help my father, not to get drunk!”

“That’s a pity,” Simon replied, shining his lantern around the room. In one corner he saw that rats had helped themselves to a bag of flour, as a faint white trail led along the wall to where other bags of ground meal were stacked-basic gray linen sacks cinched with black cord. Stooping down, the medicus ran his finger through the dust. He stopped short. The powder was light blue in color and had a sickly sweet odor. He suspected the meal had already begun to mold in the dampness down here.

Simon followed the trail of dust until he came to a place along the wall where a sack had been torn open lengthwise. A half-dozen dead rats were lying on a mountain of flour, their bellies distended. Evidently the rodents had gorged themselves to death. As Simon nudged one of the cadavers with his shoe, he noticed footprints in the flour.

The footprints came to an abrupt halt in front of the wall. One of them-

All of a sudden he was startled by a rumbling from the room directly above them. The medicus ran to the hole where they’d entered the room and looked up. The darkness at the mouth of the well looked blacker to him now than before. He heard a splash, as if someone was filling one of the large kettles with water.

“What’s going on up there?” Magdalena whispered, letting the apples fall to the ground.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Simon replied, scrambling up the rungs of the ladder.

When his head struck something hard above him, his worst suspicions were confirmed. Someone had covered the mouth of the well with one of the large kettles from the boiler chamber and was now filling it with water.

Desperately Simon pushed against the copper base, but the kettle was already so full that it wouldn’t budge, and they could hear the sound of ever more water pouring into the massive container. The sound of water pouring finally stopped, only to be followed by a crackling and wisps of smoke that penetrated the gaps between the kettle and the walls of the well.

“Fire!” Simon cried. “Someone pushed the boiler over the hole and lit the wood! Help! Somebody help us!” He pounded desperately against the bottom of the kettle, though he knew no one could hear them up above.

No one but whoever’s setting the fire, he thought.

In the meantime the first tendril of smoke had grown to a dense and acrid cloud that was filling the entire shaft of the well. Coughing, Simon applied his shoulder to the kettle with all his might, but in vain. He couldn’t get a good foothold on the slippery rungs. He nearly plunged headlong down the well and threatened to take Magdalena with him, who by this time had clambered up the rungs behind him.

“Damn it!” she shouted. “This is pointless! We can’t both push against the kettle at the same time. Let’s go back down and see if there’s a way to escape through the water. Perhaps it connects with the well in the yard!”

“And if it doesn’t?” Simon wheezed. He was hardly visible through the thick smoke above her. “Then we’ll both drown like rats in the canal! No, there has to be another way!”

He pushed once more against the base of the copper kettle, but it was like trying to move the wall of a house. If only the kettle hadn’t been filled with all that water!

The water?

Then an idea came to him. He drew his stiletto and jammed it repeatedly, in short, sharps jabs, at the bottom of the kettle. The metal was very hard, but after a while he managed to poke a tiny hole in it so a thin stream of water trickled down. Simon kept jabbing at it, and the stream became broader until a flood of warm water soon poured down over him and Magdalena. Once more he pressed his shoulder against the kettle, and now, finally, it budged! He continued pressing until the veins on his temples stood out and the smoke made him gag. With a crash, the heavy vessel finally tipped, and heavy smoke poured into the well.

“Let’s get out of here!” Simon shouted as he climbed up the last few rungs. Coughing and struggling for breath, Magdalena followed. The boiler room was already filled with thick, caustic smoke, and Simon kept bumping into walls like a blind man until he finally stumbled on the door to the bath chamber. The medicus screamed as he touched the glowing-hot door handle; tiny shreds of his flesh stuck to the metal, hissing. In desperation Simon kicked down the door and stumbled into the large room where the bathtubs and wooden partitions were already ablaze. Someone had knocked over the oil containers, and waist-high flames rose from glistening puddles around the room. Simon was about to run toward the main entrance, but Magdalena grabbed his shoulder and held him back.

“That door is most certainly locked,” she gasped. “And anyway, the guard is probably still there. We have to get out through the back again!”

With burning eyes and lungs practically bursting with pain, they staggered toward the rear window, which fortunately was still open. Simon pushed his way through the opening and landed hard on a pile of rubbish. Pain shot through his right ankle. Beside him he could hear Magdalena groaning loudly. She struggled to her feet and ran through the inner courtyard and down the narrow lane. All she wanted was to get away from this inferno. Simon could hardly stand now-on top of everything else, he’d sprained his ankle. When he turned around again, he could see the fire had already spread to the attic, and the roof timbers had started crashing down behind him. The flames licked at the neighboring houses like the tongues of malevolent spirits.

Somewhere nearby an alarm started to ring.

The old night watchman Sebastian Demmler smelled the fire before he saw it-a faint odor in his nose at first, then stronger, more biting, coating his palate with an acrid taste and awakening his worst fears. Demmler had lived through the great fire during the war and remembered the conflagration quite vividly from his childhood. Two entire city neighborhoods had been reduced to ashes back then, and the cathedral had just barely been spared. He would never forget how the townsfolk screamed as they leaped from their burning homes.

Demmler had been a night watchman for decades, and when he smelled this fire, his infallible instinct told him that such a time had come again. He took one step around the next corner to see the home of the murdered bathhouse owner blazing now like a gigantic torch. Three other buildings had already caught fire. This close, everything was lit up as brightly as on Easter night when they set bonfires to drive away the evil winter spirits. Demmler could feel the heat singeing the hair on his bare arms. Stepping back a few paces, he sounded the alarm with his little bell.

“Fire!” he shouted. “Fire in Wei?gerbergraben! Help! Help!”

By now alarm bells in the nearby Scottish church were also ringing, and screams came from all sides. Demmler watched people run out of their front doors toward the burning bathhouse with buckets, tubs, and even entire barrels of water. In front of the house lay a watchman’s lifeless body, buried slowly in the burning timbers crashing down. Residents of the neighboring buildings sought to save their homes from the fire by splashing buckets of water at the walls, but in vain, as the liquid vaporized on contact.

Demmler continued to sound his alarm, holding the stained sleeve of his coarsely woven coat over his mouth so as not to breathe in too much smoke. Where were the guards from the Westner Quarter? It was high time for them to show up in their new fire wagon with its hoses. For at least five of the buildings, however, it was already too late. This far into the summer, a single bolt of lightning could set an entire village on fire, and when a thatched roof started to burn, the fire could eat its way to the ground floor in no time at all. The old night watchman had seen too many buildings go up in flames like funeral pyres.

Only now did it occur to Demmler that there hadn’t been any thunderstorms in the last few hours. He was by nature a bit slow-witted, but he nevertheless mulled this over as he continued ringing his bell and watching the other citizens attempt to extinguish the fire. Had someone once again failed to properly bank their fire for the night? But it was past midnight now, and who would be cooking at this hour? What else might have caused the fire?

As he pondered that question, Demmler noticed a figure dashing out of the little alley alongside the bathhouse. The figure was dressed in black, so all Demmler could make out was a dark shadow disappearing around the corner. Two other figures-a man and a woman-came staggering out of the same alley a short time later, and this time Demmler got a better look. The man was short, with delicate features, and wearing broad trousers and a tailored jacket like the ones young dandies wore. In the light of the flames Demmler could see a black Vandyke beard and a black head of hair to match. When he caught sight of the woman, he nearly gasped-she was clearly a beautiful woman, but in her simple gray dress, her bodice stained, and her face blackened with soot, she truly looked like the bride of Satan.

The bride of Satan?

Demmler wasn’t an especially superstitious man, but the raging fire, the flickering shadows, and this soot-covered witch awakened terrible fantasies in him. Besides, wasn’t Satan said to be petite and vain, with a weakness for the fair sex? Trembling, Demmler leaned back against the wall as the two figures turned into a side street just a few steps from where he stood. He tried to get a better look at their faces, but the only thing he was able to remark before they disappeared in the darkness was that the young man was limping.

The mark of Satan-the devil’s cloven foot! Holy Mary, Mother of God, help me!

The night watchman crossed himself and swore he would say a hundred rosaries if Satan didn’t drag him away first. He heard a final rasp and cough; then they were gone. His heart pounding, Demmler resolved to report everything to the head of the guards the next day. He would tell him exactly what the devil and his woman looked like, even if Demmler doubted such a description would be useful.

Presumably, by then, the Prince of Darkness would have assumed a different form.

Coughing and gasping, Simon and Magdalena pushed open the door to the Whale and came face-to-face with about three dozen astonished guests. A moment before, a boisterous mood had prevailed in the room-laughter, singing, and the clinking of mugs as toasts were made-but now the room fell as silent as a cemetery.

Nervously the medicus checked Magdalena and himself for any outward symptoms of a contagious disease. And only then did he notice with horror that they were both completely covered in soot. The white linen shirt Simon had put on that morning had taken on the color of burned wood and was now dotted with so many burn holes that the fabric was almost falling apart. Ashes clung to Magdalena’s matted, charred hair, and only her eyes shone brightly from her sooty face. Bewildered, the guests could only stare at them.

“There’s… a fire down in the Wei?gerbergraben,” the medicus blurted out breathlessly. “We tried to help but the fire was just too great. We…”

His last words trailed off and were drowned out in the immediate uproar. Guests who were stone drunk just a moment ago now jumped up, shouting all at once; some attempted to crowd through the door where Simon and Magdalena still stood, forcing the pair back through the doorway, where they stared out at the bright glow of fire in the western sky over the city. Bells were ringing everywhere now, and when Simon heard what sounded like the angry buzz of a swarm of bees, it took him a few moments to realize it was, in fact, the collective sound of a thousand screaming voices.

Oh, God, is that really the fire that started in the bathhouse? he thought. How many houses are on fire now?

He tugged at Magdalena’s sleeve. “Let’s go and get some water. Looking the way we do, we might be suspected of having something to do with the fire.”

Magdalena nodded. She cast one last horrified glance back at the city skyline, silhouetted now against the bright orange blaze, then returned with Simon to the tavern. It had almost entirely emptied out, except for the Venetian, who was still sprawled out near the stove, just as they had left him hours ago. Silvio Contarini, whose curly black wig had slipped and was hanging crookedly across his forehead, looked besotted now. Alongside him three men were dozing, their heads resting on playing cards that floated in a puddle of wine in the middle of the table.

“Ah, la bella signorina and her valiant companion!” he purred. “What happened? You look as if you’ve only narrowly escaped your own funeral pyre.”

“We-we’ve had an accident,” Simon said crossly, nudging Magdalena forward. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to go and clean up a bit.”

“You must cleanse yourself internally.” Grinning, the Venetian pushed a jug of wine across the table. “Chilled Malvasia. That will rinse the ashes from your mouth.”

“Some other time. The lady is tired.” Tapping Magdalena on the behind, Simon was about to head upstairs when he met the lady’s furious stare and realized he’d gone too far.

“The lady can still decide for herself,” Magdalena snapped. “Perhaps the gentleman declines the offer of a glass of wine, but the lady would be pleased to relax and have a drink.”

Pulling away from Simon, she smiled at the Venetian. “A sip of wine would be just the right thing, thank you.”

“Certo!” Solicitously, Silvio nudged one of the drunken card players onto the floor so gently he didn’t even wake up. “You’ll find no better medicine in all of Regensburg,” the Venetian continued. “And no better place to forget your troubles.” He pointed to the empty seat.

Magdalena dropped down on the bench and helped herself to a tumbler of wine. The moment the first drops ran down her throat, she felt the alcohol’s exhilarating but calming effect. After the fire and the attempted murder, and after inhaling all that smoke, she badly needed a glass of wine.

“But…” Simon tried one last time, before Magdalena’s eyes flashed, silencing him. With a shrug, he hobbled up the stairs.

“Is your piccolo amico angry at me now?” Silvio asked after the sound of the footsteps had died away. He refilled Magdalena’s glass. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended him.”

Magdalena shook her head. “Oh, don’t worry… he’ll calm down again.” Then she picked up a cup of dice and shook it. “The loser gets the next round. Agreed?”

The Venetian smiled. “D’accordo.”

Dawn was breaking already, and Jakob Kuisl’s thoughts still tormented him. Memories plagued him, billowed through his mind like poisonous plumes, and try as he might, he couldn’t dispel them. He shut his eyes, and his thoughts drifted back to the past… the scent of gunpowder, the screams of the wounded, the blank eyes of the dead he tramples as he marches across the battlefield with his two-handed sword. For ten days they have laid siege to Magdeburg, and now Tilly orders the attack. Heavy artillery roars from barriers the sappers have erected, and massive cannonballs crash into and breach the city walls. Jakob and the other mercenaries run screaming through the streets, slaughtering anyone who crosses their paths. Men, women, children…

Little Jakob came of age in the war. He became a double mercenary-receiving twice the usual pay of ten guilders a month standing in the front line for Tilly. His colonel awarded him a master’s diploma for his use of the longsword, but mostly Jakob fights with a katzbalger, a shortsword designed to be thrust into the opponent’s gut, then twisted to slice open the intestines. Jakob still carries his two-handed sword on his back to terrify the enemy and win the respect of his own people.

Meanwhile word has gotten around that Jakob is the son of a hangman. That lends him a certain magical aura, even among his comrades. A hangman is a shaman, a traveler between two worlds. When Jakob needs money, he sells pieces of gallows rope, forges bullets that never miss, and sells amulets that make their wearers invincible. At eighteen years of age he is a bear of a man. The colonel has already promoted him to the rank of sergeant, since he kills better than most. Silent, quick, impassive, just as he learned from his father. His own men fear him; they follow his commands and lower their heads when he passes by, and they admire him when he stands at the front, shoulder to shoulder with them, and engages the enemy.

And yet, when the battle is over, he stays on the smoking field among the twisted, bloody bodies and he cries.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name…

Jakob left Schongau to escape the bloody work of an executioner. To refuse his inheritance, to escape his father’s fate.

But God put Jakob back in his place.

A sound outside his cell roused the hangman from his reveries. He’d lost all sense of time, but the chirping birds told him it was morning now. The cell door had fallen slightly ajar, and the outline of a man appeared there. In the light of a flickering torch on the wall behind him, the figure’s shadow grew to superhuman size until it seemed to fill the entire room.

Kuisl knew who was standing before him before the man had uttered even a single word.