The Beggar King

6

REGENSBURG

EARLY ON THE MORNING OF AUGUST 20, 1662 AD

The prostitute Katharina lay on the floor of her dark chamber, trying to deflect the hairy hand that crawled over her face like a spider. She felt it clearly, but each time she opened her eyes, she could see nothing but her own hand, which she then held up close to her face, wiggling her fingers until they turned, before her eyes, into black insect legs covered with fine hairs. Katharina screamed and pounded her forehead with her fist again and again.

“Go away; why won’t you just leave me alone?”

But the spidery legs crept down her neck and over her breasts, where they lingered.

The creak of hinges stirred her from her hallucination. The hatch in the door slid open, and a tray of bread, dried pears, honey, and eggs was pushed through it. Katharina took the tray and flung it against the wall so hard the eggs broke and viscous, yellow yolk oozed down the whitewashed walls.

“Eat this stuff yourself!” she screamed. “I want out of here! Out, do you hear me? Out!”

The eye stared down at her coldly.

“Let me out!”

Silence. The eye unblinking.

“You goddamned devil!”

Katharina ran to the door and jammed her finger through the hole, but the eye had disappeared. She kicked the heavy wooden door and hammered it with her hands, screaming louder than she ever had before.

“Bastard! Devil! Satan!”

She had the sudden premonition that someone was standing right behind her. She spun around. Had she seen a shadow dart across the floor? A hunchbacked man, with a tail and two horns on his head. Katharina put her fist in her mouth and bit so hard that a tiny trickle of blood ran across her pale, translucent skin.

I’m going mad…

Her screams fading to a whimper finally, she slid down against the wall and onto the floor next to the overturned tray. She could still smell the enticing aroma of fresh bread, and now, reluctantly, she was hungry again.

She reached for the bread and clawed hastily at the white interior, stuffing the still-steaming pieces into her mouth. Perhaps the shadows and visions would vanish with her hunger.

In her ravenous fit she didn’t notice the eye once again staring down at her as she ate. Cool and pitiless.

“I’ve been expecting you,” Kuisl said as he rose from the floor of the cell and extended his hand to his visitor. The ceiling was so low that for the hundredth time he knocked his head against it. Early-morning light streamed through the open cell door. “It’s only too bad it’s under circumstances such as these.”

The Regensburg executioner’s grip was viselike, and his rough, callused hand felt like the bark of an old oak. And though Kuisl’s knuckles cracked, he barely registered the pressure.

“The ways of the Lord are inscrutable, dear cousin,” his visitor replied. As was the custom among hangmen, he addressed Kuisl as he would a member of his own family. Most executioners were distantly related in one way or another.

The Regensburg hangman stepped aside and motioned for Kuisl to follow him out into the dimly lit corridor of the cell block, at least as far as his chains would allow.

Philipp Teuber was a good bit shorter than the Schongau hangman, though considerably broader. His body was like a wine barrel with a disproportionately small head screwed on top. He was all sinew and muscle; the Heavenly Father seemed to have forgotten a neck when he created Teuber, leaving the excess material for his arms and legs. In the middle of his round, full face stood two astonishingly cheerful, sparkling eyes surrounded by countless freckles. All of this was framed by a full reddish-blond beard and an untamed head of hair. The Regensburg hangman was about forty years old, but his whole appearance gave the impression that he was considerably older.

“Next time let me know when you’re planning a visit to Regensburg,” Teuber said. “Then I’ll be sure to make a place ready for you in my house and have Caroline cook up some salted smoked meat.”

Kuisl grinned. “It certainly would be better than the slop they serve here.”

“You don’t know my Caroline.” Teuber flashed a row of dark yellow teeth as his face contorted into an expression the Schongau hangman could interpret only as a smile.

For a while they were silent. Then Teuber found his voice again, massaging his knuckles as he spoke. “It’s looking grim for you, cousin. The inquiry is over, and the city council wants to start your trial today. If you don’t confess, they’ll send you down to me in the torture chamber, and you know what happens from there…”

They both fell silent again; only the buzzing flies circling over the chamber pot could be heard.

“Why did you come?” Kuisl finally asked.

“I guess I just wanted to have a look at you,” the Regensburg executioner said, “before I put the thumb screws to you, that is. It’s not every day that I’m asked to break one of our own on the rack, let alone draw and quarter him.” He looked deep into Kuisl’s eyes. “The president of the council says you’re responsible for killing your sister and brother-in-law. Is that true?”

Kuisl cleared his throat loudly and spat on the ground. “What do you believe?”

Teuber’s eyes probed Kuisl’s body as if searching for witch’s markings or suspicious liver spots under his clothing.

“How many people have you executed, Kuisl?” he finally asked.

The Schongau hangman shrugged. “No idea. Maybe a hundred? Two hundred? I’ve never tallied them up.”

Teuber nodded approvingly. “Then you know at least what I’m talking about. Look here.” He pointed at his round, bearded face. “With these two ears of mine, I’ve heard more people whining that they were innocent than you have dumb farmers in Schongau. And these two eyes have seen more gallows birds hanged than there are fat priests in Rome. Regensburg’s a big city, and almost every month I have to hurt someone. And with time, Kuisl-” He sighed, looking at the inscriptions on the cell walls. “-with time, one learns to tell who’s innocent and who’s not,” he continued. “Believe me, most are guilty.”

“Don’t preach to me,” Kuisl growled. “I don’t give a damn what you believe or think. There’s nothing you can do once the higher-ups have made up their minds.”

Teuber nodded. “Right you are. Though it’s not nice when you have to lay the noose around someone’s neck while the real murderer’s still running free.”

“So, you do believe I’m innocent?”

The Regensburg hangman looked deep into his colleague’s eyes once more. “The city out there’s like a ravenous beast,” he said finally. “Every day she devours a few more, and it isn’t always the villains.”

Kuisl sensed his interlocutor was keeping something from him.

Teuber hesitated before attempting a smile again. “I’ll make you a proposal, Kuisl. Confess the double murder at the trial and you’ll at least spare yourself the torture. If they decide to break you on the wheel, I’ll crack your neck first with an iron rod so you won’t feel the rest. And if they decide to draw and quarter you instead, I have a nice little potion that will carry you off gently before your limbs are ripped from their sockets. How does that sound?”

Kuisl spat on the ground again. “It wasn’t me, and I’m not going to confess. Now get out of here, and do what you have to do. No doubt you have a few pincers to polish.”

Teuber took a deep breath. “You’re too damn proud, Kuisl. Believe me, you’ll end up screaming, and then all the pride in the world won’t do you a damn bit of good. I’ve seen it all too often.”

“By God, I tell you, it wasn’t me!” Kuisl exploded. “Even if you break every bone in my body. If you believe I’m innocent, then help me or keep your damned mouth shut.”

Teuber shook his head. “I won’t do anything that will bring ruin upon my family.”

“Rubbish!” Kuisl snapped. “Bring me some paper and something to write with-that’s all I ask. And when I’m done, take the letter to my daughter. That shameless woman is gadding about somewhere in Regensburg.”

“A farewell letter-I understand.” Teuber nodded. “I’ll have to ask the aldermen for permission, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Where do I find your daughter?”

Kuisl laughed. “Who are you? The Regensburg hangman or his apprentice? Ask around, keep your eyes peeled, but do it in secret so that you don’t drag my Magdalena along to the gallows, too.”

Teuber stroked his beard. “Fine, Kuisl,” he said finally. “I’ll help you because you’re one of us and because I don’t think you’re stupid enough to get yourself caught standing between two corpses with your dagger drawn. But as of tomorrow morning, I’ll have to hurt you all the same.”

“Let that be my concern.” Kuisl had already returned to his cell and settled down on the floor. “Now leave me in peace, Teuber. I need to think.”

The Regensburg executioner grinned as he slowly pulled the dungeon door closed. “Kuisl, Kuisl,” he said, wagging his finger impishly. “I’ve seen many a sinner before I tortured them-anxious, raving, screaming, praying-but you are by far the boldest. I can’t believe that will last long.”

With a crash, the door slammed closed and darkness descended over Jakob Kuisl.

A huge beech tree waved in the breeze above Simon. Its green leaves were rustling, birds were chirping, and the hum of insects filled the air. The medicus took a deep breath and felt at one with the world. All at once, however, a raucous noise clashed with the pleasant sounds of nature. A huge saw seemed to be cutting through the ancient beech trunk. The tree began to sway, its enormous bulk threatening to topple at any moment and bury the medicus beneath it. Then, with an earsplitting crash, the beech fell to the ground. Simon awoke with a shout, opened his eyes, and realized he’d just been dreaming. No blue summer sky spread out over him, only the sooty ceiling of the Whale. Yet the noise persisted.

Chrrrrrrrr… Chrrrrrrrr…

Simon turned on his side to see Magdalena lying on her back next to him, snoring like a drunken sailor. He wrinkled his nose. The hangman’s daughter not only snored like a drunken sailor, she smelled like one, too. Her mouth gaped open, and a thin string of saliva had formed in one corner. The medicus couldn’t help but grin. If the little Venetian could see his bella signorina now, he’d most certainly put an end to his inappropriate advances.

The little Venetian?

Simon sat bolt upright and looked over at the other side of the bed. With relief, he found he was alone with Magdalena. Nevertheless, the very idea that Silvio might have taken Magdalena off to bed while Simon slept like an infant beside them made his blood boil. Who could say what had already happened between them? Simon knew from personal experience what men were capable of when alcohol turned girls silly and weak. He closed his eyes and suppressed his worst imaginings.

When he climbed out of bed, he felt a sharp, throbbing pain in his right ankle. In a flash he remembered how they’d broken into the bathhouse the night before and just barely made it out of the cellar. Cursing softly, he rubbed some arnica ointment on his swollen foot and wrapped it gently in a piece of linen. Then he dressed carefully. Fortunately, in the bag he managed to hang on to after being chased through the market square he discovered a fresh shirt and an only slightly soiled jacket among his medical instruments. He’d already given his trousers a quick, makeshift cleaning the night before with a cake of bone soap; he’d have to wear this outfit around Regensburg for the coming weeks-a prospect especially distasteful to him when he thought about how smartly dressed the little Venetian had been last night. Simon could only hope the bruises on his face had faded some in the meanwhile. In his present condition he no doubt resembled a small but dangerous barroom brawler.

Without waking the snoring Magdalena, he hobbled out of the bedchamber and down to the empty taproom, where he poured himself a mug of watery beer and found a bowl with stale pieces of leftover bread. Two drunks were dozing on the bench by the stove, and in front of a steaming pot sat someone Simon didn’t recognize at first: the Regensburg raftmaster they’d met the day before at the docks.

Karl Gessner smiled and motioned for Simon to come closer.

“Ah, the little quack from the raft landing! I knew we’d meet again soon.” His smile immediately vanished. “Excuse me, I’m tactless. Right now you surely have enough worries.” He pushed the pot of lentil soup to the middle of the table so the medicus could help himself.

“This double murder… was a heavy blow for the both of us,” Simon said hesitantly, dunking his bread crust into the soup. “We thought perhaps Hofmann would give me a job. We-we wanted to make a new beginning here. And then this!” He shook his head. “Now they’ve taken Magdalena’s father into custody because they think he’s the one who did it. Ludicrous!”

“And? What do you intend to do now?”

Simon dunked another crust of bread into the soup and swallowed before answering. “For the time being we’ll probably stay here at the Whale. There must be some way to prove that Magdalena’s father is innocent. The murder in the bathhouse…” He paused because he wasn’t certain how much he could trust the raftmaster. After a while he continued in a soft voice. “You seem to know your way around Regensburg. Do you have any idea who might be behind this murder? Something about it just isn’t right. Yesterday the house was still under guard, as if it concealed some dark secret. Do you have any advice?”

Gessner shrugged. “You both certainly know by now that the house burned to the ground last night. If there was anything of interest inside it, nothing is left of it now.”

“But did you happen to hear anything before that?” Simon was grasping at straws. “Something, anything, that might exonerate Magdalena’s father?”

Gessner looked at him sympathetically. “I’m sorry. As raftmaster, I sit on the Outer Council, but with regard to the bathhouse murders I’m more or less powerless. That’s someone else’s responsibility. I know only that Kuisl will be put on trial soon.” Falling silent, he poked around in his soup, but Simon could sense that Gessner had something more to say.

“The world is unjust-that’s just the way it is,” the raftmaster finally added. “And often it’s the wrong man who suffers. But it’s not for you to decide what’s good and what’s right.”

Simon looked at Gessner and frowned. “What are you trying to say?”

Gessner sopped up the last bit of soup with the bread and stood up. “Be sensible and don’t get mixed up in things that are much bigger than you may be prepared to handle. There’s still time for you to return home. A good day to you, and greetings to your girl.” He placed a copper coin on the table, bowed slightly, and disappeared out the door without another word.

Simon sat for a while thinking about Gessner’s final words. What did the raftmaster mean when he said they oughtn’t to get mixed up in things? What was going on behind the scenes?

Finally the medicus gave up. If there was anything to be learned, he certainly wasn’t going to learn it sitting here all by himself in some cheap tavern. With a sigh, he headed out the door and into the blinding morning sun. He needed fresh air to get his mind off all this, even if his foot was still throbbing. The events of the previous day kept running through his mind. Obviously someone had set a trap for the Schongau hangman-but who, and why? Their visit to the bathhouse yesterday made it clear that someone had already been there looking for something. And that someone had followed them, locked them in the basement, and tried to burn them alive.

Because they had discovered something?

But what? Why had this arsonist tried to kill them, and what did any of it have to do with the plot against Magdalena’s father?

Simon was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice he was approaching the cathedral square. Only after a few people had bumped into him did he think to look up, startled. A few peddlers had already set up their stalls, and people were streaming out of the main church portal after early mass. Many, wearing serious expressions, were deeply engaged in discussions about the fire the night before, which had destroyed so many homes and possessions. Each one seemed eager to outdo the others with gruesome, detailed stories. Simon couldn’t help but think of an old saying:

Blessed Saint Florian, spare our house, and let the others burn…

A sudden rolling drumbeat sounded across the plaza, and two guards approached from the right. One beat an old military drum while the other held a parchment in his hand. As a crowd began to gather, one guard broke the seal and began to read in a booming voice.

“Citizens of Regensburg, lend an ear! A fire broke out in our beautiful city yester eve, destroying three dozen homes. Lives, too, were lost. Some say the devil himself is among us, along with his playmate.” Whispers went up among the crowd as it eagerly awaited the grisly details. After a dramatic pause the crier continued:

“The city council is pleased to inform all citizens that it was not the devil who set the fire, but it was a foul deed by the hand of man. Two persons who were seen in the Wei?gerbergraben area last night are under strong suspicion of having committed this dastardly crime. Persons in question are a little man with a limp and a black-haired girl in a coarse linen skirt…”

What followed was a detailed description of the two suspects. The blood drained from Simon’s face as he listened. The watchmen were looking for him and Magdalena! Perhaps someone in the cathedral square had recognized him already! In fact, a murmur was passing softly through the crowd, and someone rose and approached the guard, pointing toward the river in the approximate direction of the Whale. Simon backed up against the wall of a nearby building and peered into a small lane behind it that branched into a labyrinth of ever-narrower alleys. A curious older couple stared down at him from a second-story window, so in spite of his swollen ankle, Simon hurried away, limping. He had to warn Magdalena as fast as possible! He only hoped it wasn’t already too late.

Just as he was about to turn the corner, he heard a voice call to him from a dark entryway: “If it’s through these alleyways you want to escape, let me guide you, or someone will surely cut your throat even before the watchmen can arrest you for arson.”

An old man clad in rags emerged from a stone portal. In the dim light it took Simon a few seconds to recognize him as Hans Reiser, the blind beggar he’d healed the day before in the market square. Reiser’s stubbled, pockmarked face beamed at Simon with joy. He wore a patch over his right eye, but he gave Simon a cheerful wink with his left as he ran up to the medicus with arms wide open.

“I prayed to God to send you back to me again so I could repay you!” he cried out. “Thanks be to God. He heard my prayers!”

“Very well,” Simon said in a low voice. “Perhaps some other time. At the moment-well, I’m in a bit of a hurry, so please-”

Reiser put his finger to his lips and grinned. “You needn’t tell me a thing. I know the authorities are looking for you and the girl because of the fire last night.”

“But how do you-?” Simon began.

“We beggars know many things,” the old man interrupted in a whisper. “The citizens think of us as lice-infested, starving sacks of shit who hold out our hands for every last little coin, but in reality we’re even more powerful than many of the guilds.” He winked. “We even have our own guild house, though it’s not as fine as those of the merchants, bakers, or goldsmiths. Believe me, nothing remains a secret from us for long.”

“You promise you won’t betray me?” Simon whispered.

Horrified, Reiser shook his head. “Betray my savior? Am I Judas? I wish to help you!”

“But what do you intend to do?”

“For starters, we’ll make you and your girl disappear,” the beggar replied. “I’ve already sent a messenger to the Whale who will bring the girl back here to us. I also know you’re trying to find out more about the bathhouse murders. Let’s see if we can’t find some clues for you.”

“But that’s impossible!” Simon cried. “We haven’t told anyone about the murders!”

“Aha, and your conversation in front of the bathhouse just yesterday morning?” Reiser grinned. “In Regensburg the walls have ears, and most of those ears belong to us beggars. Now quit standing there gaping like a fool and come along!”

Tentatively Simon followed. “Where are we going?”

Reiser looked over his shoulder to glance at the medicus with his good eye. “To the king of the beggars. I’ve already spoken with him, and he will grant you an audience.”

“Who?”

Reiser giggled. “The head of our guild, you idiot! Consider yourself lucky; it’s a great honor to be invited to see him. And now hurry along before the guards catch up!”

Shaking his head, Simon followed the old man through the labyrinth of narrow lanes and trash-filled courtyards. Darting shadows reminded them that they weren’t alone.

Magdalena awoke to a knocking sound that grew louder and louder. She was about to get up and give the troublemaker pounding at the door a slap when she realized the noise wasn’t coming from outside but from her own head. She slowly opened her crusted eyes but closed them again as a flash of light seared her pupils. Next she attempted a cautious squint as she groped for a pitcher of water she vaguely remembered had been standing beside the bed when she collapsed the night before. She grabbed it and poured its cold contents all over her face. Spluttering, she shook the water from her hair. The pounding had stopped, but a sharp ache still coursed through her head in waves.

The thought of waves immediately made her nauseous.

Suppressing the need to throw up, she tried to remember the night before. The fire in the bathhouse, their narrow escape, their arrival at the Whale… After Simon went up to bed, she’d loitered down in the tavern, showing the men there that holding one’s liquor wasn’t just a matter of body weight or years of training. The Kuisls were widely known for their cast-iron stomachs. The night before any execution, Magdalena’s father would get so drunk that Anna-Maria Kuisl had to lug him cursing and hollering into their bed in the wee hours of the morning. Yet odd as it was, without fail the hangman would be on the scaffold stone-cold sober just a few hours later, even if he did look rather grim-an appropriate appearance for a hangman on execution day. Magdalena had apparently inherited this particular brand of stamina from her father. Throughout the night she had also chewed on some of the bitter black coffee beans Simon so adored, and that had no doubt helped her stay at least partly sober.

Simon?

“Simon? Are you there?” she croaked, feeling the empty bed beside her. She sat up with a moan. The medicus must have gone downstairs already. She wondered whether he was still angry at her for having stayed down in the tavern the night before, drinking with the little Venetian. She opened the door and staggered down the stairway, her head pounding. The scent of frying bacon permeated the air, causing her stomach to rumble loudly. In the main room she saw the tavern keeper behind the bar, helping herself that very moment to a slug of brandy.

When she noticed Magdalena, she pointed back to the kitchen. “If you’re looking for your drinking friend, he’s in there,” she mumbled, taking another swig. Magdalena nodded and went back to the smoke-filled kitchen where wood logs glowed inside an enormous hearth.

“Simon?” she asked, but the only person in the room was Silvio Contarini, who stood by the hearth, whistling as he stirred the contents of a clay bowl with a spoon. Next to him bacon was sizzling in a pan, permeating the room with a delicious aroma.

“Ah, you slept in?” The Venetian winked at Magdalena and pointed toward the pan. “I’m preparing an old Italian home recipe, uova strapazzate allo zafferano, scrambled eggs with saffron and bacon. Would you like some?”

Although Magdalena had intended only to inquire about Simon, now that she saw the golden egg hissing in the pan, she couldn’t resist.

She nodded, and her mouth began to water. “A little… yes.”

With the elegance of a royal cupbearer, Silvio set a plate, knife, and spoon down in front of her on the table and poured diluted wine from a carafe.

“The perfect cure for a hangover,” he said with a grin, serving her a hearty portion of eggs and bacon. “Guaranteed to bring the color back to una ragazza’s cheeks. I hope it doesn’t bother you if I call you una ragazza, a girl. You look so-well, so young.”

“I just turned twenty-four this summer, if you want to know exactly. You needn’t bow when you talk to me.” Magdalena smiled to herself as she stared at the plate in front of her. She had never before seen a scrambled egg so yellow-it gleamed like liquid gold. “It looks wonderful,” she said.

“The saffron does that,” Silvio explained as he noticed Magdalena’s astonishment. “I like my eggs to shimmer like the sun.”

“But isn’t saffron very expensive?” she asked, perplexed. The hangman’s daughter knew that saffron was weighed against gold and therefore merchants often mixed powdered marigolds in with it, despite the high fines for being caught doing so.

The Venetian shrugged. “Food, drink, love… There are some things one doesn’t scrimp on.”

Magdalena nodded, her mouth full. “Stlishish!”

“Perdonate?”

She wiped the grease from her lips. “I said it’s delicious. Have you ever heard of a drink called coffee?”

Silvio nodded. “Caffe! Ah, a wonderful brew! If I’d known you’d drink it, I would have gone to the market-”

“That’s not necessary,” she interrupted. “Simon always has a few beans with him. I was only thinking it would go well with the egg.” Suddenly she remembered why she’d come to the kitchen in the first place. She took one more bite before she stood up. “Have you by chance seen Simon?”

“Your grim little amico?” Silvio rolled his eyes theatrically. “No. Can’t you forget about him for once and, come si dice, chat with me for a bit?”

Magdalena smiled. “Didn’t we do enough of that yesterday?” She turned to leave. “But as far as the coffee and the saffron egg are concerned… we’ll do that again some other time. Thank you very much.”

The little Venetian raised his hands to heaven. “You’re ungrateful! At least allow me to accompany you. I know my way around this city almost as well as I do Venice. Surely I can help you find your friend.”

Magdalena sighed. “All right, then; you don’t give up, do you?”

Together they walked out into the dazzling daylight. The sun was so blinding that Magdalena didn’t notice a figure crouched in an alley across the street, studying her every move.

Simon had to be careful not to lose sight of Hans Reiser. His guide kept turning ahead of him into little alleys, each one narrower than the one before, often groping his way along the walls with his hands; evidently Reiser still hadn’t completely regained his sight. The medicus begged him again and again to keep the patch on if he didn’t want to risk losing his sight again, but each time the beggar waved him off.

“Who will lead you to the beggar king, then, huh?” he replied as he continued to stumble through the dark alleys.

They clambered over piles of excrement, rotten vegetables, and animal carcasses piled up in the narrow streets. The sun almost never shone in these close, suffocating back alleys, and the stench was so bad that Simon had to hold his jacket sleeve over his mouth and nose to keep from vomiting.

“Aren’t we almost there?” the medicus asked repeatedly, but the old man replied only with an impatient shake of his head.

“I want to make sure no one is following us,” Reiser whispered. “It’s better if we go around in circles a few times. If the guards learn where our guild house is, the beggar king will have my hide, personally.”

“But how can you have a secret guild house that nobody knows about in a city as crowded as this?” Simon asked. “It’s not like there are just a few of you, and the guards must certainly have noticed already.”

“You might be surprised.”

Reiser giggled and continued groping his way along the walls of the houses. Cursing, Simon followed, wading as best he could with his sprained foot through the muck, which was nearly ankle-deep in places.

The beggar came to a halt in the middle of a deserted, shadowy back courtyard, put his finger in his mouth, and whistled. Another whistle answered from somewhere nearby. Reiser pushed aside a rotting two-wheeled wooden cart to reveal a crumbling stone staircase underneath. Simon guessed that at one time a house had stood on the spot where the courtyard was now, and all that remained were these steep, deeply worn steps into the cellar. Grinning, Reiser made an imperceptible bow.

“The beggars’ guild house! Please, after you, Your Honor.”

Simon headed down reluctantly. After they’d gone just a few yards, he was surprised to see a line of torches along the walls, lighting the way. The walls themselves appeared to consist of weathered stone blocks painted with strange runes. It took a while for the medicus to recognize the markings as Hebrew, which he was unable to decipher.

After another dozen or so steps the stairway ended in a wide, sloping corridor that led further down into darkness. As they walked, they passed a number of forks and intersections, where they encountered ragged, stooped forms. Reiser seemed to know most of them and greeted them warmly. As the people shuffled past, it occurred to Simon that many of them walked with a limp, and some wore bandages over their eyes or hobbled along on just one leg with the help of crutches. All their faces were gaunt, and all were dressed in rags. Simon sensed he was walking step by step down into an abyss, past a virtually endless procession of the miserable and the sick.

Just like in Dante’s underworld, he thought. Good heavens, just what have I gotten myself into?

The crowd of the downtrodden grew denser, whispering and pointing to the young medicus as he passed by, until at last Simon and his escort came to a low, vaulted torch-lit room. The flickering flames cast a mournful light on a ragged group gathered around an enormous oak table rotting in the middle of the cellar. The room was a good fifteen paces long and just as wide. On the ground and in the corners more people were dozing, gnawing on chicken bones, and quarreling loudly over jugs of wine. There was a strong stench of old men, urine, straw, and smoke, which emanated from wood fires in the room’s corners and alcoves. The conversation that filled the room died quickly as Reiser entered with the medicus. Simon could feel dozens of eyes on him. He took a deep breath and returned the stares.

What is this place? A robbers’ den? Or a vestibule to hell?

A figure emerged from the group of men sitting around the table. In contrast with the others’ ragged garb, he was clad in a threadbare jacket inlaid with golden threads and knickers that, though frequently patched, still looked magnificent. He wore a wide-brimmed hat over long gray hair, and an equally gray full beard framed his wrinkled face. As he began to speak, light flashed in Simon’s eyes, and he realized that the man’s upper incisors were made of pure gold! Thin wires seemed to attach these treasures to his brown gums and adjacent teeth.

“Is this the itinerant doctor who cured you?” the beggar asked, pointing to Simon with his scarred right hand.

Reiser nodded. “It is he! He’s the one who stuck the needle in my eyes as carefully as if they were his own. This man is divinely gifted-”

“Or a devil and an arsonist!” interrupted the other with a grin. “At least if we were to take the word of those fools in the city guards.” He turned to Simon, scrutinizing his now almost faded black eye, the last sign of the brawl in Schongau. “So,” he asked, “are you the devil? From the looks of it I think you’re probably just a little devil that Beelzebub roughed up.”

The men sitting around the table roared, but Simon kept silent. Once more he cursed himself for having come here at all. How could these crazy, tattered creatures help him discover anything about the bathhouse murders? He was already cautiously backing away from the scene when the leader raised a finger, and immediately the laughter ceased. With a grin, he extended his hand to Simon in greeting.

“How rude of me,” he said almost obsequiously. “I haven’t even introduced myself. People call me Nathan the Wise. I am the king of the Regensburg beggars, the lord of the realm of night and of this wonderful guild house.”

He made a theatrical gesture, causing some of the bystanders to break out in laughter. The beggar allowed Simon some time to look around before continuing.

“What you see here is only a small part of our own little city. Above us the Jewish ghetto used to stand, but my brothers in the faith were driven out of Regensburg many, many years ago. Their buildings were razed, their homes robbed, and all that remains are these marvelous underground passages, which serve today as our guild halls.”

He indicated the dirty men dozing along the walls in back, his gold teeth sparkling in the torchlight. “Every beggar in Regensburg belongs to our guild,” Nathan continued. “Every day he pays his dues and in return is granted protection, a roof over his head, and care when he is sick. We are our own masters, just as in any guild.”

The beggar king led Simon over to the large oak table where an extremely odd group of people was assembled. The circle of scruffy-looking men, with their wine jugs and moldy scraps of bread, looked like a surreal distortion of a respectable dinner party. “Perhaps you’ve made the acquaintance of one or another of my city councilors in the course of the last day or so.” Nathan pointed at a man beside him who wore a monk’s tonsure and a pale gray habit. “This, for example, is Brother Paulus. He collects alms for our church, even though he’s never taken a vow and knows more about boozing and whoring. And this one here,” Nathan said, pointing to a stooped, toothless little man with a thin line of drool hanging from his contorted mouth, “this is Crazy Johannes, who will do a Saint Vitus’ dance for you on request. For an additional charge, of course…” With easy grace, the humped little man transformed himself into an upright, rather normal-looking person, bowing slightly as he extended his hand to the stranger.

“As for yours truly,” Nathan said, “as a Jew, I did my time on the traveling stage many times over in my youth. I’ve since retired from the exciting life of a vagabond.” He sighed. “I have so much paperwork now that barely a moment remains to go begging. Ah, well… You helped one of us out,” he said, presenting Simon with a glass of red wine, “so we’ll help you in return. What can we do for you?”

Simon took a sip of the wine, which tasted remarkably good.

“The murder of the bathhouse owner and his wife that took place a week or so ago,” he said finally. “Do you know who’s behind it?”

Nathan’s expression turned to disgust, and his golden incisors glinted. “A nasty, far too bloody matter, as I’ve heard tell. They locked up a hangman from out of town right off, but you already know that. Whether he’s the one responsible or not I couldn’t say.” He leaned toward Simon and said in a conspiratorial tone, “I know only that the bathhouse owner was involved in some truly risky business.”

The medicus frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Hofmann had dealings with a handful of men who have quite powerful enemies in the city. Quite powerful, indeed, including members of the Inner Council.”

“I don’t understand what you’re insinuating. What could a bathhouse operator-”

The beggar king interrupted him with a sigh, rubbing his hands together. “I see we’ll have to fill you in a bit. But my advice comes at a price.”

“I have no money.”

Nathan gestured dismissively. “Money! Always money! As if there were nothing more valuable in this life!”

“What do you mean, then?” Simon asked cautiously.

Nathan turned serious, folding his hands as if in prayer and peering intently at the medicus. “Oh, come now, doctor, I’m sure you don’t think I invited you into our hideout without thinking twice if I didn’t have something specific in mind for you.” He gestured at the crumpled figures lying in the corners of the great hall. “Reiser says you’re a talented doctor. As you can see, we’re surrounded by suffering here-folks with infected legs, flies all over them laying eggs in their flesh. Some are so tormented by open sores, festering boils, and wracking, incessant coughs that they’re practically going mad. I want you to examine each and every one of them. At no cost, of course. Clearly, none of them can afford a doctor.”

“And if I refuse?” Simon asked quietly.

The beggar king cleared his throat. “Not a good idea. Tomorrow morning when the hangman comes around to collect animal carcasses and garbage, he just might find a human cadaver, too. I’ve heard wonderful medications can be made from human fat and skin. The apothecary shops pay a fine penny for them.”

“It doesn’t really appear I have a choice, does it?” the medicus replied, his face ashen.

Nathan smiled. “Doesn’t really look that way. From what I’ve heard, you’re looking for a job now anyway. We can offer you room and board, as well as some information you just might put to use. That’s a good deal, as far as I can see!”

“But who will guarantee that you won’t do away with me anyhow, in the end? After all, I know where your hideout is.”

Nathan clutched his chest in horror. “Mon dieu! You’re speaking to the beggar king! Who can you trust in this snake pit Regensburg, if not me?” His voice took on a sly tone. “Naturally, the offer stands only if I can trust you to keep your mouth closed.”

Simon sighed. “All right, then, I’ll do it. What other choice do I have? Now tell me what you know.”

The beggar king shooed the others away from the table and leaned so close to Simon that the medicus almost choked on his foul, garlicky breath.

“Hofmann was one of the freemen,” Nathan whispered, then paused dramatically before continuing. “A secret society of tradesmen and simple citizens who are revolting against the Regensburg patricians. The freemen seek to reassert the rights of the guilds, but the moneybags are fighting them tooth and nail. A few years back a couple of their leaders were hanged for inciting a revolution, and since then the freemen have operated underground, where they’re making plans to break the power of the patricians, by force if necessary, and even, it’s rumored, with the support of the Elector and the bishop.”

“The bishop?” Simon asked, astonished. “But the church-”

Nathan rolled his eyes. “God help us! What kind of onehorse town do you come from? This is Regensburg!” He shrugged. “I can see I’ll have to elaborate a bit. This is a Free City, ruled by the patricians, who are answerable to no one but the kaiser. Capito? But Regensburg is also a diocesan town-the seat of a bishop-and an important city in the Electorate of Bavaria. Thus, both the Elector’s and the bishop’s seats are here, and the bishop even has the power to write and enforce his own laws. For us beggars this complicates things, since we have no idea who will cut off our hands or drive us out of the city. Isn’t that so, my friends?”

He winked at the other beggars, eliciting laughs of approval.

“Both the Bavarian Elector and the Regensburg bishop want to increase their influence in the Free Imperial City,” he continued. “Any means is admissible in their attempts to undermine the kaiser’s and the patricians’ authority. It’s quite possible, therefore, that the nobles are working in consort with the freemen. Is that clear?”

“Of course,” Simon replied after a while, though he really hadn’t understood much of it. “But what does that have to do with Hofmann?”

“Didn’t I just tell you? Hofmann was a freeman,” the beggar king said. “Perhaps he knew something that would be damaging to the patricians, just as the Reichstag was about to meet. So they…” He swiped his fingers across the front of his neck. “And they did the same to his wife. And so as not to arouse suspicion, they arrested this hangman-as a scapegoat.”

“That… seems possible,” Simon replied. “Or perhaps not. One would have to speak with these freemen first.”

Nathan laughed. “Speak with the freemen? Who do you think they are? Washerwomen? They’ll be strung up on the gallows should anyone discover who they are. Nobody can find them.”

“Not even you?”

The beggar king thought for a moment. “Perhaps. But what will that accomplish? Perhaps they’ll decide you are the real murderer. Believe me, the order to kill Hofmann came from high up in the city council. It’s better for you and your girl to go back to your little Schongau. You are too young to die.”

Of course. And I leave my future father-in-law to rot and die in Regensburg, Simon thought. Magdalena would never forgive me for that.

“I want to speak with one of these freemen,” he said finally. “Make that happen, and I’ll get to work right away on my patients.”

The beggar king nodded. “As you like. I’ll see what I can do. By tonight we’ll know more.” He snapped his fingers, and Reiser approached with two other beggars. “I’ll have your things and your girl brought here, too. It’s best if you stay with us for a while, not just because of the matter of the fire, but whores have been disappearing from the streets without a trace as of late.” His golden incisors gleamed again as he began to laugh. “Consider yourselves my guests of honor for the time being.”

Simon got up and went over to a corner of the hall for a better look at his patients. Fat blowflies swarmed around him as if to welcome their new guest.

What Jakob Kuisl missed most was not the sunlight and fresh air but his beloved tobacco. The guards had confiscated his pack, which held his tin of the sweet-smelling weed.

The hangman sighed and wet his parched lips with his tongue. He’d paid a sinful price for the tobacco he ordered specially from Augsburg, and he needed it the way others needed drink-especially when he had to think. He missed his beloved pipe now more than ever, as he lay on the cold floor of his cell, hands tucked behind his head, staring out into the darkness and thinking back on the trial that morning, which had made him realize just how hopeless his situation really was.

They had hauled him up to the office, where they read the short indictment to him. The president of the council and the three lay assessors were convinced of his guilt from the outset: his presence at the crime scene and the will spoke volumes. Only Kuisl’s confession was needed to settle the matter. But the Schongau hangman insisted on his innocence and, in the end, even grew combative. Finally it took four bailiffs to bind his hands and feet and drag him back to his cell.

Ever since, Kuisl could do nothing but wait to be tortured.

He was certain they’d begin soon. The matter demanded immediate attention-the accusations were too grave. Once the torture began, it all depended on him to determine how long it was before the sentence was pronounced and the execution carried out. The longer he held out, the more time Magdalena and Simon would have to find the real killer.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name…

The hangman slapped his forehead but couldn’t get the accursed song out of his mind. He felt as if he were imprisoned twice over-once in this cell and again in his head. The memories were the prelude to his impending torture.

For the hundredth time his gaze wandered over the cell wall, stopping at a bright, smooth spot in the wood. At Kuisl’s request the Regensburg executioner had left the small hatch in the door open so that the scribbling on the walls was legible in the faint light. Kuisl recognized some old sayings and names, among them a handful of initials. Only a few prisoners were able to write out their whole names, and some signed their confessions with simple crosses or initials. Often their last messages to the world were therefore just a few lines or circles carved laboriously into the wood.

Kuisl read the letters and dates: D. L., January 1617; J. R., May 1653; F. M., March 1650; P.F.K. Weidenfeld, anno domini 1637…

P.F.K. Weidenfeld, anno domini 1637?

Kuisl stopped short. Something clicked in his head, but it remained vague and diaphanous. Was it possible?

P.F.K. Weidenfeld, anno domini 1637…

Kuisl was trying to concentrate when he heard footsteps coming down the corridor. The bolt was pushed aside, and a guard entered.

“Your grub, you dog.” The soldier shoved a wooden dish toward him in which unidentifiable lumps were floating around in a grayish sludge. The man stood, waiting. When Kuisl didn’t react, the bailiff cleared his throat, then dug around in his nostril with his finger, as if a fat worm hid up there.

“The hangman told me I had to bring the bowl back right away,” he said finally. “And the paperwork, too.”

Kuisl nodded. The Regensburg executioner had sent him some paper, ink, and a quill, as promised. Until that moment Kuisl didn’t know what he wanted to say to his daughter. He hoped to give Magdalena some ideas about where to look for clues in the city, but the damned memories of the war kept distracting him. Now, all of a sudden, he had a vague thought, possibly just a whim, but Kuisl felt it worth looking into, since time was so short.

“You’ll have to wait a while,” the hangman said. He took out the pen and ink and hastily scribbled some lines on the paper while the guard drummed his fingers impatiently against the door. Finally Kuisl folded the paper and handed it to the bailiff. “Here. And you can take back the soup, as well, and feed it to the pigs.”

The hangman kicked the steaming bowl, sending it flying into the corridor where it landed with a clatter.

“Later, I promise you, you’ll beg for a bowl of soup half as delicious as that one,” the surprised guard replied. “You’ll whimper and pray when Teuber has at you with the red-hot pincers. You’ll die like a dog, you goddamned Bavarian, and I’ll be standing there, front and center, when he breaks you on the wheel.”

“Yes, yes, very well. Now get moving,” Kuisl snarled.

The guard swallowed his rage and turned to leave. Just as he was about to bolt the door, Kuisl looked up at him.

“Ah, and if you intend not to deliver that letter,” the Schongau hangman said casually, “I’ll see that Teuber breaks your bones, slowly, one after the other. He doesn’t like it, you know, when people try to put one over on him, you understand?”

The door slammed shut and the bailiff withdrew. Once again Kuisl’s thoughts turned back to the war, the murder, the pain. He stared at the initials on the wall and tried to remember.

P.F.K. Weidenfeld, anno domini 1637…

The letters gnawed at his subconscious-eliciting just an inkling, an image from long ago, from another life.

Men’s laughter, the crackling of burning rooftops, a long, excruciating wail, then silence… Jakob Kuisl is holding the sword in his hand like a scythe.

Kuisl knew that if he had just an ounce of tobacco, the pipe would bring the image into focus.

In the corridor the guard squeezed the folded letter in his hands and cursed softly. Who the hell did this damn hangman think he was? The king of France? Never before had a prisoner spoken to him like that. Particularly not one about to face the gallows. Just what was this Bavarian thinking?

The bailiff thought back on Kuisl’s threat. The Regensburg executioner had indeed sent him to the cell to pick up that damned letter. No doubt Philipp Teuber was to pass the paper along to some relative-a last farewell from a condemned man seeking consolation and perhaps even a few sweets to uplift him at the end. That wasn’t uncommon.

But what the executioner didn’t know was that someone else had promised the bailiff a tidy sum for the privilege of having a look at the letter before handing it over to Teuber.

Grimacing, the guard secured the paper in his jacket pocket and strode out into the city hall square, whistling. As arranged, the stranger was waiting for him in Waaggasschen Lane in front of the constabulary. The man was stooped and, despite the summer heat, had turned up his coat collar to obscure his face. No one would be able to say later who he was; even the guard who delivered the letter in exchange for a bag of coins would be unable to describe him afterward. The man’s movements were too fluid; his appearance, nondescript. Everything about the man was calm and collected, except for his eyes.

As he hastily unfolded the letter, they seemed to glow with hatred.

At once a cold smile spread across his face. He took out another piece of paper and wrote a few lines on it, then tucked the real letter inside his coat.

“I’ll pose a riddle for the girl and this quack,” he whispered, more to himself than to the guard. “Sometimes you have to throw the dog a bone so it has something to chew on. Or else they’ll draw some very stupid conclusions. Here, give this to Teuber.” With these words, he handed the guard the paper.

As the bailiff entered the bustling city hall square, he felt such relief that he dropped his first few coins right away on a strong glass of wine. Nevertheless, cold shivers ran up and down his spine.

There were people you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, and then there were people you wouldn’t wish even on an alleged murderer.