The Dark Monk

8

AT SIX O’CLOCK the next morning, Jakob Kuisl headed up to town. At this time of year very few people were out and about so early in the day, even on the busy Münzgasse. The few wine and cloth merchants he did meet crossed to the other side of the street when they saw him coming or made the sign of a cross. It was never good news when the hangman came up the hill from the Lech to Schongau. People tolerated him as long as he stuck to executions and carting away dead animals, but otherwise, they preferred that the executioner stay down below in the stinking Tanners’ Quarter.

Jakob Kuisl could sense the townspeople watching. Word had gotten around that he’d smoked out the Scheller Gang, and no doubt his dispute with the young patricians was no longer a secret. Without paying any attention to the whispers behind him, he headed to the tower dungeon-a squat, three-story tower with soot-stained walls situated right along the city wall-where the watchmen had locked up the bandits the night before. Wrapped tightly in a coat that was much too thin, a bailiff stood guard in front of a heavy wooden door. He had propped his spear against the wall in hopes of warming his frozen hands in his pockets. He looked astonished as the hangman approached with a broad smile.

“Here, Johannes,” Jakob Kuisl said, handing the bailiff a few warm chestnuts he’d been concealing under his coat. “My wife put a few of these aside for you and sends her best wishes.”

“Well…thank you…” The bailiff sneezed and rubbed the warm chestnuts between his frozen fingers. “But you didn’t come here just to bring me something to eat, did you?” he asked, peering out from under his rabbit-fur hood. “I know you, Kuisl.”

The hangman nodded. “I’ve got a score to settle inside there with Scheller. Just let me in for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

“But what if Lechner hears about it?” Johannes muttered as he hungrily shelled the warm chestnuts. “He’ll give me hell.”

Jakob Kuisl dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “Oh, Lechner, he’s turning over in his bed right now and going back to sleep. Go down to see my wife today after the noon bells, and she’ll give you a pine liniment for your cold.”

The bailiff grinned, popped a steaming chestnut between his rotten yellow teeth, took out a large rusty key, and opened the door to the dungeon.

“But don’t rough up Scheller,” he called to the hangman with a full mouth, “or he’ll keel over before we have a chance to break him on the wheel, and that would be a pity.”

Jakob Kuisl didn’t answer but headed to the cells in back. The men and women had been split into two groups. Some of the robbers lay around listlessly on the cold stone floor, their wounds largely untreated. The six-year-old boy Kuisl had noticed the day before seemed to suffer from a high fever. His whole body trembling, he looked toward the ceiling vacantly while his mother rocked him in her lap. As Kuisl approached, some of the men who could still stand started rattling the rusty bars of their cells.

“So soon, Hangman?” one of them shouted. “Just when it’s getting comfy here! Didn’t you at least bring along a last meal for us?”

Others laughed. The air was filled with the stench of excrement and damp straw.

“Goddamn you!” one of the two women prisoners shouted, holding a screaming child out to him. “Who will take care of my little boy when I’m no longer here? Who? Or do you want to string him up along with us?”

“Oh shut up, Anna!” said a voice from the adjacent cell. “If the kid survives, they’ll give him to the church. The boy is better off than any of us. If you didn’t live with dignity, you can at least die with some.”

Hans Scheller struck a defiant posture in the middle of the cell, his muscular arms folded across his chest. He looked like a rough-hewn, immovable block with facial features chiseled out of hard walnut. His cheeks were black and blue and swollen from being struck, and his left eye was glued shut with dried blood. With his right eye, however, he stared Jakob Kuisl down attentively and proudly.

“What do you want, Kuisl?” he asked. “You’re not coming to take us to the gallows. You’ll make a big deal out of that, with wine, dancing, and laughing, and if Scheller screams loud enough when you break him on the wheel, you’ll get an extra guilder. But I won’t scream; you can count on it.”

“There’s never been anyone who didn’t scream,” the hangman growled. “You’ve got my word on that.”

Jakob Kuisl noticed a flash of fear in Scheller’s eyes. The wheel was one of the cruelest forms of execution. After the executioner broke every bone in the condemned man’s body with an iron bar, he tied him to a wagon wheel. If the prisoner was lucky, the executioner was merciful and broke his neck. If the prisoner wasn’t, the executioner set the wheel up outside and let him die a slow miserable death in the blazing sun. That could take several days.

Jakob Kuisl winked at Scheller. “But we’ll see. Perhaps it will be very different this time.”

“Ha-ha!” jeered a neighbor in the next cell. “The hangman will let us go when the Pope wipes his ass with leaves!”

“Shut up, Springer!” Hans Scheller shouted. “Or I’ll cut off your nose even before the hangman gets around to it.”

The robber fell silent, and the others slowly moved back from the bars, too, settling down in the filthy, damp straw.

“So, Kuisl, what do you want?” the robber chief whispered.

The hangman was close enough to the bars now that he could smell the robber’s foul breath. Hans Scheller’s stubbled face was scarred, black and blue, and coated with dried blood.

“If you tell me where you’ve stashed your loot, I might be able to arrange a more lenient punishment,” Kuisl said softly.

“Loot?” Hans Scheller feigned surprise and stared at him innocently. “What loot?”

In a lightning-fast motion, Jakob Kuisl reached through the bars to grab the robber chief’s hand, bending his fingers back until they cracked. Hans Scheller turned white in the face.

“Let’s not play games, Scheller,” Kuisl growled. “This is just a little foretaste of what you can expect if you keep this up. Tongs, thumbscrews, the rack-I can show it all to you today. So what do you say?”

Hans Scheller tried to pull his hand back, but the hangman just applied more pressure. The cracking was now quite audible.

“The loot…is buried near the cave, over by the dead beech tree…” he groaned. “I would have told you, anyway.”

“Excellent.” Kuisl grinned and let go. Hans Scheller pulled his hand back and looked at his little finger, which was bent away from his hand at an odd angle.

“Go to hell, Hangman,” he whispered. “I know people like you. You’ll grab the loot for yourself and let us all suffer a long time before we die.”

Jakob Kuisl shook his head. “I’m serious, Scheller. I’ll appeal to the town for you. No torture, no wheel. A nice, clean hanging. I promise.”

“And the children and women?” Scheller asked. There was almost a look of hope in his face.

The hangman nodded. “I can’t promise anything, of course, but I’ll do my best. But in return, you have to tell me a few things.”

Hans Scheller looked at him suspiciously. “What?”

“First, this attack a few days ago on our medicus and his companion. Was that you?”

Scheller hesitated for a moment. Finally, he replied, “Not me personally, but a few of my men. They were getting bored, so they ambushed him, and then the woman blew them away.” He grinned. “She must have been a hell of a woman, according to what I’ve heard.”

The hangman grinned back. “I’d say so, too, if a woman beat me to the draw in a gunfight. But I have something else here-this bag.” From under his overcoat, Kuisl pulled out the embossed leather satchel he had found in the robbers’ hideout. “Where did you get this?”

The robber chief hesitated. “Let’s see…We took that from some other bandits.”

“Other bandits?”

Scheller nodded. “They were tough customers. We surprised them some time ago sitting around their campfire at night, but they fought back like the Swedes. Before they fled, they slit open the bellies of two of my men. They’re a really bad bunch-be careful before you get mixed up with them. They left the bag behind.” Hans Scheller looked surprised. “But why do you want it? There’s nothing of value there. We went through it twice.”

The hangman didn’t answer but continued his questioning. “What did the men look like? Were they wearing black cowls, like monks? Were they carrying curved daggers?”

“Curved daggers?” The robber chief shrugged. “No, they were just ordinary bandits-dark coats, wide-brimmed hats, sabers. Quick and experienced fighters. I presume they used to be mercenaries.”

“And what sort of loot did they have?” Kuisl continued.

Scheller’s battered face twisted into a grimace. “We got whole bags full of it, quite a bit. They must have been as busy as hell around here.” He stopped to think for a moment. “But one thing was strange. They left a lot of things behind at the campfire-dishes, pots, spoons, tablecloths, things like that. A set for four people, but we saw only three of them.” He continued smiling. “The fourth was probably out in the woods taking a piss and took off when we arrived.”

“A fourth man…” Jakob Kuisl said, thinking aloud and looking at the purse in his hand. Then he threw it over his shoulder like an old, unwanted toy and headed for the exit.

“Remember your promise!” Hans Scheller called out as the hangman left.

He nodded. “You’ve got my word.”

He looked in on the sick boy, who was trembling, feverish, and raving incoherently. “After the noon bells, I’ll stop by and bring you a drink of ivy and juniper brandy, which will help the boy’s fever.”

As Kuisl opened the door to leave, he came face-to-face with the severe countenance of Johann Lechner. Behind the clerk stood the bailiff, shrugging apologetically.

“Kuisl,” Lechner snarled. “You owe me an explanation. I came here to observe the prisoners, and what do I find? The hangman was already here before me. Let’s just hope you haven’t wrung their necks already.”

Jakob Kuisl sighed. “Your Excellency,” he said, “you’ll get your explanation, but let’s go up to the office in the castle to do that. Only the robbers need to freeze their asses off down here.”

The funeral bells tolled at exactly ten o’clock, and the funeral began. In spite of the cold, many people had come to say their last farewells to Father Andreas Koppmeyer, among them many simple folk, workers, and day laborers, who counted the fat, fatherly priest as one of their own. Because the old St. Lawrence Church was under renovation and in no way equipped to handle such a huge crowd, the citizens of Altenstadt had moved the funeral service to the great basilica at the last minute.

Simon was one of the last to arrive. He had been up half the night thinking about the riddle in the chapel, leafing through the little guide by Wilhelm von Selling, but he’d made no progress. He was also tormented by the thought that Magdalena had set out for Augsburg without even saying good-bye. Would she ever forgive him? Why was she always so stubborn?

He had fallen asleep just before daybreak and was awakened just a few hours later by his father, who was extremely reluctant to give him time off to attend the funeral. Simon jumped into his trousers, pulled on a new jacket of fine Augsburg cloth, and on the way out the door, drank what remained of the previous night’s coffee, straight from the pot.

As he carefully opened the portal to the basilica, the sermon had already begun. The door squeaked loudly and a blast of cold air came in from outside, so that some of the mourners turned around with disapproving looks. Simon mumbled a few words of apology, took off his hat, and sat down in the back of the basilica on the right, where pews were set aside for the men. In the front, on the opposite side, he could see Benedikta. She was wearing a loosely pleated black skirt and, over that, a lap jacket that accentuated her tightly laced bodice. Her red hair was almost completely hidden under a black hood, and she seemed even paler than usual. All around her sat the well-to-do citizens of Altenstadt. Simon recognized the innkeeper Franz Strasser, the carpenter Balthasar Hemerle, and Matthias Sacher, who, as a rich miller, represented the Altenstadters in the Schongau town council. The physician’s gaze wandered to the red upholstered seat of honor behind the altar. There, sitting up straight and murmuring a silent prayer with his eyes closed, was Augustin Bonenmayr, the abbot of Steingaden. As Andreas Koppmeyer’s superior, he had evidently not hesitated to take the long trip and pay his last respects to the Altenstadt priest.

The dead priest lay in an open coffin in front of the altar, and the church was so cold a thin layer of ice had formed on his face.

Pausing in his sermon for a moment to cast a disapproving eye at the late arrival, Father Elias Ziegler now continued. His nose was as red as a ripe apple, and Simon guessed he’d already helped himself to the communion wine that morning.

“Andreas Koppmeyer was one of us,” the priest said unctuously, “a bear of a man who understood well the cares and fears of his flock, because these were concerns he shared with them.”

A whimper sounded from one of the pews in back, and Simon turned around to see Magda, the fat housekeeper from the rectory, who took out a large, dirty handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. The skinny rector, Abraham Gedler, seemed close to tears, too, and clutched a prayer book tightly, as if trying to squeeze blood out of it.

“But the Lord alone knows when our hour is at hand,” the priest continued, “and so we lay all our hopes and cares in God’s hands…”

Simon’s thoughts wandered to Magdalena and her trip. No one was safe from robbers, even on the Lech-to say nothing of the way back by road. He hoped nothing had happened to her. Her father should never have allowed her to go! She was much too young and naive for such a trip, Simon thought. Unlike Benedikta. The woman from Landsberg might be only a few years older, but she seemed so much more mature. Simon looked straight ahead. Even now, in the face of her brother’s death, Benedikta Koppmeyer seemed composed. The physician couldn’t find anyone else in the congregation who might be a relative. Presumably, Benedikta and Andreas were the only siblings, and the woman had no children. At least she hadn’t spoken of any. Simon was both fascinated and irritated by this elegant lady, who could speak French and, only minutes after, kill a robber in cold blood. He was both attracted and repelled by her. He sighed, knowing that this mix could have fatal consequences.

Simon glanced up at the Great God of Altenstadt, who looked down benevolently and all-knowingly on the faithful. He couldn’t help the physician with his problems, either.

“Let us pray.”

The priest’s words tore Simon from his reveries, and he stood up with the others to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

“Pater noster, qu ies in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…”

When Pastor Elias Ziegler had finished, he raised his head to the Great God of Altenstadt and spread his arms as if in benediction. Then he spoke in a clear voice.

What the priest said next nearly knocked Simon over, and he struggled to get a grip on the arm of the pew.

“This is what I learned among mortal men as the greatest wonder. That there was neither the earth nor the heaven above. Nor was there any tree nor mountain. Neither any star at all, nor any other thing…”

The voice of Elias Ziegler echoed through the dome of the basilica like that of a prophet. Here was the riddle from the crypt in the Castle Hill chapel.

“You are demanding what from me?” Johann Lechner looked at the hangman in disbelief and dropped the pen he was about to use to sign a few papers. His lips formed a narrow, bloodless line in a pale face, and his eyes darted nervously back and forth. The endless paperwork and, above all, his growing worries about the town had kept him awake the last few nights. Lechner’s skin sometimes looked as transparent as a blank sheet of parchment, but the strength of his will and tenacity were legendary-and feared-far beyond the borders of Schongau.

With Jakob Kuisl and a retinue of two bailiffs, he had hurried back to the ducal palace after their meeting in the dungeon. He walked ahead the entire time, and the guards struggled to keep up.

In his office, Lechner gestured to Kuisl to take a seat and then went back to working on his documents. Only after some time had passed did he ask Kuisl what had happened during his conversation with the robber chief. When Jakob Kuisl told him, the little artery on Lechner’s pale forehead swelled up and turned a fiery red.

“Naturally, we’ll set an example and break Scheller on the wheel. Anything else is out of the question!” he exclaimed angrily as he continued signing his papers. “I’ll go to the city council today and urge a speedy execution.”

“If you do that, we’ll never learn where Scheller hid the loot,” Kuisl said, taking out his pipe.

“Then squeeze it out of him. Start with the thumbscrews, put him on the rack, and stretch him with millstones. Stick burning matches under his fingernails…It doesn’t matter how you torture him. You’ll think of the right method.”

Kuisl shook his head. “Scheller is a tough customer. It’s likely he won’t talk, even when I torture him. So why waste your time and money?”

The clerk glared at Kuisl. “What kind of loot would they have?” he said finally. “A few guilders and farthings, maybe a lice-ridden fur coat. Who cares about that?”

Kuisl’s gaze wandered almost apathetically around the room. Documents were piled up on tables and shelves, awaiting action by the clerk. Lechner’s breakfast-a mug of wine and a piece of white bread-lay untouched on a stool.

Finally, the hangman spoke up. “I’m guessing it’s a lot more than just a few guilders. Scheller stole from another band of robbers.”

“Another band of robbers?” Johann Lechner could barely keep from jumping out of his seat. “Do you mean there’s another gang of thugs roving around out there?”

Slowly and methodically, the hangman filled his pipe. “All the attacks recently-from the Hoher Peißenberg to the Landsberg region-can’t have been the work of just one gang. I believe Scheller. First let me track down the others as well; then the day after that, I’ll string up the robber chief and his men for you, if that’s what you want. If we do that, we’ll know where the loot is hidden and finally be able to bring peace again to the Priests’ Corner.”

Lechner looked at the hangman, thinking. “And if I insist on torturing them on the wheel?” he asked finally.

Kuisl lit his pipe. “Then you can look for your robbers yourself. But I doubt you’ll find them. I’m the only one who knows all the places they might be hiding.”

“Are you threatening me?” Lechner’s voice was suddenly as cold as a January morning.

Jakob Kuisl leaned back and blew little rings of smoke toward the ceiling. “I wouldn’t call it a threat; I’d call it an understanding.”

For a long time, only the sound of Lechner’s fingers drumming on the desktop was audible.

“Very well, then,” the clerk said finally. “You catch these other robbers for me, and for all I care, Scheller can be hanged instead of broken on the wheel. But first he’ll have to tell us where the loot is hidden.”

“Let the women and children go,” the hangman said softly. “Give them a whipping and banish them from the town-that should be enough.”

Lechner sighed. “Why not? After all, we’re all human beings.” Then he leaned forward. “But you’ve got to do one thing for me in return.”

“What’s that?”

“Put out your damned pipe. That disgusting smoke comes straight from hell. In Munich and Nuremberg they outlawed the vice years ago. And if things continue as they have been, I’ll have to make drunkenness a punishable offense here in Schongau as well, and then you can whip yourself.”

The hangman grinned. “As you wish.” He extinguished the pipe with his thumb and started toward the door.

“Oh, Kuisl,” the clerk added.

The hangman stopped. “Yes?”

“Why are you doing this?” Lechner looked at him suspiciously. “You could make a pile of money breaking him on the wheel-ten times what you get for a hanging. So why? Are you getting a little soft in your old age, or is there some other reason?”

Jakob Kuisl shrugged. “Were you in the war?” he finally replied.

Lechner seemed irritated. “No, why do you ask?”

“I’ve heard enough screaming in my life, and now I’d rather do a little healing.”

Without another word, the hangman left, closing the door behind him.

Inside, the clerk continued perusing his documents, but he was having trouble putting his mind to it. He would never understand this Kuisl. So be it. He had promised the wealthy messenger he’d get the hangman out of the way for a long time, so if there was a second gang, all the better. That would take time, and Lechner would also save himself the sixteen guilders it cost to break the prisoner on the wheel-two guilders for each blow-not to mention the additional money that might be added to the city coffers if they retrieved it.

Satisfied, he signed another document with a flourish. They could always break the leader of the second group on the wheel. For the sake of justice.

Simon drummed his fingers nervously on the armrest of the pew, waiting for the last amen from Elias Ziegler. He felt like jumping up during the service, running to the front of the church, and demanding some explanation from the drunken priest. Benedikta, too, had started fidgeting and shifting around in her pew, turning back to look at Simon with a wide-open mouth when Ziegler mentioned the riddle they’d seen in the crypt. But before the service was finally over, there were two prayers in Latin and what seemed to Simon like an endless Kyrie eleison.

The citizens of Altenstadt now formed a line to offer condolences to Benedikta, who took a seat on a small wooden stool alongside the bier. At her side, the pastor nodded piously to the guests as they walked past the coffin and expressed their sympathy. Some of them placed dried flowers in the coffin, crossed themselves, or made signs with their fingers meant to ward off evil spirits. By now, most of them believed Andreas Koppmeyer had died simply from overeating, but thanks to the housekeeper, Magda, the rumor was still going around that the devil’s minions had poisoned him because he had done too much to promote good in the world. The housekeeper collapsed in tears in front of the bier and had to be taken outside by the sacristan, Abraham Gedler.

Simon stared at Benedikta. Even now, the Landsberg wine merchant preserved her composure. She thanked each person individually and reminded everyone about the funeral feast to follow. That really wasn’t necessary; Simon assumed that many Altenstadters came to the funeral only so they could gorge themselves on a big meal afterward.

“Well, Fronwieser, have you made any progress in your investigation?”

Simon spun around. It was Augustin Bonenmayr who had joined him in line. The tall, gaunt abbot from Steingaden was wearing his brass pince-nez here in the basilica as well, and from behind them, his tiny, alert eyes peered out at the physician.

“Unfortunately not, Your Excellency.”

“If you ever should consider leaving Schongau, then do come to Steingaden,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “The monastery needs another smart, open-minded physician like you, especially now that we are rebuilding and expanding. When the construction is finished, thousands of people will be making a pilgrimage to Steingaden each year-people with illnesses and infirmities. God can’t heal them all.” The abbot smiled benignly. Then his gaze fell on the coffin and he became serious again. “A great loss for us all,” he said. “Koppmeyer was a man of the people. The church needs more like him.”

“You’re right, Excellency.” Simon looked ahead nervously. There were just three mourners in front of him; he would be able to ask Elias Ziegler about his prayer. In his excitement, he had trouble concentrating on Augustin Bonenmayr’s words.

The abbot of Steingaden took off his pince-nez and polished it with a lace handkerchief. “Do you still think he was poisoned?” he asked softly. “Perhaps the good man truly just ate something that didn’t agree with him, or too much. Everyone knew he was not averse to the pleasures of this world. But then, if it really was a murder…” He kept polishing his glasses, though they were already as clear as limpid water. “Have you ever asked yourself who would benefit most from Koppmeyer’s death? As far as I know, he had only one relative, his sister.” The abbot turned away. “Good day to you, and God be with you.”

Simon stood there, gaping, the abbot’s words resounding in his ears. Could Benedikta have poisoned her brother? He couldn’t for the life of him imagine that, but there was no time to think about this, as he had arrived at the bier that very moment. Inside lay the body of Andreas Koppmeyer, his face waxen and peaceful and his hands folded around a crucifix. In the narrow box, he suddenly looked much smaller than he had been in life. The corpse already seemed slightly bloated. In spite of the cold, it was clearly time to put him in the ground.

Simon nodded to Benedikta, who was still standing at the coffin accepting expressions of concern. He mumbled some condolences, then turned to the priest.

“A wonderful sermon, Your Excellency,” he whispered. “So full of compassion.”

“Thank you.” Father Elias Ziegler smiled.

“I especially liked the closing words, the prayer about the greatest miracle, humankind, at a time when there was no earth, no heavens, and not a tree standing…Where does it come from?”

“Ah, the Wessobrunn Prayer.” The priest nodded appreciatively. “Did you know it is considered the oldest of all German prayers? There is something especially magical about it, I think. I’m glad you liked it. I haven’t used it in my sermons for ages.”

Simon nodded. “The Wessobrunn Prayer,” he murmured. “Why is it called that?”

The priest shrugged. “Well, because it has been safeguarded for many years in Wessobrunn in a monastery only a day’s trip from here. The monks keep it in a shrine, like a relic.”

Simon’s mouth suddenly turned dry. “Is this prayer more than three hundred years old?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“Indeed, much older, even.” Elias Ziegler looked worried. “Are you ill? You’re so pale.”

“Oh, no, it’s just that-”

Benedikta smiled sympathetically at the priest. “You must know he was very fond of my brother. This has all been a little too much for him.”

Elias Ziegler nodded earnestly. “Isn’t that true for us all?” he said. Then he turned to the next mourner.

Simon paused at Benedikta’s side. “The Wessobrunn Prayer,” he whispered. “I should have known! So the treasure is hidden in the Wessobrunn Monastery.”

“Or the next riddle,” Benedikta whispered, holding her head erect while accepting condolences from the mourners. “In any case, we’ll have to go to Wessobrunn. I hope in the meantime you’ve learned a little more about riding a horse,” she said, with a slight smile, “or we’ll never find out if this Templars’ treasure really exists.”

Simon returned the smile but felt a queasiness in his stomach. The Steingaden abbot had sown a seed of suspicion that took root in his mind. Nodding, he bade farewell and left the cold basilica.

The young boy led Magdalena through the narrow lanes of Augsburg, down into the Weavers’ Quarter. Little icy gutters lined the paved streets. Everywhere, there were millwheels that drove the weavers’ looms during the warmer part of the year but now were silent, covered with icicles and half submerged under ice where a number of brooks came together. Most houses didn’t have windows but just tiny peepholes, and Magdalena had the feeling that behind each of them a pair of eyes was staring at them as they walked by.

It was well past nightfall, and she kept looking around to see if the two thugs might be waiting around the next corner for her as she passed by with the boy.

Finally, they came to a large house directly along the city wall. With whitewashed stone walls, green shutters, and a heavy wood front door, it seemed almost elegant in comparison to the rundown weavers’ cottages, though it was nowhere near as magnificent as the three-story mansions closer to the city hall. Magdalena could hardly believe this was the hangman’s house, but the boy stopped and knocked. Shortly, steps could be heard, a little slit opened beside the door, and a bearded face appeared. As the man raised his lantern to get a look at his visitors, Magdalena could see the reddish-blond hair of his beard and two eyes sparkling in the dim light. The man looked at Magdalena and the boy with suspicion.

“No more customers today,” he growled. “Come back tomorrow if you’re still alive and kicking.”

The boy crossed himself, mumbled a brief prayer, and took off into the darkness. Magdalena stared at the hangman behind the peephole. Apparently, he hadn’t recognized her.

“Are you deaf, or what?” The man’s voice sounded threatening now. “Beat it fast, or I’ll come and get you, you goddamn harlot!”

He was just about to close the little hatch when Magdalena addressed him.

“It’s me, Magdalena Kuisl from Schongau. Don’t you recognize me?”

Eyes wide in astonishment, he opened the door. His massive frame was illuminated by the light from the room.

Philipp Hartmann was almost as big as the Schongau hangman. He had a long, thick, reddish-blond mane, which, along with his beard, framed a wrinkled face. His arms were as thick as tree trunks, and a massive paunch with a dense growth of hair spilled out from under his shirt. He could be mistaken for a day laborer or hired thug, except that his shirt was made of the finest fustian and the black jacket over it didn’t show a single patch. Philipp Hartmann sized her up with the narrow little slits of his eyes-the eyes of an intelligent but extremely proud man.

Finally, he grinned. “Indeed, Magdalena Kuisl!” he cried, and his deep voice echoed through the streets. “What a surprise! Come in before you freeze to death standing outside the hangman’s house.”

He put his hand on her shoulder and guided her into the warm house. A fire rumbled softly in a tile stove, and some leftovers from supper were still on the table: roast pheasant, a half wheel of cheese, and a sliced leg of ham, alongside a pitcher of wine and a plate of sliced white bread. Magdalena felt her mouth water, reminding her she had eaten nothing substantial since the night before. Philipp Hartmann noticed her gaze and gestured for her to sit down. “Come and eat; it’s too much for one person.”

Magdalena sat down to eat. The bread was still warm, and the fine, white pheasant leg delicious. It was like Easter and a church fair combined. The Kuisls could afford a meal like this only when there were a lot of executions-and even then, only when the pay was good. Philipp Hartmann looked at her, impressed with her beauty, but kept his silence.

Suddenly, footsteps could be heard on the stairs, the door squeaked, and a little girl peeked in. She was about five years old, wore a nightshirt, and had reddish-blonde pigtails.

“Go back upstairs, Barbara,” the hangman said. “We have company. Magdalena will certainly stay overnight, so you can play with her tomorrow morning.” He smiled, a facial expression that clearly did not come naturally to him. “Perhaps she’ll even stay longer.”

Magdalena swallowed the rest of the pheasant, but suddenly the meat had lost its taste and seemed dry. The little girl nodded, scrutinized the hangman’s daughter from head to toe again, and then disappeared up the stairs.

“You can have more, if you like,” Philipp Hartmann said, pouring her another cup of wine. “I’ve also got some nuts and other delicacies. We’re not hurting for money.”

Magdalena shook her head in wonderment and admired the whitewashed walls, the brightly polished copper kettles, and the enameled pitchers and plates. Philipp Hartmann’s wife had died more than a year ago, and still, the house was in remarkably good condition. The reeds and straw on the floor smelled fresh, and Magdalena couldn’t find a single cobweb anywhere. In the devotional corner, an oil painting of the Madonna, which looked as if it had just been framed, hung next to a polished executioner’s sword. Beneath this, fresh linen and colorful clothes were stacked on the brass-studded cover of a walnut chest. Magdalena nodded to herself. Her father had been right; the Augsburg hangman would, in fact, be a great match for a girl, but even in her wildest dreams, she couldn’t even consider marrying him.

Philipp Hartmann sat down next to her, poured himself a cup of wine, and raised his glass to her. “And now tell me what you’re doing in Augsburg at this time of year. Actually, it’s the man who is supposed to be the suitor and pay a visit to his intended-or do you do things differently in Schongau?” Again, he tried to smile.

“It’s…not exactly what you think,” Magdalena began hesitantly. It was wrong for her to come here; she knew that. She was leading him on by coming here, but what other choice did she have? Even as far away as Schongau, people knew the Augsburg hangman’s wife had died of consumption the year before. Since that time, Philipp Hartmann had been looking for a new wife and a good mother for his little girl, Barbara. The only possible match for him as a hangman was the daughter of a butcher or a hangman.

Three months had passed since Philipp Hartmann had paid a visit to the Kuisls in order to get to know Magdalena a little better. The men had quickly come to an agreement, and her father had described the life of the Augsburg hangman’s wife to her in glowing colors. In contrast to the Schongau hangman, Philipp Hartmann was well-to-do. Admittedly, he was also a so-called dishonorable man whom people avoided, but with hard work and ambition, Hartmann had made a name for himself in recent years. He was viewed not just as an experienced hangman, but as an excellent healer who was consulted by well-off citizens as well as the simple people. Workers, merchants’ daughters, and patricians all came to him for treatment and they all left behind decent sums of money.

For hours her father had tried to reason with her, tried to explain she would never be allowed to marry Simon and that all she would achieve would be mockery and, in the worst case, banishment from town. But in the end, all his arguments were in vain and Philipp Hartmann finally left empty-handed, taking his dowry in a safely guarded little chest back to Augsburg with him.

And now Magdalena was here at his house, eating his food and asking for a place to stay the night. She felt dirty and wrong, and only slowly and hesitantly did she tell him what had happened to her.

The hangman listened to her silently, and when she finished, he said, “So it isn’t a suitor’s visit, after all…”

He paused for a moment. Magdalena had a heavy feeling in her stomach.

“Well, be that as it may”-he stood up to stir the fire-“your money is, in any case, gone,” he called back to her. “I know the two guys. Bad apples. I’ve put them in the stocks a couple of times and whipped them in public, too. They actually were banished from town some time ago and shouldn’t be here. I poked out the eye of the big fat fellow because he came back to Augsburg, and if I catch them again, I’ll string them up.” He returned to the room and wiped his large sooty hands on a fine white towel. “Now, what were you supposed to get for your father and the midwife?”

Magdalena, who’d always had a strong memory, recited the individual herbs and other ingredients. The hangman nodded, thought for a moment, then replied, “I have melissa, sundew, and most of the other herbs right here. You can get ergot in the apothecary.”

“But I have no money!” Magdalena wailed, burying her face in her hands. “Twenty guilders-where can I get all that money?”

Philipp Hartmann hesitated, then walked over to a chest in the corner and opened it with a key from a chain on his belt. Magdalena listened to the clinking, and when the hangman returned and opened his hand, ten shiny guilders rolled across the table toward her.

“You’ll need this for the apothecary,” Hartmann said. “The rest you can get from me.”

Magdalena looked at him in disbelief. “But…” she started to stay.

Something else rolled across the table toward her-a black, shining ball the size of a child’s fist made from a strange material she had never seen before. She held it in her hand and could hear something rattle inside.

“A bezoar,” the hangman said. “If you ask me, a useless magic thing for superstitious wives. You can keep it; I have no use for it anymore, in any case.”

“I’ll never be able to pay you back,” Magdalena whispered.

The hangman shrugged. “I could give you fifty times as much as a dowry. I’m not a poor church mouse like your father. In a few years, I’ll be able to purchase my citizenship rights, and who knows…” He tried to put on a cheerful face, but his face twisted into a grimace. “Perhaps you’ll think it over some more. I’m not a bad catch, and Barbara urgently needs a mother.” He stood up and walked to the door. “You can sleep here in the main room on the bench. Go to the apothecary tomorrow and then have a look around Augsburg. You’ll see that it’s a not a bad place to live.”

As Magdalena listened to his heavy footsteps going back up the stairs, her stomach sank. She felt as if she had swallowed the bezoar.

The wagon driver lay on a bed of straw and screamed like a stuck pig. Startled, Bonifaz Fronwieser, who had just been tapping his abdomen, withdrew his hand.

“Hmm, so this is where it hurts,” the older physician said, looking at his son apprehensively. Anton Steingadener’s wife knelt alongside the two doctors, wiping sweat from her husband’s brow with one hand, fingering a rosary in the other. Just an hour ago, the elderly couple had arrived at Fronwieser’s house, where several patients had been waiting since noon. Most were suffering from the fever that had been going around Schongau for weeks, but this case, Simon thought, looked even more serious, if that were possible. He was already certain that it was hopeless.

“What’s wrong with him, Herr Doktor?” Agathe Steingadener wailed. “Was it the food? Our bread is not the best, I know. We add milled acorns to the dough because we never have enough flour. But these pains…What is wrong with him?”

“How long has he been like this?” Bonifaz Fronwieser asked, examining Anton Steingadener’s eyes under a magnifying glass. They were dilated and glassy, and the man’s severe pain had driven him half crazy.

“Let’s see…three days, I think,” Agathe Steingadener replied. “Can you help him?”

Bonifaz Fronwieser stepped back, letting his son palpate the man’s abdomen again. It was rock hard and swollen above the pelvis. Simon pressed lightly, and the man screamed again as if he were being impaled on a stake.

“My God, what’s wrong with him? Just what does he have?” shouted Agathe Steingadener, clutching her rosary tightly. “Has the devil taken possession of him, just like he did with the priest in Altenstadt?” She broke out in tears. “Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus! The devil is taking our poor souls and won’t even spare God-fearing citizens and priests! My husband went to mass every third day, and we often prayed together at home-”

“Your husband has a tumor,” Simon replied, interrupting the litany. “It has nothing to do with the devil. But prayer can’t hurt.”

He didn’t tell the woman that prayer was probably the only thing that could still save her husband. Simon knew that such tumors were sometimes removed at big universities, but here, in Schongau, they had neither the knowledge nor the tools to carry out such a complicated operation. Simon cursed as he rummaged through the shelves in the medicine cabinet, looking for some poppy seed extract, and in so doing, he knocked over a few small phials. It would only partially relieve the man’s pain, offering him, at best, a slow decline into unconsciousness. Everything else was in the hands of God.

When Simon finally found the bottle, he noticed something moving behind him. His father’s fingers closed around his wrist.

“Are you crazy?” old Bonifaz Fronwieser hissed in his ear, quietly so the wagon driver’s wife couldn’t hear him. “Do you know how expensive this medicine is? The Steingadener woman will never be able to pay for that!”

“Shall we let her husband die a miserable death like a beast?” Simon whispered in reply. “He’s in great pain; we must help him.”

“Then send him to the hangman,” his father replied, in the same low voice. “Kuisl will give him one of his elixirs, and then it will be over. It’s high time for Lechner to forbid that quack from practicing medicine before he poisons half the town with his herbs and elixirs.”

“Half the town has already been to him, and he’s got more patients than you can ever imagine!” Simon replied in a clear voice.

Taking the phial of poppy seed extract from his father’s hands, he gave it to the Steingadener woman.

“Here, give your husband two spoonfuls of this a day in a glass of wine,” he said in a comforting tone. “The drink won’t make the tumor go away, but at least the pain will be more bearable.”

“Will he get better?” the woman asked anxiously, looking down at her husband. Josef Steingadener seemed to have fallen asleep out of exhaustion. He trembled and twitched, but was otherwise quiet.

Simon shrugged. “Only the Lord knows that. We’ll help you take him home now.”

Bonifaz Fronwieser stared angrily at his son but nevertheless gave him a hand in carrying the heavy wagoner out the door and lifting him into a wagon. Agathe Steingadener gave them a few coins, then sat down in the coachman’s box and drove off. She did not wave good-bye. No doubt she was already wondering how she would make out financially without her husband.

On this day, Simon and his father had three more patients who all came to them with the fever. They were well-to-do citizens, and Bonifaz Fronwieser prescribed them theriac, a wickedly expensive potion made of poppy seed extract and angelica root, which probably wouldn’t help but would at least not make the patients any worse. Simon knew this wasn’t true of all of his father’s medicines.

While the young physician examined the phlegm his patients coughed up and checked their urine, his thoughts kept turning back to the Templars’ treasure. Could it be hidden in Wessobrunn? Or would they find only another riddle there? In any case, though he was deeply troubled by what the abbot of Steingaden had said, he decided to set out with Benedikta the following day. Just what was it Bonenmayr had said at the funeral? “Have you ever asked yourself who would benefit most from Koppmeyer’s death?”

One thing clear was clear to Simon. Even though he could never imagine this happy, enlightened businesswoman poisoning anyone, from now on he’d keep a closer eye on Benedikta.

Simon wished the hangman could come along with them the next day, but Kuisl would have to stay in town to prepare for the upcoming trial. Simon was excited to share with the hangman what they had learned right after the funeral, but Kuisl had been strangely brusque in response, as if he were suddenly no longer interested in solving the riddle. When the physician told him he was departing for Wessobrunn the next day with Benedikta, Kuisl just shook his head.

“Are you sure it’s safe to do that?” he grumbled.

“The road is secure,” Simon replied, “now that you’ve caught the robbers.”

“Have we really caught them all?” Kuisl asked, grinding a few dried herbs in his mortar. He wouldn’t say any more than that. The hangman, completely enveloped in clouds of pipe smoke, continued grinding the herbs to a powder. Simon shrugged and walked back up to town to help his father.

He was about to turn to the next patient, a scrawny farmer from the neighboring town of Peiting who was suffering from consumption and coughing up sputum, when he heard shouting from the Lech Gate. It sounded like something bad had happened, and throwing on his coat, Simon ran down the street to see what the trouble was.

A few men had already gathered at the gate, staring at an oxcart just now rumbling down the icy street into town. On top of the wagon filled with straw were the disfigured bodies of two young wagon drivers from Schongau whom the physician knew from his frequent visits to the taverns behind city hall. To the best of his recollection, they were employed by Matthias Holzhofer, the second presiding burgomaster and an influential local merchant. The heads and chests of both men had been hastily wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, and with pale faces, they seemed to be not long for this world.

A farmer, who drove the oxen with a switch, had trouble moving the wagon forward. “Clear the way!” he shouted. “A new attack! I found them lying in their blood up on the high road above Hohenfurch. Damned robbers, may the devil take them all!” When he caught sight of Simon running alongside the wagon, he stopped and exclaimed, “You’ve been sent by God! See what you can do!” He put the reins in Simon’s hand. “Take the wounded men to your father. I’d prefer the hangman, but I think he’s needed somewhere else at present.”

Followed by barking dogs, children, and wailing women, Simon drove the oxcart to his father’s house. He glanced again at the two pale, groaning wagon drivers, the blood-drenched straw, and the filthy bandages, and cursed himself for having given away the whole bottle of poppy seed extract a while ago. This was another case where probably only the dear Lord could do anything to help them.

Johann Lechner drummed his fingers impatiently on the table, waiting for the murmuring to stop. The aldermen looked nervous. The emergency meeting of the city council on the second floor of the Ballenhaus hadn’t allowed the city patricians enough time to get attired in a manner befitting their station in life. Their fur caps sat askew atop bald heads, and their faces were red with excitement. Some were still wearing nightshirts under heavy coats made from dyed wool. The members of the Inner Council, which appointed the four burgomasters, seemed the most agitated of all. In their midst sat Matthias Holzhofer, shaking his head again and again. His round face, usually so cheerful, was pale and drawn, and he had large rings under his eyes.

“My most valuable shipment!” he exclaimed, pounding his fist on the polished oak table. “Around a thousand guilders! Cloth, fustian, silverware-to say nothing of all the spices! How can this be? Goddammit! I thought the hangman had smoked out the accursed band of robbers!”

The aldermen started grumbling and Johann Lechner admonished them, tapping his signet ring against a full glass of port wine, demanding silence. “Gentlemen, I’ve called the council together to make an important announcement. Silence!” He pounded the table with his hand. “Quiet, for God’s sake!” The murmuring stopped at once, and all eyes turned to the clerk. As the representative of the elector in the absence of the administrator, Lechner really had no business being in the city’s town hall, but as things turned out, he’d become the chairman of the meetings. During the Great War, people were glad to have a strong hand in charge, and since that time there had been no reason to change what was tried and true.

After things had finally quieted down, the clerk proceeded. “I actually wanted to call this meeting of the council to inform you that the band of robbers has finally been caught and commercial traffic can resume. The hangman, along with many honorable citizens, has done an outstanding job.”

“Truly an outstanding job,” the patrician Jakob Schreevogl murmured. “Honorable citizens have created a bloodbath!”

Nobody was paying attention to him, however. All eyes were directed now at the clerk, who continued speaking in an earnest tone. “But now it appears there’s more to it. As much as I regret to say so, there seems to be a second band of robbers. The executioner has already questioned the head of the first group, Hans Scheller, about it.”

At once, the general whispering resumed. Michael Berchtholdt, who, as a baker, sat in the Outer Council, spoke up. “I hope Kuisl introduced the scoundrel to the hot irons! He should break every bone in his body, one by one.”

“Well, the hangman has used…his own methods.” Lechner replied, and Michael Berchtholdt, as well as the other aldermen, seemed pleased with that answer. It was good to have someone like Jakob Kuisl take care of the dirty work.

“A second gang of robbers!” Matthias Holzhofer lamented. “Will there be no end to this highway robbery?”

“Master Holzhofer, please excuse me for asking,” young Jakob Schreevogl interrupted. As owner of Schongau’s largest stove-fitting company, he had been a member of the Inner Councilfor only a short time. “Isn’t it extremely risky to send such a valuable shipment to Füssen in troubled times like these? Whether there is one gang of robbers out there or several, you are positively asking for trouble!”

Matthias Holzhofer shrugged. “The word was that the Scheller gang had been captured-and anyone sending out a wagonload of goods under these conditions gets the best prices.” He grinned and twirled his clipped Vandyke. “There’s not much competition in this wretched cold. Moreover…” He hesitated before continuing. “We took a route through small villages, avoiding the main roads. It takes longer but avoids the woods along the major roads where the bandits lie in wait. Who would ever suspect that there, too…” He stopped short and shook his head.

Johann Lechner cleared his voice before beginning to speak again. “It’s not the first time a band of robbers has attacked travelers on back roads,” he began. “The Augsburg merchant Leonhard Weyer was killed by robbers a few days ago the same way. I happened to be in Semer’s Tavern just the night before when he told me about his plan to take the old cow path to Füssen.”

Burgomaster Karl Semer, owner of the tavern on the market square, interrupted him. He was breathing heavily under a red velvet jacket, and his eyes bulged with emotion. “Oh, God, two of my drivers told me recently that they were taking a route different from the usual one, too,” he gasped. “At least one of them has been reported missing, and I haven’t heard a thing about the other yet…” He wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep gulp of port wine. Despite the bitter cold outside, a huge green tile stove made the town council chambers almost unbearably hot.

An anxious murmur came from the back of the room, where the members of the Outer Council and other ordinary residents sat. Almost all of them had sent a wagon with goods to other Bavarian cities in recent days and weeks. Those who could not go by river ferry depended on the Schongau wagon drivers, who had been in bitter competition with those from Augsburg for years. What would happen if other wagons were attacked?

“Just a moment!” said Jakob Schreevogl, raising his voice. “If I understand correctly, all these wagon drivers have decided to take an unfamiliar route. Nevertheless, they were attacked. That means either that highwaymen are roaming all the roads now, which I doubt, or…” He gazed out at the other members of the council. “Someone out there has been spying and giving specific directions to the robbers.”

“Who would that be?” Matthias Holzhofer interrupted. “My men have discussed it only with me.”

“And mine, too,” said Burgomaster Semer. “Nobody here knew this fellow Weyer from Augsburg. Who might he have spoken with?”

“Maybe it was the Augsburgers themselves who killed our people!” cried out the baker Michael Berchtholdt from the back of the room. “Our wagon drivers have always been a thorn in their side. If they had their way, they would be the only ones transporting goods from Venice and elsewhere.”

“Nonsense,” replied Jakob Schreevogl. “Weyer was himself an Augsburger. They aren’t going to kill their own people.”

Berchtholdt shrugged. “Perhaps he was a maverick. Who knows? Someone other Augsburgers had a score to settle with? Those damn Swabian punks!”

There was a murmur of approval in the room.

Johann Lechner tapped his signet ring against his wineglass again. “Quiet! We won’t get anywhere like this!” he shouted. “We can only hope that the two injured wagon drivers can give us information about the bandits. Perhaps that way we can learn who’s behind this.” Before proceeding, he examined the face of each member of the council. “It must be our common mission to put an end to this second gang of robbers as well. I suggest, therefore, sending the hangman out with a group of men again.”

“What? Put the hangman at the head of a group of honorable men again?” Burgomaster Semer shook his head in disbelief. “My son told me about the hunt. It’s outrageous that an executioner was put in charge of honorable citizens. Chasing and executing people is the job of hangmen, bailiffs, and court officers. If they hear of this in Munich or Landsberg, participants in this hunt will quickly lose their rights of citizenship.”

“They’ll lose their rights of citizenship when they ignore directions and slaughter a gang that includes women and children!” Jakob Schreevogl interrupted. “Your son and Berchtholdt’s have blood on their hands-more than the hangman in his entire life!”

“What an outrageous insinuation!” Berchtholdt shouted. “My son kept things from getting worse. Scheller and his bloodthirsty companions were about to kill us!”

“Silence, for God’s sake!” Johann Lechner shouted, louder than usual. Quiet quickly returned to the room. It was rare for the clerk to lose his composure, and after a few moments, he got a hold of himself again. He took a deep breath. “Arguing and brawling won’t get us anywhere,” he finally said. “I’ll send the hangman out again. He has shown that he understands what he’s doing. But this time, only the men who are actually suited for the job will go with him.” He cast a sideways glance at the burgomaster. “Your son and the son of the baker certainly are not; they’ve already demonstrated that. As far as the Scheller gang is concerned…” Lechner paused as if thinking it over. “Hans Scheller has already confessed. In my opinion, further torture is not necessary. With the agreement of the council, I can begin the trial as representative of the elector in the next few days. The execution will take place shortly after-the sooner the better-as an example to the other gangs.”

The aldermen nodded. As so often, the remarks of their clerk seemed sound and logical, and a general feeling of satisfaction reigned immediately after he spoke. “You’ll see,” Johann Lechner said, packing his goose quill and inkpot in his leather briefcase. “When Scheller is strung up on Gallows Hill, peace will return to the town. You have my word on that.”