The Werewolf of Bamberg

13

BAMBERG, TEN O’CLOCK AT NIGHT, NOVEMBER 1, 1668 AD

Without stopping to check if anyone was following him, Georg ran through the dark streets of Bamberg. A horrible thought had seized him with such force that at first he rejected it.

You’re just imagining things. Stay calm. Try to think things through, like Barbara or Magdalena would.

But the more he thought about it, the more anxious he became. The very possibility that his assumptions might be correct made him run faster and faster. He needed certainty. Perhaps it would have been better to ask his father for advice first, but now there was no time for that. Besides, who was to say he was right? It was quite possible he was just imagining things and would make a fool of himself in front of his father and the others. It was better, then, for him to check out his conclusions by himself. At least his fear had sobered him up somewhat.

Gasping for air, Georg ran through the deserted fish market toward the wedding house; the outer gate was still open. Normally, two guards were stationed here, but evidently they had more important things to do tonight. No doubt they were off somewhere hunting werewolves. Georg wished he could learn more about it, but first he had to make sure the children were safe.

He entered the dark interior court and turned right, toward the door to Jeremias’s room. He took a deep breath and listened, but couldn’t hear a sound-no voices, no cries of children. He knocked timidly.

“Who’s there?” came a voice from inside after a while. Georg thought it sounded nervous and tense.

“It’s me, Georg,” he whispered. “I’m sorry it got so late.”

A bolt was pushed aside and Jeremias’s scarred face appeared in the opening. He was smiling broadly.

“Ah, it’s only you,” he said with relief. “I thought something had happened to you. The guards have been reporting the most horrible things about what’s going on in the city.” He winked. “But looking at you, it seems you’ve been quenching your thirst a bit too much. Your first time getting really drunk, eh? Well, that can be terrifying.” He opened the door. “Come on in, I’ll help you get yourself together again.”

Georg entered the room and looked around. There was only a single candle burning on the table beside a board with chess pieces on it. The draft coming through the open door made the cage with the sleeping birds swing back and forth gently, and a mangy cat was dozing on the bed. He didn’t see the children anywhere.

“Where are the boys?” Georg asked anxiously.

Jeremias pointed toward a small door on the left next to the bookshelves. “I took them over to the bench by the stove in the tavern. It’s nice and warm there, and since the guards came and threw everyone out, it’s quiet and empty. Biff is watching them, so you don’t have to worry.” He pointed toward the bed with the straw mattress. “It would be better for you to spend the night here with the children. No doubt you’ve heard what’s going on out there tonight.”

Georg nodded absentmindedly. He sat down on a stool by the table while Jeremias busied himself at a little tile stove in one corner. Finally, the crippled old custodian turned around and handed Georg a steaming cup.

“Here, drink this,” he said. “It’s hot small beer mixed with honey and a few strong herbs-the best cure for the aftereffects of the accursed devil’s brew.”

“Bless you.” Georg gratefully took a sip. It tasted sweet and at the same time bitter, and in fact it did clear his head a bit.

“Do you play chess?” Georg asked after a while, pointing to the chessboard on the table. “Who with?”

Jeremias laughed. “Not with Peter yet, though the little fellow has a really good head on his shoulders. No, I play against myself.” He winked at Georg. “Believe me, I’m a merciless opponent.”

Georg gave a wan smile, and his gaze wandered over the medical books on the shelves, then farther across the floor to the chest, with whose contents the boys had been playing so enthusiastically that afternoon.

I was right, he thought, his heart pounding. At least regarding the medical books, my memory wasn’t deceiving me. And for the rest. . well, we’ll see.

“This is really an impressive library,” Georg began hesitantly. “I just realized my father has most of the same books.”

“Really?” Jeremias raised his eyebrows. “Well, there aren’t a lot of really good books about medicine. I’m sure you know that-”

“Lonitzer’s almanac of herbs and plants, for example,” Georg interrupted, pointing to a rather thin, dog-eared book whose title was easy to recognize on the book’s spine. “Uncle Bartholomäus has one of those, too. It’s a book consulted often by hangmen, because it contains many recipes on how to dispatch the condemned man quickly and, above all, painlessly into the hereafter. At least that’s what my uncle told me.” Georg hesitated for a moment. “There are also some instructions on what to do to a condemned man to break his resistance.”

Jeremias suddenly pricked up his ears. “Ah, indeed?” he said with surprise. “What, for example?”

“Well, it just happens my father told me of one method just recently,” Georg replied, his voice trembling a bit. His head felt dull and heavy, but he kept a careful eye on Jeremias. “There’s the so-called sleep sponge. It’s often used in surgical operations, as well, to sedate patients. My father thinks the victims of this werewolf were drugged first, to make them easier to take away and kill. Are you familiar with this sleep sponge?”

“The werewolf sedates streetwalkers and then rips open their rib cages? Is that what you’re thinking? Very original. Your father must be a very imaginative hangman.” Jeremias chortled, and the scars on his face seemed to spring strangely to life. Then he shrugged. “To answer your question, perhaps I have indeed heard about this sleep sponge. But unfortunately I don’t know anything more about it.”

“Really? That surprises me. After all, its main ingredients are standing right there on your bookshelf.” Georg pointed at the crucibles and vials. “Hyoscyamus niger, Papaver somniferum, and Conium maculatum. The first time I was here, I couldn’t make any sense of the Latin names, but later, in the tavern, they occurred to me: henbane, opium, and spotted hemlock.” He smiled between clenched lips. “I may not be as smart as Barbara, but sometimes I remember the seemingly most insignificant things. It must be true that alcohol doesn’t always make you dumber. Sometimes it helps you to figure things out.”

For a long while the only sound was the soft chirping of the birds in the cage. Some had been awakened by the conversation and were flapping their wings excitedly.

The crippled custodian with the scarred face continued looking at him cordially, but Georg thought he noticed an anxious flicker in the man’s eyes.

“I’ve always recommended alcohol as a means of healing,” Jeremias said finally. “It can be amazingly effective, especially if the patient is unaccustomed to it. The same is probably true for the sleep sponge.” He folded his arms and leaned back on the bed. “I have a hunch that alcohol has provided you with additional insights. Is that so?”

Georg nodded. “Indeed.” He took another sip of the stimulating drink before continuing. His voice sounded more confident now. “I told you before that my Latin was not so good. I always hated it when Father pestered me about it. But there’s no getting around the fact that hangmen have to learn Latin. Most of the books on healing are written in it, and that’s the way we earn most of our money-with healing, much more than killing. So every day I had to translate Latin with my father, and I’ve even remembered some of it. Barbara was always better, of course.” He looked at Jeremias approvingly. “Your Latin, by the way, is excellent, as far as I can tell. Recently you’ve spoken Latin with me several times. Homo homini lupus-man is a wolf to man. Do you remember? Those were your words.”

Jeremias smiled and raised his hands disarmingly. “Very well, I’ll admit I speak a respectable Latin, and I have a few herbs that I probably shouldn’t have, but so far your reflections have led you to no conclusions, and that surprises me. What else do you have, detective?” he asked, playfully shaking his scarred head.

Georg sipped his drink and thought some more before continuing, slowly, as if he was groping forward word by word.

“My father always told me, when we were learning Latin, that when you get lost, sit back and look at the whole sentence, not just the individual parts. They only make sense when you take them all together. With you, too, I’ve been looking at the whole thing, and there was a part I just couldn’t fit in anywhere-at first.”

“And what would that be?”

“A sword.”

Jeremias looked at him, astonished. “A sword? I don’t understand. For the first time, you’re actually making me curious.”

Georg pointed at the old, battered trunk in the corner. “Well, when I brought the children to you, they went to play back there by the trunk. Paul was crazy about a short sword he found there. It was actually just the handle and the lower part of a blade that had broken off, dull and scratched. At first I didn’t pay any attention to it, but then I remembered what Paul had said to me when we were out by the river. He was very keen on going to see you. He has a sword just like Uncle Bartholomäus, only smaller. Those were his exact words, and at first I didn’t know what he meant by that. But now I do.”

Meanwhile, Jeremias had gone over and opened the old trunk. He took out the broken sword and held it reverently in his hand. It was a “great” sword, a two-hander-dull and rusted, and its handle was just as rough and gray as on the day it was forged.

“The handle is of sharkskin,” Georg whispered. “Isn’t that right? A handle only found in Bamberg executioners’ swords. I always admired Uncle Bartholomäus’s sword. Even if you’re anxious and your hand is sweaty, every drop will run off, and your hand won’t slip when you deal the deadly blow. I always wanted to have a sword like that. You have one, or at least a broken part of one. Why?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” Jeremias replied. His eyes had lost their warmth now. He looked sad and very, very tired, almost as if he’d aged years in the last few minutes.

Georg placed the cup down on the table and stared at the cripple for a long time. “I asked my uncle once how he’d become a hangman in Bamberg. After all, he was a stranger here, and the job almost always goes to the firstborn son of the previous hangman. The hangman before my father, however, had no children.”

“No, he didn’t,” Jeremias said in a soft voice.

“After the witch trials, the hangman disappeared without a trace,” Georg continued. “Nobody ever saw him again, though I think people were somewhat relieved. His name was Michael Binder. As the Bamberg executioner, he took upon himself the weight of the city’s guilt. He had tortured and executed almost a thousand people, on the orders of the bishop and a special inquisition committee, and then he simply disappeared. And with him, the guilt.”

“The guilt remains,” Jeremias replied. “It can’t be washed away, not even with caustic lime. The good citizens cannot wash it away, and the hangman certainly cannot, either. He must continue to live with this guilt, especially with the one. .”

Georg could see tears welling up in the custodian’s face, and suddenly he felt sorry for him. “What kind of guilt do you mean?” he asked hesitantly.

Jeremias smiled sadly. “You’ll be a good hangman someday, Georg. I can tell, believe me. Good hangmen are like sharp swords. They relieve suffering, if possible. Just a whoosh of air and it’s done. Be careful not to think too much about it. With the thinking comes dreams, bad dreams.” Jeremias groaned as he returned and sat down on the bed with the sword handle. “Especially when you’re torturing someone, your mind must be as clear and clean as a freshly forged sword. The screams, the pleading, the wailing must all bounce off you, have no effect. But sometimes you can’t do it. Perhaps you will know some of the victims-not well, but you’ve met them and greeted them on the street. They are neighbors, casual acquaintances, the tavern keeper from where you’ve always ordered your beer, the midwife who helped your wife birth her child. This isn’t a large city, and to some degree everyone knows everybody else. And the day may come when you must torture and execute someone you. .” He hesitated. “You really love. This guilt stays with you forever.”

“My God.” Georg looked at him, horrified. “You. . you. .”

“Carlotta was sixteen,” the old man continued, staring blankly into space while his fingers clutched and kneaded the sword handle. He seemed lost in his own world. “She was the daughter of a well-to-do linen weaver. Our love was clandestine. No one was to learn of it. But we swore we would get married someday. As a sign of my affection, I gave her a dress of pure fustian as soft as goose down. Toward the end of the third wave of persecutions, at the time of the Great Plague, the tavern keeper of the Bear’s Claw claimed he’d seen my Carlotta dancing with the devil in the parish cemetery at the time of the full moon. In those days, lots of people danced with the devil,” Jeremias said with a dry laugh. “The trial didn’t even last half a day, then they handed Carlotta over to me. I can still remember her wide-open eyes. My hands trembled, but I did my job, as always. They asked her about the people she knew, and every time I applied the tongs to her, I thought she would speak my name. But she didn’t. She just looked at me the whole time with her big, brown eyes, like those of a sweet little fawn. .”

“Did you burn her at the execution site?” Georg finally asked, breaking the silence that followed.

Jeremias shook his head. “She hanged herself in the dungeon with a rope made of the dress I’d once given her. Perhaps she wanted to spare me the sight of the execution.” He laughed bitterly again. “The sinner spares the hangman from having to kill her. What irony. The devil really had a time with us.”

“What happened then?” Georg asked.

“I couldn’t live with the guilt. That very night I smashed my executioner’s sword and fled from the town. I found shelter in an old shack built by a worker at a limestone quarry near Rossdorf in the Bamberg Forest, and I cried my eyes out. Then I decided to end my life and wipe all memory of me from the face of the earth. So I poured the unslaked lime in a trough, added water, and jumped in. But the pain was too great. I couldn’t bear the same pain I’d inflicted on others. I wandered through the forest, half-blind and screaming in agony, hiding in stables and barns, until finally Berthold Lamprecht found me and took me in.”

“The innkeeper of the Wild Man,” Georg added with a nod.

“And a good Christian, God knows. He’s a distant relative of mine, the only one who knows who I really am. The young people in Bamberg don’t know me, of course, and the elders just regard me as an old, scar-covered cripple. None of them ever recognized me on the street, and if anyone started giving me a closer look, I pulled my hood over my face and moved on. I’m just a monster, and monsters have no past.” Jeremias bared his teeth. With his scarred head and deformed face, he looked so horrible that even Georg could not help feeling repelled.

“Back then,” Jeremias continued, “Berthold went to the executioner’s house and fetched some of my things, among them this goddamned broken sword.” He weighed it in his hand like a feather. “Then he gave me work and this room that I’ve lived in ever since, like an ugly beast inside a mountain. I kept the sword, God knows why. Perhaps so I would never forget my evil deeds, and always remember my beloved Carlotta. .”

Tears ran down his scarred face; he cried silently as the birds in the cage above his head, now fully awake, began to chirp cheerfully. Georg was sure he’d never met such a lonely man.

And yet, I have to ask him this one last question.

“Do you know what I still find strange?” Georg said after a while. “As I told you earlier, sometimes little details stick in my mind. That happens to me often when I’m talking to people, and it did this time as well. When I mentioned the sleep sponge before, and Father’s assumption that the werewolf uses it to stun his victims, you laughed. You said my father was an imaginative fellow if he thought a werewolf would sedate a prostitute and then rip open her rib cage. Well. .” He paused and stared intently at Jeremias.

“What are you trying to say?” the old man asked, wiping the tears from his face. “What about it?”

“I never said anything about prostitutes nor a ripped-open rib cage, and I don’t think you could have heard about it. My father told me that Captain Lebrecht wanted to keep these matters absolutely confidential. Basically, there’s only one other person who would know about it.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “The murderer.”

Again there was a tense silence. Finally, Jeremias threw the sword into a corner, where it clattered to the floor. There was a glint in his tired eyes-something devious, like a wild animal at bay.

“Enough of this game of hide-and-seek,” he hissed. “So you know. Very well. You can be proud of yourself, I really underestimated you.” He seemed to be thinking it over, then he gave an evil smirk. “But your knowledge will do you no good.”

Georg could feel his hair bristling on the back of his neck, and at the same moment he knew he’d made a tactical error. He should have gone to his father with this knowledge and at least have kept that last question to himself-but now it was too late.

“What. . what do you intend to do?” Georg asked cautiously.

Jeremias pointed to the cup in Georg’s hand. “I said before that alcohol can have astonishing effects, among them that it can easily cover up an odd taste.” He pointed to the back of the room. “It was no accident that the little jar of Conium maculatum, poison hemlock, was back there on the shelf. I thought I might have a chance to use it again.”

Georg’s heart suddenly started pounding. “You poisoned me?” he gasped.

Jeremias shrugged. “Well, poison is a strong word for it. I’d say I’ve seen to it that we’ll keep this little secret to ourselves.” The man who was once the Bamberg executioner Michael Binder watched Georg intently. “Can you feel anything yet? The effect usually begins in the feet, and from there the paralysis travels up through the whole body. When it reaches the heart, that’s the end.”

Georg tried to wiggle his toes, and in fact, he felt a slight tingling creeping up toward his lower legs.

“You are a devil!” he groaned. “And I thought. .”

“That I’m just a kind old man?” Jeremias waved dismissively. “You still have a lot to learn, Georg. I’ve executed hundreds of men, so do you think one more matters? Yes, I killed the young prostitute. Believe me, I regret that crime every hour of every day, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let the unruly mob out there tear me to pieces as a werewolf. Because, by God, that’s just what they would do. Look at me.” He pointed at his disfigured face. “I’m a monster. They won’t find anyone else to fill the role better than I do.”

“Then you’re not actually the werewolf at all?” Georg asked, confused. The tingling had already reached his thigh.

“Am I? Or am I not?” Jeremias sighed. “My dear Georg, you thought you were so clever. But some things are simply a bit more complicated. I’m no kindly old fool, but I’m also not the devil. Like most people, I’m probably something in between, and I cling to life, just like you yourself, no doubt.”

With a smile, he took from the bookcase a fist-sized brown clump, which Georg didn’t recognize at first. It was evidently some sort of dried plant.

“The famous rose of Jericho,” Jeremias explained. “The first crusaders brought it to us from the Orient. Though it appears dead, it will turn green and begin to bloom again when you water it. Wise men call it the hand of Mary, and its curative powers are legendary.” He picked off a bit of the dry material and crumbled it into a cup. Then he walked over to the small stove, where a kettle of hot water was standing, and filled the cup.

“Just a bit of Mary’s Hand, and a few other ingredients that only I know, will stop the spread of the poison,” he continued. “Not for long, only about a day, and then the hemlock’s deadly poison will take effect again.” He smiled and handed the cup to Georg. “This is my suggestion. You will hold your tongue, and in return you may visit me and pick up the antidote every day until I reveal the ingredients to you, and then you will leave Bamberg forever. I’d call that a chivalrous offer, wouldn’t you?”

Georg tried to move his toes, which were almost paralyzed now. He nodded hesitantly, then reached for the steaming cup. He had made his decision.

You are a Kuisl, and don’t forget that.

“A chivalrous offer,” he repeated. “Especially since it comes from an unscrupulous murderer. But I’m afraid I cannot accept it.”

Without another word, he threw the steaming-hot contents straight into Jeremias’s face.

The old man fell to the floor, screaming and holding his hands over his scarred skin.

“Are you crazy?” he shrieked. “I have offered you your life, and you-”

Georg jumped at him and started to choke him. “No one extorts a Kuisl,” he hissed. “No one. As a former executioner you should know there are ways to make you talk. You will tell me the ingredients at once, then I’ll take this shriveled plant and-”

At that moment, someone crashed through the door and with brute force tossed Georg to one side.

In the meantime, Barbara was both in heaven and in hell.

She was crouching in a back corner of a hothouse in the castle garden, where she had fled in order to escape the growing chaos in the city. The building was at the far end of the park where two arms of the Regnitz came together on each side of the garden. Exotic trees grew there, reaching to the ceiling and bearing fist-sized orange fruit, which gave off an intoxicating fragrance. Brightly colored birds chirped as they fluttered amid the dark-green foliage. The fragrance was so intense and enticing that Barbara had bitten into one of the fruits; it was so terribly bitter, however, that she’d spat it out again.

She assumed it was one of those so-called Seville oranges. She had learned from her father that the expensive blossoms of these trees were occasionally used in herbal medicines and perfumes. They normally grew only in southern regions, but now, in the autumn, a good fire was rumbling in a stove in the middle of the pavilion and providing the necessary warmth.

Closing her eyes, Barbara tried to rest a bit. It was warm, the air was fragrant, and she was safe, at least for the moment. Still, she felt trapped in a nightmare.

She had been sitting here for over an hour, and she still couldn’t comprehend what had happened. After Suffragan Bishop Harsee changed into a werewolf, she fled out of the building in the general chaos. The citizens of Bamberg had already begun hunting down the actors, whom they now regarded, after what they had just seen, as witches and magicians. The good-natured Matthäus had been their first victim. Barbara had turned away as his cries for help became an almost inhuman scream. Despite the warmth in the pavilion, Barbara’s whole body was trembling. Where was Sir Malcolm? Where were Markus Salter and the other actors? Had the mob of people torn them to pieces, as they probably had Matthäus? Were their corpses already dangling from the trees in front of the castle?

She struggled to get her thoughts together as the birds fluttered around overhead. The aromatic smell of the orange trees helped her at least to calm down a little. Had her father and Uncle Bartholomäus managed to free Matheo, as Magdalena had promised they would?

Matheo. .

As soon as she thought of him, tears welled up in her eyes. Ever since Matheo had been taken prisoner, her feelings were in turmoil. Yes, she thought she loved him, but how could she know what love really was if she’d never experienced anything like it before? She was sure of one thing: she had to help him. And there was something else she’d come to realize in the last few hours.

She wanted to go back to her family.

Ever since she’d been separated from Magdalena, her twin brother, Georg, her father, and the other Kuisls, she felt like a part of her was missing. Why had she run away? She’d behaved like a fool. In any case, she couldn’t go back now to old Jeremias. Surely the guards were ransacking the wedding house looking for the actors.

It was high time to go home.

After what seemed like an eternity, the noise outside gradually subsided. Barbara could hear occasional shouts, but they were probably just the night watchmen. She got up, cautiously approached the door, and peeked out through a crack into the darkness. Seeing nothing, she slipped out into the cool night air of the garden.

She crept barefoot across a gravel path that wound its way alongside a labyrinth of hedges. Everywhere on the lawn stood bushes trimmed into the shapes of animals and geometric figures that, in the nearly complete darkness, looked like huge monsters. The statues around the fountain in the middle of the park appeared to be following Barbara with their eyes.

After a while she stopped and turned around, squinting. The garden was enclosed on three sides by a high wall that rose up just a few steps in front of her in the darkness. On the fourth side was the castle, through which she had entered and which was also the way out to the city. It seemed too risky to her to go back. Most likely, the gate to the courtyard had long ago been closed.

So, over the wall, she thought.

She was fearful about that, as she remembered that the castle grounds were surrounded on both sides by branches of the river. Even if she succeeded in getting over the wall, she’d have to swim. She didn’t even want to think about how cold the water would be in late autumn.

Looking for a way out, she continued groping along through the darkness. On the left a huge log house appeared, and inside it there was a pounding and the sound of rushing water. She’d seen a number of small canals filled with water around the pavilion and in the garden, and she assumed the building housed one of these fashionable new water pumps. The building stood right against the wall and was covered with ivy, so for a halfway-experienced climber it would be an easy matter to scramble up.

Barbara didn’t hesitate for a moment. She grabbed hold of the thin vines and pulled herself up, bit by bit, until she was atop the roof with the rumbling machines beneath her. Now the top of the wall came up only to her waist. She pulled herself up on the wall and looked down at the narrow, fast-flowing arm of the Regnitz on the other side. She was a good swimmer, but she couldn’t tell how far the current would carry her. At worst, she could land in one of the many water wheels just a short distance down the river and be ripped to shreds.

Do I have any choice?

Barbara murmured a short prayer, then jumped feetfirst into the rushing water.

It was so cold that it took her breath away. The current drove her toward one of the mills, whose wheel was squeaking and groaning as it turned in the water.

The river water stank of rot and decay, and it tugged at her as if with a hundred arms, reluctant to give up its prey. Nevertheless she fought against the current, getting closer and closer to the opposite shore.

Finally she grabbed hold of a slippery shrub along the shore and pulled herself up. Gasping for air, she scrambled up the steep bank and looked for refuge behind a few splintered barrels.

In front of her was a dark street littered with horse droppings. Everything seemed calm, and the only thing she heard were the bells in the distance striking the eleventh hour.

Barbara leaned against one of the barrels and tried to catch her breath. Her whole body shook and her teeth chattered with the cold, but she had made it. Now she just had to get back to the executioner’s house. Her father would probably give her a good whipping, but she’d accept that punishment in return for a cup of hot mulled wine and a warm embrace from her big sister.

They’ll excuse me. A family always forgives.

Carefully she sat up and got her bearings. The city hall had to be in front of her, somewhere on the right. There was also a bridge there that she could take to get to the newer part of the city. Hastily, she picked up the dripping hem of her skirt and set out on her way.

Just as she reached the next corner, a mob of young men armed with scythes, pitchforks, and torches came running out of a side street. They appeared just as surprised by the sudden meeting as she was, but their hesitation didn’t last long.

“Hey, isn’t that the cute princess from the troupe of actors?” one of them shouted, pointing at Barbara’s torn dress. Instinctively, she cringed. In the excitement she’d completely forgotten the expensive red dress, and now she felt it was practically glowing in the dark.

“Just have a look at this,” another young man said, ogling her breasts beneath the soaking dress. “Looks like the dirty little water rat has been taking a bath in the city moat.” He looked down at her condescendingly. “Tell me, did you meet with the other witches? You can’t deny it. We’ve already caught a couple of you, and they all admit they changed the suffragan bishop into a werewolf. So speak up.”

Barbara immediately understood that further discussion was pointless, so she did the first thing that came to mind-she turned and ran down the street as fast as she could. The young men ran after her, shouting.

She zigged and zagged a few times, then darted off into a narrow lane. Not until it was too late did she notice that the way led steeply uphill, probably to Kaulberg Hill adjacent to the cathedral mount, a labyrinth with many tiny houses, stairways, winding lanes, churches, and chapels. Barbara struggled for breath as the young men behind her bellowed triumphantly and drew closer.

The lane became steeper and narrower, and now Barbara had completely lost her way. Evidently the men had split up, as she could now hear the sounds of running feet on all sides.

They’re surrounding me. Like wolves chasing a young deer, they’re closing in on me.

Suddenly the lane widened, and before her she saw the dark outlines of a monastery. She hesitated for a moment, looked around, then ran across the market square to the large doorway of the monastery church. Building cranes and scaffolding stood all around, just as they did in front of many other church buildings in the city. The entire square was one huge construction site, with piles of stone blocks and sacks of mortar that served as cover as she hunched over and ran toward the monastery. If she could make it into the church, she had some chance of evading her pursuers. As in all churches and monasteries in the Reich, the right of asylum applied in Bamberg as well. Anyone who had entered the protective interior would be safe.

With her last bit of strength, she rushed toward the gate and shook the doorknob frantically.

But the door was locked.

Furiously she pounded the massive wooden door. It simply wasn’t possible. A church was supposed to be open at all hours of day and night. Apparently the monks, in their fear of werewolves and marauding militias, had locked the door.

She looked around and could see the light of torches entering the square and drawing closer. In desperation, she stormed toward a building crane in the middle of the square, where she could see the dark outlines of a large pile of sand. Perhaps she could find some place to hide there.

She quickly scrambled up the pile, damp from the evening fog, and was almost at the top when the sand beneath her suddenly gave way. She reached out wildly in all directions, but found nothing to hold on to and rolled back down the slope into a pit at the foot of the sand pile. Facedown, she lay there in the mud.

This is the end, she thought.

And indeed, she heard the shouts of the young men, this time very close by. They were somewhere on the construction site.

She crawled away from the pile, from which sand was still trickling down, and suddenly she caught sight of a tunnel supported by wooden beams. It appeared to have been dug by the workers looking for the necessary sand for their building. She crept toward it, ducked down to get inside, and at once was enveloped in darkness as black as the grave. The tunnel was waist-high but noticeably narrower at the far end. Nevertheless, she kept moving forward until the shouts behind her were muffled and finally faded away.

She lay there panting and listening.

Everything was quiet; apparently the men had given up the chase.

Barbara decided to wait. It was possible her pursuers were still outside. As the water dripped down onto her hair, she thought she could feel the weight of the tons of soil and sand above her.

Just as she was about to crawl back out of the tunnel, something attracted her attention-a tiny ray of light coming from the far end. Was there possibly another way out?

She decided to go and see. If it really led to the outside, she would be a good distance from the men, who were probably still looking for her at the construction site. She crawled forward on all fours, and the light, which seemed to be coming from one side of the tunnel, grew brighter.

In about another fifty or sixty feet she reached the end of the tunnel, where, on the right, several slippery, worn steps led into a larger tunnel. The first steps were covered by fallen rocks, but after a few yards there was an area of solid, smooth stone. The dim light came from a low doorway apparently leading to a room above.

Holding her breath, Barbara slowly moved toward the light. Upon entering the room, she found a single, smoking torch revealing the outlines of several dust-covered crates and trunks; a figure in a threadbare brown monk’s habit cowered among them. The man’s face was scratched and full of bloody welts, and he was so pale he appeared almost transparent. Still, Barbara recognized him at once.

It was the playwright, Markus Salter.

When he caught sight of her, the haggard man winced, then a tired smile spread across his face.

“Greetings, Barbara,” Salter said, raising a shaking hand. “I thought they’d finally caught up with me, but evidently Providence has allowed the two of us, at least, to escape this madness.” Tears ran down his bloodied face. “I don’t know where God is, but tonight he has clearly abandoned Bamberg.”

The blow that struck Georg on the side was powerful, yet not especially painful. Nevertheless, it was hard enough to hurl him back into the corner of the little room, where he came to rest with his head against the wall. A strange odor was in the air; at first Georg couldn’t place it. Then he recognized the stench of a beast of prey, and of decay.

A werewolf. Jeremias has conjured up a werewolf.

Trembling, he turned around, only to look straight into the angry face of his father.

“What the hell are you doing, beating up a crippled old man, eh?” he shouted. “I don’t know what happened here, but my son doesn’t beat cripples, do you understand?”

His heart pounding wildly, Georg stood up and wiped his mouth where his father had slapped him.

Next to Jakob stood Magdalena, her arms crossed, staring angrily at Georg. “Good God, Georg, what are you doing here at Jeremias’s house at this hour of the night?” she scolded. “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been? And where are the children? They should have been home and in bed hours ago.”

“The children are next door in the tavern,” he croaked. “They’re all right. In contrast to me.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Speak up.” His father pulled him to his feet. “Say something.”

Georg pointed at Jeremias, still lying on the floor, panting for breath. His scarred face was bright red from the hot water Georg had flung in his face.

“He’s no defenseless cripple,” Georg said angrily. “He’s Michael Binder, the man who used to be the Bamberg executioner. He’s a murderer and probably the werewolf we’ve been looking for. He. . he poisoned me with hemlock.”

Sheer terror seized him as he felt the strange tickling that had already traveled up to his thighs.

“He has an antidote.” He turned urgently to Jakob and Magdalena, who stood there gaping at him. “Rose of Jericho and other things. He’s the only one who knows the exact formula. We must force him to give it to us, or I’m done for.”

Jakob dropped down onto a stool, which creaked perilously with the sudden weight. The hangman shook his head, at a loss.

“Murderer. . antidote. . rose of Jericho. .,” he mumbled. “Damn it, Georg, how much have you had to drink? I can smell your breath from here.”

“But it’s the truth,” Georg insisted. “Jeremias is a murderer, he admitted it himself. And he poisoned me. Here.” He pointed to the cup of hemlock still standing on the table. “He gave me the hemlock in this cup.”

Jakob picked up the cup, and his huge hooked nose disappeared for a moment inside, as if it were an autonomous creature acting on its own. He sniffed a number of times, then shook his head.

“I’ll eat a witch’s broom if there’s hemlock in this,” he said calmly. “Hemlock smells like mouse droppings. This here is actually. .” He stopped to smell again. “Cinnamon, honey. . hmm, probably cardamom, a pinch of pepper-”

“And a few cloves from far-off India,” Jeremias interrupted. He’d gotten to his feet again and sat down unsteadily on the bed. “And don’t forget the sinfully expensive muscat. The brew is a so-called hippocras, brewed according to the original recipe of the Greek physician Hippocrates-a strong and, by the way, very delicious spiced wine that is not at all poisonous.”

“But. . but you told me yourself it contained hemlock. Now I’m completely confused.” Georg’s gaze wandered back and forth between Jakob and Jeremias. “And I can feel this tingling. .”

“Do you really, Georg?” Jeremias asked with a mischievous smile. “Or is it possible it’s just your imagination?”

Baffled, Georg wiggled his toes, and indeed the tingling seemed to have almost completely disappeared. How was that possible?

“The fascinating power of suggestion,” Jeremias said. “With a little showmanship you can make people believe anything. Healing powers as well as deadly ones. Your father surely knows as much about this as I do.”

“And the rose of Jericho?” Georg asked hesitantly, though he already suspected what the answer would be.

“The rose of Jericho is a pretty, though expensive, ornament,” Magdalena said with a shrug. “When you water it, it turns green, but I’ve never heard that it was a strong antidote for anything. If you’d paid a little more attention to Father back home, you’d know that.”

Georg tore his hair in anger. He’d thought he was so smart, and now it appeared he’d made an ass of himself again in front of his father and big sister. Furious, he turned around to Jeremias. “You. . you did that just so I’d keep my mouth shut, didn’t you?”

Jeremias raised his hands apologetically. “And it worked. Believe me, Georg, that one murder was enough for me.” His face turned dark. “I’ll roast in hell for that alone.”

“I think you owe us an explanation,” said Magdalena, looking at Jeremias suspiciously, “but first I want to see my children. And perhaps someone else,” she added vaguely.

Jeremias pointed toward the little door next to the bookshelves. “Georg was right, the two boys are sleeping peacefully in the next room. But please assure yourself.”

Magdalena opened the door and disappeared. When she returned, she was visibly relieved. “The boys are fine,” she declared. “Judging from the smears around their mouths, at worst they have had too much plum jam to eat. The one I’m really missing, however, is Barbara.”

“Barbara?” Jakob looked at her in surprise. “This is getting even more confusing. Are you saying that Barbara was here the whole time? Damn it, damn it!” He was getting ready to explode, but Magdalena cut him off.

“None of that matters anymore,” she said. “Now that we’ve brought Matheo to safety, I would have come here tomorrow and brought her home.” Magdalena turned to Jeremias and asked sternly, “So where is she?”

Jeremias sighed. “Actually, Barbara was with the actors most of the time, and I haven’t really seen her. She left this morning to go to the castle with them. Perhaps she was helping with their costumes.”

“Just wait till I get my hands on her,” Jakob growled. “But we’ll take care of that later.” He turned back to Georg. “And now it’s high time you told me what happened here.”

Georg took a deep breath, then lowered his head and told his father about getting drunk at the Blue Lion, but also all the things he’d seen and how he’d been able to make sense of it in the end. He told him about the ingredients for the sleep sponge he’d discovered in Jeremias’s room, Jeremias’s extensive knowledge of Latin, and the broken executioner’s sword-but most importantly, he told about Jeremias’s confession that he was Michael Binder, the former executioner, and that he had just recently committed a murder.

“He confessed to having killed the young prostitute,” Georg said finally. “Only the murderer could know about the ripped-open rib cage. Jeremias is the werewolf you’ve been looking for.”

Jakob had listened silently the whole time, and now he turned to Jeremias, still sitting on the bed, rubbing a cool ointment on his red, scarred face.

“Is it true what the boy says?” the hangman asked.

Jeremias sighed. “Only part of it. Yes, I killed Clara, but I’m not the werewolf. You must believe that.”

“Then we’ll have to hear more,” Kuisl replied. He took out his pipe and lit it on a flaming wood chip he’d fetched from the stove. Soon, fragrant clouds of smoke were ascending toward the ceiling, dispelling the rotten stench of the beast of prey that had been clinging to his clothes.

“So speak up,” Jakob demanded. “Or must I first ask my brother to throw you on the rack and torture you with thumbscrews?”

Jeremias winked mischievously. “Believe me, when it comes to the rack and thumbscrews, you youngsters could still learn a lot from me.” But then he turned serious.

“It’s just as Georg told you. Indeed, I was once the Bamberg executioner Michael Binder-but Michael Binder is long dead and gone. He died almost forty years ago in a trough full of unslaked lime. Since then, I’ve been Jeremias. But I was never able to wash away the guilt weighing on me. . only my old name.” The old man sighed deeply, and there was a strange rattle in his throat. “I could never forget the sight of my beloved Carlotta-the vision of her follows me in all my dreams. And then, about a year ago, this young girl appeared, the very image of Carlotta.”

“Do you mean the young prostitute?” Magdalena interrupted.

Jeremias nodded. “The first time I saw the girl, she came to me to abort a child. Prostitutes know about my knowledge of healing and visit me in secret. Ever since then, I couldn’t forget the girl. Her. . her name was Clara. I went to her and told her I only wanted to touch her, nothing more. At first, she was disgusted, but I gave her money, lots of money, and she gave herself to me. I often visited her in the brothel in the Rosengasse, and once I persuaded her to sleep here with me.” A blissful smile spread across his face. “It was the most wonderful night in almost half a century. We talked a lot, just as I had talked back then with Carlotta-mostly inconsequential things, the way new lovers do. I was a fool. A stupid old fool.” He pounded his forehead with his fist before continuing.

“In a moment of weakness, I told Clara my secret. I told her that in my former life I’d been Michael Binder, the hangman of Bamberg.” His face darkened. “The next day she demanded money, and later, even more. She threatened to turn me over to the officials.”

“Why would that have been so bad?” Georg asked. “After all, you didn’t do anything illegal back then, you were just the hangman.”

Jeremias smiled. “That’s just it, I was the hangman. Remember, at that time, not only ordinary people, but more importantly many nobles and councilors were being burned at the stake. Their families swore bloody revenge. I can still see them standing there by the flaming stake and pointing at me.” He shuddered. “They could never call the ones responsible to account, as they were too powerful. But believe me, they would have taken out their anger on me-and they still would today, because I’m just a simple hangman.”

Jakob grumbled his agreement and took another drag on his pipe. “You’re probably right. It’s so easy for them to vent their anger and guilt on us, and that’s why they need us-to kill, and to heal sometimes, too, and so we can relieve them of their undesired offspring. And afterward, in the street, they look away, and behind our backs they make the sign of the cross.”

“What happened with this young Clara?” Magdalena asked.

Jeremias took a deep breath. “Once, when I had no money to pay her, I went to her and asked her to stop it. But she just laughed at me and said she’d go to Captain Lebrecht the next day to report me. She called me a stupid cripple and told me all the things the patricians would do to make my life hell. At that moment, I knew I had to act.” He paused. “I thought about all the ways I could hurt her, and I got the idea of using the sleep sponge, which I had used on criminals in the past. The very next night, I lay in wait for her and pressed the sleep sponge over her face. She cried out once, then fell to the ground. She didn’t even feel the blow that smashed her skull.”

“But the rib cage,” Georg whispered. He was both fascinated and repelled by Jeremias’s cold-blooded description of the young girl’s murder. “You cut open her rib cage. Why?”

Jeremias shrugged. “There were people who’d seen me with Clara, and I was afraid someone might get the wrong idea. An old man, an unrequited love. . So I made it look like this werewolf had sunk its fangs into her.” He winked at Jakob. “And all of you were fooled by it.”

Georg now looked at the old man in disgust.

Is this what happens when you kill hundreds of people? How sick and unfeeling can you get?

For the first time he felt nothing but revulsion for the vocation of the executioner.

But this is probably what I’ll have to do someday.

The little room was now almost completely filled with smoke from Jakob’s pipe, and through the gray clouds, Jeremias’s scarred face looked almost like a ghost, a spirit from a long-forgotten past.

The silence in the room was broken by his question, uttered in a soft voice. “Are you going to hand me over now to the guards?”

“I’m not a judge, I’m just a hangman like you used to be,” Jakob replied hesitantly. “God knows there was a lot of pain in your life, but I’m sure that at least the great judge of us all will see to it that you pay for this deed in eternity. And you will pay more than for any of the others you have killed, because at least this one time you were able to make your decision freely. And you chose the path of darkness.”

“I know that,” Jeremias replied gloomily, and he looked to see what his visitors would do next. “So you’ll let me go?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Jakob said. He puffed on his pipe and seemed completely lost in his own thoughts. “It depends on what else we learn. Perhaps even with your help.” He stared at Jeremias sharply. “Do you swear you have nothing to do with the other murders?”

The old man held his hand to his skinny chest. “I swear by all the saints and the Holy Mother of Jesus.”

Jakob waved dismissively. “You can forget all that rot. I always thought there was something fishy about the murder of the young prostitute. The odor of henbane, her ripped-open chest-it didn’t seem to fit with the others.”

“But the other victims were also badly mangled,” Magdalena interrupted. “They’d been tortured, dismembered. .”

“The werewolf,” Georg whispered, making the sign of the cross.

“Good God, just stop talking about this damn werewolf!” Jakob scolded. “Can’t you see that someone is playing us for fools? Jeremias exploited that horror story, as did someone before him. But who? And why?” The hangman frowned. “Well, at least we know this prostitute doesn’t belong with the others. She was the stone that didn’t fit in the mosaic. If we put this aside, who’s left? Who. .”

Jakob, mulling it all over, reached out for the chess pieces lying on the table beside the chessboard.

“The first victim was probably this Klaus Schwarzkontz,” he mumbled without taking the pipe from his mouth. “An old Bamberg city councilor.” He placed a white castle on the board. “Thadäus Vasold was also an old councilor, and the old lady Agnes Gotzendörfer was the widow of an influential patrician, as well.” Another castle and a black queen followed. “So here we have three people connected by the power they had in the past.”

“But there were also some rather young women,” Magdalena chimed in. “The apothecary’s wife, Adelheid Rinswieser, for example, whose husband is also on the council. And Simon said that the fiancée of another young councilor also disappeared, a certain Johanna Steinhofer.”

Jakob placed two white knights alongside the black queen and the two rooks. “Look,” he said. “It’s just a thought. If you leave the prostitute out of the picture, it’s a struggle between the patricians and the other families. The only conclusion, then-”

Georg cleared his throat. “Father?” he asked softly.

Impatiently, Jakob turned to face him. “For God’s sake, what is it?”

“Uh, you forget there was one more woman who has disappeared,” Georg replied timidly. “A simple miller’s wife by the name of Barbara Leupnitz, who lived in the Bamberg Forest. Her husband is certain one of the dismembered arms belonged to her. After Councilor Schwarzkontz, she was the second victim.”

Jakob set down another white pawn among the other figures. “So, not one of the patricians. I thought the veil was lifting.”

“Well, perhaps it is, after all.”

It was Jeremias, lying on the bed. Apparently the pain in his face had subsided. Now he stood up, shuffled over to the table, and stood there thinking about the six figures on the chessboard. He reached out with his gout-plagued fingers for the lone white pawn, then turned to Georg with a questioning look.

“Did you say the miller’s wife is Barbara Leupnitz?”

When Georg nodded, Jeremias continued, lost deep in thought: “I knew her father well. Johannes Schramb. He was just a simple scribe in the city hall, like a number of others. But there was a time when I saw Schramb almost every day.”

“And when was that?” Magdalena asked.

Jeremias took a deep breath before answering.

“That was at the time of the witch trials. Johannes Schramb was at that time a scribe for the so-called Witches Commission.”

“The Witches Commission?” asked Magdalena, frowning. “Like the one they’ve set up because of this werewolf?”

“Something like that,” Jeremias nodded. “Back then, the members of the Witches Commission were the so-called Fragherren-the inquisitors-and they alone decided who looked suspicious and whom to question. They were also present every time a suspect was tortured. The Bamberg Witches Commission ruled in cases involving life and death. They were appointed by the bishop, and there was no one in the city who could question their decisions.”

Magdalena murmured, “A small circle of powerful men who could decide whether people lived or died. They must have felt like they were gods.” She stopped short. “Wait!” She pointed excitedly at the other pieces on the chessboard. “Were any of the present victims members of that Witches Commission?”

“The members of the commission changed from one trial to the next,” Jeremias replied with a shrug, “but there were some who served every time, and I can remember very clearly who they were. One of them was Klaus Schwarzkontz, and I think also Thadäus Vasold and Egidius Gotzendörfer, the husband of Agnes Gotzendörfer.” He sighed. “But old Egidius is long gone, and all the other victims are naturally much too young. After all, all this happened nearly forty years ago.”

“What about the scribe, this Johannes Schramb?” Jakob asked. “Is he still living?”

Jeremias shook his head. “Surely not. Even then he was no youngster. I think he died more than ten years ago.”

“But his daughter. . she passed away just recently,” Jakob replied, taking another deep drag on his pipe. He glared at old Jeremias. “Do you think there’s a way we can find out whether the two other young women had a father or grandfather who served on this commission? If they got married, then their surnames would be different, of course.”

Jeremias thought for a while. “It wouldn’t be especially difficult to find out their maiden names. Perhaps Berthold Lamprecht can help us with that. As the tavern keeper of the Wild Man, there isn’t a soul in Bamberg he doesn’t know.” He shrugged. “But whether their fathers or grandfathers were members of the commission then-”

Georg couldn’t contain himself any longer and jumped up urgently from his stool. “Let’s see if I’ve got this right. Do you seriously believe there’s someone out there deliberately targeting these former commission members? And once he disposes of them, he strings up their spouses, children, and grandchildren?”

“Good Lord, how often do I have to tell you to keep your mouth shut when adults are talking,” Jakob scolded, looking at Georg so angrily that the young man meekly returned to his seat.

“He’s fifteen, almost sixteen, Father,” Magdalena objected. “Georg is no longer a little boy. Besides, we have a lot to thank him for.” She gave her younger brother a sarcastic look. “Even though he’s unfortunately worthless as a babysitter.”

Jakob grunted his disapproval, then offered an explanation.

“I told you before, there are two possibilities. This alleged werewolf could be a madman who kills people indiscriminately. Or he could have a plan. If he has a plan, and I’m beginning to believe he does, then there’s some connection between all these murders. It can’t be an accident that among the victims there are two former inquisitors, the widow of another, and the daughter of one of the scribes. The other murders no doubt have some connection to it all, as well, and that’s what we have to find out.” He turned back to Jeremias. “So what can you tell me about the names of the commission members?”

Jeremias sighed wearily. “I already told you. There was not just one commission, but many-a new group was assembled for each trial. I can remember Schwarzkontz and the two old councilors, as well as the scribe Schramb, but as far as the others are concerned”-he hesitated-“for the life of me, I can’t remember who they were. Those were uncivil, barbaric times, and moreover, it all happened ages ago. You’d have to look at the old records to find out what lists all those inquisitors were on.”

“But why should we do that?” Georg asked, confused.

“How stupid are you, you numbskull?” Jakob snapped, pounding the table so hard that the chess pieces flew off in all directions. “If we can find the one trial where all of these inquisitors were present, we can perhaps prevent another calamity.”

“And you say that because-” Magdalena started to say.

“Because I sense there are a few more people on this list,” Jakob interrupted. He pointed at his nose. “And my nose here tells me our unknown suspect won’t stop killing until he’s gotten to the end of the list.”

“You can just forget about that,” replied Jeremias, shaking his head. “Those lists are ancient. They’re probably rotting away somewhere in the bishop’s archive. You can’t just walk in there and start looking around. The place is crawling with guards. Besides, you don’t know your way around there. You might just as well go looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“We got into the dungeon in the Old Residence, and we’ll make it into the bishop’s archive, as well,” Jakob replied firmly. “There’s always a way.” He pointed to Jeremias. “And you will help us in the search for the right document. I know that hangmen, too, often search the documentation about the questioning of condemned men. That’s what we do in Schongau.”

“And if I refuse?” Jeremias asked.

“If you refuse, we’ll turn you over to Captain Martin Lebrecht first thing tomorrow as a confessed murderer who is probably also the werewolf they’re looking for.”

Jeremias groaned and raised his hands in defeat. “Very well, it’s possible I could find the list in the archives-but as I said, we’ll never get in there. Never. You can forget about it.” Then he hesitated. “Unless. .” A grin spread across his face.

“Unless what?” Magdalena and Georg asked at the same time.

“Well, perhaps there is a chance,” Jeremias replied, enjoying the moment as the others looked at him expectantly. “It’s really a dreadful thing, and if we decide to do it, we’ll need nerves of steel.”

The hangman nodded. “Don’t think twice about that. My nerves are as strong as a seaman’s rope.”

For a long time, Barbara and Markus Salter remained silent, cowering on the floor of the little room that smelled of mold and decay. The crates and chests all around them were covered in dust and had evidently been standing there for years. On the opposite side of the room, next to the archway that led down into the sandy tunnel, there was another door, which appeared much newer.

“Where are we?” Barbara asked as she felt her strength coming back and the trembling gradually subsiding.

“Probably in the Carmelite monastery on Kaulberg Hill,” Markus replied. He indicated the brown monk’s robe he was wearing. “I found this here in one of the trunks, along with a few old crucifixes and altar cloths. Most of the things have seen better days.”

Now Barbara noticed that there was a dark spot on the side of Salter’s robe, and she assumed it was blood. Evidently his injuries were worse than she’d thought.

“What happened?” she whispered. “The last time I saw you, you were outside in the courtyard just after everyone had fled the room.”

“They chased us like animals,” Salter responded in a monotone. “They caught fat Matthäus first, out in the courtyard. Karl and skinny Josef made it out to the street. I tried to help them, but it was hopeless.” Salter sniffled as he wiped the blood from his nose. “Finally, I ran up Kaulberg Hill and crawled into this wretched hole.” He pointed to the low archway and the rubble-strewn staircase. “I looked around a bit. The entire hill is like a piece of cheese-the Bambergers are digging up the sand here for all their new building sites. You can be glad that none of the tunnels have collapsed, or the monastery overhead.”

Apprehensively, Barbara looked up at the damp ceiling and the water dripping down from it.

“Did you say,” she asked, “we’re probably the only actors to have escaped this madness? What happened to Sir Malcolm? Did he perhaps also-”

Markus Salter sneered. “Don’t worry about him. He always saves his own skin. Malcolm has played so many roles in his life that he can easily play the part of the curious onlooker, a member of the angry mob, or God knows what-anything that crosses his mind. You don’t have to worry about him.”

“I’m much more worried about you,” Barbara said, pointing hesitantly at the dark spot on his robe. “It seems you had a hard time saving yourself.”

Salter waved dismissively. “Oh. . that will get better. I’m glad I was able to at least save my skin. You should put on a monk’s robe like this, too. It scratches like hell, but it’s warm. It looks like we’ll be spending a while in here. No doubt the devil is at work down in the city.”

“Or, rather, the werewolf,” Barbara replied bitterly. Anxiously, she glanced at Salter. “Did the suffragan bishop really turn into a werewolf during our performance? He looked so horrible.” She shuddered. “How can something like that happen? Perhaps these incidents do have something to do with the actors. First the pelts in Matheo’s room, and now this.”

“Well, I’m reluctant to say so, but I’ve had my suspicions for a long time,” Salter replied. “I had to wonder when I first saw the wolf pelts in Matheo’s luggage, but now. .”

“What are you saying?” Barbara asked.

He hesitated but finally replied. “I’ve got to say, it’s not the first time we’ve encountered a werewolf.” He wrapped his arms tightly around his chest. He clearly was freezing, despite the heavy robe he was wearing.

“There were a few strange incidents after our performances in Cologne and Frankfurt as well,” he continued gloomily. “Peaceful citizens suddenly attacked others in the street for no apparent reason, a vagrant is said to have stolen an infant from its cradle and eaten it, a few young girls disappeared without a trace. . I’ve had my suspicions for a long time, and then three days ago in the wagon I caught him red-handed.”

“By all the saints, who?” Barbara whispered.

“Sir Malcolm.” Markus took a deep breath. “I just wanted to ask him which costumes still needed mending. There was a strange, sulfurous odor in the wagon, and when I addressed him, he quickly stashed something away in a chest. He seemed very annoyed. Later, I went back to the wagon and looked inside the chest. .” Salter hesitated and then, after a while, continued in a strained voice. “Inside there was a silver pentagram, a candelabra with black candles, and a skull so small, it could only have been that of a child.”

“My God,” Barbara gasped. “Is Sir Malcolm a warlock?”

Markus Salter shrugged. “Later, he even showed us the candelabra and the pentagram, saying he needed them for our performance of Faustus. The whole time he was looking at me so strangely, and he didn’t say anything about the child’s skull. Naturally, I can’t prove anything-all I can say is that whenever Sir Malcolm and our troupe stayed very long in a city, strange things started happening.”

“How long have you known him?” Barbara asked anxiously.

“About ten years. Back then I was a student in Cologne, and I was broke. I was as fascinated by the theater as you are now.” Markus smiled, then he winced and pressed his hand against the wound in his side.

Barbara pointed to the bloodstained robe. “Can I have a look? I know a bit about treating wounds.”

Salter looked at her suspiciously. “Barbara, you are no doubt an excellent actress, but at your age, I can’t see you in the role of a doctor.”

“Believe me, I know a thing or two about it,” she answered a bit snippily. “My father, as you know, is an executioner, and we Kuisls know a lot about healing.”

Salter winced again, and this time she wasn’t sure it was because of the pain. “I’d completely forgotten that,” he said. “Your uncle is the Bamberg hangman, isn’t he?”

Barbara nodded sadly. “Almost our whole family is engaged in this horrible profession, and has been for ages-Father, my uncle, my brother-in-law, my grandfather. We’re scattered all over the Reich and all related to each other in some way. That’s why executioners all greet each other as cousins.” She sighed. “My great-grandfather was the famous-or infamous-Jörg Abriel, who tortured and killed hundreds of people. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

Salter shook his head, looking a little paler now. “No, my dear, I. .” He seemed to be struggling to say something, but once again he was overcome with pain.

“Don’t be that way. Show me your wound,” Barbara said.

With a determined face, she ripped the robe off. There was blood on the side of Salter’s chest, and in one place it was still seeping out. Carefully, she examined the area.

“Someone obviously stabbed you there with a dagger,” she said in a professional tone of voice. “Thank God the wound isn’t very deep, but it must be cleaned at once, or it will become infected.”

She ripped off a piece of her wet dress, then looked around the room. In one corner she found a small keg of communion wine.

“I don’t know if the wine here still tastes very good,” she said, opening the stopper and soaking the cloth in it, “but for cleaning out a wound it’s a lot better than the filthy water.”

Carefully she wiped away the blood, and after the wound was clean, she made a temporary bandage from a long piece of cloth ripped from one of the robes. Markus Salter remained quiet except for a few soft moans.

“I can’t do anything more for you now,” Barbara said finally, “but perhaps tomorrow we can go together to my uncle’s house.”

Salter laughed bitterly, but his laughter soon gave way to a fit of coughing. “Are you out of your mind?” he gasped. “If those idiots out there just stop to think for a moment, they’ll figure out you’re the niece of the Bamberg executioner. They’ve been looking for you for a long time. Does anyone here in town know you? Did anyone see you before you appeared on the stage with us?”

“I don’t know,” she replied hesitantly, all of a sudden feeling exposed and helpless. “I visited the marketplace a few times with my sister, and then there’s Katharina, Uncle Bartholomäus’s fiancée, of course, and old Jeremias, the custodian of the Wild Man-”

“No doubt the tavern was ransacked a long time ago,” Salter interrupted. “After all, that’s where the actors were lodged. And they surely asked Jeremias about us.” He looked at her attentively. “Do you really think this Jeremias wouldn’t betray you to the guards to save his life?”

“Oh, God, I don’t know,” Barbara wailed. “Probably not, but that means that I can never return to my family.”

“At least as long as they live in the house of the Bamberg executioner.” Salter nodded with determination. “After everything that happened tonight, neither of us can show our faces in Bamberg again. It’s likely that all the guards in the city are out looking for us actors.”

“But where can we go, then?” Barbara wailed. “I want to go back to my family!”

Markus patted her on the head. “I’ll think of something, Barbara, I promise. But first, we should get some sleep. You’ll see, tomorrow things will look much better.”

Barbara didn’t believe him, but nevertheless she put on one of the warm robes and laid her head in his lap as Markus hummed a little tune for her. It sounded sad and dreary, but it calmed her down, and soon thereafter she fell asleep from exhaustion and grief.