The Werewolf of Bamberg

14

THE HOUSE OF THE BAMBERG EXECUTIONER, MORNING, NOVEMBER 2, 1668 AD

That morning, among the Kuisls assembled in Bartholomäus’s home, there was a strange mood of despondency mixed with anticipation. Until then, they had scarcely had a chance to talk with one another. The injured Matheo was still upstairs in the bedroom, catching up on his sleep as he recovered. The wine mixed with herbs that Jakob had given him the night before finally provided him relief from his bad dreams-a good fortune not shared by most of the others present. All of them were pale, and the dark rings under their eyes bore witness to the strenuous day and night preceding.

Now they were all seated around the scratched table in the warm main room, while the boys were outside playing hide-and-seek along the city moat with the neighborhood children. The boys’ new friends came from a family of dishonorable gravediggers, so the parents had no objection to them playing with the Kuisl boys.

Magdalena rubbed her tired eyes. She had fervently hoped her sister would come back to them after that chaotic night, but Barbara hadn’t returned-neither to Jeremias nor to the executioner’s house.

Simon and his friend Samuel had taken the deranged suffragan bishop back to his room for observation. By now he had quieted down and lay there motionlessly. Bartholomäus later found an exhausted Simon in the area near St. Martin’s Church, and they’d both finally returned long after midnight. Magdalena had been relieved to learn that Simon hadn’t been bitten by a werewolf, but what he told her about the horrible transformation of Sebastian Harsee had deeply shocked her. Was it possible a person could change into a beast in the presence of all those witnesses?

“Last night, the whole city went mad,” said Bartholomäus, who until then had been quietly eating his porridge out of the communal bowl. He had just returned from a brief check of the city dungeon. “But at least the city guard has gotten everything under control,” he continued. “They gave those young thugs a good spanking and sent them all back to their mothers. But people are also saying that at least two of the actors were killed last night and then strung up like dead cats for the general amusement of the crowd. Now, no one will admit to doing it, and Captain Lebrecht evidently has better things to do than look for the perpetrators.” He sighed deeply. “The rest of the actors have been thrown in the dungeon, and no doubt I’ll have to deal with them soon.”

“Is Barbara among them?” Magdalena asked, her heart pounding. Simon had already told her and the others that Barbara had been in the performance the previous day. Jakob had groaned and cracked the knuckles of his huge fists, but otherwise he seemed astonishingly calm.

Bartholomäus shook his head. “Barbara has disappeared without a trace, as has a certain Markus Salter, by the way, the hack who writes the plays-or copies them, for all I know.” Then he turned serious. “Things look really bad for the director himself, this Malcolm. They found a few magic items in a secret compartment of his chest-a pentagram, black candles, and a human skull. Now they’re saying he used them to conjure up the werewolf.”

“Sir Malcolm probably used the objects in one of his plays,” Magdalena speculated, “perhaps for Doctor Faustus, which involves sorcery, after all.”

“And then he locks them in a secret compartment?” Bartholomäus frowned. “I’m not so sure about that. The council, in any case, doesn’t buy a word of it,” he said, then turned to Simon. “You attended the performance yesterday, didn’t you? Was Malcolm behaving strangely?”

“Uh. . not that I was aware of.” Simon looked up from a book he’d been paging through. It came from Bartholomäus’s little collection of books in the main room. “I don’t think Harsee’s madness has anything to do with the actors,” he added. “It’s probably some strange illness. The poor fellow is almost completely paralyzed, and only his eyes keep flitting nervously back and forth. If that’s a werewolf, then it’s a pretty pathetic one.” He rubbed his temples with exhaustion. “But it’s still strange that such an illness, if that’s what it is, breaks out at the very moment everyone is talking about werewolves here.”

Simon sighed and set the tattered book aside. “I’ve spent half the night racking my brain over this, but unfortunately all the books here are about veterinary medicine, and that doesn’t help.”

“Don’t disparage Zechendörfer’s Hippiatrica,” Bartholomäus interrupted. “That’s one of the best books on medicine ever written.”

“Yes, when you’re treating horses with stomach gas from eating too much hay, or shoeing them because of a broken hoof,” Simon replied. He nodded toward the other room. “That applies also to the certainly excellent works about rearing, training, and treating dogs, but here we’re dealing with something more complicated, with a human element.”

“You can learn all sorts of things from animals, Master Medicus,” Bartholomäus shot back. “For example, humility and modesty.”

Jakob was about to give him a harsh rebuke, as well, but Georg, who was sitting next to his father, put his hand on his arm to calm him down.

“I know that we Kuisls like to fight,” he said in a firm voice, “but now isn’t the time for that. Let’s think instead about whether to pursue the course that old Jeremias suggested yesterday. Since Barbara has disappeared, we should probably be using all our resources to find her as quickly as possible. Everything else is secondary.”

Jakob Kuisl looked at his son in astonishment, not knowing what to make of Georg’s newly acquired confidence.

“Well, I’ll be damned, you’re right,” he said, a bit less gruffly. Then he pointed toward the ceiling. “On the other hand, the young lad that Barbara is so crazy about is lying up there in bed, while his friends are sitting in the dungeon awaiting their execution as alleged werewolves. What do you think Barbara will say if her own uncle whips their battered bodies to death, perhaps as early as tomorrow? Well?” He looked across the table at Bartholomäus, who grimly returned his gaze. “Have you thought about that?”

Despite the grave situation, Magdalena couldn’t suppress a slight smile. She knew that her father had always been driven by a boundless curiosity. Without a doubt, he wanted to find out what was really going on here in Bamberg-and until he did, he wouldn’t sleep soundly.

“Perhaps you could go over again everything you learned from Jeremias last night,” Simon said, turning to his father-in-law. “I must confess I haven’t been able to make sense of it all yet.”

Jakob cleared his throat, then briefly retold the story of Jeremias’s fate and what happened during the witch trials when he was known as Michael Binder, the executioner of Bamberg. He also mentioned Jeremias’s murder of the young prostitute. Meanwhile, Bartholomäus sat there thinking and sucking on a stick of kindling he’d broken off a piece of firewood.

“I’ve heard a bit about this Michael Binder,” he interrupted his brother while still chewing on the kindling. “He must have been a good hangman. Sometimes young people think I’m his son, because the job is usually passed down through the family. Well, whatever. .” He shrugged. “If law and order still prevail in this city, Jeremias will have to be hanged. I can’t say I’ll be glad to do it, but I probably won’t have any choice.”

“I’ve given him my word we won’t report him if he helps us,” Jakob replied. “Look at him-the man is a wreck. Scarred forever for his deeds-which he now wants to atone for, including the one that happened so long ago,” he added grimly.

“You mean torturing his fiancée?” Simon shuddered. “That is unpardonable. Even God cannot forgive that.”

“Just cut out this nonsense.” Jakob suddenly sprang up and glared angrily at Simon. He looked like a dark thunderhead towering above his son-in-law. “How can a no-account little medicus understand what’s going on in the minds of us hangmen? Have you ever hurt someone just because you had to? Because your hungry family was waiting for you out there and you would be stoned to death if you didn’t? Did you ever put a noose around a condemned man’s neck as he pleaded and cried, while your bloodlusting fellow citizens stared at you from behind? Have you?”

“No, you’re right, I haven’t,” Simon replied meekly. “I’m only a medicus who wants to heal.”

“Who is permitted to do that,” Jakob growled, then he sat down. “And now let us continue. Georg is right, there are in fact more important things to discuss.”

He told them about his hunch that all the victims were somehow connected, that they-or their husbands or older relatives-had many years ago been members of a Witches Commission that determined whether others would live or die and whether they would be tortured and burned.

“If we succeed in finding a document listing the members of this commission, we may be able to prevent further disaster. There are no doubt other people on the list, and, most importantly, the name of the accused.”

“But all that happened decades ago,” Bartholomäus interrupted, throwing a singed piece of kindling straight into the open fire. “Do you really believe there’s someone lurking around out there interested in such an old case?”

“I don’t know, but I’d like to find out, and Jeremias will help us.” Jakob lowered his voice and turned to Simon and Bartholomäus. “The old man told us about a half-buried passageway leading from the cathedral to the bishop’s archive in the next building. Apparently, in ancient times the cathedral faced northward, and it was then that the passageway between the two was built. It’s said to be a pretty weird place. The corridor is an ancient crypt with piles of bones and skulls.” He grinned. “I love skulls. At least they can tell you no lies.”

“Since our visit to the residence yesterday, the area around the cathedral square is crawling with guards,” Magdalena said in a worried voice. “Do you really think we can simply walk into the cathedral and enter the passageway without anyone asking what we’re up to?”

Jakob nodded. “I was worried about that, myself, but then it occurred to me that today is All Souls’ Day, and in Bamberg, just as in Schongau, there is always a high mass in the morning in memory of the dead. The cathedral will be more crowded than at any time except Easter.” Confidently, he looked around the table. “If we act during the mass, no one will notice us amid all the activity. We just have to get back on time.”

“And you intend to climb down into a crypt full of bones on the Day of the Dead?” Simon groaned. “I’m not sure if I-”

“Who said I wanted to take a little coward like you along with us?” Jakob growled. “You can just go back to your suffragan bishop possessed by the devil. Maybe you’ll learn something there pertaining to our case.” He shook his head. “No, Jeremias and I will do it alone, and in the meantime the rest of you can look for Barbara. After all the uproar, I hope she’s found someplace to hide in a barn or empty shed. Later, I’ll come to you, if you-”

There was a loud hammering on the front door, and Jakob stopped suddenly. A moment later the door flew open and an agitated Katharina rushed into the room. She was as pale as a corpse, her full head of hair was disheveled, and she was still wearing the splendid gown she’d had on the evening before, though it was now soiled from running through the street.

“Bartl,” she began breathlessly, “you. . you must help me. . my father. . has disappeared. Oh, God. .” She leaned against the wall, crying. Magdalena ran to help her, leading her to sit at the table near the warm stove and taking hold of her shaking hands.

“What happened?” she asked gently.

“This whole wedding is cursed,” Katharina blurted out. “Ever since Bartholomäus and I decided to get married, all these dreadful things have been happening. Perhaps the suffragan bishop was right after all when he disapproved of the ceremony. And now, he is a werewolf himself. Oh, I should never have gotten engaged to an executioner, and this is my punishment.”

“What nonsense you are talking, woman!” Bartholomäus shouted angrily. “The devil has robbed you of your senses.” He tried to modulate his voice. “But I’ll excuse you, because I see this is all too much for you. Tell us, now, what’s this about your father?”

“I lost sight of him last night after the terrible events,” she began, calmer now. “We were standing outside in the courtyard, and all around us people were screaming as more and more came rushing out of the hall, pushing their way past us. And suddenly he was gone. I waited for him, but it seemed like the earth had simply swallowed him up. Finally I went home, hoping to meet him there. But he wasn’t there, either-he was simply gone.” Again she broke out in tears. “I waited for him until this morning, but he never came. No one knows what happened to him. Perhaps. .”

Her words turned into a long wail. Magdalena looked anxiously at Simon, and he returned her gaze. He’d told the whole family about Hieronymus Hauser’s peculiar behavior, and Katharina had also told Magdalena that her father had been acting strangely in recent days.

“Did you notice anything unusual about your father yesterday?” she asked the tearful Katharina.

She looked up, troubled. “Well, he. . he was very anxious,” she mumbled. “During the play he kept looking around as if he expected to see someone he was very afraid of, but when I asked him about it, he wouldn’t answer.” Fearfully, she looked around the table. “Do you believe this werewolf took him away?”

“Believing is something you can do in church,” Jakob answered grimly. “What I want are facts. You should all get moving now, as fast as possible, to look for my Barbara and also Katharina’s father. What’s clear is that too many people are disappearing in this city.” He stood up and cracked his knuckles one last time. “And today, as a good Christian, I intend to go to mass. I’ll say three hallelujahs if I can finally get a bit closer to the truth.”

Just a few moments later, Simon was hurrying through the little streets of Bamberg to St. Martin’s Church, where the suffragan bishop lived. It was a simple, middle-class house connected to the church by a passageway. As he approached the door, he noticed that someone had drawn a large pentagram on the ground. From the door handle hung a small bouquet of dried Saint John’s wort; according to ancient tradition, it would ward off witches, demons, and evil spirits.

Simon looked around carefully. A few people walked by with their heads down, making a wide arc as they passed the house, as if fearing an infection. In the meantime, Simon had again donned his old medicus’s robe, as the splendid outfit he’d borrowed from Samuel was much worse for the wear after the attack by the deranged suffragan bishop. At least now he wouldn’t attract much attention from the crowd in the church square.

Bells rang out over the city, summoning the faithful to the mass for the dead up in the cathedral. Simon was sure the service would be well attended that day. In times like this, he knew from experience, people always looked to the church for consolation.

Besides, no doubt they’re looking forward to a fiery, bloodthirsty sermon, he thought. Hatred and fear of Satan are always a good adhesive for holding a city together.

He tapped cautiously on the door, and at once Samuel appeared in the doorway. The Bamberg city physician was unshaven and white as a sheet, looking as if he’d kept watch by the sick man’s bed all night. Through the crack in the door, Simon could smell the strong fragrance of incense.

“Come in,” Samuel said, sounding exhausted, and beckoned for Simon to enter the vestibule. “His condition has not changed much. Unfortunately, none of the servants are here except for a single lackey and the fat maid, both of whom you met yesterday. All the rest fled in terror. So you will have to do without your morning coffee.”

Simon smiled wanly. “I’ll survive, though I admit that the dark devil’s brew would help me to think. I’ve been racking my brain for half the night trying to make sense of all this.”

They went up to the second floor, entering a dark corridor whose walls were lined with votive pictures and paintings of saints, and with many doors leading off it. From his visit the day before, Simon knew that the patient’s room was at the far end of the hallway; he could have found it blindfolded, as the fragrance of incense became stronger, almost sickening, the closer they got.

“Don’t be surprised at how things look in there,” Samuel warned him as he opened the tall door. “None of this is mine. But the maid, this superstitious harpy, insisted, or she would have left.”

They entered the darkened room, and Simon thought he could already smell the stench of death-the familiar mixture of incense, burned herbs, sweat, feces, and disease, so familiar to him from his countless house calls. Just like outside the house, here, too, a large pentagram had been drawn on the floor; bundles of Saint John’s wort were tied to all four bedposts, and crucifixes of all sizes had been hastily hung around the room. The windows were covered with heavy curtains.

The old maid sat slumped over on a stool in the corner and seemed to be sleeping.

Samuel cleared his throat, and she awakened with a start and let out a sharp cry. For a moment she looked like she was going to faint, but then she recognized the two men standing in the dark room and crossed herself with a sigh of relief.

“Ah, it’s just you,” she sighed. “I was afraid that-”

“Don’t worry, the werewolf rarely uses the door,” Samuel interrupted. “He jumps through the window, howling. Isn’t that what you yourself said yesterday?” He pointed toward the hall. “Everything is fine, Agathe, you can go to mass now and we’ll care for the patient.”

Agathe nodded gratefully and dashed out of the room. As soon as the door had closed behind her, Samuel ran to the windows and tore open the curtains.

“Damn, damn, damn,” he cursed. “She thinks she can ward off evil this way.”

The bright light of morning came flooding into the room and onto the bed, and only then was Simon able to get a look at the Bamberg suffragan bishop. Under the many blankets, Sebastian Harsee looked like a little puppet, an impression reinforced by the waxen expression on his face. It took a while for Simon to realize it was because all the muscles in his face had tensed up; the only things moving were his eyes, which darted back and forth like those of a nervous mouse. A thin stream of saliva was oozing out of the corner of his mouth.

He can see us, I’m certain of that, Simon thought, and he can probably hear us, too. What a horrible condition. It’s as if you’re buried alive.

“Last night he quivered a bit and even moved a few times,” said Samuel as he pulled off the covers, revealing the pale body of the suffragan bishop dressed only in a thin nightshirt. “But in the last few hours the paralysis has spread to his entire body-except for his eyes. He can still give you that grim and threatening look.”

“And how about his teeth?” Simon asked. “Yesterday they looked so long and sharp. Have you examined them?”

Samuel nodded. “They look quite normal. I think that was because his lips and the muscles around them were pulled back due to cramps. But the reaction we witnessed yesterday was certainly interesting. .”

The doctor took a cup of water and brought it toward the patient’s face for him to see. Suddenly Harsee’s body began to tremble all over. Though he couldn’t move, the aversion he felt was evident in his eyes. Every fiber of his body seemed stretched to the limit, and white foam formed on his lips. Samuel set the cup down on a table a bit farther away, and the suffragan bishop became visibly calmer.

“He’s afraid of water,” Simon whispered.

“Any liquid,” Samuel corrected him. “As I said, extremely interesting. I’ve never seen anything like this before.” He sighed and wiped the saliva from Harsee’s mouth with a cloth. “Unfortunately, our dear Agathe sprinkled him with holy water this morning, and he thrashed about like a fish on dry land. So now, of course, the old woman is completely convinced the suffragan bishop is a werewolf.”

“Well, he did pounce on me just like a wolf,” Simon mused. “What terrible illness is it that. .” Suddenly he paused.

“What is it?” Samuel asked, puzzled.

Without replying, Simon leaned over the patient and quickly examined the spot on his neck. The small puncture wound was still there, as well as the red circle around it. Something Magdalena’s uncle had said kept going through his mind, like the murmuring of someone reciting the rosary.

You can learn all sorts of things from animals, Master Medicus. For example, humility and modesty.

Outside, the bells rang for the last time, and after that an eerie silence fell over the city.

You can learn all sorts of things from animals. .

“We were so foolish,” Simon finally murmured, “so incredibly foolish. The whole time the answer was right before our eyes.”

“What do you mean?” Samuel asked. He, too, had now approached the patient and looked at Simon excitedly. “If you can solve this riddle, don’t torture me any longer!”

Simon grinned. “How many bags of coffee beans do I get if I can?”

“A whole storehouse full, if I can find them, you schmuck.” Samuel raised his arms to the ceiling. “Why has God punished me with a friend who’s such a joker? Say something, will you? Speak up!”

Simon cast one last look into the eyes of the suffragan bishop, who glared at him with a mixture of hatred and infinite terror. Another thread of saliva ran down Sebastian Harsee’s mouth and trickled into the pillow.

Then the medicus gave his diagnosis.

Wrapped in a simple, wide cloak and with his hood pulled down over his face, Jakob Kuisl stomped up the steep hill to the cathedral square. A gentle drizzle had set in, so his garb didn’t attract attention. Even though hardly anyone in this city knew him, the hangman considered it prudent to be as inconspicuous as possible. For a man of his size, that was a tall order.

Some people were already making their way to the cathedral. Many of them had first visited the graves of their deceased relatives and left behind a fresh-baked loaf of so-called soul bread in the shape of a stag or a little man. It was said that on All Souls’ Day the dead returned from purgatory for a day of rest. Jakob clenched his teeth and hoped that at least the ghosts would not harass him down below in the crypt.

Looking around the square, he soon spotted Jeremias, waiting for him as planned at the “Adam’s Portal” on the east side of the cathedral. He, too, was wearing a nondescript cloak with a wide hood; Jakob thought it a good idea, given Jeremias’s badly scarred face.

“All hell has broken loose here,” grumbled Jakob when he reached Jeremias.

The old man giggled. “Or rather, an angry God. Fear has always driven people to church, just like in the time of the witch trials.” He winked at Jakob. “Let’s just go along with the crowd, and we won’t attract attention,” he said, hurrying ahead.

They entered the cathedral through the east entrance and joined the long line of worshipers. Jakob was always amazed at the splendor in the cathedrals. Here in Bamberg, there were precious statues of saints, bishops, and martyrs; the altars were decorated in gold leaf; and silver and gold candelabras encircled huge sarcophagi. Bright morning light fell through the tall windows onto the many columns, arches, and niches.

Even if the world outside is going to hell, Jakob couldn’t help thinking, the church is a window on the paradise to come. It makes this wretched life not seem so terrible.

They passed a statue of a king riding a dapple-gray horse and were soon crushed between praying old women, crippled old men, and many young people and children who were all pushing their way forward to the pews in the nave. It seemed to Jakob that all of Bamberg had come to attend the All Souls’ mass. Clouds of incense drifted past the pillars, giving off an intoxicating fragrance, while deep, hypnotic tones emanated from the organ. In the pews, some people kneeled in prayer on the cold stone floor, still holding the empty baskets they had used to take bread to the cemeteries.

Looking toward the front of the cathedral, Jakob noticed that this church had two chancels, one facing east and another facing west, unlike the church in Schongau, which had only one. Jeremias followed his gaze.

“The service today is in front of the east altar,” he explained in a soft voice. “That’s good for us-since we’re going to the opposite side, hopefully no one will be looking in our direction.”

They continued to push their way through the crowd and finally took a seat in one of the back pews. The organ fell silent, and then the ministrant, the vicar-general representing the suffragan bishop, appeared in his clerical vestments swinging the censer. People rose to their feet and there were some words of greeting in Latin, but soon the vicar digressed from the usual order of the mass. With a serious mien he turned to the congregation.

“Dear fellow Christians,” he began in a quavering voice. “You all know that our beloved suffragan bishop Sebastian Harsee has”-he paused to cross himself-“has fallen victim to the werewolf. I have been told that his soul is still struggling with the devil, and let us therefore all pray for him.”

The faithful knelt down and murmured their prayers. Some cried, while others rocked back and forth as if in a trance. In order to blend in, Jakob also muttered a quiet prayer. From what Simon had told him, he knew the suffragan bishop was an unloved, evil son of a bitch, but nonetheless the people mourned for him as if he were the Lamb of God incarnate.

Finally the vicar continued with his sermon. “I stand here today,” he droned, “in the firm hope that this suffering inflicted on Bamberg will soon come to an end. I hear that our highly esteemed prince-bishop will now tackle the root of this problem. Some citizens who have given their souls to the devil have already been arrested. Each one of you is now summoned to do his part to throw light on this problem. Look around. Witches, druids, and magicians often disguise themselves as the most charming fellow citizens. Indeed, it could be your own neighbor. .”

Jeremias, standing beside Jakob, groaned softly. “I can’t listen to this rubbish any longer,” he whispered. “That’s just how it all began back then. Anyway, we’ve got to hurry. The mass lasts about an hour, and we’ll have to finish by then. So let’s get going.”

The next time the faithful knelt down and lowered their heads in prayer, Jeremias and Jakob quietly stood up and headed as inconspicuously as possible toward the western side of the cathedral. With their black robes and their hoods still drawn over their heads, they looked somewhat like Franciscan monks on a pilgrimage, and thus no one paid any attention to them as they passed the rear altar in the northwest part of the transept. No one stopped them there, where the murmuring of the faithful could be heard in the distance. As they passed by, Jeremias picked up two burning candles and handed one to his companion.

“We’ll soon need these,” he whispered. “Let’s go, the time is right.”

Just as the congregation struck up a loud hymn, Jeremias beckoned Jakob to a stairway that seemed to lead down underneath the western altar. Once they reached the bottom, they found themselves standing in front of a locked door.

“And now?” Jakob asked impatiently.

Grinning, Jeremias fetched a rusty key chain from his pocket. “Luckily I kept a few other things along with my executioner’s sword from my former life. Before those bigoted zealots built the House of the Inquisition, many trials took place in the Old Residence. With all the torturing, I was soon one of the most sought-after men in the residence-I was needed and respected-so at some point they gave me this ring of keys, allowing me unrestricted access everywhere.”

Jakob looked at him skeptically. “Including to the crypt in the cathedral?”

Jeremias giggled and jingled the keys. “They needed me, but they also wanted to avoid a fuss-too many patricians had already died at the stake. Every time I walked through the Schöne Pforte and into the residence, everyone in the city knew what was going on, so eventually they came up with the idea of smuggling me in unnoticed-through the cathedral. So come along quickly.”

He opened the door and led Jakob into a square room with stone walls and floor; it appeared to be located directly beneath the western altar. The floor was strewn with rubble, rotted beams, and old sacks of mortar as hard as stone, making their progress difficult.

“Long ago, this was the crypt of an earlier cathedral,” Jeremias explained. “During the construction work it was excavated, but then the part above ground was renovated and what was down here was forgotten. Lucky for us.”

He climbed over the rubble until he finally reached a low archway with blocks of stone and beams of wood piled in front of it. Panting and puffing, the old man started to pull away some of the lighter beams.

“Come on, big fellow, lend a hand,” he said to Jakob. “It’s been more than thirty years since anyone cleaned up down here.”

The hangman moved the heavy stone blocks aside as if they were small chunks of plaster, and before long, the doorway was cleared, revealing a narrow, dark corridor.

“Now comes the unpleasant part of our trip,” Jeremias announced, picking up the candle he’d set down on the rubble. “Just make sure your little light doesn’t go out, or things could become rather nasty.”

Once again he giggled, then climbed over the last few pieces of rubble and entered the narrow passage. Jakob followed, ducking so as not to hit his head.

There was not much to see, since the candles illuminated only a small circle of light around them. The tunnel was straight at first. Dense cobwebs hung from the ceiling and clung to Jakob’s face. Again and again, the tall hangman bumped his head on the ceiling and walls, stirring up clouds of stone dust.

“Please be careful,” Jeremias scolded, pointing at the walls covered with damp mold and saltpeter, “or the crypt will soon have two new inhabitants.”

Jakob looked around carefully. Only now did he notice how brittle and crumbling the walls of the corridor were. He now also noticed niches hidden in the shadows, from which the empty eye sockets of human skulls glared back at him, surrounded by splintered arm and leg bones and a few rib cages covered with moss and mold. As they continued forward, the niches became more numerous, and soon the two intruders were surrounded by crowds of the dead waiting in the stone rooms for life to return. Jakob couldn’t help remembering that today was All Souls’ Day.

It’s been a long time since anyone brought any soul bread down here to these poor wretches. Will they rise up out of purgatory today just the same?

“We’re now in what is probably the oldest section of Bamberg,” Jeremias whispered to him. “There was a castle on this hill long before King Henry II, the last of the Ottos, built the first cathedral here, and no one knows how long these bones have lain here. Perhaps even a few of the first Babenberg counts are among them. They must have been a rather debauched crowd.”

“I don’t give a damn who’s here as long as they don’t get in my way with their bones,” Jakob growled. He pointed ahead, where some of the bones had evidently fallen out of their niches. Skulls and large thighbones were piled up, blocking the tunnel.

“What a hell of a mess,” Jeremias hissed. “As I said, it’s been a long time since anyone cleaned this place up. Evidently, the tunnel has been completely forgotten in the last decades. Well, all the better for us.” He kicked the bones aside, and his feet made a crunching sound as he moved ahead. Suddenly he leaned down and picked up a skull.

“Well, look at this,” he said, turning to Jakob and pointing to a fist-sized hole in the back. “What’s your professional opinion, my dear cousin and colleague? Was it a club, a morningstar, or-”

“Didn’t you say we only had an hour?” Jakob interrupted. “Quit fooling around and keep moving, or you can lie down and join them.”

With a sigh, Jeremias dropped the skull and moved ahead. Twice again they had to climb over mounds of bones, then they came to a winding staircase with worn steps that led upward. Finally they found themselves before a weathered wooden door covered in cobwebs.

“Thank God, the door is still here,” Jeremias exclaimed with relief. “Now I can tell you. I was afraid they’d walled it up in the meantime.”

He took out a ring of keys and grunted as he struggled to open the lock.

“I’ll bet no one has oiled this in a long time. I don’t know if I-”

“Get out of my way,” said Jakob, pushing Jeremias aside. He turned the key, the lock creaked and finally gave way, and then he pushed against the door. It opened with a hideous squeal.

“Jesus, not so loud,” Jeremias moaned. “I hope they’re all up there at the mass, but you never know if these pale, work-addicted archivists ever take a break.”

They entered a paneled corridor that branched off in two directions. When Jakob turned around, he could see that the door they’d closed behind them was almost invisible between the individual wooden panels, with only the door lock to indicate a hidden passage.

“The corridor to the right goes to the council room,” Jeremias whispered, “and the one on the left to the bishop’s archive. Keep moving, now, we don’t have much more time.”

He hurried ahead, and soon they were standing in a wide hallway with boxes and shelves full of parchment rolls, notebooks, and tattered documents on both sides. By the dim light of the candles, the corridor looked endless.

“Damn it! How are we going to find an individual document here?” Jakob cursed. “This is worse than a needle in a haystack.”

“Not really,” Jeremias replied. “The inquisitors in those days were perhaps cruel, but also extremely conscientious. Several times, I had to deliver the minutes of individual sessions here. They’re arranged by year. See for yourself.”

The old man had been shuffling along past the shelves and boxes, but then he stopped and pointed at a tiny brass plaque affixed to the side of one shelf and bearing the number 1625.

“At best, we have only until the cathedral bells ring again,” Jeremias warned him. “Then we’ll have to go back. So let’s get started. What do you think-in what year might the trial have taken place?”

“How should I know?” Kuisl replied. “For God’s sake, you were the hangman then.”

“Calm down, you’re right.” Jeremias raised his hand apologetically, then put it to his scarred nose. “So, let me think. The first great wave of persecutions was, I think, in 1612, but at that time I was just a young boy, and my father was the executioner here. So it must have been later, when the current victims or their relatives were already on the Witches Commission. Do you have the list with you?”

Jakob nodded and pulled out a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. Just that morning he’d made a list of all the victims of the supposed Bamberg werewolf. There were six names on the list.

Klaus Schwarzkontz

Thadäus Vasold

Agnes Gotzendörfer

Barbara Leupnitz

Johanna Steinhofer

Adelheid Rinswieser

“Let’s have a look,” Jeremias murmured. “The first two victims were, in fact, commission members at the time, I’m sure of that, and so was Egidius Gotzendörfer, the late husband of Agnrd Gotzendörfer. Barbara Leupnitz was the daughter of Johannes Schramb, one of the scribes at the time-”

“We know all that already,” Jakob interrupted impatiently, tapping his gnarled finger on the two remaining names. “What about Johanna Steinhofer and Adelheid Rinswieser? Could you find out anything about them?”

“Well, guess what?” said Jeremias with a grin. “I asked Berthold Lamprecht, the tavern keeper of the Wild Man, as I told you I would, pretending I felt bad about the two young women and asking about their parents. And lo and behold, Johanna Steinhofer also comes from a good family. She’s the granddaughter of Julius Herrenberger, a very influential patrician at the time who died some years ago. I remember that he, too, was on some of the Witches Commissions.”

“And how about the last one?” Jakob asked. “This Rinswieser?”

“Bull’s-eye.” Jeremiah nodded his confirmation. “Adelheid Rinswieser is the youngest daughter of Paulus Braun-now deceased, but at one time a social climber who, despite his youth, managed to get a position in the city council with trickery, money, and cunning. I assume he also sat on one of the commissions, though I honestly can’t remember him. Oh, and by the way, Johanna Steinhofer’s fiancé and Adelheid Rinswieser’s husband are now on the current council.” Jeremias grinned and rubbed his thumb and index finger together. “Money is attracted to money.”

Jakob frowned without commenting on Jeremias’s last words. Looking around, he discovered a small desk in a niche with a quill and ink pot. He quickly unfolded the note, crossed out some names, and wrote some new ones alongside.

Klaus Schwarzkontz

Thadäus Vasold

Agnes Gotzendörfer Egidius Gotzendörfer

Barbara Leupnitz Johannes Schramb

Johanna Steinhofer Julius Herrenberger

Adelheid Rinswieser Paulus Braun

“This is the group we’re looking for,” he said finally, handing the sheet of paper to Jeremias. “Can you make anything out of that?”

“I think so.” Jeremias considered for a moment and nodded. “That must have been during the last wave of persecutions, or the name of young Paulus Braun wouldn’t have been there. Let’s have a look.”

He walked along the shelves until he reached the number 1627. “I think we need to begin here. That was the year they built the last Inquisition House. I remember it well.”

“It’s more important for you to remember who was on the commissions at that time,” Jakob insisted as he himself began searching the individual drawers and pigeonholes on the shelves. Dust swirled up as he leafed quickly through the documents. The hangman found an almost endless number of lists and trial transcripts, each one documenting the cruelty. In the dark dungeons of the Inquisition, suspects were set down on chairs heated until they were glowing; given a mash of salted herring and pepper that made their thirst almost unbearable; immersed in a bath of lye that stung their eyes; or locked into tiny enclosures of sharp, wooden pyramids until, screaming and wailing, they confessed to the most outlandish crimes.

Jakob Kuisl found yellowed transcripts and sentences so horrifying that they even made the hangman’s hair stand on end. On some pages, rust-brown specks of blood were still visible.

The woman was beaten with switches, then put again on the rack, and the entire day she lay there, confessing nothing. .

The arm and leg screws were tightened, but she still screams she knows nothing. .

She is put again on the rack and whipped, but still confesses nothing. .

. . continues to show no remorse. .

In carcere mortua.

“Died in the dungeon.” Jakob translated the final Latin words. He shook his head in disgust, then turned to examine another dusty record.

It is thus duly noted that the woman has given herself heart and soul to the Evil One, and will therefore be tortured with red-hot pincers applied to her breasts, and since she has repeatedly dishonored the sacred host, her right hand will be cut off, whereupon with the other women she will be burned alive at the stake.

Jakob cast a surreptitious glance at Jeremias, who was also rummaging through the files. Jakob wondered what the former Bamberg executioner could be thinking as he read about his own deeds many years ago-but Jeremias remained remarkably calm, attentive, and focused, outwardly untroubled by anything he saw.

Would I be like that if I’d broken, beheaded, and burned hundreds of people? Or am I perhaps already a bit like Jeremias? What is it that makes monsters of us?

But the strange thing was that Jeremias wasn’t a monster at all. He was a kind old cripple, a lover of animals, and a learned man who had relieved others of having to do this filthy work and was now peacefully living out the last years of his life. He didn’t even seem much concerned about having murdered the young prostitute. Jakob frowned. Perhaps Jeremias was so hardened by the sorrow at the death of his fiancée, back then, that he could no longer feel anything.

In his position, would I have done the same?

Inwardly Jakob had just answered his own question when Jeremias, standing nearby, suddenly let out a cry.

“Here,” he said, holding up a thick dossier. “I think I have it. It was right up on the top shelf. Here are the names we’re looking for. And now it all comes back to me.” He shook his head in disbelief. “How could I ever have forgotten this trial? I’m clearly getting along in years.”

“What do you mean?” Jakob asked, still lost in his gloomy reveries. “What was special about that trial?”

Jeremias grinned. “Hah! What was special? It was perhaps the most sensational trial that Bamberg had ever seen, and our current candidates were all, in fact, part of it. Here, see for yourself.”

He handed the report to Jakob, who quickly perused the pages.

It didn’t take the Schongau hangman long to realize they were on the right track.

Magdalena, her brother, and her uncle were wandering through the streets of Bamberg in a desperate search for Barbara and Hieronymus Hauser.

Since Georg was familiar with the town, he searched the western part as far as the Green Market while Magdalena and Bartholomäus combed through the eastern section. At first, Katharina had intended to take part in the search, but then she quickly realized she was much too confused and upset to be useful. She therefore volunteered to remain at their house by the Sand Gate and keep an eye on the two boys. Magdalena hoped that the monotonous children’s games would calm her aunt down a bit.

In contrast with the preceding days, the little streets were calm now. A heavy November fog had settled over the houses, so it was impossible to see farther than to the next corner. In addition, it was drizzling slightly. Everything sounded strangely muted, as if buried under a wet blanket. Occasionally, heavily clothed citizens carrying baskets came toward them, evidently on their way home from the cemetery, where they had taken soul bread for their deceased. Some freezing beggars were standing behind empty bowls in front of the small churches in town, but otherwise half of Bamberg seemed to be at the mass in the cathedral. All Souls’ was a high feast day on which work was strictly forbidden, and for many it was an opportunity to sit in their warm houses by the fire, knitting, baking, or repairing broken household items.

Magdalena watched as her uncle, with a grim expression, hobbled along beside her. It was astonishing how quickly he moved, despite his crippled foot. They’d briefly cast glances inside empty buildings, looked under bridges, and asked the ragpicker Answin and a few beggars, but they hadn’t turned up the slightest lead. The whole time Bartholomäus had seemed strangely disinterested, and Magdalena assumed Katharina’s rude remark was still bothering him.

I should never have gotten engaged to an executioner. .

As a hangman’s daughter, Magdalena knew all too well how it felt when people looked away when they saw you and secretly crossed themselves. How hard it had to be when his own fiancée apparently regretted her decision-and if she believed a curse hung over the hangman?

“That nonsense that Katarina said earlier,” she ventured, looking her uncle straight in the face, “you mustn’t take seriously.” They were heading down Lange Gasse toward the city wall, in the hope of possibly learning something from the city guards. “She only said those things because she’s afraid.”

Bartholomäus glared at her. “How do you know about-” he began, but then he waved it off. “Oh, what difference does it make? Katharina’s right, you know. A curse does seem to be lying over this wedding. Executioners should marry executioners’ daughters and not put their noses up too high in the air. It’s unbecoming to us.”

“My father also didn’t marry an executioner’s child,” Magdalena said. “Nor did I–I married a bathhouse owner who’d studied medicine. So you can do it, too.”

“Your father always wanted something better,” Bartholomäus grumbled, “even as a child. You probably got that from him.”

Magdalena rolled her eyes. “Tell me why you’re always so angry at Father. I understand he made a bad mistake back then when he abandoned you, but that’s ancient history, and he was still practically a child. Why can’t you just let it go?”

“There are some things that keep seething inside you and you can’t forget. It’s a daily reminder.” Bartholomäus pointed at his leg and pulled up his trousers. “This foot here, for example. You weren’t there, Magdalena. You didn’t look into his eyes when he left me behind on the roof, like I was an annoying burden too heavy to carry. The damage was too great to repair.”

“Perhaps you expect too much of people, Uncle Bartholomäus. You have to learn to forget-”

Bartholomäus interrupted her with a sardonic laugh. “Hah! Is that what your father says? He himself can’t forget. Why do you think he burned the magic books belonging to Grandfather Jörg Abriel, back then? Because they reminded him of our family and everything the Kuisls and Abriels once represented. We were good hangmen, but we were also good healers and magicians-a strong, feared family. And my brother takes off and becomes a. . mercenary.” Bartholomäus practically spat out the last word. “He betrayed not only me, but all of us. Do you understand now why I cannot forget?”

Magdalena nodded hesitantly. “I understand. But if you don’t at least try, how will you ever know you can’t?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried. Why do you think I agreed when Katharina pleaded with me to invite my relatives from Schongau? Jakob is my big brother, and at one time I really loved and respected him.” Bartholomäus sighed. “But he doesn’t exactly make it easy to forgive him. He’s so pig-headed.”

“In that regard, you’re both alike,” Magdalena replied.

They walked along silently, side by side, until they’d reached the far end of Long Street. The fog was now so thick that only the outlines of the houses were visible. The gate to the city had to be somewhere nearby.

“I think we can call off the search,” said Bartholomäus, who had now regained his usual self-confidence. “With fog like this I couldn’t even find my front door. How can we be expected to find two missing persons under these conditions? Besides, the humidity and this damned drizzle are bothering my stiff leg.”

“Let’s just go as far as the city gate,” Magdalena suggested, “then we’ll go back to your house and see if Georg has found anything yet.”

She tried to sound confident, but she was finding it difficult. By now, even she was convinced that the search was in vain. Did they seriously think they’d find Barbara and Hieronymus this way? Earlier, they’d called from time to time into the dense fog, as if looking for two children who’d lost track of the time. But their search of the empty sheds and dilapidated houses was basically nothing more than an act of desperation. If Barbara was really hiding somewhere out of fear, she’d eventually show up again on her own, and if the two had been abducted, then. .

Magdalena didn’t even want to think about that possibility.

“We’re turning back,” Bartholomäus said suddenly in a firm voice, interrupting her dark thoughts. He pointed ahead, where the outlines of the city gate appeared out of the fog. “See, here’s the city gate. Let’s go back home to Katharina. She needs our help now more than-”

Just then they heard a muffled cry nearby, and then a second one.

“What. . what was that?” Magdalena said.

Bartholomäus shrugged. “How should I know? In fog like this you can’t even see your hand in front of your face, much less-”

“Help! Help!” someone cried again, this time more clearly and closer to them. “The werewolf! It’s after me! Help me!”

“Has the whole city gone mad? For God’s sake. .” Bartholomäus let out another unspeakable curse, then hobbled forward toward the shouts. With clenched fists, ducking down as if ready for a fight, he said softly, as if to himself, “Perhaps someone has frightened my Brutus. He could get hurt.”

“Nonsense,” hissed Magdalena, running alongside him. “How could the dog get through the town gate without being noticed? In any case, no matter what it is, we’d better be careful.”

The contours of a large building now appeared in the fog. It was one of the last houses on the left, backed closely up to the city wall. A figure appeared and came running toward them. As it got closer, Magdalena could see it was an old beggar. Over his ripped shirt he wore a threadbare gray woolen coat that fluttered along behind him. The old man was shaking all over, though Magdalena couldn’t tell if it was from cold or fear. His eyes were wide-open in panic.

“The werewolf,” he wailed, pointing at the building behind him. “I have seen him with my own eyes. He’s in there. He’s got a silver pelt and long, pointed teeth. My God, he’s horrible. At first he ran on all fours, but then he suddenly stood up.” The beggar’s face twisted into a grimace, revealing his nearly toothless mouth, as he raised his hands and flexed his fingers into the shape of claws. “And this is how he looked! By God, I swear it!”

“A silver pelt, pointed teeth, and walking on all fours?” Bartholomäus mumbled, stopping to ponder the man’s words. “That’s just the way the drunk night watchman Matthias described the werewolf, that night.” He scratched his nose, thinking. “Hm, perhaps they both drink the same cheap wine, or else. .” He looked sternly at the beggar. “You’re drunk again, Josef, admit it.”

The beggar, incensed, held his hand up to his consumptive chest. “I swear, I wish I were. Then it would be easier to bear the horror of it all. I’ve not had a drop for days.”

“Then tell me how large this fearsome beast was,” Bartholomäus shot back.

“Uh, very large. . or perhaps not quite that large. .” Josef stopped to think, picking his nose. “I don’t really know. It’s dark in there, and besides. .” Furious, the man with the skinny chest stood up straight and glared at Bartholomäus and Magdalena. “Go see for yourself. The beast is still inside.”

Now, for the first time, Magdalena had a moment to inspect the building from which the beggar had just fled. It was probably one of those homes abandoned at the time of the witch trials and that had still not found a new owner. No doubt the half-timbered building had once been attractive, but now the paint had peeled off, and the doors and windows had been boarded up long ago. One of the windows, however, appeared to have been broken into recently.

“Sometimes I go there to spend the night,” Josef explained, pointing anxiously at the house, “even if some people say it’s haunted. They say the souls of those executed still scurry through the halls. Until today only mice and rats were scurrying around there, but now. .” He shuddered and crossed himself. “Never again will I set foot in that house. That I swear, by all things holy. Never again.”

“There’s no need for you to do that,” Bartholomäus replied. “Go, now, and fetch the city guards. We’ll stand watch here until you get back,” he said with a wink. “If it’s really a werewolf, you surely have a big reward coming to you.”

Josef didn’t need to be asked again, and a moment later, the shaky old man had disappeared in the fog. Meanwhile, Bartholomäus prepared to climb in through the open window.

“You’re not going in there all by yourself, are you?” Magdalena asked, astonished. “Suppose the werewolf really is-”

“Do you think, then, that Josef would still be alive?” Bartholomäus interrupted. “Come on. I have a suspicion. .”

Without another word of explanation, he slipped through the window opening.

Magdalena shook her head and climbed in after him. The two Kuisl brothers, she noted once again, were very much alike: curious, pigheaded, and fearless.

Once inside, she carefully slipped down from the windowsill. Though there was no fog inside the house, it was even darker there. Just a few rays of light entered through the partially boarded windows, and there was a repulsive stench of mold, urine, and cheap brandy. Evidently, Josef’s oaths about his sobriety were not very credible.

Magdalena squinted and looked around. A few broken pieces of furniture were scattered on the floor, and a wardrobe stood in one corner. It might have been very valuable at one time, but now its splintered doors hung crooked on their hinges. There were sooty smears on the bare walls, and in one place someone had recently tried to light a fire.

Bartholomäus had vanished. Apparently he’d already moved on to the next room, from which Magdalena suddenly heard an odd sound, like someone clicking their tongue, followed by a strange growl that caused her stomach to tighten with fear.

What, for heaven’s sake, was that? The werewolf? Or those ghosts the beggar was telling us about?

Magdalena shook her head, angry at herself. She’d let herself get carried away by all the horror stories.

Again she heard the growling, closely followed by the tongue clicking. Her heart pounding, she tiptoed across the creaking floorboards through the mouse droppings until she finally reached the doorway to the next room. It was so dark that at first she could see only shadows, but after a while her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness.

She was looking out at a broad landing, with what were once grand staircases leading up and down. Her uncle knelt at the foot of the stairway leading up. He had stretched out his hand and was making those strange clicking sounds she’d heard before.

A few steps above him stood the strangest animal Magdalena had ever seen.

It had a silvery gray pelt and what looked almost like a lion’s mane around its head, as well as a long snout, like a dog’s, and two glistening, evil-looking red eyes. The creature had a tail and moved on all fours, but suddenly it stood up against the banister. Magdalena cringed.

It had hands like a human. Now the beast opened its mouth and snarled, showing a row of sharp, menacing teeth. There was only one thing that kept Magdalena from letting out a scream and fleeing.

The creature was no larger than a three-year-old child.

“What is that thing?” she whispered anxiously as Bartholomäus continued clicking his tongue.

“Shhh!” he said. “You’ll scare it away. Believe me, this beast is as quick as a fox and agile as a squirrel. Once it took us half a day to catch him again.”

Magdalena looked at her uncle in astonishment. “You’ve seen this monster before?”

“More than I care to. It’s one of the apes from the bishop’s menagerie, a so-called baboon. From time to time I take meat scraps to the animals up there and clean out the cages. This fellow comes originally from Africa-a very unpleasant animal, if you ask me. Devious, underhanded, and sly in a bad way-almost human. Aloysius and I gave him the name Luther.”

“Luther?”

Bartholomäus shrugged. “Reminds me of a Lutheran heathen and itinerant priest I once drew and quartered.” Addressing the animal, he said, “All right, Luther, just come here. Be a good little fellow.” The executioner kept making the clicking sounds while slowly retrieving a piece of dry soul bread from his pocket. “Katharina gave me this earlier. Let’s see if we can tempt him with it.”

Still almost frightened to death, Magdalena watched as the baboon’s little hands twitched back and forth. It was clear he couldn’t decide whether to take the bait.

“You mentioned before you had a suspicion,” Magdalena said. “How did you know-”

“That it would be Luther? Well, Captain Lebrecht expressed his vague concerns to me a few days ago. He couldn’t say anything specific-the bishop would have forbidden that. Evidently Rieneck ordered him and a few other guards to search for the beast under orders of strict confidentiality. That’s why Lebrecht was always so tired. He’d been doing double duty for some time, looking for a werewolf as well as for Rieneck’s cuddly toy.”

“It looks like a number of people have already made Luther’s acquaintance,” Magdalena replied. “For example, this drunken night watchman you told me about.”

“Matthias?” Her uncle grinned. “Actually, that’s what I suspected when he described the animal to me. But then everyone started going on and on about a werewolf, and I myself started thinking Brutus might have something to do with it. Since then I’ve talked with a lot of people who say they’ve seen a werewolf in the city, and their descriptions were all more or less the same: silver fur, sharp teeth, suddenly stands up on its hind feet. Yesterday, when I went back to the menagerie to take some meat to the old bear, I was reminded when I saw that Luther’s cage was empty. It’s possible he’d been gone a long time.”

“And is it possible the baboon is responsible for all the terrible events recently?” Magdalena wondered.

“Luther?” Bartholomäus laughed. “Just look at him. He might frighten you to death, but he certainly can’t carry people away, torture them, and rip their bodies apart. No, our werewolf is someone else.”

While they’d been talking, the baboon had grown more confident. He ventured down a few steps and reached out for the soul bread. Despite his evil-looking red eyes and sharp teeth, Magdalena suddenly thought he looked cute.

“Too bad he’s not the monster we were looking for.” She smiled. “Even my children would like to play with this little fellow.”

She was about to reach out to the baboon, when the animal suddenly snarled at her and jumped toward her. The attack came so quickly that Magdalena fell over backward. Little demonic hands tugged at her hair, and Luther’s sharp fangs were just a few inches from her nose.

“Do something!” she shouted to her uncle. “The thing is trying to bite me.”

“Luther, behave yourself.”

Bartholomäus seized the baboon by its mane and pulled him away from his victim. The animal was furious and flailed about with his arms and legs.

“The cellar door!” Bartholomäus shouted as the animal howled and struck out. “Open the cellar door!”

At first Magdalena didn’t know what her uncle meant, but then she spotted a wooden trapdoor at the foot of the stairway leading down. She quickly descended the staircase, found a rusty ring in the middle of the door, and pulled. Nothing happened immediately, but after some shaking and tugging, it opened. Bartholomäus followed her, still holding the enraged baboon, tossed him through the opening, and quickly closed the cover. Luther’s shrieking continued from down below, like a voice from the depths of the underworld. Bartholomäus straightened up with relief. His coat was ripped, his hair disheveled, and his face covered with bloody scratches.

“That damned beast,” he ranted, wiping the blood and sweat from his brow. “Let Lebrecht try to figure out how to get this little monster back to the menagerie. For all I care, he can lock the bishop up in the cage with him, where His Excellency can delouse the beast and we’ll be relieved of the two baboons at the same time.”

Angrily, Bartholomäus hobbled toward the front door, kicked it so hard it flew open, and disappeared outside into the foggy night.

“Rabies?”

Samuel looked at his friend Simon, puzzled. The two were still standing at the bedside of the suffragan bishop, who lay like a piece of dead wood in a pile of soft pillows. The Bamberg city physician slapped his forehead. “You may be right.”

“Not only may be, I am right,” Simon replied with a trace of satisfaction in his voice. “It’s really amazing we didn’t think of this before-but we were thinking only of wizardry and human illnesses, and completely forgot animal ones. These werewolf stories can make you dizzy, like bad wine that addles your brain.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Actually, I just read about it again this morning. Uncle Bartholomäus has an astonishing collection of works on veterinary medicine, among them some about dogs, which he loves more than anything else. One of the books discusses rabies. It affects dogs, but also wolves, foxes, cats, and even some smaller animals. If one of those animals bites a person, the victim shows the same symptoms as the suffragan bishop here.” Simon paused to look down at Harsee. A long thread of saliva was dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “It occurs to me that Aloysius, the hangman’s servant, also mentioned cases of rabies in this area several times.”

Simon remembered now that his father-in-law, too, had spoken of it several times, and the furrier had also mentioned the spread of the illness.

“So you think Sebastian Harsee contracted rabies from an animal?” Samuel asked, looking at the paralyzed bishop, who was glaring at him with wide-open eyes like a dead fiansh.

Simon nodded. “The infection must have come from this bite in his neck. All the symptoms point in that direction. The victim, whether animal or human, becomes very aggressive, and then there is paralysis and hardening of the muscles, and the victim loses the ability to swallow, resulting in a buildup of saliva. At the end, the victim goes mad.” He leaned down to Sebastian Harsee, who struggled to sit up as if he were restrained by invisible chains. “Eventually the victim dies of thirst,” Simon added. “In the case of dogs, even the sight of liquid is painful. That’s probably how it works with humans, as well.”

Simon watched sadly as the suffragan bishop lay there quivering. He’d known Sebastian Harsee as a power-hungry and almost pathologically bigoted man, but now he felt great sympathy for him.

I wouldn’t wish such an illness on my worst enemy-buried alive as you’re slowly eviscerated by madness from within.

“It’s all described in great detail in my uncle’s books,” he said, shaking his head. “That is, in various aspects and in several books, in a bombastic prose style. But I should have recognized it earlier.”

“That wouldn’t have changed anything,” Samuel replied with a shrug. “As far as I know, there is no cure for rabies.”

Simon frowned. “Well, some scholars recommend a Saint Hubertus key, a sort of branding iron in the shape of a key that is heated until it glows and can be used to cauterize the wound. Others believe in the power of certain magical letters. But that is no doubt just hocus-pocus. You’re right, there probably is no cure.”

Once again, Samuel leaned down over the patient, who was now just trembling slightly. Taking out an eyeglass, he checked the wound.

“The bite is rather small,” he said. “It certainly wasn’t caused by a wolf or a dog, and even a fox is too big. Was it perhaps a rat?”

Simon mulled it all over, inwardly cursing himself. Would they never get to the bottom of this?

“It’s possible,” he replied after a while. “I think I recall that bats were also mentioned in the books. But I’ll have to check on that. Still. . there’s still something here I can’t quite put my finger on. .” He hesitated.

Samuel rolled his eyes. “Don’t start in again with this pussyfooting around, just speak up.”

With his hands folded behind his back, Simon paced the floor, trying to get his thoughts together. Finally, he turned to Samuel.

“It’s a strange coincidence that all of Bamberg is going crazy because of a werewolf at the very moment the Bamberg suffragan bishop catches rabies-which, in the eyes of simple people, makes him a werewolf, too. If this was a stage play, then you could say the playwright tied it up a bit too neatly.”

“Do you think, perhaps, this illness was a plot?” Samuel asked in astonishment. “That Harsee was poisoned?”

Simon nodded. “Poisoned with one of the most horrible plagues that exist. It’s possible. Didn’t Harsee tell you he had probably been bitten in his sleep? Suppose someone hid a rabid rat in his room. . or a bat?”

Once more Samuel inspected the wound with a magnifying glass. “I don’t know,” he murmured finally. “I’ve seen rat bites before, and they’re smaller. And even though I’ve never seen a bat bite, I think that’s also out of the question.”

“It really doesn’t matter what kind of an animal it was,” Simon replied. “At least now we know-”

There was a knock on the door, and old Agathe peered out through the opening. She seemed quite excited.

“Gentlemen,” she said.

“What is it?” Samuel demanded angrily. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

“You have a visitor,” she replied. “A very important visitor.” “Well, who is it?” Simon asked. “One of the councilors?”

Agathe shook her head. “No, no, much more important. His Excellency the elector, the bishop of Würzburg, is standing downstairs at the door! Oh God, oh God,” she exclaimed, rubbing her hands together nervously. “He says he would like to speak with both of you.”

Simon took a deep breath, smoothed down his hair, and passed his hands several times over the creases in his soiled clothing.

“I’m afraid it’s rude to keep His Excellency the elector waiting longer than necessary,” he said, turning to Samuel. Then he sighed deeply. “Why must such noble personages always come to visit when I am not properly attired?”

About half an hour later, Simon, Samuel, and Archbishop Johann Philipp von Schönborn stood in the small chapel of the suffragan bishop’s quarters. The chapel had three rows of pews and a simple house altar with a single wooden crucifix on top, alongside a vase of dried roses and a statuette of Mary.

The sacral surroundings made it easier for Simon to engage in conversation with the archbishop, who was also a German elector and a friend of the kaiser. Old Bonifaz Fronwieser had always hoped his son would rise to a prominent position as a doctor, and now Simon was meeting face-to-face not only with mayors and counts but even with one of the mightiest men in the Empire.

If only my father were here to see this, he thought. How proud he would be of me. But in the next moment he suddenly felt ashamed of his vanity.

Johann Philipp von Schönborn turned out to be an exceptionally cordial gentleman. Samuel had told Simon earlier that the Würzburg bishop was inclined to liberal ideas and abhorred belief in witches. The seizure suffered by Sebastian Harsee the day before had unsettled him so much, however, that he wanted to speak with the two doctors again. His bodyguards waited outside on the walkway in front of the chapel, rattling their swords and halberds. Trembling, Agathe entered with a carafe of wine but was politely dismissed by the bishop.

“I hope you know how it reassures me that this matter can be explained logically,” Schönborn said, reaching out to shake hands with the astonished Simon. “I was beginning to think I’d lost my mind. Thank you for that.”

Embarrassed, Simon made a cursory bow. “I hope your thanks are not premature, Your Excellency. It’s just a suspicion-”

“A suspicion based on a careful diagnosis,” Samuel interrupted with a smile. “Don’t hide your light under a bushel, Simon,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m just annoyed I didn’t think of it myself. Rabies. I should have known.”

At the victim’s bedside, Simon had told the archbishop of his suspicion that Harsee was suffering from the contagious animal disease. At first he had hesitated to mention his further suspicion that the suffragan bishop had been poisoned, but Schönborn’s friendly manner had convinced him not to withhold that detail.

“And you really believe that the disappearance of all these people and the bishop’s rabies are somehow connected?” Schönborn asked with interest. “That they could both be the work of one and the same person?”

Simon raised his hands defensively. “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. I have no proof, but it seems at least more logical to me than belief in a howling werewolf. I believe, in any case, it was hasty to immediately suspect the actors.”

“But they were not just suspected-a few were already killed and hanged.” Schönborn pounded his fist so hard on the altar that the crucifix quivered. “This superstitious riffraff really believe they can set themselves up as judges. And the judge actually responsible in this case is not much better.” He lowered his voice. “Our dear Philipp may know his way around animals, but he wasn’t born with the gift of dealing with people. Unfortunately, a bishop’s position is not awarded based on suitability but only on noble lineage. One can only hope that Philipp grows into his position.” He sighed and collapsed into one of the pews. “On the other hand, he’s at least harmless and not a zealot like Harsee-or like the former Bamberg prince-bishop, Fuchs von Dornheim, under whom those terrible witch trials took place.”

“Is it true there are no witch trials under your jurisdiction?” Samuel asked.

Schönborn appeared deep in thought, but he nodded. “We must do away with this nonsense throughout the entire Reich. But we are perhaps ahead of our times.” Then he turned to the two doctors. “Are you familiar with the Cautio Criminalis, by the Jesuit priest Friedrich Spee von Langenfeld? You ought to go to meet this outstanding scholar personally in Cologne. Even back then, Spee was convinced that torture was never useful in finding the truth. Probably after enough turns of the wheel, even I would confess on the rack to having danced with the devil. It’s such nonsense!”

“I believe the actors are to be tortured today,” Simon said softly. “If even one of them confesses to having put a curse on the suffragan bishop, we’ll have a hard time presenting our case.”

“I see what you’re trying to say.” Johann Philipp von Schönborn rose from the pew. “Very well, I’ll do what I can to see if my friend Philipp will put off the torturing for a while. I’m afraid, though, that there are limits to what I can do, especially since this Malcolm, the director of the group, actually was found in possession of some magical trinkets. By the day after tomorrow at the latest, when I leave Bamberg to return home, you’re on your own. By then you’ll have to present evidence convincing enough for even the most slow-witted citizens to understand.”

“It’s hard to fight superstition,” Samuel said.

“You’re telling me?” The elector extended his hand. When Simon and Samuel tried to kneel before him, Schönborn gently pulled them back to their feet. “Here, where no one is watching, that’s really unnecessary, gentlemen. Sometimes I wish there were a little less etiquette and a little more honesty in our daily dealings.” One last time he looked deep into Simon’s eyes. “I trust you, Master Fronwieser. Bring me the true culprit, and I’ll support you. Philipp needs my money to finish building his bishop’s residence, so I have a little influence over him. But you must realize that even I am powerless against a whole city that has gone mad.”

He turned away and left the building, where the guards outside reverently bowed before him.

Jakob and Jeremias were standing in front of a shelf in the bishop’s archives, leafing intently through some papers. The heavy volume in Jakob’s hands bearing the inscription 1628 was by far the largest he’d ever seen. It was secured both by string and glue. The title of the proceedings was announced in large letters on the leather cover: TRIAL OF THE BAMBERG CHANCELLOR DOCTOR GEORGE HAAN.

“Was the accused in fact the Bamberg chancellor himself?” Jakob asked, turning to Jeremias in surprise.

The old man nodded. “The witch trials allowed the powerful to settle some scores among themselves. No fewer than six burgomasters were executed, along with a few council members.” A smile passed over his face. “They burn just the way you and I do, as you perhaps know from your own experience.” Then he turned serious again. “But the trial of George Haan was something special. Haan was a smart man and was at first protected by the prince-bishop. The other noblemen were annoyed that he wasn’t originally from Bamberg, and in addition, he didn’t want to end the witch trials, just cut back on them. Until then, the accuser and the judge had been sharing the assets of the condemned party, and Haan wanted to forbid that. He also wanted to disband the Witches Commission.”

“The bastards were afraid they wouldn’t get their cut,” Jakob growled.

“Indeed.” Jeremias turned to the next page and pointed to some names. “And for that reason, some of the councilors concocted a plot that eventually led to the downfall of the entire Haan family.”

Jakob stared at him in astonishment. “The entire family?”

“They started with his wife and his daughter, accusing them both of having an affair with the devil. The ever-so-high-and-mighty gentlemen also accused the two women of making an ointment from the bodies of children, with which they could influence the weather. And, of course, witch’s marks were found on their bodies.” Jeremias scratched his bald head. “I clearly remember how my servants finally found the marks under the mother’s armpit. They pierced them with a knife, but no blood came out, and that settled the matter.”

With growing disgust, Jakob stared at the former executioner Michael Binder, who spoke so casually about his past deeds. Jakob, too, had been ordered, one time in Schongau, to search for such witch’s marks-suspiciously shaped birthmarks with which the devil allegedly branded witches as a sign of their alliance. But he was able to stop the investigation before it got to that point.

“After the woman and her daughter came the chancellor himself and his son,” Jeremias continued casually. “I must say that the old nobleman was rather steadfast under torture, but eventually he gave in, too, and confessed he had kissed the devil’s anus.” He winked at Jakob. “You know, yourself, that in the end they all confess, though in his case we had to be pretty firm. We beheaded him before throwing his body in the fire.”

Jakob closed his eyes as his revulsion spread like a bad taste in his mouth.

He is only a tool, just like you. He’s not to blame.

But it was hard to cling to this conviction.

“What happened then?” he asked, to take his mind off it.

“After the old guy came another daughter and a daughter-in-law-in this way almost the entire Haan family was wiped out, even though they had once belonged to the most distinguished and powerful families in all of Bamberg.”

Jakob stared in shock at the large document in his hand, describing in matter-of-fact, prosaic words the story of so much grief.

“It’s clear someone wanted to do away with the chancellor,” he said finally. “But the entire family? What was the reason for that?”

“It sounds pointless and cruel, but it was part of the plan,” Jeremias explained. “When his wife and eldest daughter were accused of witchcraft, the chancellor went to the Imperial Court in Speyer to enter an appeal. That was a serious error, but one provoked intentionally by his adversaries. The Bamberg prince-bishop resented Haan for taking things into his own hands and refused to support him, and the remaining members of the family were also eliminated so there would be no witnesses later. I believe that after the witch trials, other members of the family also died under mysterious circumstances. In a few years, all the Haans had disappeared.”

“Who was behind all that?” Jakob asked.

“Hm. .” Jeremias seemed to be thinking it over, then he opened the book to the page where the individual members of the commission were named. They were the same names as those on Jakob’s list.

“Well, presumably they were all somewhat involved in it,” Jeremias concluded, “but I’m guessing it was principally the chairman-who, as I recall, had earlier been promised the position of chancellor.”

“And who was the chairman?” Jakob clenched his fists; he was having trouble keeping his voice down. “For God’s sake, don’t make me drag it out of you.”

Jeremias leaned down to inspect the document. “God, isn’t it here somewhere?” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Indeed it is, but it’s crossed out several times in ink. Probably someone was trying to wipe the slate clean afterward. But wait. .” He turned the sheet over and found another note. Someone had signed the transcript of the interrogation in a large, flowing script.

“Aha!” Jeremias said triumphantly. “But in this place the good fellow forgot to cross out his name.” He stopped and stared at it. “Well, that’s certainly interesting. Look who we have here.”

Jakob’s eyes weren’t as good as they used to be, and it took a while until he could make anything of the scribbles. When he finally was able to read it, he exhaled loudly. He knew the name-at least the surname.

Dr. Johann Georg Harsee

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jakob said, shaking his head. “Is he perhaps-”

“Yes, indeed, he just happens to be the father of our present suffragan bishop,” Jeremias said with a grin. “After Haan’s death, he became the chancellor, and isn’t it strange-all these men and women who in some way were connected with the commission at that time met their deaths, and the son of the presiding judge was transformed into a werewolf. If I didn’t know it had to be satanic magic, I’d believe God himself was taking sweet revenge.”

“God. . or someone else,” Jakob murmured. Then he pointed to a passage farther down in the notes. “See here-it’s signed by the two clerks who transcribed the proceedings.”

“Of course,” Jeremias exclaimed, slapping his scarred forehead. “There were two clerks, not one. That’s something that puzzled me last night. I knew someone was missing. One is Johannes Schramb, isn’t it? So I was right.”

Jakob nodded. “You’ll be more interested in seeing the name of the other scribe.” He pointed at the second name, signed in beautifully flowing letters. In contrast with the presiding judge, this person had not taken the slightest effort to conceal his name.

Hieronymus Hauser

“I’m afraid I’ll have to bring some very bad news to someone today,” the Schongau hangman said, closing the heavy book. “Our dear Katharina doesn’t seem to know her father as well as she thinks.”

At that moment, the bells in the cathedral started to ring.

It was time to head back.