She stood up and marched to the door, her hair flying behind her. Holding the door handle, she turned around and glared at him, her eyes flashing.
“Drink a glass of that stuff three times a day, you understand? And call one of your mistresses to help you change that dressing by tomorrow morning at the latest. I hope it hurts like hell when she tears it off your skin. Get well soon!”
She slammed the door and left Silvio staring open-mouthed at his own dumbstruck image in the mirror.
His brown robe billowing behind him, the Franciscan monk walked along so fast that Simon had trouble keeping up. Hubertus stopped only now and then to take a drink from his wineskin and share his latest philosophical musings with the medicus.
“Naturally Wilhelm von Ockham was correct in asserting that Jesus and his disciples owned no property,” he panted, wiping red wine from his lips. “But just think what that means for the church! If the shepherd had no money, then his followers should have none either. All the pomp and ceremony would be nothing but idolatry!” He pointed at the magnificent façade of the bishop’s palace, which they were approaching now. Directly adjoining the Regensburg cathedral, it was a little empire to itself, surrounded by high walls separating it from the city, the kaiser, and the Elector.
“Hasn’t the church also done much good with its money?” Simon gasped, trying to keep pace with the fat monk.
Brother Hubertus gestured dismissively. “A huge collection of paintings framed in gold but gathering dust in the monastery archives? Altars and statues so magnificent they overwhelm the beholder? For my part I’d rather be outside with the simple folk. God resides in the whorehouses, as well! But try telling the bishop that! Oh, well, at least he’ll let you argue with him without burning you at the stake.”
The Franciscan strode toward a tremendous archway flanked by two of the bishop’s halberd-wielding soldiers. He looked back impatiently at Simon, who hesitated at the entrance.
“What’s the matter?” Hubertus inquired. “You wouldn’t decline a breakfast of freshly boiled sausage and a mug of cold beer, would you?”
Simon’s stomach growled, reminding him that it had indeed been some time since he’d eaten last. And so, with trepidation, he followed the Franciscan monk. What did he have to lose? Magdalena was probably having a fine time with that little fop, so he might as well take his time dining at the bishop’s residence. The danger of being recognized was no doubt lessened in the company of a Franciscan monk. Besides, Simon was curious what position Hubertus actually held in the church; whatever it was, the fat monk seemed to have quite a reputation in town.
Greeting Brother Hubertus with a nod, the guards allowed both men to pass through. The Franciscan returned their greeting with a smile.
“From this point on, we’re safe from the city guards,” he said conspiratorially. “This is the bishop’s territory, with its own court and prison. That lousy gang of night watchmen can’t do anything to us here.”
“Really?” A faint, almost imperceptible smile spread over Simon’s face. His unexpected visit to the bishop’s residence was taking a new turn. “Suppose a—let’s say a thief or an arsonist were to seek refuge here?” he inquired cautiously.
“Then the bishop would probably grant him asylum,” Hubertus replied. “If only to annoy the city. But the guards out there keep a damn close watch to see that no suspicious person enters here. Otherwise things could get out of hand.”
“Naturally.” Simon nodded.
They passed beneath a stone archway and found themselves in a finely cultivated, shady inner courtyard extending a full five hundred feet to the east and surrounded by stately buildings. To one side the cathedral loomed over the bishopric walls, and the entire area looked like the inside of a fortress. Brother Hubertus quickly crossed the courtyard and, after turning left, came to a stop in front of a heavy wooden door. The air was filled with an unusual odor that Simon couldn’t place at first—sweet and heavy, like old beer that had been in the sun too long.
The Franciscan pulled a large key from his robe, unlocked the door, bowed slightly, and gestured for the visitor to enter. “My empire. Please make yourself at home.”
Simon entered a room whose vaulted ceiling rose up out of sight. From several huge copper vats steam rose toward the ceiling. Wooden barrels, each inlaid with the bishop’s coat of arms, were stacked high along the walls, and in the room’s center stood a hot brick oven with a huge copper pan on top. The air was so humid the medicus’s shirt instantly clung to his body.
“A brewery…” he said, astonished.
Brother Hubertus nodded proudly. “The bishop’s brewery. We had it built just this past year atop the ruins of an ancient Roman gate. And I venture to say that we brew the best damn beer in all of Bavaria.”
“And you are…” Simon began.
“The bishop’s brewmaster,” Hubertus finished for him. “And incidentally the best damn brewmaster the bishop could find. His Excellency loves beer, especially mine.” Grinning, he poured them each a mug from a wooden keg. “Perhaps that’s the reason I can take a few more liberties than the other servants. The bishop would give up his Sunday mass before his morning pint. Cheers!”
He held up his foaming mug as Simon tasted the beer, his eyes widening in pleasant surprise. The beer was excellent—cold and smooth, with just the perfect hint of hops.
“Good, isn’t it?” The Franciscan winked. “Wheat beer, but don’t tell a soul. In Bavaria only the Elector is allowed to brew it. But why should he alone have the privilege of such an excellent brew, hmm? It’s a sin not to share.” He took another deep gulp and burped loudly.
“But have a seat and tell me what brought a scholar like yourself to Regensburg.” Brother Hubertus gestured to a rickety table and two stools alongside a steaming kettle. “I must tell you that when I’m not brewing beer, I like to dabble in other sciences and theories: Wilhelm von Ockham, Thomas Aquinas, but the worldly scholars, too, like Bacon and Hobbes.” He sighed. “I’m surrounded here by drunken fools! It’s good to talk with a like-minded individual. So what brings you here?”
Simon sipped his beer and decided to tell the truth, at least in part.
“I’m a medicus in search of employment,” he said.
“Aha, I see, a medicus.” Deep folds appeared on the fat monk’s brow. “And where did you study, if I may ask?”
“In… Ingolstadt.” Simon didn’t mention he’d broken off his studies after just a few terms—out of laziness, a gambling addiction, and debt.
“It’s not easy to establish a position for oneself among the guilds as a doctor,” the medicus continued after a short hesitation. “The old ones drive off the new ones. I’m waiting to be tested by the Regensburg collegium.”
“Do you have references?”
“I… well…” Simon fumbled nervously in his jacket pockets as if he could magically produce such a document. Though no miracle, he did feel a disgusting, granular lump in his coin purse.
The powder from the alchemist’s cellar!
In all the excitement he’d never gotten around to examining it more carefully, and now he lacked the necessary instruments and books to do so anyhow. He’d never be able to solve this riddle with what he had to work with in the beggars’ catacombs.
Then an idea came to him. He pulled out his little leather purse and handed it to Brother Hubertus.
“Unfortunately I don’t have any references with me, but the venerable members of the guild assigned me a little task prior to my examination.” Simon adopted a scholarly air. “By next week I’m supposed to identify this powder. Do you have any idea what it could be?”
The monk poured a bit of the powder into his huge hand and sniffed it.
“Hmm,” he replied, scratching his bald head. “A musty smell, bluish, mixed with ash…”
“At first I thought it might be burned flour,” Simon continued. “But I suspect it’s something else now.”
Hubertus nodded. “It is. I have a hun
ch, too.”
“You know?” Simon jumped up from his stool. “Then tell me, please!”
The Franciscan placed the pouch back on the table. “Not so fast, young friend. It would be a pity if I was mistaken and caused you to fail the collegium.” He shook his head, thinking. “Besides, it’s your test, not mine. I’ll do you this favor, but I’ll need a little time.”
“How long?” Simon asked impatiently.
Hubertus shrugged. “One or two days. I just want to be certain. In the meantime I look forward to an intelligent, scholarly discussion or two.”
Simon shook his head. “I can’t wait that long.”
The monk sipped his beer thoughtfully, then brushed the foam from his lips. “You’re welcome to stay here with me for the time being. I have a room next to the brewery that’s empty, and now that it’s summer I don’t have much to do around here. I’m always happy for the company. Besides”—he winked—“didn’t you yourself say that it’s a week until your examination? So don’t be so impatient. I’m a thorough person—and not just in brewing beer.”
Simon sighed. “All right, I’ll wait, just not here. You do promise to tell me as soon as possible, don’t you?”
Brother Hubertus grinned broadly. “You have the word of the bishop’s brewmaster.”
He opened a drawer in the table and extracted a stained piece of paper, ink, and a goose-quill pen.
“I’ll prepare something in writing for you, so that the next time you come to visit you can get past the guards. We don’t want those dolts to leave you standing there.” Brother Hubertus scribbled a few words on the paper, placed the bishop’s seal on it, then rolled it up and handed it to Simon.
“Anyone who falls out of favor with me also falls out with the bishop. Those fools have figured out that much at least. Without his beer His Excellency grows irritable. But now let’s have ourselves a taste of those boiled sausages.”
He went over to a steaming kettle, opened it, and pulled out a chain of plump pink sausages. As steam enveloped the monk, he looked as if he were standing on a cloud.
“A brewer’s kettles are good for all sorts of things, aren’t they?” Hubertus inhaled the scent of tightly packed sheep intestines. “So tell me, what do you think of this fashionable new rascal Descartes?”
Jakob Kuisl woke to the sound of pebbles crunching. He sat up, in pain, with no idea at first where he was. Except for a small crack of light that grew brighter and brighter on the other side of the room, everything around him was black.
With the pain, memories came flooding back. He’d escaped; the Regensburg executioner had brought him to this dungeon under the brothel at Peter’s Gate. Were bailiffs standing just outside, ready to carry him back to his former cell? Had that woman Dorothea betrayed him?
A stooped figure entered the little room. It was Philipp Teuber, who set a large sack down in a corner, groaning.
“Everything’s still calm out there,” he said. “No doubt they’re keeping your escape a secret for now and accusing one another for the slip-up.” Teuber laughed softly. “An escape from the city hall dungeon! That hasn’t happened for hundreds of years! But the shock will pass quickly, and the big manhunt will no doubt begin today, so it’s best for you to stay here the next few days and lie low.”
“I’ve got to find Magdalena…” Kuisl whispered, trying to stand, but the pain in his legs was so crippling he slid down the wall with a moan.
“First you’ve got to get better,” Teuber said, rummaging through his bag, then pulled out a knuckle of pork, some bread, a piece of cheese, and a corked jug of wine. “This will help you get your strength back. Let’s have a look at your leg.”
While the Regensburg executioner rubbed Kuisl’s lower thigh with salve, Kuisl bit into the pork knuckle, letting the fat run down into his beard. After days of watery soup and moldy bread, the tough meat seemed like manna from heaven. He could already feel strength returning to his abused body.
“My son found your daughter and gave her the letter,” Teuber said as he rubbed Kuisl’s legs.
Kuisl stopped chewing. “How is she?” he asked. “Is she in trouble?”
Teuber laughed. “It’s funny you ask.” He shook his head with a grin. “Things are evidently going very well for her. My son met her in the company of a medicus and several beggars down by the burned-out bathhouse. It seems they’ve discovered something.”
“And where is she now?”
The Regensburg executioner shrugged. “I don’t know, but if she’s in with the beggars, I’ll learn of it. I’ve thrown my fair share of them into the stocks, then either burned them or beaten them and driven them out of the city. But I’ve also let a few of those poor bastards escape, and they owe me.”
“Damn! What the devil did you put in this ointment?” Kuisl asked, turning up his nose. “It stinks like bear fat that’s sat out for three years.”
“A family recipe,” Teuber replied. “If you think I’m going to reveal the ingredients, think again.”
The Schongau hangman tried to grin despite his pain. “I’d rather drink dandelion soup for a year than try out your recipe, you old knacker. In Schongau I don’t even rub down cattle with stuff like that.”
“I’ve already figured out that of the two of us, you’re the bigger smart aleck,” Teuber grumbled. “Now turn over so I can have a look at your arm. Does it hurt bad?”
Kuisl took a long swig of red wine before answering. “What a stupid question! You wrenched it from the socket! Now, horse doctor, show me that you can at least do something useful and shove it back into place.”
“If I were you, I’d take another swig first, so the guards down at Jakob’s Gate won’t hear you scream.”
“Not necessary.” Kuisl bit his lip.
“Or perhaps wedge a piece of wood between your teeth?”
“You son of a bitch,” Kuisl cursed. “Just do it.”
The Regensburg executioner grabbed Kuisl’s left arm and pulled hard. It crunched and cracked like a tree branch snapping. Kuisl grimaced and ground his teeth a moment, but otherwise an almost eerie silence prevailed. Finally, Kuisl rolled his shoulder cautiously, then nodded approvingly. With just one strong tug, Teuber had set the arm back in its socket.
“Good job, Teuber,” Kuisl whispered, blanching as he leaned against the wall and beads of sweat ran down his face. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”
“You’ll have to go easy on the arm for a few days,” his colleague reminded him. “I’ll leave the ointment here for you. Be sure to rub some of it on every day…”
“Yes, yes, fine.” Kuisl turned aside and took a deep breath. “I myself know what I have to do. I always have.”
As silence spread through the room, only the Schongau hangman’s deep breathing was audible.
“Do you still believe someone set you up?” Teuber asked at last.
Kuisl nodded, staring at the wall in front of him. “Some bastard from years ago. He covered the walls of the cell with the names of old battlefields, so this must go all the way back to the war. He knows every battle I fought, and he knows my wife.” He pounded the wall with his good arm. “How the hell does this devil know my wife?”
And where have I heard the name Weidenfeld? The thought flashed through his mind. Damn it!
“You were a mercenary?” Teuber asked. “Why didn’t you stay a hangman? I’ve heard about you Kuisls. You’re a tough breed. A whole tribe of executioners all over Bavaria bears your name. Why didn’t you just stick with what your father taught you?”
Kuisl was silent a long time. Not until the Regensburg executioner stood up and made ready to leave did he begin to speak.
“My father is dead,” he said. “They killed him when I was fourteen. They stoned him to death because he showed up drunk to perform an execution one time too many.” Kuisl stared off into space. “It was the third time he was unable to handle his sword and turned the scaffold into a bloodbath. His drinking before every execution finally did him
in.”
A shadow passed over his face.
The onlookers’ shouts… A single ear lying on the ground in front of the scaffold… Father staggering, falling as the crowd swallows him up… Mother at home crying for days until Jakob can take it no longer… He follows the sound of the drummer without once looking back…
“Hey, are you still in your right mind?” Teuber grabbed the Schongau hangman, who appeared to be drifting into unconsciousness. Like a wet dog, Kuisl shook his head vigorously, trying to drive away bad thoughts.
“I’m all right. Just need a little sleep.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “The damned war. I just can’t get it out of my head.”
Teuber looked at him, lost in thought. “Kuisl, Kuisl,” he said at last. “Whoever is behind this affair has been more successful than he can imagine. There is an agony in your eyes greater than any rack could inflict.” He sighed as he rose to his feet. “I’m going to leave you alone now. Try to sleep, and tomorrow I’ll bring you some food and drink.”
Stooping, he left the little room and rolled the barrel in front of the entry behind him, where Kuisl still lay in darkness.
Though he could see nothing, his eyes were wide open.
The master baker Josef Haberger lay stretched out on a wooden bench, moaning with pleasure.
Daily dough-kneading made his muscles as stiff as old leather, and it was high time he paid Marie Deisch in the bathhouse another visit. No other woman in Regensburg was so skilled in handling a hard-working man’s worn-out muscles. Her hands were as strong as a butcher apprentice’s and as tender as a tight-lipped whore’s. Now, Haberger grunted and closed his eyes as Marie’s nimble fingers moved up and down his back.
“To the left,” he moaned. “The shoulder blade. Those damn dough troughs are so heavy they’ll pull me into the grave yet.”
Marie’s fingers scurried up his back again and, with a few targeted blows, began loosening the most painful places.
“Here?” the bathhouse worker asked in her deep, throaty voice. As big around at the hips as a medium-size wine barrel, she could leverage that heft behind her movements.