“Let’s get out of here!” Simon shouted as he climbed up the last few rungs. Coughing and struggling for breath, Magdalena followed. The boiler room was already filled with thick, caustic smoke, and Simon kept bumping into walls like a blind man until he finally stumbled on the door to the bath chamber. The medicus screamed as he touched the glowing-hot door handle; tiny shreds of his flesh stuck to the metal, hissing. In desperation Simon kicked down the door and stumbled into the large room where the bathtubs and wooden partitions were already ablaze. Someone had knocked over the oil containers, and waist-high flames rose from glistening puddles around the room. Simon was about to run toward the main entrance, but Magdalena grabbed his shoulder and held him back.
“That door is most certainly locked,” she gasped. “And anyway, the guard is probably still there. We have to get out through the back again!”
With burning eyes and lungs practically bursting with pain, they staggered toward the rear window, which fortunately was still open. Simon pushed his way through the opening and landed hard on a pile of rubbish. Pain shot through his right ankle. Beside him he could hear Magdalena groaning loudly. She struggled to her feet and ran through the inner courtyard and down the narrow lane. All she wanted was to get away from this inferno. Simon could hardly stand now—on top of everything else, he’d sprained his ankle. When he turned around again, he could see the fire had already spread to the attic, and the roof timbers had started crashing down behind him. The flames licked at the neighboring houses like the tongues of malevolent spirits.
Somewhere nearby an alarm started to ring.
The old night watchman Sebastian Demmler smelled the fire before he saw it—a faint odor in his nose at first, then stronger, more biting, coating his palate with an acrid taste and awakening his worst fears. Demmler had lived through the great fire during the war and remembered the conflagration quite vividly from his childhood. Two entire city neighborhoods had been reduced to ashes back then, and the cathedral had just barely been spared. He would never forget how the townsfolk screamed as they leaped from their burning homes.
Demmler had been a night watchman for decades, and when he smelled this fire, his infallible instinct told him that such a time had come again. He took one step around the next corner to see the home of the murdered bathhouse owner blazing now like a gigantic torch. Three other buildings had already caught fire. This close, everything was lit up as brightly as on Easter night when they set bonfires to drive away the evil winter spirits. Demmler could feel the heat singeing the hair on his bare arms. Stepping back a few paces, he sounded the alarm with his little bell.
“Fire!” he shouted. “Fire in Weißgerbergraben! Help! Help!”
By now alarm bells in the nearby Scottish church were also ringing, and screams came from all sides. Demmler watched people run out of their front doors toward the burning bathhouse with buckets, tubs, and even entire barrels of water. In front of the house lay a watchman’s lifeless body, buried slowly in the burning timbers crashing down. Residents of the neighboring buildings sought to save their homes from the fire by splashing buckets of water at the walls, but in vain, as the liquid vaporized on contact.
Demmler continued to sound his alarm, holding the stained sleeve of his coarsely woven coat over his mouth so as not to breathe in too much smoke. Where were the guards from the Westner Quarter? It was high time for them to show up in their new fire wagon with its hoses. For at least five of the buildings, however, it was already too late. This far into the summer, a single bolt of lightning could set an entire village on fire, and when a thatched roof started to burn, the fire could eat its way to the ground floor in no time at all. The old night watchman had seen too many buildings go up in flames like funeral pyres.
Only now did it occur to Demmler that there hadn’t been any thunderstorms in the last few hours. He was by nature a bit slow-witted, but he nevertheless mulled this over as he continued ringing his bell and watching the other citizens attempt to extinguish the fire. Had someone once again failed to properly bank their fire for the night? But it was past midnight now, and who would be cooking at this hour? What else might have caused the fire?
As he pondered that question, Demmler noticed a figure dashing out of the little alley alongside the bathhouse. The figure was dressed in black, so all Demmler could make out was a dark shadow disappearing around the corner. Two other figures—a man and a woman—came staggering out of the same alley a short time later, and this time Demmler got a better look. The man was short, with delicate features, and wearing broad trousers and a tailored jacket like the ones young dandies wore. In the light of the flames Demmler could see a black Vandyke beard and a black head of hair to match. When he caught sight of the woman, he nearly gasped—she was clearly a beautiful woman, but in her simple gray dress, her bodice stained, and her face blackened with soot, she truly looked like the bride of Satan.
The bride of Satan?
Demmler wasn’t an especially superstitious man, but the raging fire, the flickering shadows, and this soot-covered witch awakened terrible fantasies in him. Besides, wasn’t Satan said to be petite and vain, with a weakness for the fair sex? Trembling, Demmler leaned back against the wall as the two figures turned into a side street just a few steps from where he stood. He tried to get a better look at their faces, but the only thing he was able to remark before they disappeared in the darkness was that the young man was limping.
The mark of Satan—the devil’s cloven foot! Holy Mary, Mother of God, help me!
The night watchman crossed himself and swore he would say a hundred rosaries if Satan didn’t drag him away first. He heard a final rasp and cough; then they were gone. His heart pounding, Demmler resolved to report everything to the head of the guards the next day. He would tell him exactly what the devil and his woman looked like, even if Demmler doubted such a description would be useful.
Presumably, by then, the Prince of Darkness would have assumed a different form.
Coughing and gasping, Simon and Magdalena pushed open the door to the Whale and came face-to-face with about three dozen astonished guests. A moment before, a boisterous mood had prevailed in the room—laughter, singing, and the clinking of mugs as toasts were made—but now the room fell as silent as a cemetery.
Nervously the medicus checked Magdalena and himself for any outward symptoms of a contagious disease. And only then did he notice with horror that they were both completely covered in soot. The white linen shirt Simon had put on that morning had taken on the color of burned wood and was now dotted with so many burn holes that the fabric was almost falling apart. Ashes clung to Magdalena’s matted, charred hair, and only her eyes shone brightly from her sooty face. Bewildered, the guests could only stare at them.
“There’s… a fire down in the Weißgerbergraben,” the medicus blurted out breathlessly. “We tried to help but the fire was just too great. We…”
His last words trailed off and were drowned out in the immediate uproar. Guests who were stone drunk just a moment ago now jumped up, shouting all at once; some attempted to crowd through the door where Simon and Magdalena still stood, forcing the pair back through the doorway, where they stared out at the bright glow of fire in the western sky over the city. Bells were ringing everywhere now, and when Simon heard what sounded like the angry buzz of a swarm of bees, it took him a few moments to realize it was, in fact, the collective sound of a thousand screaming voices.
Oh, God, is that really the fire that started in the bathhouse? he thought. How many houses are on fire now?
He tugged at Magdalena’s sleeve. “Let’s go and get some water. Looking the way we do, we might be suspected of having something to do with the fire.”
Magdalena nodded. She cast one last horrified glance back at the city skyline, silhouetted now against the bright orange blaze, then returned with Simon to the tavern. It had almost entirely emptied out, except for the Venetian, who was still sprawled out near the stove, just as they had left him hours
ago. Silvio Contarini, whose curly black wig had slipped and was hanging crookedly across his forehead, looked besotted now. Alongside him three men were dozing, their heads resting on playing cards that floated in a puddle of wine in the middle of the table.
“Ah, la bella signorina and her valiant companion!” he purred. “What happened? You look as if you’ve only narrowly escaped your own funeral pyre.”
“We—we’ve had an accident,” Simon said crossly, nudging Magdalena forward. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to go and clean up a bit.”
“You must cleanse yourself internally.” Grinning, the Venetian pushed a jug of wine across the table. “Chilled Malvasia. That will rinse the ashes from your mouth.”
“Some other time. The lady is tired.” Tapping Magdalena on the behind, Simon was about to head upstairs when he met the lady’s furious stare and realized he’d gone too far.
“The lady can still decide for herself,” Magdalena snapped. “Perhaps the gentleman declines the offer of a glass of wine, but the lady would be pleased to relax and have a drink.”
Pulling away from Simon, she smiled at the Venetian. “A sip of wine would be just the right thing, thank you.”
“Certo!” Solicitously, Silvio nudged one of the drunken card players onto the floor so gently he didn’t even wake up. “You’ll find no better medicine in all of Regensburg,” the Venetian continued. “And no better place to forget your troubles.” He pointed to the empty seat.
Magdalena dropped down on the bench and helped herself to a tumbler of wine. The moment the first drops ran down her throat, she felt the alcohol’s exhilarating but calming effect. After the fire and the attempted murder, and after inhaling all that smoke, she badly needed a glass of wine.
“But…” Simon tried one last time, before Magdalena’s eyes flashed, silencing him. With a shrug, he hobbled up the stairs.
“Is your piccolo amico angry at me now?” Silvio asked after the sound of the footsteps had died away. He refilled Magdalena’s glass. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended him.”
Magdalena shook her head. “Oh, don’t worry… he’ll calm down again.” Then she picked up a cup of dice and shook it. “The loser gets the next round. Agreed?”
The Venetian smiled. “D’accordo.”
Dawn was breaking already, and Jakob Kuisl’s thoughts still tormented him. Memories plagued him, billowed through his mind like poisonous plumes, and try as he might, he couldn’t dispel them. He shut his eyes, and his thoughts drifted back to the past… the scent of gunpowder, the screams of the wounded, the blank eyes of the dead he tramples as he marches across the battlefield with his two-handed sword. For ten days they have laid siege to Magdeburg, and now Tilly orders the attack. Heavy artillery roars from barriers the sappers have erected, and massive cannonballs crash into and breach the city walls. Jakob and the other mercenaries run screaming through the streets, slaughtering anyone who crosses their paths. Men, women, children…
Little Jakob came of age in the war. He became a double mercenary—receiving twice the usual pay of ten guilders a month standing in the front line for Tilly. His colonel awarded him a master’s diploma for his use of the longsword, but mostly Jakob fights with a katzbalger, a shortsword designed to be thrust into the opponent’s gut, then twisted to slice open the intestines. Jakob still carries his two-handed sword on his back to terrify the enemy and win the respect of his own people.
Meanwhile word has gotten around that Jakob is the son of a hangman. That lends him a certain magical aura, even among his comrades. A hangman is a shaman, a traveler between two worlds. When Jakob needs money, he sells pieces of gallows rope, forges bullets that never miss, and sells amulets that make their wearers invincible. At eighteen years of age he is a bear of a man. The colonel has already promoted him to the rank of sergeant, since he kills better than most. Silent, quick, impassive, just as he learned from his father. His own men fear him; they follow his commands and lower their heads when he passes by, and they admire him when he stands at the front, shoulder to shoulder with them, and engages the enemy.
And yet, when the battle is over, he stays on the smoking field among the twisted, bloody bodies and he cries.
There is a reaper, Death’s his name…
Jakob left Schongau to escape the bloody work of an executioner. To refuse his inheritance, to escape his father’s fate.
But God put Jakob back in his place.
A sound outside his cell roused the hangman from his reveries. He’d lost all sense of time, but the chirping birds told him it was morning now. The cell door had fallen slightly ajar, and the outline of a man appeared there. In the light of a flickering torch on the wall behind him, the figure’s shadow grew to superhuman size until it seemed to fill the entire room.
Kuisl knew who was standing before him before the man had uttered even a single word.
6
REGENSBURG
EARLY ON THE MORNING OF AUGUST 20, 1662 AD
THE PROSTITUTE KATHARINA lay on the floor of her dark chamber, trying to deflect the hairy hand that crawled over her face like a spider. She felt it clearly, but each time she opened her eyes, she could see nothing but her own hand, which she then held up close to her face, wiggling her fingers until they turned, before her eyes, into black insect legs covered with fine hairs. Katharina screamed and pounded her forehead with her fist again and again.
“Go away; why won’t you just leave me alone?”
But the spidery legs crept down her neck and over her breasts, where they lingered.
The creak of hinges stirred her from her hallucination. The hatch in the door slid open, and a tray of bread, dried pears, honey, and eggs was pushed through it. Katharina took the tray and flung it against the wall so hard the eggs broke and viscous, yellow yolk oozed down the whitewashed walls.
“Eat this stuff yourself!” she screamed. “I want out of here! Out, do you hear me? Out!”
The eye stared down at her coldly.
“Let me out!”
Silence. The eye unblinking.
“You goddamned devil!”
Katharina ran to the door and jammed her finger through the hole, but the eye had disappeared. She kicked the heavy wooden door and hammered it with her hands, screaming louder than she ever had before.
“Bastard! Devil! Satan!”
She had the sudden premonition that someone was standing right behind her. She spun around. Had she seen a shadow dart across the floor? A hunchbacked man, with a tail and two horns on his head. Katharina put her fist in her mouth and bit so hard that a tiny trickle of blood ran across her pale, translucent skin.
I’m going mad…
Her screams fading to a whimper finally, she slid down against the wall and onto the floor next to the overturned tray. She could still smell the enticing aroma of fresh bread, and now, reluctantly, she was hungry again.
She reached for the bread and clawed hastily at the white interior, stuffing the still-steaming pieces into her mouth. Perhaps the shadows and visions would vanish with her hunger.
In her ravenous fit she didn’t notice the eye once again staring down at her as she ate. Cool and pitiless.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Kuisl said as he rose from the floor of the cell and extended his hand to his visitor. The ceiling was so low that for the hundredth time he knocked his head against it. Early-morning light streamed through the open cell door. “It’s only too bad it’s under circumstances such as these.”
The Regensburg executioner’s grip was viselike, and his rough, callused hand felt like the bark of an old oak. And though Kuisl’s knuckles cracked, he barely registered the pressure.
“The ways of the Lord are inscrutable, dear cousin,” his visitor replied. As was the custom among hangmen, he addressed Kuisl as he would a member of his own family. Most executioners were distantly related in one way or another.
The Regensburg hangman stepped aside and motioned for Kuisl to follow him out into the dimly lit corridor of
the cell block, at least as far as his chains would allow.
Philipp Teuber was a good bit shorter than the Schongau hangman, though considerably broader. His body was like a wine barrel with a disproportionately small head screwed on top. He was all sinew and muscle; the Heavenly Father seemed to have forgotten a neck when he created Teuber, leaving the excess material for his arms and legs. In the middle of his round, full face stood two astonishingly cheerful, sparkling eyes surrounded by countless freckles. All of this was framed by a full reddish-blond beard and an untamed head of hair. The Regensburg hangman was about forty years old, but his whole appearance gave the impression that he was considerably older.
“Next time let me know when you’re planning a visit to Regensburg,” Teuber said. “Then I’ll be sure to make a place ready for you in my house and have Caroline cook up some salted smoked meat.”
Kuisl grinned. “It certainly would be better than the slop they serve here.”
“You don’t know my Caroline.” Teuber flashed a row of dark yellow teeth as his face contorted into an expression the Schongau hangman could interpret only as a smile.
For a while they were silent. Then Teuber found his voice again, massaging his knuckles as he spoke. “It’s looking grim for you, cousin. The inquiry is over, and the city council wants to start your trial today. If you don’t confess, they’ll send you down to me in the torture chamber, and you know what happens from there…”
They both fell silent again; only the buzzing flies circling over the chamber pot could be heard.
“Why did you come?” Kuisl finally asked.
“I guess I just wanted to have a look at you,” the Regensburg executioner said, “before I put the thumb screws to you, that is. It’s not every day that I’m asked to break one of our own on the rack, let alone draw and quarter him.” He looked deep into Kuisl’s eyes. “The president of the council says you’re responsible for killing your sister and brother-in-law. Is that true?”
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