When she noticed Magdalena, she pointed back to the kitchen. “If you’re looking for your drinking friend, he’s in there,” she mumbled, taking another swig. Magdalena nodded and went back to the smoke-filled kitchen where wood logs glowed inside an enormous hearth.
“Simon?” she asked, but the only person in the room was Silvio Contarini, who stood by the hearth, whistling as he stirred the contents of a clay bowl with a spoon. Next to him bacon was sizzling in a pan, permeating the room with a delicious aroma.
“Ah, you slept in?” The Venetian winked at Magdalena and pointed toward the pan. “I’m preparing an old Italian home recipe, uova strapazzate allo zafferano, scrambled eggs with saffron and bacon. Would you like some?”
Although Magdalena had intended only to inquire about Simon, now that she saw the golden egg hissing in the pan, she couldn’t resist.
She nodded, and her mouth began to water. “A little… yes.”
With the elegance of a royal cupbearer, Silvio set a plate, knife, and spoon down in front of her on the table and poured diluted wine from a carafe.
“The perfect cure for a hangover,” he said with a grin, serving her a hearty portion of eggs and bacon. “Guaranteed to bring the color back to una ragazza’s cheeks. I hope it doesn’t bother you if I call you una ragazza, a girl. You look so—well, so young.”
“I just turned twenty-four this summer, if you want to know exactly. You needn’t bow when you talk to me.” Magdalena smiled to herself as she stared at the plate in front of her. She had never before seen a scrambled egg so yellow—it gleamed like liquid gold. “It looks wonderful,” she said.
“The saffron does that,” Silvio explained as he noticed Magdalena’s astonishment. “I like my eggs to shimmer like the sun.”
“But isn’t saffron very expensive?” she asked, perplexed. The hangman’s daughter knew that saffron was weighed against gold and therefore merchants often mixed powdered marigolds in with it, despite the high fines for being caught doing so.
The Venetian shrugged. “Food, drink, love… There are some things one doesn’t scrimp on.”
Magdalena nodded, her mouth full. “Stlishish!”
“Perdonate?”
She wiped the grease from her lips. “I said it’s delicious. Have you ever heard of a drink called coffee?”
Silvio nodded. “Caffè! Ah, a wonderful brew! If I’d known you’d drink it, I would have gone to the market—”
“That’s not necessary,” she interrupted. “Simon always has a few beans with him. I was only thinking it would go well with the egg.” Suddenly she remembered why she’d come to the kitchen in the first place. She took one more bite before she stood up. “Have you by chance seen Simon?”
“Your grim little amico?” Silvio rolled his eyes theatrically. “No. Can’t you forget about him for once and, come si dice, chat with me for a bit?”
Magdalena smiled. “Didn’t we do enough of that yesterday?” She turned to leave. “But as far as the coffee and the saffron egg are concerned… we’ll do that again some other time. Thank you very much.”
The little Venetian raised his hands to heaven. “You’re ungrateful! At least allow me to accompany you. I know my way around this city almost as well as I do Venice. Surely I can help you find your friend.”
Magdalena sighed. “All right, then; you don’t give up, do you?”
Together they walked out into the dazzling daylight. The sun was so blinding that Magdalena didn’t notice a figure crouched in an alley across the street, studying her every move.
Simon had to be careful not to lose sight of Hans Reiser. His guide kept turning ahead of him into little alleys, each one narrower than the one before, often groping his way along the walls with his hands; evidently Reiser still hadn’t completely regained his sight. The medicus begged him again and again to keep the patch on if he didn’t want to risk losing his sight again, but each time the beggar waved him off.
“Who will lead you to the beggar king, then, huh?” he replied as he continued to stumble through the dark alleys.
They clambered over piles of excrement, rotten vegetables, and animal carcasses piled up in the narrow streets. The sun almost never shone in these close, suffocating back alleys, and the stench was so bad that Simon had to hold his jacket sleeve over his mouth and nose to keep from vomiting.
“Aren’t we almost there?” the medicus asked repeatedly, but the old man replied only with an impatient shake of his head.
“I want to make sure no one is following us,” Reiser whispered. “It’s better if we go around in circles a few times. If the guards learn where our guild house is, the beggar king will have my hide, personally.”
“But how can you have a secret guild house that nobody knows about in a city as crowded as this?” Simon asked. “It’s not like there are just a few of you, and the guards must certainly have noticed already.”
“You might be surprised.”
Reiser giggled and continued groping his way along the walls of the houses. Cursing, Simon followed, wading as best he could with his sprained foot through the muck, which was nearly ankle-deep in places.
The beggar came to a halt in the middle of a deserted, shadowy back courtyard, put his finger in his mouth, and whistled. Another whistle answered from somewhere nearby. Reiser pushed aside a rotting two-wheeled wooden cart to reveal a crumbling stone staircase underneath. Simon guessed that at one time a house had stood on the spot where the courtyard was now, and all that remained were these steep, deeply worn steps into the cellar. Grinning, Reiser made an imperceptible bow.
“The beggars’ guild house! Please, after you, Your Honor.”
Simon headed down reluctantly. After they’d gone just a few yards, he was surprised to see a line of torches along the walls, lighting the way. The walls themselves appeared to consist of weathered stone blocks painted with strange runes. It took a while for the medicus to recognize the markings as Hebrew, which he was unable to decipher.
After another dozen or so steps the stairway ended in a wide, sloping corridor that led further down into darkness. As they walked, they passed a number of forks and intersections, where they encountered ragged, stooped forms. Reiser seemed to know most of them and greeted them warmly. As the people shuffled past, it occurred to Simon that many of them walked with a limp, and some wore bandages over their eyes or hobbled along on just one leg with the help of crutches. All their faces were gaunt, and all were dressed in rags. Simon sensed he was walking step by step down into an abyss, past a virtually endless procession of the miserable and the sick.
Just like in Dante’s underworld, he thought. Good heavens, just what have I gotten myself into?
The crowd of the downtrodden grew denser, whispering and pointing to the young medicus as he passed by, until at last Simon and his escort came to a low, vaulted torch-lit room. The flickering flames cast a mournful light on a ragged group gathered around an enormous oak table rotting in the middle of the cellar. The room was a good fifteen paces long and just as wide. On the ground and in the corners more people were dozing, gnawing on chicken bones, and quarreling loudly over jugs of wine. There was a strong stench of old men, urine, straw, and smoke, which emanated from wood fires in the room’s corners and alcoves. The conversation that filled the room died quickly as Reiser entered with the medicus. Simon could feel dozens of eyes on him. He took a deep breath and returned the stares.
What is this place? A robbers’ den? Or a vestibule to hell?
A figure emerged from the group of men sitting around the table. In contrast with the others’ ragged garb, he was clad in a threadbare jacket inlaid with golden threads and knickers that, though frequently patched, still looked magnificent. He wore a wide-brimmed hat over long gray hair, and an equally gray full beard framed his wrinkled face. As he began to speak, light flashed in Simon’s eyes, and he realized that the man’s upper incisors were made of pure gold! Thin wires seemed to attach these treasures to his brown gums and adjacen
t teeth.
“Is this the itinerant doctor who cured you?” the beggar asked, pointing to Simon with his scarred right hand.
Reiser nodded. “It is he! He’s the one who stuck the needle in my eyes as carefully as if they were his own. This man is divinely gifted—”
“Or a devil and an arsonist!” interrupted the other with a grin. “At least if we were to take the word of those fools in the city guards.” He turned to Simon, scrutinizing his now almost faded black eye, the last sign of the brawl in Schongau. “So,” he asked, “are you the devil? From the looks of it I think you’re probably just a little devil that Beelzebub roughed up.”
The men sitting around the table roared, but Simon kept silent. Once more he cursed himself for having come here at all. How could these crazy, tattered creatures help him discover anything about the bathhouse murders? He was already cautiously backing away from the scene when the leader raised a finger, and immediately the laughter ceased. With a grin, he extended his hand to Simon in greeting.
“How rude of me,” he said almost obsequiously. “I haven’t even introduced myself. People call me Nathan the Wise. I am the king of the Regensburg beggars, the lord of the realm of night and of this wonderful guild house.”
He made a theatrical gesture, causing some of the bystanders to break out in laughter. The beggar allowed Simon some time to look around before continuing.
“What you see here is only a small part of our own little city. Above us the Jewish ghetto used to stand, but my brothers in the faith were driven out of Regensburg many, many years ago. Their buildings were razed, their homes robbed, and all that remains are these marvelous underground passages, which serve today as our guild halls.”
He indicated the dirty men dozing along the walls in back, his gold teeth sparkling in the torchlight. “Every beggar in Regensburg belongs to our guild,” Nathan continued. “Every day he pays his dues and in return is granted protection, a roof over his head, and care when he is sick. We are our own masters, just as in any guild.”
The beggar king led Simon over to the large oak table where an extremely odd group of people was assembled. The circle of scruffy-looking men, with their wine jugs and moldy scraps of bread, looked like a surreal distortion of a respectable dinner party. “Perhaps you’ve made the acquaintance of one or another of my city councilors in the course of the last day or so.” Nathan pointed at a man beside him who wore a monk’s tonsure and a pale gray habit. “This, for example, is Brother Paulus. He collects alms for our church, even though he’s never taken a vow and knows more about boozing and whoring. And this one here,” Nathan said, pointing to a stooped, toothless little man with a thin line of drool hanging from his contorted mouth, “this is Crazy Johannes, who will do a Saint Vitus’ dance for you on request. For an additional charge, of course…” With easy grace, the humped little man transformed himself into an upright, rather normal-looking person, bowing slightly as he extended his hand to the stranger.
“As for yours truly,” Nathan said, “as a Jew, I did my time on the traveling stage many times over in my youth. I’ve since retired from the exciting life of a vagabond.” He sighed. “I have so much paperwork now that barely a moment remains to go begging. Ah, well… You helped one of us out,” he said, presenting Simon with a glass of red wine, “so we’ll help you in return. What can we do for you?”
Simon took a sip of the wine, which tasted remarkably good.
“The murder of the bathhouse owner and his wife that took place a week or so ago,” he said finally. “Do you know who’s behind it?”
Nathan’s expression turned to disgust, and his golden incisors glinted. “A nasty, far too bloody matter, as I’ve heard tell. They locked up a hangman from out of town right off, but you already know that. Whether he’s the one responsible or not I couldn’t say.” He leaned toward Simon and said in a conspiratorial tone, “I know only that the bathhouse owner was involved in some truly risky business.”
The medicus frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, Hofmann had dealings with a handful of men who have quite powerful enemies in the city. Quite powerful, indeed, including members of the Inner Council.”
“I don’t understand what you’re insinuating. What could a bathhouse operator—”
The beggar king interrupted him with a sigh, rubbing his hands together. “I see we’ll have to fill you in a bit. But my advice comes at a price.”
“I have no money.”
Nathan gestured dismissively. “Money! Always money! As if there were nothing more valuable in this life!”
“What do you mean, then?” Simon asked cautiously.
Nathan turned serious, folding his hands as if in prayer and peering intently at the medicus. “Oh, come now, doctor, I’m sure you don’t think I invited you into our hideout without thinking twice if I didn’t have something specific in mind for you.” He gestured at the crumpled figures lying in the corners of the great hall. “Reiser says you’re a talented doctor. As you can see, we’re surrounded by suffering here—folks with infected legs, flies all over them laying eggs in their flesh. Some are so tormented by open sores, festering boils, and wracking, incessant coughs that they’re practically going mad. I want you to examine each and every one of them. At no cost, of course. Clearly, none of them can afford a doctor.”
“And if I refuse?” Simon asked quietly.
The beggar king cleared his throat. “Not a good idea. Tomorrow morning when the hangman comes around to collect animal carcasses and garbage, he just might find a human cadaver, too. I’ve heard wonderful medications can be made from human fat and skin. The apothecary shops pay a fine penny for them.”
“It doesn’t really appear I have a choice, does it?” the medicus replied, his face ashen.
Nathan smiled. “Doesn’t really look that way. From what I’ve heard, you’re looking for a job now anyway. We can offer you room and board, as well as some information you just might put to use. That’s a good deal, as far as I can see!”
“But who will guarantee that you won’t do away with me anyhow, in the end? After all, I know where your hideout is.”
Nathan clutched his chest in horror. “Mon dieu! You’re speaking to the beggar king! Who can you trust in this snake pit Regensburg, if not me?” His voice took on a sly tone. “Naturally, the offer stands only if I can trust you to keep your mouth closed.”
Simon sighed. “All right, then, I’ll do it. What other choice do I have? Now tell me what you know.”
The beggar king shooed the others away from the table and leaned so close to Simon that the medicus almost choked on his foul, garlicky breath.
“Hofmann was one of the freemen,” Nathan whispered, then paused dramatically before continuing. “A secret society of tradesmen and simple citizens who are revolting against the Regensburg patricians. The freemen seek to reassert the rights of the guilds, but the moneybags are fighting them tooth and nail. A few years back a couple of their leaders were hanged for inciting a revolution, and since then the freemen have operated underground, where they’re making plans to break the power of the patricians, by force if necessary, and even, it’s rumored, with the support of the Elector and the bishop.”
“The bishop?” Simon asked, astonished. “But the church—”
Nathan rolled his eyes. “God help us! What kind of onehorse town do you come from? This is Regensburg!” He shrugged. “I can see I’ll have to elaborate a bit. This is a Free City, ruled by the patricians, who are answerable to no one but the kaiser. Capito? But Regensburg is also a diocesan town—the seat of a bishop—and an important city in the Electorate of Bavaria. Thus, both the Elector’s and the bishop’s seats are here, and the bishop even has the power to write and enforce his own laws. For us beggars this complicates things, since we have no idea who will cut off our hands or drive us out of the city. Isn’t that so, my friends?”
He winked at the other beggars, eliciting laughs of approval.
“Both the Ba
varian Elector and the Regensburg bishop want to increase their influence in the Free Imperial City,” he continued. “Any means is admissible in their attempts to undermine the kaiser’s and the patricians’ authority. It’s quite possible, therefore, that the nobles are working in consort with the freemen. Is that clear?”
“Of course,” Simon replied after a while, though he really hadn’t understood much of it. “But what does that have to do with Hofmann?”
“Didn’t I just tell you? Hofmann was a freeman,” the beggar king said. “Perhaps he knew something that would be damaging to the patricians, just as the Reichstag was about to meet. So they…” He swiped his fingers across the front of his neck. “And they did the same to his wife. And so as not to arouse suspicion, they arrested this hangman—as a scapegoat.”
“That… seems possible,” Simon replied. “Or perhaps not. One would have to speak with these freemen first.”
Nathan laughed. “Speak with the freemen? Who do you think they are? Washerwomen? They’ll be strung up on the gallows should anyone discover who they are. Nobody can find them.”
“Not even you?”
The beggar king thought for a moment. “Perhaps. But what will that accomplish? Perhaps they’ll decide you are the real murderer. Believe me, the order to kill Hofmann came from high up in the city council. It’s better for you and your girl to go back to your little Schongau. You are too young to die.”
Of course. And I leave my future father-in-law to rot and die in Regensburg, Simon thought. Magdalena would never forgive me for that.
“I want to speak with one of these freemen,” he said finally. “Make that happen, and I’ll get to work right away on my patients.”
The beggar king nodded. “As you like. I’ll see what I can do. By tonight we’ll know more.” He snapped his fingers, and Reiser approached with two other beggars. “I’ll have your things and your girl brought here, too. It’s best if you stay with us for a while, not just because of the matter of the fire, but whores have been disappearing from the streets without a trace as of late.” His golden incisors gleamed again as he began to laugh. “Consider yourselves my guests of honor for the time being.”
The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale Page 15
