1636: The Devil's Opera

by Eric Flint

  “All is revealed,” Friedrich said in despair. “She will tell the world, and we shall be reviled.”

  Frau Linder broke into laughter, and clapped her hands.

  “You guys are as crazy as musicians.”

  They all bowed to her, deeply and with flourishes.

  “Thank you,” Friedrich said with some sincerity. “From you, we will accept that as a compliment.”

  Frau Linder’s deep curtsey was marred only by the gamine’s grin on her face.

  She then turned to Gronow.

  “Herr Gronow, I have not had an opportunity to thank you for your libretto for Arthur Rex. It is superb.” Behind Frau Marla, her husband Franz Sylwester nodded in agreement. Gronow stood there with an idiot grin on his face, saying nothing.

  “Since I knew where you could be found, Frau Amber Higham, director of the production and wife of Heinrich Schütz, the composer, asked me to drop these by.”

  Marla held up her hand, and Herr Sylwester placed several cards in it. She handed two to Gronow and two to Friedrich.

  “There you go, boys, your own personal invitations to the premiere performance of the opera Arthur Rex, music by Heinrich Schütz, libretto by Johann Gronow. Don’t be late.”

  She waved and smiled, Franz nodded, and they turned and headed for the door.

  The four men looked at each other. Silently Gronow passed one of the invitations to Seelbach, and Friedrich did the same with Plavius. They all four read the richly engraved invitations, verifying that they were indeed entitled to attend the performance that evening.

  Their mutual silence was broken by Plavius.

  “Friedrich, lend me two pfennigs, please.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I must go redeem my best coat from the loan agent. I cannot go to the opera wearing this.”

  Plavius waved a hand at the threadbare, worn, and stained garment he was wearing at that moment.

  Friedrich sighed, and dug into a pocket.

  * * *

  “Simon?”

  Sergeant Hoch’s hand was on his shoulder. Simon dragged his sleeve across his face and looked up at him.

  “We need to go tell Fraulein Metzger. Do you have a pastor?”

  Simon started to shake his head, but found himself nodding instead. “Pastor Gruber, at St. Jacob’s.”

  Simon didn’t speak during their walk to the church. His mind was occupied with Why did Hans take the fight? Why? If he hadn’t taken the fight, he wouldn’t have crossed Master Schardius. Those grieving thoughts ran over and over through Simon’s mind as one step followed another. Hans could have turned down the fight, couldn’t he? Heart numb, heart cold, he took aimless steps in a shell of silence amid the bustling of the streets.

  Simon’s next conscious perception was of the sun shining on the front of St. Jacob’s church as he neared it. He stopped for a moment, looking at the gray stone of the building. Again he heard Pastor Gruber’s voice from their talk about Samson. “But he was a very proud man, filled with what the Greeks call hubris, so he did what he wanted.”

  It dawned on him that, as much as he liked his friend, Hans and Samson had been alike in something besides their physical strength. In the end, Hans’ pride and anger brought him down. But Simon also took some consolation that, just like Samson, Hans had company in his death.

  “Simon?”

  Pastor Gruber approached them from the small side door of the church, clutching his coat and holding his hat on his head against the fitful breezes.

  “Pastor Gruber?” the sergeant asked.

  “Yah, that is me.”

  “I am Sergeant Gotthilf Hoch, of the Magdeburg Polizei. Would you come with us, please?”

  The pastor said, “Certainly, but why?” He fell into place beside Simon as they turned.

  Simon looked up at him. “My friend Hans is dead. We need to tell his sister.”

  “Ah.” The old pastor had a very sad expression on his face. “Of course I will come with you. Has this Hans a surname?”

  “Metzger,” Sergeant Hoch replied.

  “Hans Metzger.” The old pastor’s eyebrows climbed. “The fighter?”

  “You’ve heard of him,” the sergeant asked in amusement.

  Pastor Gruber coughed a bit, then said, “Sergeant, one hears many unusual things serving in a church like St. Jacob’s.”

  “I can imagine.” The sergeant’s amusement grew.

  The old pastor looked down to Simon again. “Samson?”

  Simon nodded, biting his lip as tears trickled again. “Yah.”

  “I see.”

  The old pastor laid an arm around Simon’s shoulder. Simon shuddered, then leaned against the old man, finding solace in an embrace that he had experienced so very seldom in his life.

  There were no more words spoken, but from time to time as he trudged along, Simon would look up to see Pastor Gruber’s lips moving silently. Maybe he was praying; maybe he was reciting scriptures. Either way, Simon drew some small amount of comfort from that.

  They came to a stop in front of the Hoch family townhouse. Pastor Gruber’s eyebrows raised again, and he looked over at the sergeant.

  “My family’s home,” Sergeant Hoch explained. “Fraulein Metzger has been staying here, for her protection.”

  “I…see.” The pastor’s voice was neutral.

  The two older men looked down at Simon. A long moment passed before he realized they were waiting on him to move. With a heavy sigh, he walked up the steps and opened the front door, followed by the two men.

  Ursula looked up from a bench in the front hall where she was reading her Bible. Her eyes glanced over Simon and she stood, searching behind him, looking for that familiar face; looking for her brother. Finding only Sergeant Hoch and the elderly pastor, slowly her eyes returned to Simon. He steeled himself to face her, and he grieved when she saw the hat clutched in his hands and the light in her eyes began to die.

  “Hans?”

  “Won’t be coming home, Ursula. Ever.”

  Her face crumbled. Tears began to flow. She stood there, bereft, unable to move. Simon went to her and for all that she was years older than he was drew her into an embrace with his one arm. She began to sob brokenly as her tears drenched his shirt.

  “Shh, shh,” Simon said. He didn’t know how to comfort her. “I’m here.”

  Over Ursula’s bowed head Simon looked out the door and made two vows.

  He knew he could never replace Hans, but he would be a brother to Ursula. That vow he made in his heart to her.

  The second vow was made to Hans. I’m not a hero, not a Samson. I can’t do what you did. But maybe like the lad in the Bible story I can help you bring down a temple. If I pick at the walls and take the mortar I find to Lieutenant Chieske, sooner or later the walls will crumble. I can’t be a Samson, but maybe I can be an Ehud, a left-handed sneak. For you, Hans, I will try.

  Chapter 64

  Demetrious stirred when the one-eyed man began to move again. There was no doubt in his mind. The man was following the big merchant. That would be of interest to the lieutenant, he thought. Why he was following the merchant was a question Demetrious could not answer.

  He shrugged. That would be for the lieutenant to discover.

  Demetrious started following his target.

  * * *

  Marla strode into the backstage area, followed by Franz.

  Amber looked up from a conversation with Frau Frontilia at the stage manager’s desk. “You’re early,” she remarked.

  “Yep,” Marla threw back over her shoulder. “Couldn’t stand the waiting.”

  Amber chuckled, and turned back to Frau Frontilia.

  Marla headed for the dressing area. “Hey, Sophie,” she called out as she walked through the door. “We ready?”

  Her dresser looked up from where she was hanging costumes on the wall. “Yes, Frau Marla,” she said with a smile. “The costumes have been cleaned and pressed and are now hung up in the order you will need the
m.”

  “Great.”

  Marla hung her coat on a nearby peg, then pulled her Zippo lighter out and lit the wicks of the two oil lamps that sat on her makeup table flanking the small mirror. The overhead lights were electric, but she wanted a little more light on her face while she was applying her makeup. Then she turned to Franz and put her arms around his neck.

  “You, my good sir, may be good to go in your formal duds, but I’ve got over an hour’s work to do to get ready.” She gave him a hard kiss, then released him. “So be off with you to your orchestra pit.”

  Franz cupped her cheek, and she leaned into the caress.

  “Sing well,” he said.

  “Always.”

  After Franz left, Marla stripped off her shirt and jeans. She was wearing her old black dancer’s tights and leotard, which showed off her figure very well indeed to Sophie, whose eyes widened a bit.

  Marla chuckled. “I know,” she said, “it’s probably a bit revealing. But after all the rehearsals, I’ve decided that if I’m going to be skinning in and out of costumes all night I can’t have bulky underclothes on. These will help me preserve at least an illusion of modesty, and a little bit of warmth as well.”

  She pulled out a stool from under the table, and sat down. Sophie draped a towel around Marla’s shoulders. She opened the makeup case, leaned forward into the light, and began applying her makeup.

  * * *

  Friedrich von Logau looked up from his notepad and pulled out his pocket watch. He and his friends had reconvened at Walcha’s after freshening their attire. He looked across the table to his friends.

  “Well, if we desire to stand around outside the opera house so that we can be seen by all to be in the best company, we had best leave. Drink up.”

  They all drained their cups in unison, set them down, and got to their feet.

  * * *

  Simon didn’t say anything when Gotthilf left. He looked around to see Pastor Gruber, Frau Marie and Fraulein Margarethe all sitting with Ursula, trying to comfort her. They could do more for her than he could. But his comfort would come from knowing that Schardius was being dealt with, so he slipped out of the room and out of the house and followed Gotthilf down the street.

  * * *

  “Here you go, boys,” Byron said as Gotthilf handed one of the signed warrants to Karl Honister and Kaspar Peltzer. “Sorry to pull you off your other cases, but we need Schardius’ house and office searched today. You guys take his house, Gotthilf and I will take his office. Take a couple of patrolmen with you, and send word immediately if you find anything.”

  The pair of sergeants nodded and headed off.

  Byron looked at Gotthilf. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  “Lieutenant.”

  Just like the last time they heard that low-pitched voice, Byron smoothly shifted direction to the mouth of the alley as if that had been his destination all along. Gotthilf motioned to the patrolmen behind them to stop, then hurried to catch up to his partner.

  Once in the alley, Demetrious faced them from under a stairway.

  “It’s been a while, Demetrious,” Byron said. “What do you have for us?”

  “The one-eyed man you asked about, he was not easy to find,” Demetrious replied, folding his arms and pressing his fingertips together. “But find him I did, and followed him, too. The man, he is chasing someone, I think.”

  “Chasing?” Gotthilf asked. “What do you mean, chasing?”

  “He follows someone at least part of every day.”

  “Who?” Gotthilf and Byron spoke in unison.

  “Merchant fellow, name of Schardius.”

  “Schardius!” Byron said with the intonation of a curse.

  “Are you sure?” Gotthilf demanded.

  “Aye, I am sure.”

  The two detectives looked at each other. Neither one knew what to make of that.

  “Thanks, Demetrious. We will owe you one for this.”

  Demetrious touched his forehead, and moved back down the alley without another word.

  * * *

  Simon looked down the alley when he passed it after the two detectives came out. He didn’t see anything or anyone. He shrugged his shoulders, and hurried to keep the Polizei men in sight.

  * * *

  Marla set the make-up brush down, and looked at herself in the mirror, turning her face from side to side and tilting it up and down. She gave a firm nod, and turned away from her table.

  “How do I look, Sophie?”

  Her dresser pushed through the gathering actresses and stared at her with furrowed brow.

  “It still looks too heavy to me,” she said, “but it looks as good as what you did yesterday for the dress rehearsal.”

  “Like I said last time,” Marla responded, “it has to be heavy and exaggerated somewhat to be visible past the fifth row.” She stood and put her hands on the small of her back, bending backwards to stretch stiffened muscles.

  * * *

  Schardius licked his lips, eyes almost bulging from his head from attempting to see more of Marla through the crack in the wall. To see her in such form fitting clothing! If only he could have had a camera, to capture the scene of her bending and stretching in what was almost black painted nudity.

  His breaths came shorter and faster, and he tugged at his culottes.

  * * *

  “Tell me again what this opera is,” Gustav said as a servant helped him into his coat.

  “Well, you remember when we went to see Messiah last winter?” Kristina replied.

  “Yes.” Gustav shrugged his shoulders to settle the coat, and the servant started fastening buttons.

  “It’s supposed to be like that,” Kristina said, “only louder, longer, and with costumes.”

  “Hmm.” Gustav checked the hang of the coat in the mirror, and waved the servant away. “And what is this about?”

  Kristina looked to Ulrik. “King Arthur of Britain battles Saxons and Jutes for the safety of his people,” the prince said, abbreviating the story to its barest essence.

  “Hah!” Gustav snorted. “The Saxons will lose.” The emperor’s grudge against John Georg of Saxony was apparently still alive and well, even though the Saxon elector had been well and soundly trounced already and was now dead himself.

  * * *

  Gotthilf wiped his sleeve across his forehead. “What time is it, Byron?”

  The up-timer looked at his wristwatch. “Bit after five o’clock.”

  “I’m not finding much.”

  “Me neither.”

  At that moment, Gotthilf opened a desk drawer. Nothing much in the drawer: pens, pins, a pair of scissors; the typical type of stuff that you’d expect to find in a desk drawer. He reached into the back of the drawer to see if there was anything else to be seen. His fingers ran into the back panel of the drawer a lot sooner than he’d expected.

  Gotthilf pulled the drawer all the way out and set it on top of the desk. It was much shorter than he expected it to be, given the dimensions of the desk itself.

  “Byron.”

  “Hmm?” His partner was poking through a storage closet.

  “Come look at this.”

  Byron stepped over to the desk. “Odd. Where did it come from?”

  “Top drawer, right side of the desk.”

  Byron looked at it for a minute, then walked around and pulled out the top drawer on the left side. It proved to be over twice as long as the right side drawer.

  They looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Byron pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket, and knelt at the right side, shining the beam into the drawer space.

  “My last set of batteries. I’m really gonna be bummed when they run down, because no one’s got anything as small as a AA going yet. Hmm.”

  “Hmm, what?” Gotthilf responded.

  “Solid wood back there. No lines, grooves, buttons, locks; nothing.”

  Byron flicked the light off and thought for a moment. Then he pushed the ch
air out of the way, lay down on his back and pushed into the leg well of the desk. Gotthilf heard the light flick on again.

  “Aha!” came the muffled voice from under the desk.

  “What did you find?” Gotthilf bent over and tried to see.

  “Another drawer, only it opens out here. Now, if I can only figure out how to…” There was a click. “Gotcha! Come to papa.” Gotthilf heard the sound of a drawer sliding out, then Byron held it out to him. “Take it.”

  Gotthilf took the other drawer and laid it on the desk top as well. Byron slid his body out from under the desk, then flipped up onto his feet and turned to examine his prize.

  “Oh…my…God.”

  * * *

  Something—some slight change in the light falling on the wall before him, or perhaps a slight noise—caught Schardius’ attention. His head started to turn. There was a sudden rush of footsteps behind him, and a hard shoulder rammed into his shoulder blades, sending him into and through the laths of the wall.

  For one very short sharp instant Schardius bewailed in his mind the loss of his splendid viewing point.

  Then he was through the wall and falling.

  * * *

  The two detectives spread the papers out on the desk. Gotthilf couldn’t believe his eyes. Every piece of paper from the hidden drawer connected to Marla Linder in some way. There were copies of newspaper articles that mentioned her or her performances that went back to when she first appeared in Magdeburg in late 1633. There were copies of broadsheets with her song lyrics, including the latest one, the one that had made the CoC run their printing presses almost nonstop for a couple of weeks.

  The last two items were in Byron’s hands, and had been the cause of his exclamation. One was a picture of Marla, from a sketch that had been printed in one of the newspaper articles. The other was the article that announced the performance schedule for the new opera, with today’s date circled in red ink.

  The papers were trembling a bit in Byron’s hands. Gotthilf looked at his partner’s face. His jaw muscles were bunched, and the muscle tic in his left cheek was twitching, which sent Gotthilf’s sense of alarm soaring.

  “What is it, Byron?”

  “We need to find this scumbag, and now.”

  * * *

  Simon had been waiting outside the Schardius factorage for what seemed like forever. It had been at least two hours, judging by the movement of the sun in the sky. If they didn’t come out pretty soon, he was going to have to run to Frau Zenzi’s to sweep. He didn’t want to do that until he knew what was going on. Obviously something was, or they wouldn’t have spent all this time inside the building when Schardius wasn’t even there, according to one of the clerks.