“I hardly even know what you’re saying. A plan? There’s no plan. Old Jacob, let him rest in peace.”
“And keeping it all from your father’s ears?”
“Let him rest in peace, too.”
“He’s not dead, Daniel.”
“No, not at the moment. He’s still in his chair. But Italy’s fine, Leonhard! You should go sometime. It’s a fanciful place, all ruins and art and idiots. Not a whit of hard work. The streets are full of strolling and time-wasting and sweet life.”
“But your Chair in Padua . . .”
He frowned at that. “Blast it! What’s Padua? A Chair in Basel only comes once in years, a worthwhile one.” We’d reached the Rhine Bridge. He wasn’t crossing it, and I was, so he turned to resume whatever wandering had brought him out. “And it comes open by chance, the same chance that it’s filled by, and the same chance that keeps all the University ordered to Brutus’ liking.”
“Those are evil words, Daniel.”
“Then pay them no mind, Leonhard.” He clenched his fist, then let it loose. “Let them be the breeze, here, then gone, then forgotten.”
We parted and I went on my way, across the river.
There were two Basels, and the Rhine was the reason. The beginning of the city was on the west bank and it survived through its different ages well enough. But it was only one city of many on a very long river. Five hundred years ago Prince-Bishop Heinrich, who ruled the city, decided the city would be greatly strengthened and made distinct if it built a bridge.
There were no other bridges across the Rhine. Trade would be increased if Basel became the single road from east to west. Tolls would enrich the city. River trade would be controlled, as well, as boats could only pass the bridge at Basel’s pleasure.
The Rhine was hundreds of feet wide, yet the city had already leapt the water and a straggling of houses perched on the far bank. The bridge was built and the two became one Basel; or actually, the one Basel became two. The settlement on the right bank has grown to be one fourth of the city, of proper streets and houses and churches, but the river still was wide, and it cut as deep; and Small Basel on the east, and Large Basel on the west, remained each suspicious of the other. The Town Hall was in Large Basel, and the Munster, and the larger houses and the market; and the University, all prospering from the trade the bridge brought. Across the bridge in Small Basel were none of those. Both Basels were ruled by the same laws and Council, yet even after five hundred years the bridge still isolated them as separate people.
Even the bridge itself was two bridges. Large Basel and Small Basel each built and have kept their own half-bridge, and each crossed just their half of the Rhine and met in the river middle. The Small Basel bridge was on five stone piers. The east half-river was shallow and slow. The Large Basel bridge was on seven wood pilings, crossing a deeper and faster west river half.
In the center where the two Basels’ bridges joined was a small, spired room built into the rail. This was the Yoke Chapel, where the two sides were yoked together. It was used for prayer and executions. For centuries criminals were thrown into the river from the chapel to be drowned. The method wasn’t reliable, though. Too many could swim, even weighted. More trustworthy methods were now used. Still, though, in Basel, it was an insult to say of a man that he died in the river.
Another insult the bridge delivered was the River Gate. Where the bridge crossed the Rhine, Large Basel had a tower as strong as any other, but Small Basel had only a guardhouse. This meant that an enemy who broke into Small Basel could still be kept out of the Large city, which lessened the need to defend the homes and churches of the Small city. The gate could also defend the Large from the Small itself, if there was ever strife between the two. There has been strife. At times in its past, Large Basel has charged a toll at the gate for any citizen of Small Basel entering, but no toll for any citizen of Large Basel returning.
So the bridge divided as much as it connected. But it still realized its first purpose. That afternoon, on my way to the North German Road where Willi and his coach would soon be returning, I did what could only be done in Basel and not for all the hundreds of miles to the sea: I crossed the Rhine by foot. I came to Small Basel, and to my eyes the streets on that side of the river, though fewer, looked just like the streets on the other. I ran through them, not because I was hurrying, but because I hadn’t had enough running. I even ran some extra streets because the direct path wasn’t long enough.
There were two gates in the Small Basel Walls. The Riehen Gate pointed northeast to my home village. Sadly, that wasn’t my destination. I ran to the Saint Blaise Gate.
Blaise faced north toward Baden and all of Germany. The road from it led up the Rhine’s right bank to Freiburg, a day’s ride north. I went through the gate and walked a short distance beyond. I wanted to climb onto the coach as it passed and ride in with Willi, and have a minute with him before he reached the inn. The road bent out of sight some ways ahead; above the bend, in the air, after a wait, was dust. Of dust men were made, and by carriage did they arrive.
The horses and their burden came into view and I saw that I would not ride with Willi. The seat beside him in the driver’s box was already filled. The place was taken by a uniformed gendarme. An extra passenger might ride with the driver on his box seat if the coach is very full, but a gendarme would be the last one to suffer this discomfort. Then I saw that it wasn’t Willi anyway, but a yellow-haired slovenly equal from some northern stable.
I stood and watched instead of waving or running beside, yet the driver pulled his reins and slowed the horses and stopped. The man leaned down. “Where’s there an inn, the Boot and Thorn?”
“I’ll take you,” I said.
“Boy,” the gendarme said to me. “Not that inn. We’re for the Town Hall.”
“The inn, and that’s all I’m for,” the driver said petulantly. From the look of them, it wasn’t the first disagreement the two had had.
“The Hall’s on the way to the inn,” I said. “Come on.” I didn’t want to squeeze into the box and be a part of their dispute. Instead I set out on a good pace running ahead and the driver whipped the horses after me. The animals could have taken the coach to the inn themselves. I was some winded as we finally reached the bridge and River Gate. But just up the hill was the end.
As the Munster commanded its Square, and the Barefoot Church attended its Square, Basel’s Town Hall ruled its Square, the Market Square. The Town Hall of Basel was red with towers, windows, gold and clocks, pillared balconies and paintings and statues, and sharp-peaked roofs.
“But where to the inn?” the driver said when he was stopped beside me. “I’m not stopping and waiting. I didn’t want this ride and I’ll be done with it.”
“It’s just up there by that church,” I said. The tower of the Bare Feet was easily seen over the houses. But before they could argue more, the argument was ended. The door of the coach had opened from inside. A leg was planted on the step, not stockinged but black leather booted. A polished ebony black walking stick was planted beside it. Then followed a glossy black tricorne and a very long and tightly curled wig and a glistening and very black silk frock coat.
Then, a face, black with anger. The man was out, and stood, and blasted Basel with his stare.
The gendarme stiffened into silence and the driver slouched into subservience.
“This is Basel?” the man questioned, as if it was so much less than he’d thought it would be that it might not really be at all, in a German that was slippery and French-bent. Onlookers had begun to collect, but distantly. I was the only native close at hand.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know where your town hall is?”
It was difficult to not notice it. “Yes, sir. It’s this building here.”
“Oh, really.” He peered at it. “Find a magistrate and bring him to me. And be quick.” He looked up to the partners in the box. “Sergeant, bring it down.”
I looked to t
he gendarme, who seemed more likely to answer a question. “Where are you from, sir?”
“Strasbourg.” That was the far end of the coach’s route, beyond Freiburg.
“Where’s Willi? The driver from here?”
“He is arrested in prison. Bring the magistrate, boy.”
Magistrates would not be fetched, not easily; and Willi imprisoned was worth staying to ask more questions. But I’d become ambassador of Basel to this Strasbourg invasion, and I tried to think what to do. A magistrate was the greatest of a city’s citizens. A magistrate was a judge; the Chief Magistrate advised the town council. In most cities no one was his equal, and in Basel even a Professor of the University or a Dean of the Cathedral was only the peer of a standard magistrate; the University Provost alone stood on the same peak as Chief Magistrate Faulkner. “I don’t know if there’s a magistrate to be brought,” I said.
He looked at me as if I was quite stupid, and for his purpose I was. “I said to be quick.”
I ran to the main door of the Town Hall. Whoever might be inside would be more help than me. The first I saw was a captain of the Day Watch, one that I knew. “Simeon!” I said. “There’s a man out there. He’s from Strasbourg and he wants a magistrate.”
“A magistrate?” The captain was even more skeptical than I. He was gray-bearded and a fountain of good sense; he’d led a life of seasoned authority. “And who is this man?”
“Well, he looks to be about a magistrate himself.”
Together we returned to the court, where a very large crowd was stepping forward from the market stalls. They had a scene to gawk at, as marvelous as an acting troupe’s play, or a fire. The coach was still stopped direct in front of the town hall. The driver was just climbing back to his box, with little of the dexterity that Knipper would have shown. The gendarme was at rigid attention. The personage of Strasbourg was now obviously a magistrate: He had put on a black judgment robe. At his feet was a large trunk, freshly lowered from the luggage rack. I knew the trunk. I’d seen it before in Master Johann’s house on the kitchen floor.
The Strasbourger’s annoyance was increasing, from an already high level. He saw us and decided that Simeon was sufficient authority. “Open it,” he said to his gendarme.
The man stooped to the trunk and unlatched the clasp. As he did, he grimaced; he expected something unpleasant. In one motion he lifted the lid and rolled the trunk forward to spill it out. It did spill, and what it spilled was Knipper.
Poor Knipper! He was mottled purple and blue, and tangled, dumped on the paving stones. I fell back from him, and everyone did, as the black robe and hostile frown of the visitor gave a visible shape to the sudden fear we all felt. Then the crowd began to step forward again toward the stranger, hostile in return. But the man was unflinching and his stare judged and condemned the whole Market Square of unspoken crime. “I am Caiaphas, Magistrate of Strasbourg,” he spoke, scarring the air with his prophet voice, “and I charge you, Basel, with sending this murdered corpse to my city.”
The mob was both cowed and enraged by that stare and that proclamation, and Simeon knew a riot coming when he saw one. “Back away,” he shouted. A few more of the Day Watch had been in the crowd and they stepped forward to show themselves to the people. There was muttering and dark looks, but Simeon’s command had had effect. He said to me, quietly, “Go for Magistrate Faulkner, Leonhard, be quick and tell him what you’ve seen.”
I took a last look at Knipper. Even dead, he seemed so uncomfortable tumbled on hard ground. It was a bad end for him. And Basel, made of stone and brick, had a tear made in what it was, the soft fabric of living inside its hard parts.
I spoke to Magistrate Faulkner. His house was large, outside the tight spaces of the old city, with a garden and trees. He came to the door after I spoke to the maid who answered my knock, and he listened carefully to my tale. Magistrate Faulkner was an austere and severe man, very humble despite his high station, generous as his sister Mistress Dorothea but far quieter, and he could hurl thunderbolts if one was at hand. He’d been Councilor, Mayor, and most fearfully, an Inquisitor; but that was long before I’d known him. He asked me whether the Day Watch had the crowd in check, and then dismissed me. He has his own servants and messengers.
Then I walked slowly home; I didn’t want to return to the tragic stage in the Market Square. I wanted to mourn Knipper. As I was walking, Faulkner on his horse galloped past me, his magistrate’s robe flying from his shoulders as black as Caiaphas’.
My grandmother set a somber table and we ate without the conversation we usually have of the day’s happenings. Instead, we both thought on death. Everyone in Basel knew death, and not because the Death Dance reminded them. They’d seen it. No family did not have at least an aged parent they’d buried, and most had a child, a mother, a brother. Babies were born to great uncertainty, except that they would die, and many made a quick job of it. Illness like fire swept the city time to time, and fire like illness would take a dozen lives in a moment. Basel lived on as each of its parts died, always being torn and always slowly mended.
I visited the Boot and Thorn that evening, with all Basel, every craftsman, tradesman, scholar, knave, lord, and priest: every dancer. Calamity was always profitable for Old Gustavus. Daniel was in the center and Nicolaus at the edge. I found an inch of bench and listened.
“What killed Knipper?” was the question I heard first.
A Day Watch, just off duty, let everything he knew boil out his mouth. “He’s taken to the Watch barracks. He’s purple mess. Five days in a trunk, and he’s no Lazarus. Rough riding on the top of a coach. But that wasn’t what killed him; it’s his head’s half flat. A good heavy battering that was.”
“But who would have?” Knipper was no one’s friend but no one’s enemy. There wouldn’t be love or hate for the man who leveled that blow, only disapproval for evilly disturbing Basel, and veiled admiration for whoever could crack such a tough nut.
Then a fishmonger who was cousin to a baker who was husband to a sister of a town clerk’s housekeeper had stronger news. “A Grand Inquiry’s set. The Council will hear it in two days. Noon on Thursday.” This was disbelieved, very strongly.
“So quickly?” and “The Council?” The questions were the essence of the commons’ incredulity. Two days was swift even for Basel, but even more that the Town Council itself would hold the Inquiry for a low coach driver. Then a sergeant of the Night Watch arrived to say it was so and he had one answer to both questions.
“Caiaphas.”
“He’s here.” Fritz the stable lout said it from the fire where he sat as an oracle. “He wouldn’t take an invitation from Faulkner. He’ll stay at the Inn while the coach goes to Bern, then he’ll ride it back north on Friday morning.”
“The Inquiry’s not for Knipper,” Daniel said, interpreting the oracle’s riddles. “It’s Caiaphas who demands it.”
“Why does he?” and “Why did he come?” and other questions became a broad wave of discontent against the Magistrate of Strasbourg. There were some in the room who’d seen him in the Market Square and they fed the resentment with their descriptions of his harsh words and evil stare. The speculation ran wilder, the offense deeper. Then the rare sound of Nicolaus’ voice asked through the smoke and sounds, “Who is Inquisitor?” And that caused silence.
I knew little about Inquisitors: Their selection and actions were shrouded. The Inquiry into the disappearance of Master Grimm of the Logic Chair was the only appointment in my five years in Basel. That man, a lawyer named Reichen, had since died.
I knew more concerning the power of the Inquisitor. Inquisition was an ancient right of the Town Council. They would place all their authority onto the person of the Inquisitor. He would have the prerogative to search, imprison, and torture summarily and was only limited by his short tenure. Reichen was given three days, then four more, later, once the reply from Leipzig was received. He reported to the Council in secret and no one but the Council and his clerk ever
knew what he found. That was unusual. An Inquisition would normally be concluded in a public meeting of the Council.
“Who’s Inquisitor? Well, what lawyers are there?” Daniel answered. “It will be one of them, but a low one. It’s an Inquiry for a coach driver, that’s all.”
“It’s an Inquiry for a magistrate,” Nicolaus said. “That’s who demanded it. Those were his first words to Uncle Faulkner. And I remember this Caiaphas. I’ve seen him before.”
At home I told Grandmother what I’d heard. “What is the man Caiaphas like?” was her only question.
“He’s like crows,” I said, “and like wolves,” and I went upstairs to my room and books.
4
The Oscillating Hourglass
Late enough in the evening that Grandmother was already in bed, and the only light was my desk candle shining, and the only sound was the scratching of my quill and rustling of my papers, a lantern came into my street and then a fist to my door. I thought it might be the Night Watch. The church bell finished eleven tolls as I opened the door to see a dim lantern held out and a dimmer Cousin Gottlieb behind it.
“Leonhard. I want you.”
“To come?”
“Yes,” he said, impatient. “To come.”
It had become a chill evening but I didn’t stop to find a coat. I only took my brown hat from the peg, and the key, and I left and locked the house.
“Where do you want me?” I asked.
“To the inn,” he answered, and I followed and waited to hear why. The houses were more closed than when I’d walked home from the Boot and Thorn earlier, and it was back to there that we went. In the Barefoot Square, near enough the tavern door to be in its fiery glow, Cousin Gottlieb stopped and asked, “Did you bring paper?”
“No.”
“That’s a poor start. You’ll need it.”
An Elegant Solution Page 7
