The patrician raised his eyebrows. “Do you think you might be able to find a medicine for this sickness there? I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. My collection of medical books is limited.”
Simon shook his head. “No, I’m looking for a book on the lives of the saints.”
“On the lives of the saints?” Jakob Schreevogl looked back at him in astonishment. “I think my wife has something like that. But why-”
“Let’s just go to the library. For the time being, there’s nothing else we can do here, in any case. If my suspicions are right, I’ll soon be able to buy Clara the best medicine in all of the Priests’ Corner. And a Paracelsus bound in gold leaf for you. You have my word on that.”
Jakob Kuisl set out on the painful mission. He almost felt like a condemned man on the way to the scaffold. The strong coffee the day before had helped him over the worst of his hangover, but his head still felt like a sack full of stones. But it wasn’t the headache that troubled him the most; it was that he had broken his word.
When the bailiff Johannes saw the mood Kuisl was in, he quickly stepped aside to allow the hangman to enter the dungeon.
“A load of work, ain’t it?” he called after him. “It will be a bloody show on Saturday when you break the prisoner on the wheel. I hope everyone has a ball. You’ll break every bone, heh? I’ve bet two hellers that Scheller will still be screaming the next day.”
Kuisl ignored him and trudged straight to the cell holding the robber chief and his gang. A quick glance assured him that this time, in contrast to the last, there were blankets, water, and fresh bread. The sick boy, too, seemed better. The medicine appeared to have helped.
Hans Scheller stood directly behind the bars, his arms folded. As the hangman approached, the robber chief spat in his face.
“The gallows, huh?” he growled. “A clean, quick matter? Bah! Damn liar! It’s going to be slow, one blow after the other, and I trusted you, you goddamned hangman!”
Jakob Kuisl slowly wiped the spit from his face. “I’m sorry, whether you believe me or not,” he said calmly. “I tried, but the authorities wanted to see screaming and wailing. So be it,” he said, stepping right up to Scheller. “But we can still put one over on these fat cats,” he whispered softly so that those standing around couldn’t hear.
Hans Scheller looked at him in disbelief. “What are you thinking of?”
Jakob Kuisl looked around to see if anyone was listening, but the other robbers were too wrapped up in their own concerns, and the bailiff Johannes preferred to wait outside. Finally, the hangman took a little leather bag out of his coat. He opened it, and a little brown ball rolled into his wrinkled hand, a pill no larger than a marble.
“One bite and you’ll be with our Lord,” Kuisl said. He held it up like a valuable pearl. “I made it especially for you. You won’t feel any pain. Just put it in your mouth, and when I strike, bite into it.”
Taking the pill in his slender fingers, Scheller gave it a closer look. “No pain, you say?”
Kuisl nodded. “No pain, believe me, this is something I understand.”
“And what about the big show?” Scheller whispered. “The people will be disappointed. I’ve heard they sometimes hang the hangman himself if things don’t go as planned. They’ll think you haven’t done your job right.”
“Let me worry about that, Scheller. Just don’t take the poison now or the aldermen might decide to take out their anger on the others. Afterward, I’d have to break the boy on the wheel, too.”
The robber chief was silent for a long while before turning back to the hangman. “Then it’s right what they say about you, Kuisl.”
“What do they say?”
“That you are a good hangman.”
“I’m a hangman, but not a murderer. We’ll see each other again on Saturday.”
Jakob Kuisl turned and left the dungeon. For a long time, Hans Scheller rubbed the little ball between his fingers. He closed his eyes and tried to prepare himself for his long journey into darkness.
They found the book about saints at the far end of the shelf between the works of Plato and a dog-eared farmers’ almanac that had made its way into Schreevogl’s library unbeknownst to him. Presumably, his wife had acquired it from some itinerant merchant, along with the volume on the saints, the book of hymns and prayers, and the large eight-pound family Bible.
With the little book in hand, Simon summarized what he and the hangman had found in the crypt. He told Schreevogl about the riddles, of the feeling he was being constantly observed, and of his most recent find with Benedikta in the Tassilo Linden tree near Wessobrunn.
“We’re firmly convinced that all these riddles will lead us to the Templars’ treasure!” he concluded as he returned the other books to the shelves. “A treasure that the master of the German Templars, Friedrich Wildgraf, intentionally hid far away from the great cities. Not in Paris, nor in Rome, but right here in rural, provincial Bavaria, where he felt his treasure would be safe from the French king. The riddles are posed in such a way that only locals can solve them!”
Jakob Schreevogl was leaning against the edge of the table and listening with growing interest to what the medicus was telling him.
“It’s possible that Friedrich Wildgraf passed along his knowledge to his sons and grandchildren here in Schongau,” Simon continued, “and we assume that this line died out at some point and knowledge of the treasure and the riddles with it.”
“And what does the most recent riddle say?” Jakob Schreevogl asked.
Simon looked warily out the window to see if anyone was watching. Only then did he continue in a soft voice. “It says, In gremio Mariae eris primus et felicianus. I thought for a long time it was just a pious saying from the Bible, something like, You will be first at Mary’s bosom, and a happy person.”
“And what does it really say?”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve found the right passage in this little book.” Simon leafed through it, finally stopping to read a passage to himself. “I was right!” he exclaimed, then lowered his voice again to a whisper. “It’s not a saying from the Bible, but simply a sentence that conceals two names-Primus and Felicianus. Translated, the names mean ‘the first’ and ‘the happy,’ but they are also the names of two saints from ancient Rome. Here!” He pointed to a page showing two fettered, naked men being tortured on the rack by a hangman’s helpers. Nevertheless, the two saints smiled, knowing they would soon meet their Savior.
“Primus and Felicianus were two Christian Romans who were tortured and finally beheaded on the order of Emperor Diocletian,” Simon continued excitedly. “But first they were able to convert thousands of Romans, according to this book, through pure steadfastness.”
“But that was in Rome!” Schreevogl objected. “Didn’t you just say that this Templar intentionally chose our provincial area over the great cities? That can’t be the riddle’s solution.”
The physician grinned and waved the little book around. “Don’t come to any hasty conclusions, Your Honor. Primus and Felicianus were buried in Rome, indeed, but eventually their remains were moved to another place, where they’re still revered today.”
In the meantime, Jakob Schreevogl had gotten up out of his chair. “And where is that?” he asked. “Don’t make all this sound so dramatic!”
Simon closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. “The Benedictine Monastery in Rottenbuch, just a few miles from here.”
Schreevogl looked at him in disbelief. “Rottenbuch?”
Simon nodded. “A monastery, which, by the way, is devoted to worship of the Virgin Mary. Primus and Felicianus at Mary’s bosom. That’s the solution!” He slapped himself on the forehead. “I’m so stupid! As a child, I even went on a pilgrimage there to honor the two saints!”
Schreevogl smiled. “And if I know you, you’re probably already planning another pilgrimage there.”
Simon was already at the library door when he stopped to contemplate. “I won’t go
until Clara gets better,” he said. “Your girl is worth more than any treasure in the world.”
11
A day passed and Clara’s condition didn’t change. The next morning she was feverish and coughing. Simon made her a drink of linden blossoms and rosemary mixed with the last honey he could find at home. Once more he cursed himself for not buying more of the Jesuit’s powder the summer before. The Muslim merchant had demanded a high price, however, higher than a mere Schongau medicus could afford to buy in large quantities.
Simon paid Clara Schreevogl a visit both that morning and again in the afternoon, listening to her chest and speaking words of encouragement to the semiconscious child. He didn’t once see Benedikta during this time, and he knew he was secretly trying to avoid her. The last time they were together, something had changed between them; her derogatory remarks about Magdalena had probably angered him most.
Magdalena is a little girl who probably doesn’t know a word of Latin…
It was at that moment that he felt how much he missed Magdalena. What he once thought of as Magdalena’s weaknesses-her quick temper, lack of education, her practicality, and shrewdness, things that were so far removed from Benedikta’s French etiquette and finesse-all that now made Magdalena seem beyond compare, unique.
Once again Simon’s thoughts were interrupted, as they were so often, by Clara’s long, rattling coughing fits. The girl’s chest rose and fell, and she spit up hard green mucus. Simon was glad to see that the phlegm was not red. Red phlegm, he knew, meant certain death in most cases.
As he sat holding Clara’s hand, waiting for the next coughing fit, he wondered why he was so concerned about this one child when people were dying in their beds in Schongau almost every day. But with Clara it was different. A paternal love, nurtured in their adventures almost a year ago, bound him to this girl. He had freed this child from the hands of the devil, and he had saved her once before from a terrible fever. Could he sit by idly now as she died before his eyes? A few times she awoke, smiled at him, mumbled something unintelligible in her sleep, then drifted off again. Simon changed the cheese compress on her feet, wiped the sweat from her brow, and took turns with the Schreevogls in sitting at her bedside. All the while, Maria Schreevogl never stopped running rosary beads between her fingers and praying.
Ave Maria, the Lord be with you…
On the second day, Clara’s condition seemed to improve. Simon knew from experience that the sickness entered its critical stage on about the second day. The fact that the fever was receding was a good sign.
It was Jakob Schreevogl who finally urged him to take a break.
“I don’t think there’s anything more you can do, Simon,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed with the physician. “My wife and I thank you for your concern, but you should leave for Rottenbuch as you had planned.” He stood up and stretched. “But take the hangman along. According to everything you’ve told me, you’re not alone out there.”
Simon shook his head. “You forget that Scheller has his big day tomorrow. Kuisl has to break him on the wheel, and we certainly wouldn’t be back in time for the execution.” He stood up stiffly and looked out the window at a light snow that had been drifting down since early that morning, once again covering the city in a white, whirling shroud. “I’d actually be happy if I didn’t have to be in Schongau on a day like tomorrow,” he said. “We can only hope for bad weather. At least that would spoil Lechner’s plans and his party would have to be canceled.”
Jakob Schreevogl, too, was now looking out the window at the falling snow. “I want you to know that I spoke out in the city council meeting against breaking the prisoner on the wheel. It’s…bestial, a throwback to a time I thought we had outgrown. But the war turned us into beasts again.” He sighed. “As an alderman, I must unfortunately attend the execution. Perhaps I’m one of the few who takes no joy in the spectacle.”
He motioned for Simon to accompany him out of the room, where Maria Schreevogl was still kneeling in prayer. As they descended the stairs, the alderman put his hand on Simon’s shoulder again.
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me and about these words the men were whispering in the crypt-Deus lo vult. I’ve been wondering for a long time where I heard this expression.”
“And?” Simon asked.
“Last night it came to me. It’s the cry the Crusaders made as they rode off into battle against the unbelievers-God wills it. This is how they attempt to excuse all the massacres of the Arabs. God wills it…”
Simon shook his head. “The old Crusaders’ battle cry on the lips of murderers and bandits. Just who are these lunatics we’re trying to track down?” He hesitated. “Do you know the bishop of Augsburg?” he finally asked.
“The bishop of Augsburg?” The alderman frowned. “Well, I’ve seen him once or twice in the Imperial City at large receptions-a young, ambitious man, people say. He’s said to be very literal in his understanding of the Bible, very pious.” Schreevogl smiled wanly. “The pope certainly has his reasons for sending one of his strictest shepherds to Augsburg, this den of iniquity, full of Protestants. But why do you ask?”
Simon shrugged. “Nothing in particular…a suspicion, that’s all. No doubt complete nonsense.”
Jakob Schreevogl shook his hand firmly. “In any case, keep alert. And there’s something else…”
“Yes?”
“This Friedrich Wildgraf. I’ve seen his name somewhere before.” The patrician bit his lip. “If only I knew where!”
Simon nodded. “I feel the same way. It’s like a ghost that keeps coming back to haunt me, but when I try to grab hold of it, it slips away and dissolves into thin air. I think it has something to do with that little book about the Templars you gave me. Could you spare it for two more days?”
“Certainly,” Schreevogl replied. “All I really want is for my Clara to get well again.” They’d reached the front door now, and snowflakes were blowing over the doorsill into the house.
“I wish you much luck. Godspeed!” Jakob Schreevogl looked Simon firmly in the eye again, then closed the door.
The medicus turned to leave. And then he stopped short.
Benedikta was standing down below on the street. She had loaded her things onto her horse and bridled it, and she was waving good-bye.
Magdalena stared up at the benevolent Jesus on the ceiling, knowing he wouldn’t be able to help her, either. Time slowed to a drag. She had been locked in this chapel for three days-three days of waiting, cursing, and sometimes crying. At first she thought of nothing except how to escape, but the only window, no more than a hand’s breadth across and made of some sort of translucent stone, was located about fifteen feet above the altar.
Her cries for help had echoed from the walls of the chapel unanswered. The door was massive and furnished with a lock, an additional bolt, and a peephole at eye level that her jailer, the monk, used regularly to keep an eye on her.
Brother Jakobus was, in fact, the only person she’d been able to talk to during these three days. He brought her food and drink, provided her with blankets, and once a day took away the bucket she had to use to relieve herself under the watchful eyes of all the archangels and evangelists. Before entering the chapel, Brother Jakobus would open the peephole. Magdalena then had to sit on one of the prayer stools visible from the peephole, and only then would he push back the bolt and enter. This was intended to keep her from attacking him when he entered the chapel, and indeed, she soon gave up on the idea. The monk might have been haggard, but he was also very hardy and muscular and, besides that, always carried a dagger at his side, which Magdalena assumed to be poisoned.
At first she refused to say more than just a few words to him, even though Brother Jakobus tried several times to engage her in conversation. With time, however, she became more and more bored in the drafty chapel. By now she knew the ceiling frescos like the back of her hand, as well as how many paces it was from the altar to the door and from the shrine of t
he Virgin to the altar. The only book here was a dog-eared prayer and hymn book whose Catholic hymns she had practically memorized by now.
On the second day, she started paying more attention to the monk’s diatribes-for the most part, endless, bigoted lectures full of quotes from the Bible. Brother Jakobus approached her with a mix of contempt, hatred, and even…adoration, something that increasingly confused her. Often, he passed his hands through her hair, only to break away a moment later and start pacing furiously among the pews again. More than once, she was afraid he would cut her throat in a sudden fit of madness.
“It was you women who brought evil into the world!” he lectured, waving his finger in the air. “You ate the apple, and since then, we have been living in sin!”
Magdalena couldn’t resist an answer: “Aha, and Adam just stood there and watched?” A moment later, she regretted speaking up.
Brother Jakobus walked over to her and seized her head like a ripe pumpkin he wanted to crush between his hands. “She talked him into it, do you understand?” he mumbled. “Adam had a moment of weakness, but God does not tolerate weakness, not a moment. He punished us all-all of us!”
Once more, she could smell his sweet perfume, but now, for the first time, Magdalena detected another scent behind the fragrance of violets-a vile, overpowering breath. The monk’s whole body stank like rotting flesh; his mouth smelled like a sewer, and his crooked black stubs of teeth jutted out from foul, festering gums. The white tunic he wore under his black hooded cowl was stained with wet spots, which she came to realize were caused by festering ulcers. Magdalena could see that his tonsure was not shaved by hand but, in fact, that his hair on top had fallen out.
Brother Jakobus seemed to be rotting from the inside out.
The hangman’s daughter remembered she’d seen these symptoms before in a Genoese merchant who had come to see her father some years ago. The man had staggered into the hangman’s house, evidently in great pain. Most of his hair had fallen off, like balls of wool flying from a spindle, and he was twitching oddly. Her father had spoken of a French disease and sent the merchant off with a phial of mercury and a drink of opium poppies to relieve the pain. When Magdalena asked her father whether the man could be cured, he’d shaken his head. “He’s been sick for too long,” he had said. “If he’s lucky, he’ll die before he’s completely in the grip of madness.”
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