Death and the Devil: A Novel

by Frank Schätzing

  Suddenly his mind started working again, analyzing quickly, almost mechanically, as if a black cloth had been pulled away. He peeped cautiously out from his hiding place. He could still see the man. It wasn’t a tall shadow, just the night watchman heading toward Eigelstein.

  Maria was dead. Tilman was dead. Both the people Jacob had talked to after coming back from the cathedral were dead. Both killed in the same way.

  But why? Why Maria?

  Why Tilman?

  It struck him like a bolt from the blue.

  Because with his coat and hat Tilman looked like Jacob the Fox. He was the intended victim. He was the one who should have died. And probably still should.

  Very cautiously he stepped out from the doorway. Perhaps it would be best to keep out of sight for the next few days. Stay in his shack under the arch. He thought hard as he jogged along Weidengasse. He could see the arches clearly in front, a deeper black in the dark expanse of the great Wall. There was not enough light to tell if there was anyone there.

  He stopped. Anyone? Who would that be?

  Maria must have been killed after Tilman. Had the murderer talked to her? Did he realize his mistake?

  He stared into the blackness.

  The blackness moved. There was something there.

  Waiting for him to come near.

  Jacob turned tail and ran.

  He was right. Whatever it was that had been waiting for him under the arch had given up trying to stay concealed. He could hear the other’s steps on the hard surface. Frighteningly rapid steps.

  Which were getting closer.

  The crossbow! Could Maria’s murderer aim while running?

  Jacob began twisting and turning, even if that slowed him down. His pursuer had already demonstrated his prowess with the crossbow twice. Jacob’s only chance was to make it impossible for him to get a shot at him.

  Where was that night watchman with his lantern? Nowhere to be seen, must have turned off somewhere.

  The streets were deserted.

  Ahead was the crossroads where Weidengasse joined with the lane from the Duck Ponds, then continued into Alter Graben leading down to the Rhine. Before that on the right were the ruins of the old Eigelstein Gate, through which he could get into Marzellenstraße. Three possible escape routes, ignoring the road to the left, which led back to the Wall.

  But no time to think. His pursuer was catching up.

  Jacob dashed between the towers of the old gate. On the left the spires of St. Machabei rose up above the jagged roofline. The houses seemed to be cowering before the power of the church.

  Yes! Keep your head down!

  Jacob kept his body low until he was almost scurrying along on all fours like a weasel. He could have laughed at the thought that now his pursuer could at most shoot him in the arse. How humiliating to die because your backside hurt so much you couldn’t run. Oddly enough, part of his mind was coolly going through the various ways you could be killed by a crossbow bolt, while he continued to run, stoically ignoring the stitch stabbing into his side like a harbinger of the bolt that would dispatch him.

  No more feinting now. Just run as fast as you can.

  He’d escaped the crowd in the market. So far he’d managed to shake off every pursuer. If he’d been asked who was the fastest runner in Cologne, he would have nominated himself without hesitation.

  He was fast. But did he have the stamina?

  The feet of his unknown pursuer were drumming on the cobbles of what had once been a Roman road in a regular, almost relaxed rhythm. As if running caused him not the least exertion, while Jacob’s lungs seemed about to burst.

  Surely he could have killed me already, he thought. Why hasn’t he? Is he waiting for me to collapse? That’s it, he’s playing with me. He knows I can’t escape, so why bother to shoot. He’ll just keep after me until I’m so slow he can get a clean shot at me, the lazy, well-fed swine.

  The next crossroad appeared in front, the right turn went up to the convent of the Ursulines, the left down to the Rhine. He could choose which street he wanted to die in, both were broad enough.

  Fury blazed up inside him. Enough was enough. He was fed up with taking evasive action, running away, spending his whole life on the run. Fed up to here!

  Then, just a few yards before the left turn down to the Rhine, he saw a passage open up between the houses.

  He had a vague memory that it went to Bethlehem Chapel, a tiny church belonging to one of the neighboring properties. And if his memory was correct, the passageway led to a narrow alley overgrown with weeds and bushes, which branched out into a tangle of footpaths through the convent vineyards. He had been there once. The area around the chapel was neglected, the walls and fences broken in places, so that it was easy to get into the vineyards.

  Where he could escape. In the thick undergrowth even this fiendishly swift pursuer couldn’t catch Jacob.

  He kept running until he was almost past it. Then he suddenly darted to the left and skidded into the passage. He nearly left it too late. As it was, his shoulder scraped painfully along the wall. The regular pounding of the footsteps behind him faltered. The other was having to brake, losing time. Jacob had increased his lead slightly; now everything depended on his sense of direction.

  At first all he could see was dense blackness. Then the faint outlines of the trees and the chapel emerged.

  And something else.

  Jacob couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t the alley he remembered. It ended in a high wall. There was no way out. His memory had deceived him.

  The footsteps behind were swift and regular again. They were getting closer. If something didn’t occur to him soon, he might just as well stand there and wait.

  Just a minute! That wasn’t a bad idea.

  Jacob gasped for breath. He could almost feel the bolt in his back. Without looking, he sensed the other raising his crossbow, already celebrating his victory.

  With his last ounces of strength he put on a spurt, despite the wall in front.

  Then he suddenly braked, swung around, and ran straight at his pursuer.

  RHEINGASSE

  Johann climbed up the stairs, then stood, irresolute, outside the magnificent door. The flickering light of the candle brought the rich carving to life. As a child he had often stood looking at it, not long after his uncle Gottschalk had found the carved and inlaid wood in a Florentine warehouse and brought it back. It came, so it was said, from Byzantium and had fallen into the hands of Venetian knights during the first Crusade. Often, if the light was right, old ships would sail across an ocean of darkly grained wood, monsters and demons crane mahogany necks, and gargoyles with knotholes for eyes and worm-eaten teeth grin down at him, while cherubim and seraphim, on wings of walnut and ash, flew over them and the Holy City glowed in pure ebony on the horizon, such a glorious sight that he blushed with shame not to be one of those fighting to liberate it.

  But then he had been a boy, his head full of ideals.

  Now he was getting old, almost fifty. He had not been on a crusade, yet he had seen more of God’s creation than many of the self-appointed liberators who lay waste to the world in the name of God, then wasted away themselves in Seljuk prisons or suffered torture in Pecheneg dungeons, their heads impaled on lances lining the entrances to heathen strongholds. Johann’s spiritual ideals had taken a backseat to the study of profit and loss, but he never forgot to repeat the Psalm Have mercy upon me, O God, and to look on his wealth with due modesty.

  He would establish a church, he swore for the nth time, and commission an altarpiece for it, a huge crucifixion on gold leaf. He’d start to make the arrangements as soon as the worries, doubts, and sleepless nights of the next few days were over. At the moment he had other things on his mind.

  He knocked and entered the room beyond the door.

  The old woman was sitting in the dark, but she was awake. Johann knew she hardly ever truly slept. Blindness was sleep enough for her, a sleep in which she could enjoy again t
he scenes from her life when she was young and held court with Werner, long since dead and almost forgotten. Their banquets were famous as far away as London, Paris, Rome. She had entertained Roman cardinals, seen rich merchants from Cornwall dancing in the great hall and gentlemen from Flanders with tall hats and full purses go down on their knees before her. She had been admired for her business acumen, respected for her keen mind, and desired for her great beauty.

  All that was in the past.

  And yet she did not live in the past but in the here and now. Beneath her sunken lids she saw into the future, and sometimes it seemed she saw much more than all the others who had eyes to see.

  Johann sat on the edge of the chair opposite her, putting down his silver candlestick. He stared silently at the flame.

  After a while she leaned forward slowly. In the glow of the candle her face seemed carved out of marble. Despite the closed eyes and deep furrows, one could still feel the fascination she must have exerted. It was almost like looking at the death mask of a very old, very beautiful woman.

  “Something’s wrong,” she said in a hoarse whisper, all that was left of her rich, melodious voice, dry leaves blown along the walls by the wind.

  Johann placed his fingertips together. “Yes.”

  She gave a sigh, scarcely audible. “You don’t believe in our cause anymore?”

  He shook his head as if she could see. “That’s not it, Mother. I believe in it more strongly than ever. What we are doing is right.”

  “But you have doubts about the alliance.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” The white fingers set off across the black velvet of her dress, sought out and clasped one another. “Gerhard Morart is dead. He had to die. Not because we are cruel—because I am cruel—but because our cause demanded it.” She paused. “But there are some in our company who do not seem to understand that. The fools think they can go through fire without getting their feet burned.”

  “We all come to the fire,” said Johann softly. “Sometime or other.”

  “Of course. But what is pleasing in the sight of God and what is not? Have you ever thought how arrogant it is to claim to know God’s will and dispense justice in His name? When not even the pope can prove he is truly a servant of God. If the ways of the Lord are beyond finding out, as the Bible teaches, then perhaps it is the pope who is an abomination in the sight of God. Who, then, is more likely to burn? The man who questions the authority of the holy Catholic Church or the so-called Holy Father?”

  “That seems to me a question no mortal can answer.”

  “Nor can we interpret God’s word to suit ourselves. Do not torment yourself unnecessarily, my son. You will not find the answers we are looking for in this world. But since we cannot know, does that mean we must not act?”

  “We will act,” said Johann determinedly.

  The parchment skin tautened around the old woman’s teeth. She was smiling.

  “But I would be happier,” he went on, “if I had better troops at my command. I don’t share Matthias’s fears about Heinrich von Mainz—Matthias sees danger everywhere—but there are others.”

  “Yes, I know.” She lifted up her head and jutted out her chin. Her nostrils quivered as if she were trying to identify some faint odor. “You’re worried about Daniel. He’s a hothead. He’ll kill someone one day.”

  “Or get killed. Daniel is a risk to the family.”

  “I’m more concerned about Kuno.”

  “Yes.” Johann sighed wearily. “Kuno’s the other one I had in mind.”

  “But we cannot condemn Kuno because it is his heart speaking. Gerhard Morart dandled him on his knee. Kuno wanted to become a stonemason like him. When Gerhard became a journeyman, Kuno pestered his father to be allowed to accompany him, even though he was only a little boy, a very little boy who had only just learned to speak, never mind think for himself. He loved Gerhard above all else.”

  “All the worse.”

  The old woman stretched out her hand, feeling her way to Johann’s head. The withered fingers patted his hair. “Kuno’s no fool,” she said soothingly. “He’ll come to his senses soon and stand by us and the oath we all swore.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  The old woman was silent.

  Johann stood up and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Good night, Mother.” He took his candle and went to the door.

  “Johann.”

  “Mother?”

  “You need to relax. Read the Psalms. I suggest you will find what you need in Psalm one hundred and nine. Verse eight.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Mother.”

  He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, and went to a small English chest of drawers that stood underneath a tapestry showing a hunting scene from Greek mythology. Two candles as thick as a man’s arm on either side of the chest gave sufficient light to read. He took out the Bible from one of the drawers and opened the heavy tome.

  He heard voices below. Theoderich and Daniel were playing some board game. Hadewig, Johann’s wife, was singing an old song with an incredible number of verses.

  He smiled.

  Now, as the days got shorter and the nights colder, they often sat around the fire together again, telling one another stories. The family was scattered throughout Cologne, but their favorite place was here, at the house in Rheingasse, where the old woman dreamed of days gone by and days to come, weaving her dreams around the whole house, so that they were caught up in them and forgot time and the coldness of the world outside.

  He leafed quickly through the pages until he found the passage she had mentioned. Relaxation was not the point. She was well aware that with his knowledge of the Bible, he would have to look it up to understand what she was telling him.

  He found the page. His index finger ran along the lines.

  For a while he stood there, motionless. Then he closed the book, replaced it, and went downstairs to warm himself by the fire.

  JACOB

  Jacob flew straight at the Shadow. His pursuer obviously hadn’t reckoned on this sudden about-face. He was too close and too astonished to sidestep or stop. They were going to crash into each other like two billy goats. God alone knew which one would get up and leave the alley. But at least it was better than a crossbow bolt between the shoulder blades.

  It was strangely satisfying to be able to see his opponent at last. He didn’t look as gigantic as he had on the scaffolding, but he was still impressively tall. The weapon in his hand did resemble a crossbow, only a lot smaller. His clothes were as black as a raven’s wing, his face hardly recognizable in the darkness. Broad cheekbones, thick eyebrows topped by a high forehead, and flowing hair three feet long. Jacob couldn’t have said whether the face was handsome or repulsive. He sensed something untamed, bestial in the way the other moved. The creature before him had killed Gerhard Morart, Tilman, and Maria. And if it was the Devil himself, Jacob did not even have time for one last prayer.

  But if it was a man—whoever the witch was who had conceived and brought him up with Satan’s aid—then he could be outwitted. Even the Devil had been outwitted sometimes.

  And if you’re an animal, thought Jacob grimly, then you’ll be no match for the Fox!

  He waited for the collision.

  It didn’t come.

  His pursuer had spread his arms wide and pushed off the ground. Jacob saw the black cloak rise up in front of his eyes, higher and higher, and felt the roughness of the cloth on his face before the giant had sailed over him in one great leap.

  No man could jump that high. No matter.

  Breathless, he ran out of the cul-de-sac and around the next corner down toward the Rhine. He heard the other set off after him again. He glanced around, expecting to see him close behind, but he obviously had a greater lead than expected. His trick had worked.

  Running as fast as he could, he turned right into a narrow lane he knew led to the cathedral. Trees and walls everywhere. On the left the monaster
y of St. Maximin was sleeping. The monks’ day began at one. He’d renounce the world, he swore, enter the monastery, spend his days in prayer, if he was still alive and breathing at one o’clock. Branches lashed his arms and legs, scratched his face. He didn’t notice.

  A church appeared, small and nondescript. A man threw something into the lane and started to go back in. His habit billowed in the wind.

  “Father!”

  Jacob skidded to a halt in front of him and took hold of his sleeve. The monk started and tried to shake him off. He was bald and fat and wheezed.

  “Let me in,” panted Jacob.

  The monk’s piggy eyes glinted suspiciously at him. “It’s too late,” he snapped.

  “Too late?”

  “Mass finished long ago.”

  “Let me in, I beg you. Just for a moment. Please.”

  “But I’ve told you. It’s impossible, my son. Come back in the morn—”

  “Your Reverence!” Jacob grasped the man’s hands and squeezed them. “Hear my confession. Now! At once! You know you may not refuse me. It is God’s will and law that confession should be freely available at all times.” Was it God’s will and law? Perhaps not, he wasn’t particularly well up in church matters. But it was worth a try, all the same.

  The monk raised his eyebrows in astonishment. He seemed uncertain. “Well—”

  From the end of the lane came the sound of footsteps. Soft, swift, and regular.

  “Please, Father.”

  “All right, then. Otherwise I’ll never get rid of you.” Somewhat roughly he pushed Jacob into the chapel and closed the door.

  Jacob thought feverishly. How come the other was back on his trail already? How did he know what route he had taken?

  Like an animal following a scent.

  He suddenly had an idea. “Holy water, Father. Where’s the holy water?”

  The fat monk clasped his hands above his head. “Holy water he wants! Where is the holy water? He’s in a church and he asks where the holy water is! Merciful Lord, when was the last time you were in a church? There.” His short, fat finger shot out and pointed at a simple stone basin placed on top of a pillar. “There’s holy water. But don’t imagine you can just—Hey! What are you doing? Has Satan been spitting on your brain? That’s not a puddle for you to wash in!”