The Council of Twelve

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “Are you trying to say Hans met up with the poor girl and later killed her?” Deibler laughed. “You Kuisls are all the same. You suspect a murderer behind every bush.” He turned to Barbara and squeezed her hand. “Listen, girl, let me finish this meeting, and then I’ll talk to my wife, Walburga. You can move in tonight, with the two boys and little Sophia. All right?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Barbara nodded. The kindness of the Munich hangman seemed to do her good. For the first time in days, she smiled a little. Magdalena breathed a sigh of relief.

  Perhaps everything is going to end well, after all. For Barbara and for my Peter, too.

  But something told Magdalena that it wouldn’t be so easy.

  A few hours later, darkness descended over Munich. Old Peter’s bell chimed the seventh hour, and the busy streets and lanes became quiet. The last merchants packed away their wares in the large market square by the city hall. Several patricians hurried toward the wealthy Graggenau Quarter, their hats pulled down deep over their faces. The night watchman went on his first round, and the continuous noise and shouting of the wagon drivers ebbed away.

  From the arcades on the south side of the market square the occasional lustful cry or soft moan could be heard, as usual for this time of night. Shrugging his shoulders, the night watchman left the lovers alone and moved on. He’d been young once, and the dark arcades were a popular spot for young couples and also for prostitutes going about their business. The old watchman smiled to himself, thinking of long-ago rendezvous. These days, he thought with a shiver, he’d find February too frigid for such pastimes. At his age, he’d prefer a glass of hot mulled wine at one of the taverns down Sendlinger Street to amorous adventures in the cold.

  Theresa Wilprecht waited until the night watchman finally disappeared around a corner, then she tied a scarf over her long blonde hair and cautiously walked toward the archways. As she scurried across the square, she kept looking left and right. If one of the old moneybags from the city hall recognized her, she’d be finished. Worst case would be running into her husband, who was always out on some kind of business and never came to bed early. When Theresa had married the merchant Konrad Wilprecht two years ago, she’d thought her future was like a golden road leading straight to paradise. Wilprecht was one of the wealthiest patricians in Munich and even sat on the inner council, which controlled the fate of the city; becoming his wife meant a life in silks and satins, prestige, power, and a never-ending series of balls and festivities.

  But twenty-year-old Theresa had soon found out that this life was nothing but a gilded cage.

  Wilprecht had married her because his first wife died of the spotted fever, and after three daughters, he was hoping for a male heir. But Theresa had only given him another daughter, a pale, weak thing who was always whimpering and sickly. The three older daughters despised Theresa and made no secret of it, and even the servants treated her like dirt. When she tried to speak with her husband about it, his mind was always on some contracts and the price of wheat; in bed, he was as passionate as a dead fish. Theresa’s life seemed over before it had really begun.

  Her only consolation was Martin.

  They had met a few months ago at a ball at the city hall. Martin, son of the mighty Ligsalz family of Munich, was young and dapper. He desired her, pined for her, even, and the few hours they spent together helped Theresa through this cold, dismal winter that would no doubt be followed by an equally dismal spring, summer, and autumn. With Martin at her side, she managed to forget her fat, dispassionate husband, the beastly stepdaughters, and the constantly crying child at home, for a little while.

  With a pounding heart, Theresa approached the arcades, where merchants sold their goods in the daytime. So far, she and Martin had always met at a vegetable garden in the Hacken Quarter, in a crooked old shed where they made love between rakes, spades, and hop crates. Perhaps not the most ideal love nest, but Martin gave the owner a few coins each time, so they were safe from discovery.

  But this time, Martin had sent her a message saying he wanted to meet her at seven o’clock at the arcades, the well-known spot for many young lovers in Munich. The giggling and moaning from underneath the arcades made Theresa’s heart beat faster. This was so exciting! She felt like a thief in the night. Perhaps Martin would surprise her by acting like a rogue—a game she’d gladly join.

  “Martin,” she called softly and peered into the dark passages. “Martin? Are you there?”

  “Find yourself another spot, girl,” a female voice hissed at her. “This one’s already taken.”

  Someone laughed, and Theresa quickly stumbled on. Martin could have told her where to find him. Beneath the arcades it was as dark as the woods. He should have known she’d be afraid. But the thrill of anticipation made Theresa push her fear aside, and she hurried on. She thought about how nice it would be to be married to young Martin instead of fat old Wilprecht. If she could only carry his child underneath her heart! But Martin’s hair was black, while she and Wilprecht were both blond. The old man might smell her betrayal. He’d already been giving her suspicious looks lately. So, after each rendezvous, she rinsed her nether regions with vinegar and drank a brew of red orach, ivy, and water pepper, which was said to prevent unwanted pregnancies.

  “Martin,” she called out again as she made her way through the dark. “Martin? Where are you?”

  Again, no reply. Theresa angrily stamped her foot on the icy ground. Was Martin leading her on? The message had been strange enough, the handwriting barely legible, not at all like him. She was about to go back out to the market square when a muffled voice called out to her from farther back.

  “I’m here, Theresa. Come here.”

  Theresa paused. The voice sounded strange, hoarse somehow. But maybe it was just part of the game.

  “Martin, is that you?” she asked.

  “Of course, my white dove,” the hoarse voice replied. “Come to me, I missed you so much.”

  “Oh, Martin!” Now Theresa was sure it was him. Only Martin called her that. She ran toward the back, where the pillars were completely swallowed up by the darkness. A single light was burning—a candle, she guessed, which Martin must have lit for their lovemaking. Perhaps there would also be a cushion and a jug of wine. It would be like heaven. Theresa hurried toward the flickering candle when she suddenly heard the crunch of footsteps behind her.

  “Mar—” was all she could say before the club came down on the back of her head, and she collapsed without a sound. From farther up the arcades came the sounds of soft giggling and faint voices; everything else remained silent.

  Strong hands lifted Theresa up and dumped her onto a small cart, like a dead cattle beast. The dark figure spread a blanket over the body, then wheeled the screeching cart out of the arcades.

  The strange merchant with the hunched back and wide coat dragged the bundled ware across the market square. The night watchman glanced at the merchant only briefly, then he called out to the citizens of Munich in their homes that all was quiet.

  “How big is Deibler’s house? Is it bigger than yours, Grandpa? Does he also keep his sword by the shrine, like at home in Schongau?”

  Eight-year-old Paul was bouncing around at his grandfather’s hand like an exuberant puppy. Since they had walked out of Au, he’d been assailing Jakob Kuisl with one question after another, most of which the hangman only answered with a grunt. Both Simon and Kuisl carried bundles with the family’s few belongings across their shoulders, and Georg, too, accompanied his family to their new abode at the Munich executioner’s house. Afterward, he was going to return to Au with his father.

  Magdalena looked over to her father and her son and couldn’t help but smile. Paul loved his grandfather above all else and dreamed of one day becoming a famous hangman—at least as famous as Jörg Abriel, their ancestor, who had made a pile of money with the notorious Schongau witch trials and used to arrive at executions by carriage with his servants.

  Sometimes Magdalena found
it hard to love Paul as much as Peter, her elder son. While Peter happily read, wrote, and drew pictures, Paul was almost always out in the streets, often as the loudmouthed leader of a gang of rascals who got into mischief, pushed over buckets of dung, and beat up other boys. His entire being was wild and sometimes cruel. One time, Magdalena had watched him break a bird’s neck just so he could study the little creature’s dying moments.

  Maybe there is something inside us Kuisls that makes us executioners after all, Magdalena thought. Well, at least Peter is different. Perhaps Simon can do something for him at court tomorrow.

  The meeting of the executioners had lasted until late at night, so now they had to find their way around the city wall on narrow, icy paths in darkness. The house of the executioner was near the Sendlinger Gate, which was almost at the other end of town. The citizens of Munich weren’t allowed to be out on the streets this late at night, and the Munich hangman didn’t want to risk being stopped by a guard. He was pretty sure providing shelter to a dishonorable executioner’s family from out of town was against the law.

  As they walked past small farmsteads and hop poles covered in icicles, Magdalena’s thoughts kept returning to the gruesome discovery at the lower raft landing. Here, too, at the upper raft landing, a dead girl had been found not long ago—with a stake through her heart. Since then, people had been talking about ghosts and dead bodies rising from their graves.

  Magdalena tightened her hold on little Sophia, who was fast asleep in a sling around her chest. She could only hope her daughter would one day live in a time when people didn’t see a witch or a ghost behind every inexplicable event.

  “How much farther is it?” she asked Michael Deibler, who was walking ahead with Georg. The two men were having an animated conversation; it seemed they had taken a liking to one another despite their age difference.

  Deibler turned around and pointed ahead, where Magdalena could vaguely make out a larger structure in the city wall. “That’s the Sendlinger Gate. We’re nearly there.”

  “I’m cold,” Barbara complained, walking at the rear of their little group with Simon and Peter. “And this area is creepy. Brooks and frozen channels everywhere, just waiting for someone to fall in. And who’s to say this place isn’t crawling with scoundrels at night?”

  It was the first time Barbara had said more than just a word or two since they’d left Au. Magdalena still hadn’t managed to continue the conversation they had started on the raft landing. It seemed to her that Barbara was avoiding her, as if she was desperately seeking a loophole to get out of the threat of marriage.

  Finally, they arrived at the fortifications of the Sendlinger Gate. Like the Isar Gate, this entrance into the city was a mighty structure with three towers and a Zwinger, a fortified area in between. The bridge crossing the moat that ran right around the city was empty at this time of night.

  “Now we only need to ask old Lainmiller from the city guard to let us in,” Deibler said with a grin and climbed the stairs to the bridge. “But that shouldn’t be a problem. Every full moon, my wife brews him a potion so he can still get it up.”

  He was about to step onto the bridge when the gate screeched open and a carriage came tearing out at high speed. To her horror, Magdalena saw that Paul had pulled away from his grandfather and was standing on the bridge.

  The carriage was heading straight for the boy.

  Kuisl dived forward, grabbed Paul, and hurled him to the other side of the road. At the last moment, he managed to roll out of the way and dodge the vehicle. Then the carriage vanished into the darkness. All that was left was the sound of the horses’ hooves and the rumble of wheels.

  “Goddamned arrogant riffraff!” shouted Kuisl after the vehicle. “If I catch you, I’ll break you on your very own wheels!”

  Magdalena rushed toward Paul with her heart in her throat, but the boy didn’t seem hurt. His eyes were wide, but he was already smiling again. “Grandpa made me fly,” he whispered. “Like an angel.” His trousers were torn, his knees bloody, but no worse than after a brawl in the meadows outside Schongau. In her relief, Magdalena held her son tight for a long moment. She realized then that she loved Paul just as much as her other children.

  Each in their own, special way, she thought.

  “No one’s supposed to leave town at this late hour,” Deibler complained, still staring after the carriage that had long since gone. “God knows why the guards opened the gate for them.”

  “They definitely were no normal travelers,” Simon said. “The carriage looked very elegant, with good horses and suspension.” He frowned. “Did you notice that it was covered in black cloth? And painted black, too. Almost as if they were trying to disguise it.”

  “And they succeeded,” Georg said grimly. “We only saw it at the last moment. I’d love to know who was sitting inside.”

  “My son-in-law can keep an eye out for the bastard at the oh-so-fancy court tomorrow,” Kuisl mocked. “I’m sure it was just some swanky Munich youngsters with their harlots. That’s all they know: galloping across freshly tilled fields with their horses or running over little children with their carriages.”

  “Whatever the case, now they’re gone.” In his bloodred coat, Michael Deibler stomped ahead toward the Sendlinger Gate, which was now closed again. He knocked at the small door on the right-hand side of the gate. “Hey, Lainmiller!” he called out. “You there? It’s me, the hangman. Let me in.”

  A bolt was pushed aside, the door opened a crack, and a sullen, wrinkly face appeared. The watchman eyed the small group behind Deibler suspiciously from under his helmet.

  “They’re friends of mine who need somewhere to stay,” Deibler explained. “Come on, Lainmiller, don’t be like that. I know very well how late it is. I’ll tell Walburga to make the next brew even stronger.”

  “Even stronger? Ha, the whores won’t like that.” The old man grinned and opened the low door. He waved his hand for Deibler and the Kuisls to hurry. “Quick, before the other guards hear anything.”

  “What was that strange carriage you just let out the gate?” Michael Deibler asked. “Must have been mighty noble personages.”

  The watchman’s face darkened. “Never you mind, hangman. You just worry about your own business.”

  Magdalena noticed the flicker of uncertainty in the old man’s eyes—clearly, he was hiding something.

  “Do you want that brew or not?” Deibler growled. “Then talk. Or I might tell Walburga to add some poisonous wolfsbane next time.”

  Lainmiller sighed. “What do we simple folks know about the goings-on of the noble lords and ladies? That carriage comes through once or twice a month, always covered in black. Usually it leaves town just after the gates close and comes back at dawn. We’re supposed to let it pass—orders from high up. We don’t ask questions.”

  “Especially not when you get paid for it,” Michael Deibler said with a wink, pointing at the full purse dangling from Lainmiller’s belt.

  The guard turned red. “If you knew how little the city pays for this rotten job, damn it. This used to be a good position, once upon a time, but since building the fortifications gobbled up all the city’s reserves, we’re as poor as church mice!”

  Deibler nodded and gave the old man a pat on the shoulder. “It’s all right, man. We all need to get by somehow. Come around tomorrow for your brew. And now I wish you a quiet, not-too-cold night.”

  They left the watchman and the gate behind and turned right. Soon after, a strange building appeared in front of them. It was a solidly built two-story house that stood in the middle of the street near the city wall. It was surrounded by its own man-high wall, behind which they could see the tops of numerous trees and bushes. The place reminded Magdalena of one of those fortified farmsteads that could be found throughout the forests.

  Like a small fortress, she thought. Protected from attacks from the outside.

  “My humble abode,” Deibler said with a smile and gestured toward the house. Behind i
t, a tower with a strangely shaped roof rose into the night sky. “Usually, executioners live outside the city walls. But the high and mighty don’t seem to mind this—a pimple on the ass of Munich.”

  “A rather noble pimple,” Kuisl muttered approvingly. “I guess you are the hangman of Munich, and not some obscure village executioner like me. Widmann’s home in Nuremberg is no better than this.”

  “It’s too big for an old couple like us,” Deibler said with a shrug as he opened a small gate at the rear of the property. “Walburga and I don’t have children, and my journeyman, the drunkard, lives with his old man, the knacker. A fever took my apprentice last year.” He sighed. “Hörmann from Passau wanted to send me his son. But one drunkard on the scaffold is enough for me.”

  They walked through a small garden, which now, in February, was covered with snow and wilted weeds. But Magdalena could tell by the shrubs, trellises, and orderly rows of vegetable beds that a loving hand was at work here. She thought of the garden at the Schongau executioner’s house that her mother used to tend. It was the same here: the premises might seem cold and forbidding from the outside, but the garden was surprisingly homey.

  Michael Deibler knocked on the door and it was soon opened. The woman who greeted them was so tall that Magdalena at first thought it was a man. Walburga Deibler’s hair was black with gray streaks and tied up neatly in a bun. Judging by her gravy-stained apron, she had come straight from the stove. Walburga was a good head taller than her husband; while she was long and skinny, Michael Deibler was broad and stocky. Magdalena couldn’t help but smile. She had never seen a more unlikely couple than the Deiblers. Five purring cats brushed around Walburga’s legs, and she could hear more meowing inside.

  “Come in already, you poor things,” Walburga said compassionately. Her voice was soft and surprisingly deep for a woman. “No one should be outside at night in this cold.” She leaned down to Peter and Paul, who were staring at her with big eyes. “My Nala has kittens. They’re still very small and weak. Would you like to help me feed them?”