The Council of Twelve

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “I’d know,” Lorentz replied with a laugh. “If it’s a precious lapdog, as you say, I’d be stupid to put it down.” He gave his head a good scratch, studied a louse on the tip of his finger, and flicked it away. “Hmm, still, it’s strange how it’s always the lapdogs at the moment.”

  “What do you mean?” Simon asked.

  “You’re not the first to ask for a precious dog. Lately, I’ve had several footmen from wealthy homes come to ask about lost pets. Must be at least a dozen spoiled mutts gone missing. I would have loved to sell them back for good money, but I just don’t have them. It’s jinxed.”

  “Can I ask you to keep your eyes peeled anyway?” Simon asked. He dug the few coins from his pocket and handed them to Lorentz. They were his last savings. Since he’d left the counterfeit coins at the bookshop, he was now completely broke. He only hoped this expense was a good investment.

  Lorentz took the coins and sniffed them as if they were food. Then he weighed them in his hand and, finally, bit them.

  “They’re good,” he said.

  “Why shouldn’t they be?” Simon asked with a smile. This fellow was truly peculiar.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Lorentz replied with lowered voice. “A whole lot of light silver is going around again recently. Some kind of gang’s behind it. Just two days ago, they nearly caught one of them when he tried to pay for a book with fake silver thalers, but he got away. And stole the book.”

  “Is that right?” Simon croaked.

  “Yes, there’s more and more counterfeit silver coins all the time. Pennies, batzes, thalers . . . They swamp Munich and ruin the prices. The elector has offered a reward for anyone who can name the counterfeiters.” Lorentz grinned. “Not that I think you’re one of them. But I can’t take any risks. Not with silver coins. Or I’ll be in trouble myself in the end.”

  “Un . . . understandable,” Simon replied. “Do they have any suspicions?”

  “Well, the fellow in the bookshop was a short, shifty sort of a fop, looked rather wealthy, apparently. Maybe he was the leader of the gang. They’re still looking for him, but most of all, they’re looking for their hideout. They must be minting the things somewhere, after all.” Lorentz winked at him. “When they catch the bastards, we’ll finally get a good execution again. Like the Pappenheim family that time, or Pämb, whatever their real name was. They were impaled and then burned, but they chopped off the woman’s breasts first and—”

  “I think it’s time for me to return to my ladyship,” Simon interrupted hastily. “I’ll come back in a few days’ time. Perhaps you’ll have heard something by then.” He suddenly felt like Lorentz was eyeing him a little more closely than before. But he wasn’t sure.

  “Um, the scar,” he asked, partly in a bid to distract Lorentz. He gestured toward the dogcatcher’s face. “From a dog?”

  Lorentz shook his head. “From a goddamned cat. They’re ten times more cunning than those stupid mutts. I never caught the beast.”

  “Well, happy hunting, then.” Simon lifted his hat in farewell and gave a strained smile.

  He hurried out of the courtyard, and the moment he was back in the alleyway, the dogs behind him broke out barking and howling again.

  Impulsively, Simon walked faster. It looked as though his problems were multiplying by the day.

  Around the same time, Barbara was lying in bed in the house of the Munich executioner, listening to the giggling of her nephews in the next room. She smiled. It was one of the rare occasions when Peter and Paul were playing peacefully instead of fighting with each other. It sounded like the boys had carried up a box of old costumes from the basement and were trying them on. They’d even found some old masks like people wore at the carnival. One of Walburga’s many cats kept the brothers company. Barbara was still amazed by the sheer size of this house, so much larger than the Schongau hangman’s house. But the Munich executioner simply was a little more respected than his colleague from small-town Schongau.

  And the Kaufbeuren executioner? she thought involuntarily. How well respected would his wife be?

  Yesterday’s meeting with Conrad Näher had gone much better than Barbara had expected. Näher had been very attentive. He had asked about her life in Schongau, had shown interest in her dreams and hopes. Barbara had been withdrawn at first, but then gradually relaxed and told him about herself. The Kaufbeuren hangman was truly different from the other hangmen—in fact, he was different from any man Barbara had ever met. He appeared to be genuinely interested in her—not just in her breasts and buttocks, but in her as a person. And he listened, which was something men rarely managed. He spoke affectionately of his dead wife.

  On the other hand, he was old, almost as old as her father. And Barbara had no illusions: a marriage to him would be nothing more than a business transaction. Conrad Näher would expect children of her, and he’d pay her father a decent sum.

  But did she have a choice?

  Barbara’s hand went to her belly. She’d felt sick several times in the last few days, just like now. So far pregnancy had been nothing but a burden—a curse, even. The rendezvous with Conrad Näher hadn’t changed that. Barbara listened carefully to the signs of her body, but she found nothing that connected her to the tiny creature inside her.

  She felt no love.

  Suddenly she thought of little Sophia, whom Walburga had taken into the city that morning. The hangman’s wife wanted to do some shopping and visit one or two elderly people and drop off some medicine. Sophia wasn’t a burden to Walburga—just the opposite. Clearly, the dainty girl had put Barbara under her spell, too. But Barbara just couldn’t feel that same love for this . . . this thing in her belly.

  My God, what am I thinking? Please forgive me!

  Barbara shook herself when another wave of nausea welled up in her. She struggled to her feet to take a sip of watered-down wine and heard a noise outside. It was the creaking of the gate to the garden. Walburga was probably back.

  Barbara looked out the window but only saw that the gate stood open. She was about to call out to Walburga when she heard heavy, slow footsteps on the gravel. They moved around the house.

  Heavy, slow steps . . .

  Barbara breathed faster. Those weren’t the steps of a woman, but of a man. It could be Deibler, her father, or her brother, but as far as she knew, the Council of Twelve was in session today. And if it was a stranger, why wasn’t he knocking on the front door?

  As quietly as she could, Barbara tiptoed out of her room and down the stairs into the living room. She could still hear the laughter of her nephews from upstairs, absorbed in their game. Barbara ducked behind the tiled stove and kept her eyes on the window. Again she heard footsteps, and now a shadow appeared in the window.

  A large shadow.

  Barbara startled. Her shock was so great she had to jam her fist into her mouth to stop herself from screaming out loud, but a short squeal slipped out nonetheless, like that of a mouse caught in a trap.

  Outside the window stood Master Hans.

  He gazed into the living room, his red eyes gleaming in the light of the morning sun. He hadn’t spotted her yet. Scared stiff, Barbara cowered behind the stove. She closed her eyes and prayed that he hadn’t heard her squeal. What on earth was that monster doing here? Was he after her? Barbara had always sensed that Hans took a special interest in her. She had felt it even as a nine-year-old girl, when she’d met him for the first time at an executioner’s meeting in Nuremberg. Even back then she’d seen the glimmer of greed in his eyes, something demanding, as if he wanted to possess Barbara, to play with her like a cat with a mouse. Two years ago, in the Schongau dungeon, he’d almost had her, and his disappointment when the torture was cut short must have been enormous. Had he come to finish the job?

  Again she heard the crunching steps. Barbara risked a peek across the stove and saw that Hans was walking toward the back door. Yesterday she had noticed how conscientiously Walburga locked both the front and back doors. Had she done so
today?

  Barbara held her breath and listened.

  Soon she heard the door handle being pushed down. Hans rattled and pulled at it, but the door didn’t open.

  It was locked.

  The footsteps continued. Evidently, Hans was looking for another way in. Barbara guessed he would find one sooner or later, even if he had to kick down the door. Or perhaps he’d climb up to the second floor, where the boys were playing.

  The boys!

  Barbara roused herself and snuck back up the stairs. She rushed into the boys’ room, where she found her nephews sitting among piles of threadbare costumes. Paul wore a straw-colored wig that must have once belonged to a prostitute, while Peter teased a kitten with a moth-eaten fan. The boys were giggling merrily, but when they noticed Barbara’s deathly pale face, they fell silent.

  “Listen, children,” Barbara whispered breathlessly. “Master Hans is sneaking around the house. I have no idea what he wants, but I don’t want to take any chances. One of you must go get Father.”

  “I will,” Paul volunteered immediately. He tore the wig off his head and ran toward the stairs.

  “Wait,” Barbara whispered. “If you go out the front door, you’ll run right into him.”

  Paul grinned. “I know another way, and I’m sure Hans doesn’t.” The next moment, he was gone. Confused, Barbara turned to Peter.

  “What was he talking about?”

  “We found a secret passage that leads from the house to Faustturm,” Peter explained. “That’s a tower in the city wall, right behind the house. Burgi thinks the city guards used to use the passage to visit the whores. From Faustturm, you can walk along the battlements all the way to the city gate.” He shrugged. “You just can’t get caught.”

  “I see.” Barbara nodded as she peered out the crown-glass windows. No one was in the garden. She was about to turn away when the broad figure of Master Hans appeared at the gate again. He gave the executioner’s house one last look before slowly walking toward the Anger Gate.

  Barbara breathed a sigh of relief. “He’s giving up,” she whispered to Peter. “We sent Paul away for nothing. He needn’t have fetched Father . . .”

  She faltered when a thought struck her. The Council of Twelve was in session, and yet Hans was here in the Anger Quarter. He must have had a very good reason to skip the meeting. Perhaps he hadn’t merely come for her after all? Perhaps it had something to do with his strange behavior of the last few days?

  Barbara hesitated, then she walked toward the stairs.

  “What are you doing, Aunt?” Peter asked.

  “I’m going after that scoundrel,” she replied softly. “By the time Father gets here, Hans will be long gone, and we’ll never find out what he was doing in the Anger Quarter.”

  Peter looked at her defiantly. “Then I’m going with you. I’m not leaving you alone.”

  “Listen, Peter. I’m not going on a nice little trip to the Residenz. Hans might be a murderer who’s killed countless—”

  “I’m going,” Peter said and reached for a small knife Paul had left behind. “Everyone thinks I can’t beat up other kids. But one thing I can do for sure.” His eyes shone with determination. “Defend my aunt.”

  Barbara couldn’t help but smile. She’d never seen this side of her gentle, bookish nephew.

  “All right, then, my knight in shining armor. Let’s go before the villain gets away.”

  When Barbara hurried out through the gate holding Peter’s hand, she thought at first that she’d lost Hans. But then she spotted him turning onto a lane along the city stream. He walked slowly but resolutely, as if he knew exactly where he was going.

  Barbara waited another few moments, then she began her pursuit. Peter walked beside her like a dog, clutching the knife tightly. Barbara was surprised at this new side of her nephew, whom she knew only as an intelligent daydreamer, not as a ruffian like his brother. But clearly, he was serious about being her bodyguard.

  I hope I won’t need one, she thought.

  It was late morning, and the lanes and streets of Munich were as busy as ever. Especially here along the city stream, workmen were out with their carts. An old woman emptied her stinking chamber pot at one of the many bridges; a butcher threw bucketfuls of water onto the bloody cobblestones outside his shop, sending streams of red flowing into the creek. It was easy for Barbara and Peter to follow Hans unnoticed among all the people.

  That changed when the Weilheim hangman turned into a narrow alleyway. He crossed the busy Sendlinger Street and soon disappeared in the maze of the Hacken Quarter, which joined onto the Anger Quarter. For a moment Barbara feared she had lost him for good, but then she spotted his white hair down one of the winding alleys.

  Many housefronts in the Hacken Quarter bore statues of the Virgin Mary or saints as points of orientation for foreigners in this confusing part of town, but Barbara soon lost all sense of direction regardless. Where was Hans headed? Did he even have a goal, or was he just wandering around aimlessly?

  Barbara and Peter hurried past a Virgin Mary with a half moon, squeezed past an oxcart blocking the lane, and found themselves in a wider but empty street that ran parallel to the city wall. It led to a tall church with a cemetery. Barbara was about to walk out into the street when she saw Master Hans heading for the graveyard and entering it through a small gate. He soon disappeared between the gravestones. The bell in the tower chimed the tenth hour.

  “What’s Hans doing in a cemetery?” Peter whispered.

  Barbara pulled the boy into a recess in the city wall and thought. Peter was right. What in God’s name was Master Hans doing at a Munich cemetery? He was from Weilheim—surely none of his family were buried here. She would have to follow him if she wanted to find out more.

  Barbara grabbed Peter’s hand tightly and snuck over to the cemetery wall, which, unfortunately, was too high to peer across. A hunchbacked old woman holding a rosary walked past them, but other than that, they were alone. When the woman had gone, Barbara leaned against the wall and laced her fingers together so she could give Peter a leg up.

  “Tell me what Hans is doing,” she whispered to the boy.

  He nodded silently and climbed onto her hands and then her shoulders.

  “Well?” Barbara asked.

  “He . . . he’s walking slowly along the tombstones,” Peter reported haltingly. “It looks like he’s searching for a particular one. Now he’s stopped in the corner. He . . . Oh God!”

  “What is it?” Barbara asked urgently, her shoulders aching under Peter’s clunky shoes.

  “He looked back,” Peter gasped.

  “Did he see us?”

  “Not sure. He . . . he’s moving again. I can’t see him anymore. I think he went behind the church.”

  Barbara hesitated. She would love to know what Master Hans was doing at the graveyard. But what if he’d become suspicious? She decided to take the chance. She went down to her knees so Peter could climb off. Then they walked through the gate into the cemetery, which lay on the church’s west side. Gnarled oak trees grew everywhere, their naked branches stark against the hazy February sky. Many tombstones among the massive trunks stood askew, and Barbara saw by the inscriptions that some of them were almost two hundred years old. Others looked more recent. There were ostentatious graves with white stone crosses and statues of saints, and very plain ones. A cold gust of wind made Barbara shiver. There was not a soul to be seen, apart from her and Peter.

  “So where are the graves Hans was looking at?” she whispered.

  The boy pointed toward the back of the cemetery, and they hurried along the rows of tombstones and trees. Eventually, they came to a freshly dug hole, obviously intended for an impending funeral. A tall, gleaming white grave slab leaned against the pile of dirt next to the hole.

  “Is this the grave—” Barbara began.

  A hand shot out from behind the grave slab and grabbed her by the collar.

  She screamed, but the hand pulled her down relentl
essly. Desperately, she waved her arms through the air but lost her balance and fell backward into the six-foot-deep hole. It smelled of fresh soil and foul water, and just slightly of something else. A sweetish smell that made Barbara gag. Evidently, the corpses in the neighboring graves were still very fresh.

  Barbara sat up with difficulty; her right foot was hurt. She looked up. There was no sign of Peter, but another face appeared in her field of vision.

  It was that of Master Hans.

  The Weilheim hangman looked at her thoughtfully, as if studying a beetle that had fallen into a sand hole and struggled to climb back out.

  “Look at that, our dear Barbara,” he said flatly. “What a pleasure. Although I would have preferred a nicer place for our reunion.”

  The sight of Hans and the hopelessness of her situation made Barbara choke. Her heart beat so wildly that her chest ached.

  “Whatever you’re planning to do,” she managed to croak eventually, “I’m going to scream loud enough for them to hear me in Au.”

  “Whatever I’m planning?” Master Hans frowned. Pensively, he scratched his nose. He seemed to have all the time in the world. “I would rather like to know what you were planning, Barbara. Why were you following me? Did your father send you?”

  “My . . . father?” For a moment, Barbara was confused. But then she saw her chance. “Ha, that’s right,” she said. “And he’ll be here any moment.”

  Peter hadn’t turned up yet, and Barbara hoped he had run away. Maybe he’d manage to fetch help from somewhere. If not, she’d have to try her best to convince Hans that someone was on their way to her soon. She prayed he’d believe her.

  “Admit it, you’re scared of my father,” she said. “So you better run before he gets here.”

  Master Hans didn’t reply. Instead, he started to throw handfuls of dirt down the hole. Barbara blinked and looked away. The soil was like cold black rain falling from the sky.

  “I never understood your father,” Hans muttered as the dirt continued to fall. “He’s such a good executioner, quick with the sword and knowledgeable with the herbs. But he’s just too soft. If you want to get anywhere as a hangman, you can’t show mercy.” He smiled mysteriously. “There are some real treasures among the stammering of people at confessions. You just need to know how to retrieve them, then you’ll go far in this life.”