The Play of Death Read online

  His eyes wandered around the interior of the small, simple chapel that was connected by another door to the church. Before the altar, a makeshift wooden bier had been erected, and on top of it lay the corpse of a long-haired fellow about twenty years old. Simon eyed him thoughtfully. Despite its slightly bluish tint, the young man’s face was pleasant to look at, except for the two black, blood-encrusted holes where his eyes used to be. His lips were full and nicely contoured, and his fine facial features gave him an almost feminine appearance. In his burial shroud he looked like a blinded angel that had fallen to earth.

  Candles burned in candelabra positioned around the corpse, and there was a strong odor of incense, as if someone was trying to drive off the evil spirits that had surely inspired this heinous deed—but Simon thought he could already detect behind it the stench of decay.

  From the corner of his eye he observed the corpulent Konrad Faistenmantel staring fixedly at his dead son. Everyone was silent; the only sound was the priest murmuring a short Latin prayer for the dead.

  “That with the eyes—that must have been the ravens,” Judge Rieger said, breaking the silence. “Damn smart creatures, and they all should be poisoned, but it was something else that killed him.”

  “Could it simply have been suicide?” Faistenmantel asked. “My youngest boy always had such a delicate, theatrical nature, and recently he often talked rubbish—about a new life, and things like that. Maybe he really thought of himself as the Savior and was trying to emulate him.”

  “Nonsense. Suicide is out of the question,” Rieger snapped. “How could he have hung himself on the cross, eh?” He turned to the priest. “Did Dominik Faistenmantel perhaps have an argument with any of the other actors, Father?”

  “Argument?” The question clearly made Herele uncomfortable. “Well, what do you mean, argument? There were a few angry words—not everyone agreed that Dominik should play the role of Jesus.”

  “I gave the church a heap of money so that my son would get the role,” Faistenmantel growled. “Don’t forget that, Father. He was just the right person for the part. Look for yourself.” He pointed at the pale corpse in front of them. “The blond hair, the narrow face, the full lips . . . God knows, the boy didn’t take after me.” He paused to get his composure before continuing. “But he would have made a wonderful Jesus. He truly would have been better suited to that role than to that of my son.”

  A bitter twitch played around his mouth, and for the first time Simon thought he noticed something resembling grief in his face.

  “Who else wanted the part of Jesus?” asked Rieger.

  “Well, most of all Hans Göbl,” Georg Kaiser replied. “He asked me for the part months ago, but I had to tell him the role was already taken.” The schoolmaster coughed nervously and put his hand to his mouth before continuing. “After Dominik’s death we assigned him the role after all. Göbl has an astonishing resemblance to the Savior in the votive pictures in the church, and in addition he has a loud and pleasant voice and can read a bit. Given the quantity of text there is, that’s important.”

  “You say there was an argument between him and Dominik Faistenmantel?” Johannes Rieger persisted. “Are there any witnesses?”

  Kaiser shrugged. “Two days ago Göbl came to me and complained bitterly because he hadn’t gotten the part of Jesus, though he was better suited for it. I told him the selection was not up to me but was determined by the town council. And . . .” He hesitated.

  “And what happened then?” the judge demanded. “Are you keeping something from us?”

  “Well, later Dominik stopped by and said Göbl had come to his house and threatened him. And after he left, a few important pages of Dominik’s text were missing, specifically, the scene on the cross in which Jesus laments, ‘My Father, My Father, why—’”

  “‘Why hast Thou forsaken me?’” Simon mumbled under his breath as he looked at Konrad Faistenmantel, who stood there without a flicker of emotion.

  “Do you think Hans Göbl stole the pages from Dominik in order to harm him?” Johannes Rieger asked.

  “Ha! The Göbls could never stand us Faistenmantels,” the fat town council chairman said. “Those miserable, jealous whiners. You see how logic flies out the window when your feelings take over.” He turned to the judge. “It looks like Göbl might actually be the murderer, so do your duty.”

  “I’ll deal with Hans Göbl tomorrow,” responded Johannes Rieger with a shrug. “The abbot wants this matter to go away as quickly as possible, and at present we don’t have any other suspects.”

  “Arrest Göbl, and better now than tomorrow,” Faistenmantel insisted. “Squeeze him, torture him, whatever, but hurry up, Rieger. We have just a few weeks left, and the rehearsal must not be put off unnecessarily.”

  “I’m not going to let you tell me how to do my work,” Rieger snapped. “Calm down, Faistenmantel. I’m still the judge in this valley and I report directly to the abbot.”

  “Don’t worry, I only want this matter cleared up as soon as possible.” Faistenmantel grimaced, and his bald head shimmered in the light of the lantern like a polished apple. “Otherwise, I may need to tell the abbot about your little business.”

  “How dare you . . .” Rieger turned crimson and gasped for air as he raised his walking stick menacingly and appeared about to attack Faistenmantel.

  “Calm down!” the priest demanded. “Let there be peace in my church. There’s already too much misery in this village.” He made the sign of the cross, and the two combatants backed off.

  “I’m praying fervently that this incident will be explained rationally,” Herele pleaded, “because if it isn’t . . .” He didn’t complete his sentence but looked over at the altar, where a picture hung of the Archangel Gabriel driving Satan back to hell with his sword. Simon was alarmed to see that even on the altar there was a bouquet of St. John’s wort alongside a bowl of smoking incense. Evidently not even the priest was immune to superstition.

  “Well, perhaps I could finally inspect the corpse?” Simon asked, breaking the silence. “Just so my visit won’t be entirely in vain.”

  Rieger took a deep breath and turned around. “Please . . . please do what you must, Herr Medicus, even though it’s quite obvious what happened. The man died on the cross—isn’t that really all there is to it?”

  “Let him have a look at the deceased anyway,” said Georg Kaiser, turning to the judge. “Master Fronwieser is well known as an enlightened individual and perhaps he’ll see something that has escaped even your discerning eyes.”

  Silently the judge stepped aside, and Simon began the examination. There was clotted blood and bruises on the wrists and ankles of the corpse, no doubt inflicted by the ropes. His face had turned blue, and there were clumps of clotted blood in his eye sockets. On examining the back of the dead man’s head, Simon found further traces of blood and an indentation the size of an egg that had been concealed up to then beneath the long blond hair. He contemplated the sticky blood between his fingers.

  “Before he was put on the cross, the fellow was subjected to a hard blow on the back of the head,” said Simon, turning to the others, who were observing him intently. “Perhaps with an ax, or something of similar size. He was probably unconscious when he was hung on the cross, which explains the rather superficial injuries left by the ropes. If he were awake, he would have resisted much more.” Simon pointed at the bluish tinge on the face. “It probably took him several hours to die, due to suffocation. When the arms lose their strength, the body assumes a position that makes breathing almost impossible. If the boy was lucky, he froze to death first.”

  “That’s quite possible,” the judge said. “When he was found, he was wearing only a loincloth, just like our Savior, though our cross is situated in the frosty town of Oberammergau, not in a warm region like Palestine.”

  “What happened to his clothing?” Simon wondered out loud.

  Rieger shrugged. “Who knows? The attacker evidently disposed of it,
probably after he’d struck down the poor lad, wanting to make sure he was dead before the priest found him in the morning.”

  There was a barely audible grinding sound, and it took Simon a while to realize it was Konrad Faistenmantel gnashing his teeth. The huge man was clenching his fists as he looked down at his dead son. Despite the cold, little beads of sweat formed on his bald head.

  “But why didn’t he cry for help?” Father Herele asked Simon. He had crossed his arms over his chest and was shifting nervously from one foot to the other. “Isn’t it possible he awoke from his unconscious state at some point in time?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that, too. I assume we’ll find the solution in there,” Simon said, tapping the mouth of the corpse. “Unfortunately rigor mortis has set in, but . . .” He bent over for a closer look, his head now only a few inches above the lips. Now he could clearly smell the faint odor of decomposition.

  But he also saw something that had escaped him during the first superficial examination.

  “Eureka!” Simon cried. He tugged gently on a gray fiber hanging from the lips—and there was a second one next to it.

  “What is it?” Rieger asked. “Bits of food?”

  “Bits of a gag, I assume,” said Simon, holding up the thread. “The one in his mouth used to silence him—and that’s why poor Dominik couldn’t call for help.” He turned to the priest. “Was a gag found at the scene of the crime?”

  Tobias Herele shook his head defiantly. “Not to my knowledge. In any case, the poor man didn’t have one in his mouth when I discovered him in the morning. That can only lead to the conclusion that your theory—”

  “That actually leads to only one conclusion,” said Simon, cutting him off. “Namely that the murderer returned in order to cover his tracks. He wanted the deed to look like a curse, a sign from God. A man on a cross . . .” He hesitated.

  “What’s the matter?” Georg Kaiser asked. “Are you all right? I hope you didn’t catch my cold.”

  “No, no.” Simon shook his head. “I just have the feeling I overlooked something out there in the cemetery. Something . . .”

  “Well, I think up to now you’ve done quite a thorough job,” said Faistenmantel, patting Simon on the shoulder. “For a simple medicus you’re pretty smart, I must say. Better than old Kaspar Landes, God rest his soul. He’d have dragged it out all day just to get in his hours, the old money-grubber.”

  Simon smiled. “I don’t like to drag things out. A sick man, like the one who killed your son, needs all the help he can get.”

  “I’ll make you an offer,” Faistenmantel said. “Stay a bit longer in Oberammergau, let’s say four weeks, until the Passion play.” He pointed at Georg Kaiser, who had just been seized by a fit of coughing. “Just like the schoolteacher, many here in town have caught this illness going around. We urgently need a medicus here, and furthermore, I want to see a solution to the murder of my son as soon as possible. You could be a great help to us.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not as easy as you think,” Simon replied, raising his hands defensively. “I have a bathhouse in Schongau and my patients will be waiting for me, and furthermore—”

  “Nonsense, I’ll pay you ten guilders a week.”

  “Ten . . . ?”

  Simon almost choked. Ten guilders was almost twice what he usually earned in Schongau in a week. Some of his patients had switched over to that quack doctor, Ransmayer, and ever since then his earnings had been falling. A little additional income would in fact be more than welcome, but could he leave his wife and little Paul alone for such a long time?

  “Let’s say twelve guilders, my final offer.” Konrad Faistenmantel reached out his huge hand. “You could live in the bathhouse here, which is empty, as old Landes had no family, and I’ll provide a horse so you can ride back to Schongau on Sundays. Shake.”

  Simon was still hesitant, but then he thought of Peter and his fear of the strange new place, the unaccustomed environment. Peter had always been his favorite, even if he would never admit it to Magdalena. The decision to send him to Oberammergau weighed more heavily on him than on his wife. Staying a few weeks with him would make parting easier for both of them, and they really could use the money. In the meantime, Magdalena and the midwife Martha Stechlin could handle the simpler cases.

  “Very well,” he said finally, shaking hands with Faistenmantel, “but only until the Passion play starts, and not one day longer.”

  “Not one day longer, I promise.”

  While the large man’s hand wrapped around Simon’s like a vise, Simon glanced over at Johannes Rieger and the priest, Tobias Herele. Both glared at him with eyes that seemed full of hate.

  Welcome to Oberammergau, Simon thought. The place where strangers are still strangers.

  He smiled back bravely, and couldn’t help but wonder whether a bouquet of St. John’s wort also hung on the deceased bathhouse keeper’s door to ward off evil.

  He had the feeling he might need it.

  3

  SCHONGAU, ON THE MORNING OF MAY 5, AD 1670

  WHEN SHE AWOKE, A SUDDEN feeling of nausea hit Magdalena in the pit of her stomach. She jumped out of bed and ran to the washbowl standing in a corner of the room, but all that came out was bitter green bile. She’d been feeling sick for several days, and Martha Stechlin had told her it was certainly related to her pregnancy, a sign that the child was growing and thriving. To judge from that, the child would be a real bundle of joy.

  As so often, Magdalena wondered why women had to assume the full burden of bringing children into the world. First they were as sick as a dog, then for several months they looked like a pouch full of wine, and finally they suffered all the pain of childbirth—and then, all too often, died like cattle. Men’s part in this was extremely simple and satisfying—and every time another child came into the world, the men puffed out their chests like the cock of the walk.

  And if the baby dies, it starts all over again, Magdalena thought.

  Bent over the basin, she vomited again. At least it helped her forget the painful memories that kept coming back. It was four years ago that she and Simon had lost little Anna-Maria just a few weeks after she was born, and since then, Magdalena had had three miscarriages, one of them not until the second trimester. The child had looked like a tiny doll—her fingers, toes, and everything were already formed. By then, people had started whispering behind her back, and for this reason Magdalena had refrained from telling Simon and the rest of the family about it, not wanting to awaken any false hopes.

  “Madam!” came the sudden sound of a man’s voice outside the bathhouse. Magdalena cringed. There was a knock on the door, first softly, then more and more urgently.

  “Frau Fronwieser, are you home?” the person called again. “Please open the door.”

  “My husband isn’t here,” she replied, gasping, as she leaned over the basin again. “If . . . it’s an emergency, I think you’ll have to . . .”

  “I’m not looking for your husband, but your father,” replied the voice outside. “It’s me, the constable, Andreas.”

  “The constable?” Magdalena whispered, wiping the corners of her mouth with a linen rag before carefully getting to her feet. “Damn. Just as I thought.”

  The night before, little Paul didn’t get home until well after the town gates were closed. Excitedly, he told his mother that Grandpa had had a fight with another man, who had been playing some strange game with Barbara. Magdalena hadn’t spoken with either her father or her sister that morning, but she didn’t have to be clairvoyant to figure out that the man, the fight, and what Paul called a game were somehow all related. She was afraid her father had gotten himself into trouble again.

  She quickly washed her face with cold water to freshen up, then she opened the door. The city constable, Andreas, stood before her, halberd in hand, staring nervously at her low-cut neckline.

  “How many times do I have to tell you town guards that my father now lives in the little house
in back by the pond?” she asked the guard, pointing down the little path. She still felt a bit sick.

  “Uh, that I know, Frau Fronwieser,” Andreas replied, “but if he won’t open the door . . .”

  “Then he’s just not there,” Magdalena said. “Perhaps he’s working down at the jail or cleaning up the muck in the streets. Just open your eyes and look around.”

  “But I can hear loud snoring in the house.”

  Magdalena sighed, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and went down the narrow, muddy path through the garden to the pond, where the so-called retirement house was located. For hundreds of years each older generation had moved in here to make room for the younger folks. It was a sunny morning and, though it was still cool, the first hint of summer was in the air. Leeks and onions were sprouting in the little garden, spreading their sharp fragrance.

  Her father himself had suggested he move into the little house by the water, making room for Magdalena and her family in the large hangman’s house with its stable. Jakob Kuisl, now almost sixty years old, was still in better shape than many people in their forties, and he was still the official hangman of Schongau, but he realized that he didn’t need all that room after the death of his wife. Simon and Magdalena moved into the hangman’s house, which was far larger and roomier than the bathhouse keeper’s quarters up in town.

  Magdalena pounded on the door energetically. “Father?” she called. “Open up. The constable is here.” But the only sound they heard was loud snoring. Andreas grinned and picked his teeth.

  “Seems the executioner had a bit too much to drink again,” he said.

  “What business is that of yours?” Magdalena snapped. Then, in a softer voice, she continued. “What sort of trouble did he get into this time?”

  “Dunno . . . I’m just supposed to bring him to see Lechner.”

  Magdalena shook her head. It was probably just as she feared. Johann Lechner was secretary of the Schongau Court, and thus the representative of the elector in town. Evidently he’d already gotten wind of the fight the day before. If Jakob’s luck ran out, he could find himself in the dungeon, and they’d probably send for the executioner in Steingaden to come and put his Schongau colleague in the pillory. Magdalena knew her father would survive this, but it would be a great humiliation for the family. She could only be glad that little Paul was somewhere down on the Lech River and wouldn’t see his grandfather, whom he adored so much, being led away. It was a disgrace.