The Council of Twelve Read online

  Again the others laughed, while Conrad Näher winced. Fists clenched and trembling with anger, he took a step toward the Nuremberg executioner, but Michael Deibler stepped in between.

  “No brawl among cousins!” he ordered. “At least not while I’m around.” He turned to Widmann. “As for you, pull yourself together, Johann. You may be the wealthiest of us, but that doesn’t give you the right to insult others. If you’ve got something to say, say it plainly.”

  “Just a joke.” Widmann held up his hands in apology. “But you’re right, Deibler, I do have something to say.” He smiled broadly and turned to the others. “Jakob Kuisl wrote to me, too. He knew my wife passed away giving birth to our fifth child last autumn. I didn’t reply to the letter, because I thought a hangman’s wench from Schongau had no place in Nuremberg city life. But now . . .” He studied Barbara and licked his thin mustache. “Well, I must admit that her beauty makes up for a lot. And my sons need a new mother to cook, nurse, and change the little ones’ diapers.” He gave Kuisl a questioning look. “Can she nurse? Her breasts seem well developed to me.”

  “If you need someone to milk, find yourself a goat—that would fit much better into your family, Herr Goat’s Beard!”

  It was the first time Barbara had spoken. Suddenly the room was dead silent.

  “How . . . how dare you . . . ,” Johann Widmann eventually spat out. His face was red with anger. He shot up, and the men to his left and right restrained him, pushing him back down in his chair. “You dirty little hangman’s wench!” he shouted. “I don’t have to put up with this! Not from you!”

  “Oh, you’re a hangman, too,” Barbara replied coolly. “Remember? Every one of us in this room is dirty, dishonorable, and shunned, even the illustrious Nuremberg executioner, Johann Widmann. You don’t shit gold, either.”

  Some of the men muttered angrily and rapped their mugs on the table, while others stealthily grinned.

  “I must apologize for my daughter,” Jakob Kuisl said eventually. He stood up, and Magdalena saw that he was shaking with anger and embarrassment. He seemed gray and bitter and, all of a sudden, very, very old. “Sometimes she just . . . opens her mouth before she thinks.”

  “Then teach her some manners, Jakob, by God,” Widmann snapped. “You can’t tolerate—”

  He broke off when the door opened almost without a sound. It was as if a gust of wind had blown it open.

  A very cold gust of wind.

  A man with white hair tied together at the back stepped in. He was dressed entirely in black, with broad shoulders, a beefy neck, and a face as white as chalk. His eyes gleamed as red as those of a rat. A chill ran down Magdalena’s back, and she almost screamed out loud. She knew this man, but she would never have expected to see him here.

  The twelfth member, she thought. My God, did Father know?

  The eleven other executioners were silent. It was as if there were an invisible wall between them and the man.

  “Welcome, Master Hans from Weilheim,” Michael Deibler said frostily. He pointed at the last empty seat. “We started without you.”

  “Forgive me, beloved cousins.” Master Hans twisted his face into a smile that didn’t reach his red eyes. “Work kept me. An accursed offertory-box thief from Pähl who wouldn’t confess. Claimed he was innocent.” Hans rubbed his hands on his coat, and Magdalena thought she saw dried blood on it. “Well, never mind,” he said softly. “They all confess in the end, don’t they?”

  Suddenly Master Hans turned and looked straight at Barbara. Her face was almost as white as that of the Weilheim hangman.

  “Greetings, Barbara,” Master Hans whispered and twisted his lips into another crooked smile. “How nice to see you again. The circumstances last time were, well . . . a little unfortunate.”

  Barbara sprang to her feet once more, her chair crashing to the ground. She ran to the door and disappeared. Only her receding steps could be heard.

  “Barbara, don’t be silly!” shouted Magdalena. “Barbara!”

  Without waiting for Georg, she ran after her sister, through the tavern, past the patrons and the maid carrying armfuls of mugs and shouting angrily after her, out into the icy street. But no sign of Barbara; she had probably turned into one of Au’s many alleyways. Magdalena pulled her coat tighter and set out to look for her sister with fear in her heart.

  She was terrified by the nagging thought that she might never see Barbara again.

  Master Hans had come back into their lives.

  Not far away, on the other side of the river, Simon was in a different world.

  He was wandering along a wide cobblestoned street that was lined on either side with half-timbered houses several stories high. Countless taverns lured the traveler with colorfully painted signs, and the street buzzed with carts and carriages. Their progress went haltingly, drivers swearing and cracking their whips. Street children were picking up frozen horse dung, getting dangerously close to the huge animals.

  Simon closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Munich streets were smelly, too, but unlike in Au, the smell here was . . . well, more exquisite. He could smell stews with rare spices, spilled wine freezing into red ice on the street, fresh blood from the butcher’s, expensive lamp oil in the town houses, and fresh pine logs that were being carted to the many construction sites in the city. It was busy and loud, a babel of voices from which Simon could occasionally make out bits of Italian and even French.

  On his right, Simon spotted a square where a small market was being held. Among other things, Simon could see small bundles of dried herbs for sale. He smiled. Surely he’d find his beloved coffee beans here. So far, merchants from Augsburg had always brought them to Schongau, but he had run out a while ago. Evidently, Munich had everything the heart desired. The electoral city was the most amazing place he had ever visited. Living here must be—

  “Hey, watch out, you idiot!”

  A carriage with a blue canopy was headed straight for him. Simon noticed only now that he was walking on the road. He jumped aside at the last moment and got spattered with mud. The driver shook his fist angrily.

  “I beg your pardon,” Simon mumbled even though the man was long out of earshot. Despite the cold, he felt rather flushed, which might have had something to do with the two glasses of wine he’d just enjoyed at one of the taverns. He had time to kill. Simon had gone into Munich that morning and asked a number of people on the street where the famous physician Malachias Geiger lived. Finally, someone had pointed him in the right direction. Now Simon went over and over in his mind the words that he was planning to introduce himself with.

  Greetings, dear colleague. My name is Dr. Simon Fronwieser from Schongau, and I believe I have made some medical observations you might find interesting. If you’ll allow me . . .

  Simon shook his head. Maybe he should leave out the dear colleague at the beginning. To call himself a colleague of Dr. Malachias Geiger was perhaps a little presumptuous. The Geiger family was one of the most respected physician dynasties in the country—there was even gentry among them. The Geigers had cured kings and electors, they had studied in Paris and Padua, they had published countless papers that had become standards of medical literature. Malachias Geiger’s treatise Precautions Against the Plague in particular was regarded as a medical milestone, and Simon must have read it a dozen times. It had also given him the idea of telling Geiger about his own treatise and asking him for help with its publication.

  An idea that seemed absolutely crazy to him now that he was in Munich.

  Nevertheless, he had inquired his way to Geiger’s house that morning, which turned out to be an imposing half-timbered building on Sendlinger Street, one of Munich’s main thoroughfares. But Geiger hadn’t been in; they told Simon to come back later, and so he had sat down to wine, cheese, and bread in one of the many taverns and worked through his treatise again and again. By now he had crossed out and overwritten so much that he struggled to decipher his own writing.

  For the second ti
me that day, Simon ascended the stairs to the entrance of Geiger’s house with his papers rolled up in his hand and knocked cautiously at the door. After a few moments, a young man with a pince-nez and a snow-white ruffled shirt opened.

  “What do you want?” the man asked impatiently. He was holding a glass half-filled with urine. “If you’re a servant, please use the back door.”

  Simon swallowed hard. Did he look like a servant? He had specifically put on his new vest and clean hat. Who did this puppy think he was?

  “I was here this morning about a meeting with Dr. Geiger,” Simon replied a little too frostily. “I was asked to come back after lunch.”

  “What is it about?” the fellow asked rudely.

  “I would like to tell the doctor in person. I’m a colleague.”

  The young man smiled contemptuously as his eyes went up and down Simon’s now dusty, mud-stained clothes. “A colleague, I see,” he jeered. “Then we’re colleagues, too. I’m Geiger’s assistant. And I can tell you right away that the master doesn’t have time for you. An important examination of a lady from court.” He held up the urine glass and gave it a little shake. “Slight opacification, probably stones that will need to be removed.”

  Simon waved his hand and sniffed. “Hmm, I think the pungent smell indicates a bladder infection. Perhaps you should—”

  “I’m hardly going to discuss the urine of the venerable councilor’s wife at the door,” the assistant interrupted him. Uncertainty flickered in his eyes. “If you want to see the doctor, come back another day.”

  Simon wasn’t going to give up that easily. “When exactly would it suit him?” he asked. “I’ve made important—”

  “Another day. I bid you a good day.” The assistant was so quick to close the door that Simon couldn’t do anything. He raised his fist to pound the door angrily, but thought the better of it. Seething inwardly, he walked down the stairs. That arrogant whelp was several years younger than him and treated him like any old quack! He probably had wealthy, influential parents who got him the position as assistant, and now he washed urine glasses for his master and threw his weight around with misdiagnoses. Simon sighed. It had probably been a mistake to call himself a colleague. He had a feeling it would be much harder for him to get anywhere near Dr. Geiger from now on.

  Deep in thought, he wandered along Sendlinger Street into the city center toward Old Peter, as the people of Munich called their parish church, Saint Peter. Why had he been so stupid? But then again, maybe his observations weren’t even good enough to bother the great physician about. Well, there was nothing more he could do today, anyhow. He really needed to get back to Au if he didn’t want to blow it for good with Magdalena.

  His wife had been unusually withdrawn toward him lately. Perhaps it had something to do with Barbara’s mood swings. Simon struggled to believe his young sister-in-law would really get married here in Munich.

  He was about to head for the Isar Bridge when the sign of a shop on the right caught his eye.

  BOOKSHOP

  JOHANNES WAGNER AND SON, PURVEYOR TO THE ELECTORAL COURT

  Entranced, Simon stopped. He had heard of shops that sold books, but had never seen one. The few books he owned came from his father-in-law or itinerant merchants. The thought of a shop full of nothing but printed pages made his heart beat faster.

  Simon cautiously pushed down the handle, and the door opened with a soft creak. Immediately he was enveloped by the smell of bone glue, leather, paper, and parchment, a smell he’d loved since childhood. Simon stopped reverently, as if he’d entered a church. The only source of light was one window covered with old cobwebs, so that most of the shop remained in the dark. Ceiling-high shelves were laden with books of every size, most of them bound in black or brown leather; some huge tomes bore gold letters on the spine. There were scrolls of parchment, thin booklets, and piles of loose pages that were still waiting to be bound.

  Will my works ever be for sale here? Simon wondered.

  When he approached one of the shelves, he noticed the shop counter that had so far been hidden from view. Behind it stood a skinny, pale elderly man with thinning hair who looked as though he lived on only books and dust. He wore a stained, threadbare coat but somehow carried it with great dignity.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” the book dealer asked with a smile, putting down the large book he had just been reading. “A book of prayers, the Holy Bible, some inspirational martyr legends, perhaps?”

  “Um, I was just looking,” Simon replied hesitantly. “But since you ask—do you have any medical works?”

  The old man nodded. “Of course. So long as they don’t conflict with the teachings of our church. We are purveyors to the electoral court and the Jesuits at Saint Michael, so we can’t offer any heretic works.” Carrying a flickering candle, he led Simon to a shelf full of books with Latin titles. Simon recognized several works from his father-in-law’s library, but also saw a number of more recent publications that had the world of medicine talking. Johann Schultes’s Wunderarzneyisches Zeughaus was one of them, and a new edition of Jakob Ruf’s book of midwifery another. Next to it lay a thin booklet whose strange title aroused Simon’s curiosity.

  Observationum Microscopicarum Centuria.

  Simon picked up the vellum-bound volume, opened it, and saw several drawings of creatures that looked like monstrous insects.

  “An interesting read,” the old book dealer said with a smile. “The author is a French doctor named Pierre Borel, who claims to have made some exciting discoveries in the blood with the aid of magnifying lenses—although some of it seems a little too adventurous for me.” He pointed at the creepy animals. “Or do you really believe something like that is crawling around inside us?” He laughed. “Well, to each his own. We only just printed it in our own press. Twenty copies. It’s quite cheap, actually.”

  “How much is it?” Simon asked.

  “Hmm, you seem to be just as crazy about books as I am, so I’ll make you a good price.” The old man winked at him. “Let’s say, half a ducat?”

  Simon thought. That was indeed cheaper than he had expected. Books had become increasingly affordable in recent times, thanks to larger printing shops and the fact that paper was getting cheaper. Simon reached into his purse, where, along with some smaller coins, he still had the silver thalers of the Veronese men. He knew they were too light and therefore forgeries, and he felt bad. But on the other hand, this bargain was just too tempting. He’d long been wanting a book about the new art of microscoping.

  “I can give you five thalers as a down payment,” Simon suggested. “A little more, perhaps. I’d have to get the rest from my, uh . . . accommodation in Munich,” he added hastily.

  The book dealer sighed but didn’t object. “Let’s see how much you have in your purse, then.”

  Simon emptied the contents of his purse onto the counter. The old man put on his monocle and took a closer look at the coins. When his eyes reached the silver thalers, he paused. Then his expression hardened.

  “Where did you get these from?” he asked sharply.

  “Well, I’m a physician. A . . . a patient paid with these.”

  “A patient, you say.” The bookseller eyed him suspiciously. “Wait here,” he said with a strained smile. “I’ll go see if I can find a cheaper version of this book for you.”

  He disappeared between the shelves, and a moment later Simon heard a door creak at the back of the shop. Evidently, there was a second exit. Simon shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

  Damn it, what have I done?

  Cold sweat ran down his forehead; his heart raced. Why did he have to give those accursed coins to the old man? The man had noticed the false thalers instantly, as if he had seen others like them before. He was probably on his way to the city guards. Simon thought about the punishment a coin counterfeiter in Bavaria might expect. Their hand was chopped off, and if they were unlucky, the hangman would dip them in boiling oil or burn them at t
he stake.

  Without hesitating any longer, Simon ran outside, leaving the silver thalers on the counter. Any moment he expected to hear shouting and the sound of men running after him, or armed guards leaping out of an alleyway and arresting him.

  But all remained calm.

  He ran down Sendlinger Street, past carriages and carts, whinnying horses and cursing drivers. He randomly chose narrow lanes and crossed squares, trying to use the sun for orientation, not slowing down until he finally saw the Isar Gate. When he stopped to catch his breath, he noticed that he was still clutching the book about microscoping. He had accidentally taken it in all the excitement.

  Isn’t that just great? he thought. Now I’m wanted for not only coin counterfeiting but also theft. I might as well hand myself in to be broken on the wheel by Deibler now.

  With a wildly beating heart he walked through the gate, not noticing the dark, hooded figure that had followed him through the lanes.

  When Simon crossed the Isar Bridge, the man slowly followed—like a bad smell one couldn’t shake.

  “Barbara? Are you there? Come back, we can talk about everything!”

  Magdalena was still running through the maze of Au alleyways in search of her sister. Georg and Jakob Kuisl had joined her. They had spread out as well as they could, and Magdalena first checked at the Au creek. She thought of the poor drowned girl and became terribly worried. But Barbara wasn’t by the creek, or behind any of the mills along the creek, or on the slope of the Isar bank.

  After some time, Magdalena came to a church and a small chapel that stood on a large grazing area at the edge of Au. A handful of tethered horses searched for some of last year’s grass underneath the crusted snow, while a few children held a snowball fight among the trees. Just then Georg came out of the chapel, shaking his head sadly.

  “I thought she might have hidden in there,” he said. “She often used to go to churches or chapels when she was sad as a child.” He gave Magdalena a quizzical look. “Why did she run off like that when Master Hans walked through the door? Hans may be scary and rough, but no one asked her to marry him.”