The Council of Twelve

  “Ah, so you’re Dr. Fronwieser,” she said with a laugh. She spoke with a strong Italian accent, and her German was slow, as though she didn’t use it much. “Madonna! You really are as short as they tell me.”

  “Uh, I beg your pardon?” Simon gave her a confused look. Then he realized he still wore his hat. In his haste to take it off, it slipped from his fingers and fell onto the soft furs and rugs on the ground.

  “Forgive me,” he mumbled and picked it up.

  “I’ve heard much about you, piccolo dottore,” the electress said with a smile. “They say you’re as cunning as a fox.”

  Simon’s confidence grew instantly. He straightened up. “Well, uh, if that’s what they say . . .”

  “I’ve been told you and that Schongau hangman solved a gruesome series of murders in Oberammergau two years ago—that someone was crucified, just like our savior. Brrr!” Henriette Adelaide shook herself with a pleasant shudder. “And you intercepted a conspiracy in Schongau that was aimed at Munich. Bravo!” She clapped her hands. “The stories about your deeds have made many a boring dinner palatable to me.”

  Simon’s jaw dropped with astonishment. This conversation was going entirely differently than expected. “May . . . may I ask how you . . . ,” he managed eventually.

  “Well, the Honorable Count Sandizell is a regular guest at court. You know, the electoral representative at Schongau. While he doesn’t spend a lot of time in your little town, he receives regular reports from your town clerk, Johann Lechner. The same Lechner told us that you’ve traveled to Munich.” The electress winked at him. “You see, I know quite a lot about my flock.”

  Simon winced. No other than Johann Lechner, the Schongau court clerk, was behind this invitation. Lechner had also helped him to the position of town physician and had generally always been a positive force behind his career. And now he had even made Simon a topic of conversation at the court in Munich—although differently from how Simon had hoped and expected. It looked like the electress simply wanted to meet him, like an adorable pet one had heard much about.

  Whatever the case, he knew he had to act fast. He’d never get another chance like this.

  Simon nervously pulled out his treatise and almost dropped the loose pages. “I’m very pleased you’ve heard about my deeds,” he began. “Please allow me to tell you about my latest—”

  Henriette Adelaide waved dismissively. “I don’t have that much time. I’m sure there are plenty more waiting outside. I asked you here because I’d like you to do me a small favor.” She giggled. “I could hardly receive a dishonorable hangman, even though Count Sandizell says he’s the smarter one of the two of you.”

  Simon turned red and couldn’t say another word. The pages between his fingers suddenly felt awfully dry and brittle.

  “This is what I’d like to ask you,” Henriette Adelaide continued. “Bring me back my dog.”

  Simon stared at the electress as if she’d spoken in a foreign tongue. Had she just said dog?

  “I beg your pardon?” he finally said.

  “Well, our beloved Arthur has been missing for almost a week. One of my ladies-in-waiting was taking him for a walk in the gardens when it appears Arthur spotted a cat and ran off. He’s been missing ever since. I hope to God nothing happened to him. Maybe he’s just hiding somewhere, or someone else took him in.” Henriette sighed and gave Simon a pleading look. “Arthur is the best friend of my son, Max Emanuel. The boy is beside himself. Return Arthur to us and you’ll be royally rewarded. Show me that you’re as clever as they say, Dr. Fronwieser.”

  It took a while before Simon managed to speak. “Well . . . of course, Your Highness,” he mumbled. “Does he have any . . . uh . . . distinctive features? That would make the search much easier.”

  “Arthur is a cute little spaniel, brown with white spots. When he barks, he sounds almost like a crying child. He especially likes to bark when the electoral family plays music.”

  “Thank you for the clues. The last one in particular will surely prove helpful.”

  “Oh, and he has a white blaze on his face,” the electress added. “From the forehead to his nose. That will help you recognize him.”

  Simon stood up. Exhausted, as if from a long walk, he packed his treatise back in his old leather satchel and bowed one last time while a nasty voice jeered in his head.

  Dr. Simon Fronwieser. Explorer of the stinking gutters of Munich. Discoverer of the electoral lapdog.

  “You must send me word as soon as you know anything,” the electress ordered. “I expect to hear back from you in three days’ time. Is that clear?”

  “Of . . . of course! It will be my honor.”

  With his head lowered, he backed out of the audience room.

  Now he was glad his son hadn’t witnessed this meeting.

  His arms crossed at his back, Peter stood in front of the stucco painting of a grim-looking obese man with a fur collar and a gold chain, probably some king or duke. To the left and right of the painting were more portraits of equally glum-looking men.

  Peter thought he saw a certain resemblance among the men. He was a passionate and talented painter himself, but he usually only had charcoal and stained paper. These paintings glowed in the most amazing colors and had been painted directly onto the walls—a technique Peter knew from the churches in and around Schongau and admired greatly. It must have been very expensive, Peter thought. He was lucky if his father gave him a new charcoal crayon for his saint’s day. If he was unlucky, his classmates broke it or used it to draw rude pictures in his notebook.

  Peter sighed softly and walked along the paintings down the corridor, moving farther and farther away from the hall where his father was waiting. This world was so different from the world he knew in Schongau. His tongue felt for the gap in his teeth the accursed Berchtholdt children had given him. He was glad to be away from the Schongau Latin School for a while. The teasing and the occasional beating were harder on him than he wanted to admit in front of his parents, although he generally liked going to school. The little knowledge old Weininger could give him, Peter soaked up like a sponge. Latin, arithmetic, learning Bible passages by heart—he found all those things much easier than his classmates did.

  And they reminded him almost daily that he was different.

  Sometimes Peter envied his younger brother, Paul, who didn’t put up with anything and lashed out without warning rather than becoming a victim himself. Peter sensed that his grandfather sometimes preferred his brother to him, although Peter loved his grandfather very much and admired his sharp mind and—most of all—his library, which he regularly combed for new books. But Peter knew already that he didn’t want to become a hangman. He wanted to be a doctor like his father. Or a painter, but he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to earn money that way.

  He’d heard his parents say that there might be a better school here in Munich for him. How he longed for like-minded friends who loved to learn as much and as fast as he did. Maybe his father could speak with that electress? She obviously thought he was a knowledgeable man.

  Deep in thought, Peter had continued down the hallway until he reached the end and stood outside another door. He was all alone; everyone else was farther up the corridor. Peter looked at the last painting, a framed picture of a young man with long black curls and a fashionably pointed beard.

  He was about to turn around and head back when the man in the painting talked to him.

  “Booow your head when you speak with the eleeectooor!”

  Peter jumped. He must have been dreaming—pictures couldn’t talk. But now the man even seemed to lean forward. And he sniggered.

  “Hey, silly! Do you have straw in your head?”

  Peter paused. For a grown man, the voice sounded very high-pitched, almost like a . . .

  Child?

  Now Peter saw that the man in the painting hadn’t leaned forward, he had merely come a little closer, along with the entire wall. The frame wasn’t a real frame, it
was just painted onto a door without a doorknob, which had just opened a crack.

  Peter leaned forward and knocked cautiously against the thin wood. Until then, the door had been well concealed in the wall, but now the mischievous face of a roughly ten-year-old boy appeared in the crack. He was very pale and had long dark-brown hair, almost like the man in the painting. He was still giggling.

  “You really thought I was the ghost of the elector, didn’t you?” he burst out. “Admit it!”

  “So what.” Peter shrugged. “Now I see that the ghost is just a little squirt.”

  “Squirt yourself.” The boy stuck out his tongue. “Don’t be like that. I was just bored. I’m supposed to be at my harp lesson with Herr Kerll, but I skipped. And now I’m hiding from Maria.”

  “Who’s Maria?” Peter asked.

  The boy rolled his eyes. “Maria is my older sister. If she finds me, she’ll tell on me. Big sisters are worse than the Plague.”

  Peter smiled. “I’ve got a little brother, he’s not always easy, either.”

  Now the boy stepped out from behind the painting. He wore baggy silken trousers, a white shirt, and a blue vest. His feet were in long, pointed shoes with silver buckles. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked Peter. “Are you a kitchen hand or something?”

  Peter looked down at his clothing. Until a moment ago, he had considered himself rather well dressed, but in the presence of such an elegantly attired boy he suddenly felt awfully poor and shabby.

  “I’m here with my father,” he replied hesitantly. “He has an audience with the electress.”

  “Oh, my mother.” The boy waved dismissively. “That can take ages.”

  Peter gaped at the boy. “You . . . you’re the son of the electress?” he stammered. “Then you must be a . . .”

  “A prince, I know,” the boy replied in a bored tone. “But you can call me Max. My real name is Maximilian Emanuel, but that sounds as fancy as my mother’s curls.” He frowned. “I can tell you one thing: when my mother gives an audience, it can take hours—days, even. And it’s terribly boring.”

  Peter sighed. “I know. That’s why I went for a walk. I was sick of waiting.”

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do.” Max gave another mischievous grin, and now he wasn’t looking like a prince at all but just like a normal boy. “I’ll show you around the Residenz. What do you say? I know a few secret passages that’ll get us past the guards.”

  “But what about my father?” Peter said. “He’ll worry.”

  “Trust me, he’ll be waiting till late afternoon. Do you want to sit with him and twiddle your thumbs all that time? Now come!” Max clapped his hands impatiently. Peter sensed his new friend wasn’t used to asking for things. “Come on, do me a favor. Or do I have to command you? Apart from my sister, there’s no other children my age in the whole Residenz. And my dog, Arthur, has gone missing, too—my only playmate.” Max looked at Peter with a mix of pleading and impatience. “Please! I’m dying of boredom.”

  “All right,” Peter said, intrigued by the prospect of roaming through secret passages with this strange prince. He didn’t feel like sitting in that cold hall with his father any longer. “But only one hour, then I have to go back.” He followed Max through the open door and came into a narrow, bare corridor illuminated by only a single candle in a holder on the wall.

  “What’s your name, anyway?” Max asked.

  “I’m Peter Fronwieser,” Peter replied. “The son of the Schongau town physician.”

  “Schongau?” Max scratched his nose. “Is that somewhere near Paris or Turin? Never mind.” He grabbed the candle and led the way. “I’ll show you my favorite places.”

  They followed the dark corridor until they reached a narrow spiral staircase. The two boys climbed down the stairs and walked along several other hallways. From time to time, Peter thought he could hear voices on the other sides of the walls.

  “Only the electoral family and a few trusted insiders know about these passages,” Max whispered as they continued on. “I think they’re very old. I’m not supposed to be here—if Mother finds out, I’ll get a walloping.”

  “You’re a prince and they hit you?” Peter asked, amazed.

  “Oh, yes, you have no idea.” Max gave him a pained look. “But only by the servants. My parents wouldn’t lift a finger. My mother even gave Herr Kerll, my music teacher, permission to beat me. He uses an extra-long cane, it hurts like hell. Shh!” Suddenly he held his finger to his lips. Peter froze and heard marching footsteps just on the other side of the wall.

  “The Hartschiers,” Max whispered. “My mother’s personal guards. If they hear us, we’re done for!”

  The sound of the steps faded, and Max walked to a small, hidden door Peter hadn’t noticed before. The prince peered through a tiny hole and nodded with relief. “The coast is clear. Now I’ll show you the Hall of Antiquities.”

  “The hall of what?” Peter asked, but Max had already slipped through the door.

  Peter followed him and found himself in the biggest room he’d ever seen. The hall was longer than a man could throw a stone, and nearly as high as a church. In a gallery at the opposite end stood a table set with silver dinnerware and crystal glasses, and a fire was burning in a large open fireplace. But the most astonishing things in the room were the countless busts of proud-looking men along the walls. Some of them wore laurel wreaths.

  “I don’t know who all those old fellows are,” Max said with a shrug.

  “Hmm, I think they’re Roman emperors,” Peter replied and studied one of the busts more closely. “There are Latin numbers and names. Imperator Cäsar, Divi Filius Augustus—that means—”

  “You’re worse than Herr Kerll,” Max interrupted him, giggling. “Stop the translating. I’ll show you what this place is great for.” He took off his pointed shoes and slid across the polished marble floor in his socks. Peter only hesitated for a moment before following the prince’s lead, and before long, he was whooping with joy. This was even better than ice skating on the hangman’s pond! For a long while the two boys slid across the hall floor, laughing and cheering. Then Max suddenly paused.

  “Changing of the guards,” he said quietly. “The Hartschiers will be coming through here again shortly. Come, let’s go down to the Grottenhof yard. It’s fantastic for playing hide-and-seek.”

  They slipped their shoes back on and scurried out of the room just as they heard footsteps approaching. Max ran ahead and led Peter silently through several rooms, until suddenly the ceiling opened up and they were standing in a large courtyard planted with hedges and lined by shady walkways on three sides. After a few moments, Peter noticed artificial grottoes decorated with shimmering minerals and seashells underneath the arched canopies. In the middle of the courtyard stood a gurgling fountain with a statue of a man wearing a winged helmet. He was triumphantly holding up the head of a woman with snakes for hair, while her beheaded torso lay at his feet.

  “That’s Perseus, a Greek hero,” Max explained when he saw Peter’s look of amazement. “He had to fight against Medusa—a nasty woman like my sister. If you looked into her eyes, you’d turn to stone.”

  “And what did Perseus do?” Peter asked.

  “Ha, he looked into a mirror. That way, her evil eye didn’t work, and he could chop her head off. And, as you can see, he also has a cap of invisibility and winged sandals, which he needs for other adventures. It’s a good story. My Greek teacher, Herr Battani, told me—he’s much nicer than that stupid Kerll.”

  “We only ever learn about the Bible at my school,” Peter replied sadly. Once again, he thought how much bigger the world was than Weininger’s syllabus. But perhaps he’d soon learn more exciting things at his new school in Munich.

  “One day I’ll be a hero just like Perseus,” Max said with determination. “A great general with sword and helmet. All of Europe shall tremble before me.”

  His expression left no doubt in Peter’s mind that he was very seriou
s. But then Max suddenly turned away and ran off. “Come on, let’s play hide-and-seek!” he called out, laughing. “Count to ten!”

  The prince ran into the yard and soon disappeared behind the tall hedges. Peter counted to ten, then followed him. The hedges were man high and planted in a star-shaped pattern, and Peter soon lost his bearings. He heard Max snigger from time to time, but couldn’t see him anywhere. He walked to the arcades at the far end, where he found a larger grotto hall with a fountain.

  “I’m here!” Max called out.

  The shout had definitely come from the hedges. Peter ran back into the yard, his heart beating faster with pleasure and excitement. This was so different from the brawls in the smelly lanes of Schongau. He felt the knowledge of every painting, bust, and statue speak to him. If only he could stay forever.

  Max gave another shout, but this time it sounded like a cry of pain. Peter turned around the corner—and almost collided with a man. He was older, with a powdered wig and powdered face. With his right hand, he was holding Max by the collar; the boy was squirming like a fish on dry land.

  “Oh, I see Your Princely Highness found a playmate,” the man said with disgust. “Evidently someone from the country, judging by the poor clothing and the smell.” He grabbed Peter with his free hand and shook him like a puppy until his shirt ripped at the collar. “What are you doing here, you little rascal? Speak up!”

  “Let him go, Monsieur Kerll, I command you,” Max said. “He’s my friend.”

  “Well, your mother won’t be happy at all when she hears that you not only skipped my music class, but also let this riffraff into the Residenz.” Herr Kerll smiled maliciously. “Thankfully, your sister was able to tell me where you like to play.”

  “That snake,” Max said. “She’ll be sorry!”

  “I think it’s your turn to be sorry. I’m under strict orders from your mother to be very stern with you. And as for you, boy.” The music teacher shook Peter by the collar again. “What’s your name? Where do you come from?”

  “My name is Peter Fronwieser,” Peter gasped. “My father has an audience with the electress.”