The Council of Twelve

  The two women continued gossiping shamelessly. Like many others in the room, they seemed to be courtiers, although Simon thought some of the spectators were wealthy commoners. In contrast to the nobility, the patricians wore simpler garments and stood in groups of their own. The balconies slowly filled with gentry and courtiers, while the commoners stayed down below. The powdered ladies and the gentleman with the wig made their way to the upper levels.

  Simon immediately felt a little more comfortable. With Peter at his side, he walked about the large floor and admired the statues and elaborate balconies, but most of all the enormous stage, which took up a large part of the room. In front of the stage stood a raised podium with thronelike chairs, presumably for the electoral family.

  While Simon waited with Peter for the show to start, he thought of Magdalena. How he would have loved to have her by his side. But for a dishonorable hangman’s daughter, this world was even less accessible than for a simple Schongau physician. Would there ever be a time when everyone was allowed to admire such beauty? Simon hoped Magdalena had returned from the silk manufactory by now. He couldn’t wait to tell her everything.

  Bored, he listened to the conversations of the Munich citizens around him, the usual mix of gossip, politics, and business. But suddenly the voice of a corpulent man next to him caught his attention.

  “Those blasted hangmen,” he said. “Ever since they insisted on holding their meeting in Au, the city has been out of control. I wasn’t too concerned about those murdered girls at first, but now that we patricians have become victims, it’s no longer acceptable.”

  “Apparently, old Wilprecht is beside himself,” said a rotund woman with an elegant bonnet and low neckline, presumably the man’s wife. “He has offered a reward for anyone who can name the murderer of his wife.”

  “It’s about time the city puts up a reward for the arrest of those damned coin counterfeiters,” the fat man grumbled. “The elector has, so I hear. It’s getting worse every day. Yesterday, I received thirty thalers for my three bales of cloth at the market, and when I weighed the coins at home, I found they were much too light. That’s the third time already, and it’s always silver coins. Thalers, batzes, pennies—those scoundrels will forge anything.”

  “If we’re not careful, we’ll end up like our fathers,” an elderly man in a plain black coat said. “Remember? It was the ‘Kipper and Wipper’ time, when good coins were sorted out on scales and melted into several bad coins each. And at official behest! In the end, the money was worthless, and the country went to rack and ruin.”

  “I heard they almost caught one of the counterfeiters,” the corpulent man replied, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead with a silk handkerchief. “A small, sneaky fellow who told Wagner at the bookshop he was a doctor. Unfortunately, he got away.”

  “There must be more than one,” a third man said. He was wearing a stiff ruff and also looked like a patrician from Munich. “It has to be a very well-organized operation. They need a workshop and high-quality molds or dies. The devil knows how they do it. Their workshop must be damned well hidden, or they would have found it by now.”

  “As I already mentioned,” the older man whispered, “last time, the elector was personally responsible. You only need a few rogues to get the money among the people unnoticed. I don’t want to offend anyone, but it could be one of us.”

  The man’s eyes wandered from person to person, and Simon tried to look as inconspicuous as possible. Was the fat man suddenly eyeing him strangely? Simon grabbed Peter by the hand and dragged him away from the group.

  “Ouch, you’re hurting me,” Peter complained.

  “I’m sorry,” Simon whispered. “But . . . um, I think the opera is about to start, and we really should . . .”

  He faltered when he heard a certain name among the many conversations around them. Or had he been mistaken? Simon stopped and listened, and indeed, there it was again.

  “. . . just not getting better, Dr. Geiger.”

  Dr. Geiger!

  Simon spun around and saw two men standing close together. One of them was around forty, with balding hair, soft pale lips, and bulging eyes like those of a fish. The other man looked much older. His short, pointed beard was silver, his hair cropped close, his gaze severe. He looked like a priest in his plain black coat.

  “I can try again with antimony,” he was saying to the fishface. “But I’m afraid the growth has progressed too far.”

  “And yet she just won’t die,” the other man moaned. “It’s been like this for almost a year now.”

  “One could almost think you were wishing for your wife’s death, Master Pfundner.”

  “Of course not, God help us.” Pfundner shook his head, scandalized. “I just don’t want her to suffer too much.”

  “Then give her time and love. Those two things have healed a lot.”

  Fishface smiled wanly. “I don’t have much of the former, and the latter melts like ice in the sunshine when your own wife stinks and wastes away. I’m sure you know what I mean, Dr. Geiger.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  Simon said a silent prayer of thanks. The serious-looking man standing only a few feet away from him really was Dr. Malachias Geiger. He could hardly believe his luck. On the other hand, he wasn’t surprised that the most famous physician in Munich was present at an event like this. All Simon had to do now was pluck up his courage and speak to the doctor. Unfortunately, he wasn’t carrying his treatise on him, but this probably wasn’t the best place to discuss it in great detail, anyway.

  But he might at least be able to lay the foundations for another conversation at a later date.

  Simon took a deep breath. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered to Peter. Then he mustered all the courage he could and walked toward the two men.

  “Perhaps you could just give her more poppy syrup,” Fishface was saying. “Then at least I won’t have to listen to her moaning and groaning all the—”

  Simon gave a little cough. “Dr. Geiger,” he began. “Please forgive my intrusion.”

  The two men turned to him with surprise. The fishface, Pfundner, raised his thin, barely visible eyebrows with annoyance.

  “How dare you interrupt us?” he snarled. “And who are you?”

  “Uh, my name is Dr. Simon Fronwieser. I’m from Schongau and—”

  “From Schongau?” Pfundner laughed derisively. “Isn’t that somewhere near the Alps? How on earth did a yokel like you get into the opera?”

  I am here at the personal behest of the electress, you arrogant carp, Simon wanted to say. But he thought better of it. He didn’t want to risk having to talk about his mission as electoral dogcatcher.

  “Schongau has a theater, too,” he said proudly instead. “And not the worst, either.” It was a blatant lie. Only traveling troupes of jugglers had ever performed in Schongau. But Simon couldn’t bear the patrician’s arrogant demeanor. “You’re welcome to visit our beautiful old town sometime,” he added.

  “I can think of better ways to spend my time,” Pfundner jeered. “And now leave us alone, please.”

  “You said you were a doctor?” Malachias Geiger now asked. He studied Simon carefully. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Schongau. Back then, there was only an old barber-surgeon, whose skills were—mildly put—not the best, and who was a little too fond of brandy.”

  My father, Simon thought with a pang.

  “The city council appointed me town physician two years ago,” he replied without mentioning his family history.

  “Congratulations. And where did you study, if I may ask?”

  “Ingolstadt. But that was a long time ago.” Simon felt himself blush. His time at Ingolstadt University was a sore point in his life. He’d had to quit after a few semesters because he ran out of money, but also because he was lazy—a huge disappointment for his father. “I . . . I worked as a bathhouse surgeon for a few years at first,” he added reluctantly.

  “A bath
house surgeon!” Pfundner smiled sardonically. “Cupping blood and money.”

  “Don’t disregard the profession of bathhouse surgeon,” Geiger said sternly. “They often have more experience than many a young medicus who knows nothing but the color of their patients’ urine. And bathhouse surgeons have knowledge of the nastiest ailments.” He turned to Simon with interest. “We were just speaking about a growth that ails the wife of our venerable city treasurer. It first started in the left breast, which I eventually removed. Now it has taken hold of the second breast as well and grows steadily. Tell me, dear colleague, how would you proceed?”

  Simon saw Pfundner looking at him with disgust. What sort of advice could a simple bathhouse surgeon from Schongau give? He thought for a moment, then cleared his throat.

  “If the growth is already as large as a pigeon egg, you will have to take off the second breast as well,” he replied. “And you will have to remove it as completely as you can, so the disease can’t spread any farther. Cauterize the wound, bandage it, and then . . .” He hesitated.

  “And then?” Geiger asked.

  “Pray. Because if it is what I think—what the ancient Greeks called cancer—only God can help the dear Frau Treasurer now.”

  “Ha, only God,” Pfundner spat. “So that’s what a Schongau bathhouse surgeon has to say? ‘Pray’? That’s all you know?”

  Simon was about to make a reply when a flourish was sounded, silencing all conversations. The great doors opposite the stage were opened, and a group of soldiers appeared. In the midst of the soldiers, Simon could make out the elegantly dressed electress, and beside her an equally magnificently dressed man, presumably her husband, the elector himself. A boy and a slightly older girl walked by his side, both dressed like adults. A herald appeared onstage and rapped a gilded staff on the floor.

  “Dear people of Munich, bow before the electoral family!” he commanded.

  Everyone on the floor knelt down, and the courtiers on the balconies bowed low. For a while, everything was silent, and Simon could hear the beating of his own heart while his forehead nearly touched the ground. How could he be so stupid and tell the most famous doctor in Bavaria to just pray? Why hadn’t he recommended some kind of remedy, made up some miracle treatment? Now he could forget about speaking with the doctor again and might as well use his treatise to light the fire with. What a humiliation!

  Another flourish followed, and everyone rose and went to their seats, if they had them. Musicians appeared on the stage and tuned their instruments. Simon sighed. He’d wasted his only chance.

  Then he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. To his greatest surprise, it was Malachias Geiger. The doctor was smiling.

  “I appreciate an honest opinion, young colleague,” Geiger said. “It separates the true doctors from quacks. There is no cure for cancer. If you feel like a chat, visit me tomorrow morning at the Hospice of the Holy Ghost. Then we can have a longer talk, just between doctors.”

  He turned away and walked toward one of the balconies on the ground floor. Simon was too surprised to do or say anything.

  A longer talk . . .

  Only when the curtains were raised did he notice that Peter had once again disappeared.

  Peter had become increasingly bored listening to the conversations of the grown-ups. He had been excited when his father had told him they were going to see some kind of play. Peter loved the theater. Two years ago, he had watched rehearsals for a well-known Passion of Christ play in Oberammergau, and a man with puppets and a small wooden stage visited Schongau every now and then. But this theater seemed to be for grown-ups only, because Peter hadn’t seen any other children.

  Ever since the messenger had delivered the invitation earlier that day, Peter had been waiting to see his new friend again. No one had believed him at first when he said he knew a real prince, not his father nor Paul, who had called him a braggart and a liar. But now they had to believe him. They were only here because Max commanded it, after all. Peter couldn’t wait to see the look on that stupid music teacher Kerll’s face when he saw him here. Max had promised that they would see each other again, and evidently, he had gotten his way. He must have convinced his mother, who was something like a queen.

  But now Max wasn’t here, and Peter was bored.

  And Peter would have loved to tell his new friend that his father was looking for his dog. The electress herself had given him the mission. He was sure his father would find little Arthur, and then Peter would be allowed to go play at the Residenz all the time. He’d attend the new school his mother had told him about, and everything would be great.

  Impatiently, Peter watched his father, who was now talking to a strict-looking elderly man and an unfriendly-looking one with eyes like a fish. Why was everything taking so long? Well, at least it was warm in the big room, and there were no madmen like that Master Hans, who’d tried to hurt his aunt. Peter prayed he’d never have to see that horrible man again. How his red eyes had glowed, like the eyes of the devil. And that white hair . . .

  Someone cleared his throat behind him, and Peter started. But it was only the electoral envoy, who beckoned him to follow. Peter was about to tell his father, but he was deep in conversation, so Peter decided not to bother him. His father could get very grumpy if he was interrupted during something important.

  Brimming with anticipation, Peter followed the envoy up the stairs to the third floor of the opera house. Would he see Max again now? They walked past a few men in wigs and perfumed women, who studied Peter with curiosity. The third floor was much emptier than down below, but every balcony door was guarded.

  The envoy walked to one of the doors, opened it, and maneuvered Peter inside.

  “You wait here,” he ordered. “Don’t you go anywhere.”

  He closed the door, and Peter was alone. There were only two chairs in the box, covered in blue velvet. The walls gleamed velvety as well, and the candles on either side of the box smelled wonderful, so different from the stinking tallow lights at home.

  Suddenly, flourishes were sounded from the stage, and everyone was asked to kneel down for the electoral family. And there they were. Max was with them, but to Peter’s great disappointment, he took his seat with his parents and sister downstairs. Peter would only see his friend from afar.

  Disheartened, he sank into the soft chair. In the light of the large chandeliers, he spotted his father, who seemed to be looking for him. Peter felt bad. Should he stand up and wave? But then the lights were put out and the curtain went up. Peter started when he saw Kerll, the haggard music teacher, standing on the stage and bowing. Would he throw Peter out again? Peter ducked instinctively, but then realized Kerll couldn’t possibly see him up there. The music teacher rearranged his wig and started to play.

  The set was a grove or forest of oak trees and looked very real. The music, gentle at first, grew increasingly intense. Peter was fascinated by all the different instruments: he could make out the sounds of violins, viols, trumpets, bugles, kettledrums, and other sounds he had never heard before.

  After a while, actors wearing voluminous costumes and serious expressions appeared onstage. Some of them sang high, others low, but all very passionately, as if their lives depended on it. Peter soon noticed that there was an awful lot of long, slow dying happening onstage. The plot remained a mystery to him, especially since the actors sang in Italian. He tried to find his father every now and then, but it was too dark to make out anything but the vague outlines of people.

  Peter was getting tired. He wondered how much longer this opera would go on for, and what he was supposed to do here. He had hoped to see Max again, but instead he watched fat men shouting weird songs at one another.

  Just when his eyes were falling shut, he heard a voice he recognized behind him.

  “Phew! This is sooo boring. It can’t be any more boring in a grave.”

  “Max!” Peter called out happily and turned around. “I thought I’d only see you from a distance.”


  The young prince winked at him. His crooked wig looked a little tousled. He grinned and held a finger to his lips. “Shh! Or my mother will arrest you. Opera is her great passion. I thought she’d never let me go.”

  “Do your parents know you’re here?” Peter asked quietly.

  “My mother said I could go upstairs as soon as it was dark.” Max shrugged. “She says it doesn’t do me any harm to meet with simpler people, as she calls them, every now and then. When I told her about you, she said I could visit you in one of the boxes—so that no one would see. Apparently, she knows your father.” He gave Peter a sad look. “And she knows I have no one to play with at the Residenz. Especially now that my Arthur has disappeared.”

  “My father is looking for your dog,” Peter said proudly. “I’m sure he’ll find him. He’s very clever, you know.”

  Max nodded. “I know. Mother told me. She also said to ask you if your father has made any progress.”

  “I don’t think so. But I’m sure your dog will turn up soon. You couldn’t have picked anyone better to find him.” Peter admired his father greatly. He had helped so many people already—as physician, but also when he and Grandpa caught scoundrels. Surely finding a dog would be child’s play to him.

  “What happened to Arthur, anyway?” he asked.

  “My nursemaid, Amalie, was walking him in the gardens, just like every day,” Max replied. “She said Arthur saw a cat and took off, ripping the leash from her hands. I found the leash near the garden wall later.” The prince sniveled. “I don’t think I’ll ever see Arthur again.”

  Peter touched his nose in thought while three men sang a trio, trying to outdo one another in volume. One of them had a high, shrill voice, almost like a woman. “Hmm, at the garden wall, you say . . . But if there’s a wall, how did he get out?”