The Council of Twelve

  “Barbara,” Georg pleaded. “Don’t destroy what Father built up so carefully, just because you suddenly like some fellow who happened along.” When Barbara opened her mouth to object, he cut her off: “You can’t fool me, I can tell there’s someone else. But marriage has nothing to do with love. It’s about family, about making a living. Can’t you understand that? You carry a child who is going to need a father. Not a juggler or a similar kind of dreamer.”

  “Father said I don’t have to marry if I absolutely don’t want to,” Barbara said defiantly. “I have his word. So are you going to help me or not?”

  Georg didn’t say anything for a while, then he stood up. “All right, I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on Näher after the meeting tomorrow. Can’t hurt to take a closer look at a future brother-in-law, after all. But if I don’t find anything out of the ordinary, you’ll stop this nonsense, all right? We truly have enough problems as it is.”

  “How could I deny my twin brother anything?” Barbara replied with a tired smile. “And believe me, Conrad Näher’s strange behavior isn’t my biggest concern right now, either.”

  When Georg left her room, she could at least say she hadn’t lied.

  The screams were so loud that Magdalena thought they’d wake all of Au.

  The girls ran up and down the dormitory and squealed, whined, and moaned as if the devil himself had taken hold of them. Agnes screamed the loudest, casting a conspiratorial glance at Magdalena. The older weaver had hesitated a long time before agreeing to Magdalena’s plan. But eventually, anger and a sense of honor had overcome her fear. With Agnes at Magdalena’s side, it had been easy to convince the other girls to join in the charade. Only Carlotta had retreated to a corner, watching the chaos with wide eyes. She still wasn’t back to herself.

  In another corner, a small fire was burning, fueled by blankets and straw. The women had soon got it started with Agnes’s candle, and now they needed to keep it under control. They didn’t want anyone to get hurt, after all. They only wanted to create confusion.

  And that was exactly what happened.

  It wasn’t long before they heard loud footsteps on the stairs. The door was pushed open, and Mother Joseffa and the two Venetians came running in. Uffele followed more slowly, still tying up his codpiece. Evidently he had already gone to bed, and he seemed a little drunk.

  “Jesus, what have you done, you stupid women?” screamed Joseffa. She coughed and waved her arms to dispel the smoke. “Didn’t I forbid you to light candles at night?” She ran over to the closed shutters and opened them to let fresh air in. The two Venetians were busy trying to put out the fire. Uffele alone was still outside the door, too bewildered to do anything. No one noticed that Magdalena stood right behind the door.

  Come on, she thought, watching Uffele through the crack. For Christ’s sake, come on in.

  “Are you going to help me with the windows or not, you numbskull?” shouted Joseffa, waving impatiently at Uffele. “Or we’ll suffocate like rats.”

  Magdalena’s silent pleas hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. Uffele startled from his trance and rushed toward the shutters. Magdalena shot a glance at the Venetians, who were still busy with the fire. She uttered a quick prayer, then she darted out from behind the door and toward the stairs.

  No one called after her. As she ran down the stairs, she still heard Joseffa’s voice, scolding and shouting at the girls. Then it became quieter and quieter, until it faded altogether. It seemed her escape had gone unnoticed.

  Finally, Magdalena arrived in the basement. She listened into the darkness but couldn’t hear any whimpering. Was Eva dead? Had she come too late?

  Her heart racing, she turned right, where—like last time—no torches lit the way. Again she smelled mold and feces.

  Cautiously, struggling to see anything, Magdalena made her way down the corridor, passing several low doors. She opened one of them at random and squinted inside. It appeared to be a kind of storeroom; she could vaguely make out crates and parts of looms. She closed the door as softly as she could and walked on.

  “Eva?” she whispered. “Eva? Are you there?”

  Nothing.

  “Eva!” Magdalena tried again. “If you can hear me, I’m one of the weavers. I want to help you.”

  There, in the distance, a whimper. It sounded just like last time. What in God’s name was it? It almost sounded as if someone was in terrible pain. Magdalena clenched her fists angrily, then she hurried on.

  Eva, what did they do to you?

  The corridor went around a bend, and then she came to a fork. Which way should she go? She heard another whimper, and she thought it came from the left. She felt her way down the next corridor, the stench getting worse and worse. Then the passage ended abruptly in a solid wall. The darkness was almost thick enough to cut.

  Damn it!

  She must have taken the wrong hallway; Eva must be down the other corridor. Magdalena was about to turn around when she stepped on something metallic. She bent down and felt the ground until her hands found a grate. The stench seemed to come from down there. Magdalena could feel the slightest draft, which carried the smell of rot up to her. She listened intently. There it was again, the whimpering, closer this time. Her fingers pulled at the grate. Maybe she could lift it, then—

  A hand grabbed Magdalena by the shoulder and spun her around. She screamed, but another hairy hand clamped down on her mouth immediately. Strong arms lifted her and dragged her back down the corridor. She struggled as hard as she could, but it was useless, her opponents were much too strong. When they neared the torches by the stairs, Magdalena could see who had captured her.

  The two Venetians.

  They threw Magdalena to the ground like a sack. One of them gave her a kick in the head, and everything went black for a moment. Magdalena fought to stay conscious. When the dizzy spell eased, she saw Uffele and Joseffa leaning over her.

  “Didn’t I tell you something was wrong with her?” Joseffa was saying. “This is no simple girl from the country. But no, you only stare at her breasts. You men are all the same.” She snorted derisively. “If I hadn’t suspected her from the beginning, she would surely have gotten away. Lucky I sent the Venetians down as soon as I noticed someone was missing.”

  “Hmm, but if she isn’t a runaway maid, then who is she?” Uffele asked.

  He gave Magdalena a kick in the stomach that made her gag. “Speak up, you whore! Who sent you?”

  “Perhaps she’s spying for one of our backers?” Joseffa surmised, looking at the groaning Magdalena as she’d look at a disgusting bug. “Or maybe even for the Augsburgers. They’re dying to know our secrets.”

  “It doesn’t matter who, she has to go,” Uffele growled. “We can’t afford any mistakes right now. Andiamo, portala via.”

  The last words were meant for the Venetians, who picked up Magdalena as if she were a lifeless puppet and dragged her into the left-hand corridor. They opened the door to a chamber full of bales of silk yarn and dragged her inside. Then one of the men grabbed her and held her in a viselike grip. Magdalena was still foggy from the beating, and watched through a haze as Uffele opened a bulbous bottle. A moment later, Joseffa held her nose shut.

  “You pigs!” shouted Magdalena. “You . . . you . . .”

  She didn’t get any further, because a burning liquid was poured down her throat. It was strong alcohol. Magdalena coughed and spluttered, but in the end, she had to swallow to avoid suffocating.

  “Drink up, pretty girl,” Joseffa giggled as Uffele rammed the bottle neck deep into her mouth. “One sip for our dear Uffele and one for me, and one for every damned hungry mouth to feed upstairs. What a nice little plan you hatched there. By God, you’re going to long for the day you worked at the loom for me.”

  While the alcohol ran down her throat like hot wax, Magdalena thought of Simon, her beloved husband. He had been right, this manufactory was the gateway to hell.

  She would never see him aga
in.

  10

  THE RADL INN, MORNING, FEBRUARY 7, AD 1672

  I THINK WE’VE WAITED LONG ENOUGH. No one else is going to show up.”

  Tired and sad, Michael Deibler looked at the gathered council at the Radl Inn—or, rather, what was left of the council. Several seats around the table remained empty; only the engraved pewter mugs were left. A number of chairs along the walls were also missing their apprentices and journeymen. The remaining men started muttering quietly as they realized that some of the executioners had made off during the night. The fear of ending up on the scaffold like Master Hans must have been stronger than their promise to stay.

  Jakob Kuisl was the last one to arrive. He had hoped to the last that Magdalena would return from the silk manufactory. He wasn’t overly concerned yet, as they had agreed she’d send word at some point during the morning. Nonetheless, Kuisl decided to stay sober at today’s meeting. He might need a clear head later on.

  “Missing are Michael Rosner, from Ingolstadt, and Ludwig Hamberger, from Ansbach,” Deibler said, scanning the pitiful congregation. “And Conrad Näher hasn’t turned up, either. So now there’s only eight of us.”

  Johann Widmann, from Nuremberg, gave a sardonic laugh. “Ha, and it was Näher who urged us to stay for two more days. And now he’s slunk off with his tail between his legs.”

  “That’s strange indeed,” Deibler replied quietly. “Let’s hope nothing’s happened to him.”

  “What do you mean?” Bartholomäus Kuisl asked on Deibler’s right. He set down the mug he had been about to drink from. “By God, do you think—”

  “How’s he supposed to mean it?” Kaspar Hörmann chimed in. The Passau hangman looked even worse than usual—his bulbous nose was practically glowing. Jakob Kuisl guessed he’d been at the booze the entire night with his son. He slurred his speech as he went on. “I tell you what happened: the people of Munich killed off another one of us. God damn it, we should have left like Rosner and Hamberger. Who knows which of us is next?” Swaying, he stood up and raised his right hand like a drunk prophet. “I’m telling you, cousins, it’s going to be—” With a loud crash, Hörmann swiped his full mug off the table with his other hand. Annoyed, he tried to soak up the puddle of beer with his shirtsleeve. Then he started licking it off the table. Jakob Kuisl, who was sitting next to him, moved his chair away in disgust.

  “Filthy hole of a town,” Hörmann grumbled, wiping his lips. “What a goddamn hole of a town this Munich is. Nothing but noise, snobs, and crazy people. The only good thing is the beer, and that’s getting more expensive all the time . . .”

  “I’d be very grateful if you drank a little less,” Deibler scolded. “You’re an embarrassment to the entire council, Hörmann.”

  “Well, the council isn’t very large anymore,” red-haired Matthäus Fux said. “Now that Näher’s probably burning in hell, too.”

  “Nonsense! If the folks of Munich had lynched another one of us, we’d have heard of it by now,” Philipp Teuber remarked, sitting next to Fux with his legs apart. The Regensburg hangman scratched his shaggy beard. “No, I think Näher simply went home.”

  “Or someone else has finished him,” Johann Widmann added maliciously. He looked at Jakob Kuisl, who hadn’t said anything yet. “Well, Jakob? Perhaps Näher found out that you killed Hans, and now it was his turn? Who’s next, huh?”

  Bartholomäus Kuisl jumped up and leaned across the table. He grabbed Widmann by the collar with both hands. “Don’t you dare call my brother a murderer again,” he spat. “We might not be the best of friends, but no one insults a Kuisl, understood? Least of all a snot-nosed, stuck-up wannabe hangman from Nuremberg.”

  “Leave him be, brother,” Jakob Kuisl said. “Don’t waste your energy on that idiot.” He pulled Bartholomäus down into his chair, and Widmann sank back, gasping.

  “We should think about what might have happened to Näher,” Kuisl continued. He turned to the seven remaining hangmen. “I had a hunch Rosner and Hamberger might run off. They voted against staying two more days. But Näher? He was so eager to stay on, not least because of my Barbara.” He shook his head and muttered, more to himself, “And I thought he was going to be my son-in-law.”

  “If I may say something . . .” Georg stood up from his chair on the side, and the eight executioners turned around with annoyance.

  Deibler was about to make a harsh reply, but then he waved dismissively. “It’s not usual for a journeyman to speak up at the Council of Twelve without invitation, but this meeting’s a farce, anyhow.”

  “I . . . I spoke with my sister last night,” Georg began, uncertain. “She said Näher acted very strangely on their walk together. Apparently, he met a stranger who frightened him. And then he just took off and didn’t come back.”

  “What do you mean, didn’t come back?” Kuisl asked impatiently.

  “Well, he just vanished,” Georg replied. “Left Barbara where she was and never came back.”

  Bartholomäus tore at his little remaining hair. “This is getting better all the time. Now it isn’t the angry mob of citizens, but a mysterious stranger who might have done away with Näher.”

  “If our murderer has taken Conrad Näher, who’s next?” Matthäus Fux said and looked around suspiciously. “First Hans, then Näher . . .”

  Loud murmuring set in at the table and on the chairs along the wall. Some of the hangmen and apprentices spat over their shoulders, and others reached for amulets and crucifixes. Kuisl used the opportunity to walk over to Georg.

  “I want you to go looking for Näher, all right?” he whispered to him. “I don’t believe he went home to Kaufbeuren. It’s not like him. Ask in the taverns and at the gates, or ask the whores, if you like. Someone must have seen him.”

  Georg nodded reluctantly. He seemed to want to say something else.

  “What is it?” Kuisl asked.

  “Uh, nothing, really. It’s just . . . Barbara says she doesn’t trust Näher any longer. She’s certain he’s hiding something.”

  “Ha! Believe me, everyone in this council is hiding something. Now go, before Näher really does leave town.” Kuisl gave his son one last pat on the shoulder. He returned to his seat while Georg silently slipped out the door.

  “Quiet, for pity’s sake!” Michael Deibler roared against the noise of the others. “By the thrice-knotted hangman’s noose, are we here to talk or to bash each other’s heads in? My dear cousins, that’s not going to get us anywhere.” He stood up and spread his arms in a desperate attempt to calm the men down. And indeed, the noise level gradually subsided.

  “We don’t even know for certain if anything happened to Näher,” Deibler continued. “Maybe he went home, or perhaps he’s sick in bed. Let’s just wait and see.”

  “He’s not in his room,” Philipp Teuber said with a shrug. “He’s staying here at the Radl Inn, like most of us. I knocked on his door earlier to check on him, but he wasn’t there.”

  “I’m not going to shed a tear over Näher,” Matthäus Fux grumbled and shook his matted red hair. “The way he dressed and how he talked—as if he was better than us.”

  “I know someone else like that,” Jörg Defner from Nördlingen jeered. He winked at the Nuremberg executioner with his good eye and made a gesture that was supposed to be feminine. “Widmann always looks like he’s bathed in violet perfume.”

  “Bah, just because I’m a hangman doesn’t mean I have to stink like carrion. Be careful, Defner, or I’ll—” A loud thud cut Widmann off. It was Kaspar Hörmann, who had collapsed onto the table. His filthy hair floated in a new puddle of beer.

  “Damn it, Hörmann, I’ve well and truly had enough!” Michael Deibler flared up. “You old drunkard, I’ll throw you—”

  Suddenly, Hörmann started to twitch, and his arms flailed about wildly. His head jerked up, and the other seven executioners jumped with fright. Saliva and vomit ran out of the Passau hangman’s mouth, and his forehead was wet with cold sweat. He gargled incoherently.


  “My God, poison!” Matthäus Fux screamed and shot up from his chair. “Someone poisoned Hörmann!”

  Kaspar Hörmann crashed to the ground. He gasped as if he was suffocating, his tongue hanging out, and he shivered like he was freezing. He still twitched, but his movements became weaker and weaker. A jerk went through his body, then he lay still, strangely twisted like a broken doll. Only his eyes still moved, staring up at the ceiling as if something infinitely evil lurked there.

  “Father! What’s the matter with you?” Hörmann’s son, Lothar, instantly sobered up. He dived to his father’s side, knelt down beside him, and shook him as though that might bring him back. “Help him! Lord in heaven, someone help him!” he screamed.

  The other hangmen and apprentices had also jumped to their feet and were now approaching cautiously, almost as if the curse might be contagious.

  “Is . . . is he dead?” Johann Widmann asked fearfully. Young Lothar was holding his father by the collar, moaning and sobbing pitifully, drowning out Widmann’s question.

  “Out of the way.” Jakob Kuisl pushed the crying journeyman aside and knelt down next to Hörmann. He held his ear against the man’s chest, felt his pulse, and finally stood up with a serious expression.

  “There’s nothing more we can do for him,” he said and squeezed Lothar’s shoulder. The young man broke down whimpering next to his father.

  “Is he dead or not?” Widmann asked again, holding a handkerchief over his mouth as if to protect against dangerous vapors from the body. Evidently, he wasn’t brimming with compassion, but rather appeared repulsed.

  “Not quite,” Jakob Kuisl replied. “But it won’t be long. If it is what I fear it is, I hope for his sake that death will come soon.”

  Kaspar Hörmann started to twitch again like a fish on dry land. His body was racked by convulsions. When Kuisl wiped the sweat off his forehead, he seemed to relax a little.

  “Can’t you help him?” Lothar Hörmann begged. “Anything? Is there no antidote?” Kuisl shook his head.