The Council of Twelve

  “At the end of the day, Näher is a poor wretch,” Georg continued. “He has two lives, a real one and a false one. And when he’s unlucky, the two of them mix. When he was in Sendling with Barbara, he ran into a former lover of his who threatened to tell on him. Näher had to pay him a large sum, and he couldn’t be sure if the other man would ask for more. He was going to leave town at first, but then he stopped by a certain Munich bathhouse. He got hopelessly drunk and stayed longer than he’d planned.”

  “And how do you know all this?” Simon asked. He could already feel the revitalizing effect of the coffee spreading through his body, his exhaustion fading.

  “Because I found him in that bathhouse, damn it, and he told me,” Georg replied bitterly. “There’s a password that gets you into the chamber where men in bathtubs . . .” He shook himself. “It was awful.”

  “We shouldn’t judge those men,” Simon said. “God created everyone in their own way. I read somewhere that it wasn’t uncommon in ancient Greece for men to love men.”

  “Well, these days it’s punished by death,” Kuisl growled. “Sodomites are burned or boiled in oil. It’s understandable that Näher needed to cover himself, but I can’t forgive him for wanting to use my daughter.”

  “Where is he now?” Michael Deibler asked.

  “He left town. I just couldn’t bring myself to hand him in. He’s not a bad fellow—I kind of feel sorry for him.” Georg looked at the others. “By the way, Näher isn’t the only hangman who has skipped town. Widmann’s gone back to Nuremberg, and the others are leaving tomorrow at the latest. Uncle Bartholomäus is going to return to Bamberg in the morning, too, and he’ll want me to come.” His expression grew even darker, and he raised his mug to his lips again.

  “Now stop getting drunk and drowning in self-pity,” Kuisl said, taking the mug from his son’s hand. “We need clear heads if we want to find Magdalena. Provided she’s still alive,” he added glumly.

  Georg shook his head. “Magdalena isn’t dead. I’d feel it. She was always like a mother to Barbara and me.”

  “I don’t think she’s dead, either,” Simon said. “But we have no idea where she might be. And we can’t get into the manufactory.”

  “Eva would know,” Georg replied thoughtfully. “Are you sure she can’t talk?”

  “She’d have to wake up first,” Kuisl said. “And that—”

  He stopped when Walburga burst into the room again. She was agitated, her wide chest heaving as she tried to compose herself.

  “Eva!” she called out. “I . . . I think she’s waking up.”

  The meeting between the Anger Wolves and the Au Dogs took place at eight in the evening.

  The bells of nearby Saint Mary’s Church tolled loudly as the members of both gangs assembled. Peter tried not to let his nerves show, but it was difficult in view of the tall, dirty boys staring at him from pockmarked, blood-crusted faces as if he were a rare, delicate insect they could easily squash between two fingers. Peter had to agree with Moser: the Au Dogs really did look scary, even though most were no older than twelve.

  Seppi had arranged the meeting at the overgrown garden of the Paulaner monastery, east of Au. The garden used to belong to a castle, but now it was part of the Paulaner monks’ property, and apparently they were better brewers than gardeners.

  The monastery garden was a veritable maze of overgrown hedges and bushes. The once neatly maintained gravel paths were covered in mud and ice, and the wall had collapsed in many places, making it easy for the boys to get in.

  Peter had considered checking in at the executioner’s house before the meeting, since they hadn’t been back all day. But Paul convinced him that their mother wouldn’t let them go out again once they returned. Paul had a good nose for parental punishments.

  To the Au Dogs, the Paulaner garden was a second home. Here, just a stone’s throw away from the taverns of Au, they met to play, fight, punish traitors, and share loot. Torches lit up a rotting pavilion, which probably used to be surrounded by roses. The two gang leaders sat in the center: Schorsch and a strong-looking kid of about fourteen, whom everyone called Luki. Despite his young age, a long scar ran across his face, and the story went that a wagon driver from Haidhausen had given it to him. Apparently—people whispered on the quiet—the driver was found in a ditch with his throat cut the next day.

  Schorsch had asked Peter to sit beside him so he could explain his plan to the Au boys. The rest of the children sat stone-faced behind their respective leaders. All in all, there were about thirty boys.

  A proper army, Peter thought. With slingshots instead of muskets and sticks instead of swords.

  “You sure the prince’s dog is inside the manufactory?” growled Luki, sounding like a hoarse mutt himself.

  Peter nodded. He tried to sound calm, but wasn’t entirely successful. “Someone named Uffele stole the dog in order to extort the electoral family,” he told them. “We’re reasonably certain he’s got the dog locked up in there somewhere.”

  “‘We’re reasonably certain . . .’” Luki grinned and winked at Schorsch. “Where did you find this one? In church? The fellow sounds like a goddamned Jesuit.”

  “He’s the grandson of the Schongau executioner,” Schorsch replied succinctly. “His grandfather wields the sword like no other.”

  Loud murmuring broke out among the Au Dogs and some nodded respectfully. It was one of the few times Peter was proud of his heritage. He turned to Paul, who sat a few paces behind him, jutting out his chin with confidence. His knife gleamed in the light from the torches.

  “And what makes you think we’d help you get into the manufactory?” Luki asked after a while. “There may be peace between the Anger Wolves and the Au Dogs—unlike with the Giesing Bastards or the Haidhausen Scoundrels—but that doesn’t mean we wipe your asses.”

  “If we find the dog, we’ll be richly rewarded,” Schorsch explained. “We’d divide it evenly between the two gangs. And there’s lots of loot at the manufactory—especially silk. You can take it all—we just want our share of the reward.”

  Peter had made that suggestion to the Anger Wolves earlier on. They hadn’t liked it at first, but Peter had convinced them that they needed something to offer the Au Dogs.

  Luki clearly liked the idea. He nodded slowly, as if thinking hard, but Peter had a feeling Luki’s strength lay in his fists rather than his brains.

  “How do you propose to hand the dog back to the prince and cash in the reward?” a haggard boy asked from the second row. “Even if it is the right dog, the guards are never going to let you into the Residenz.”

  The other boys muttered and talked quietly among themselves, while Luki shot the boy who had asked an angry glance. Apparently, it wasn’t customary for anyone but the leader to speak at a meeting of the Au Dogs. But eventually Luki nodded as if it had been his idea. “Yes, how are you going to do that, huh? You didn’t think that far, did you?”

  “I can get into the Residenz,” Peter said. “Trust me.”

  “He knows the prince,” Paul called out and looked around triumphantly. “My brother knows the prince.”

  “Grandson of an executioner and pet of a prince.” Luki grinned and tapped on Peter’s narrow chest. “Either you’re brilliant or nothing but a liar and a braggart. I think you’re the latter. If I’m right, I’m really going to enjoy turning your pretty little face to pulp.”

  Peter swallowed and didn’t reply. He had no doubt Luki would be true to his word. And he didn’t feel good about having stood Max up today. He was supposed to accompany the prince to that strange masquerade. He’d promised. Instead he was meeting with a bunch of cutthroats in an overgrown garden. But it was about Arthur. If he could give Max back his beloved lapdog in the morning, the prince was bound to forgive him.

  Luki narrowed his eyes. “All right,” he said finally, in a voice as benevolent as that of a priest at confession. “You can count on the help of the Au Dogs.” He cracked his knuckles while sizing up Sc
horsch. “But let me tell you one thing: if we find out you’re leading us on, that there’s no dog at the manufactory at all and you told us a load of bull, it’s war between the Anger Quarter and Au. Is that clear?”

  “As clear as the electress’s piss.” Schorsch nodded. He glanced at Peter, who realized how great the responsibility on his shoulders was. If his plan failed, blood would flow—and not just his own.

  “Shake on it, then.” Luki drew his knife and ran the blade across the palm of his hand until it bled, and Schorsch did the same. The two leaders pressed their hands together, staring each other down as if they were going to pounce on one another like a pair of rabid dogs. Neither wanted to avert his eyes. Luki gave a sudden laugh and brought his hand down hard on Schorsch’s shoulder.

  “You Anger Wolves are cut from tough cloth, not like the Hacken kids, those girlish wimps. Or those Giesing Bastards. It’s good to do business with you.”

  “So what do you propose?” Schorsch asked. “Do you know how to get into the manufactory?”

  Luki laughed again and turned to look at his boys. “Hey, Dogs! He’s asking if we know how to get into the manufactory. What do you think? Should we tell them?”

  The others laughed and hooted until Luki signaled them to be quiet.

  “Now listen carefully, Anger guys,” he began. He winked at Peter. “And I hope your little prince’s pet brought his rose water, because what I’m about to tell you stinks to the high heavens.”

  “The girl opened her eyes and mumbled something,” Walburga said, still standing in the middle of the living room. She wore a dirty, bloodstained apron and held a strip of linen in one hand. “I just finished washing her and was about to put fresh bandages on when she spoke.”

  Simon jumped to his feet and ran into the apothecary chamber next door, where Eva lay on the bed. She looked just as pale as before, her eyes still closed. But her face was clean, the blood was washed off, and her hands were bandaged. Simon gently touched Eva’s shoulder and leaned down to her. He smelled alcohol and herbs. Walburga probably gave the girl one of her legendary tinctures.

  “Eva?” he said softly. “Can you hear me?” When she didn’t answer, he shook her by the shoulder. “Eva, can you hear me? We want to help you, you’re safe. Do you know where Magdalena is?”

  “If you keep shaking her like that, you’ll break her neck,” Jakob Kuisl grumbled from behind him. The others had come into the chamber, too.

  “Hmm, looks like she’s fast asleep,” Georg said, disappointed. He turned to Walburga. “You sure she said something?”

  “I might be old but I’m not deaf,” Walburga replied. “She spoke. And she opened her eyes for a moment, too. But she must have immediately lost consciousness again.”

  “Damn it!” Simon swore. “I really thought she’d be able to tell us something about Magdalena or the murderer.”

  “I . . . I think she mentioned your wife’s name,” Walburga said thoughtfully. “It was only a few words, but . . .”

  “For heaven’s sake, woman, speak up,” Jakob Kuisl said. “What did she say?”

  Walburga tried to concentrate. “I believe one of the words was Magdalena. And then another word, which didn’t really fit together.” The hangman’s wife frowned. “It sounded like . . . ball. She said it over and over and squeezed my hand. ‘Ball, ball, ball . . .’”

  “Nothing useful, anyhow.” Georg shrugged. “Perhaps she’s dreaming she’s a child again and playing with a ball, or—”

  “Ball!” shouted Simon suddenly. “Of course! A ball.”

  Deibler gave him an astonished look. “Now he’s starting, too. Seems to be contagious. Maybe it’s that strange coffee brew—”

  “A ball,” Simon said, cutting him off excitedly. “Don’t you understand? It must be some kind of feast, a ball, here in Munich. Eva is trying to tell us that Magdalena is at that ball.”

  “But . . . but that doesn’t make any sense,” Georg said. “Why would Magdalena be at a ball?”

  “Because they’re using my daughter as a goddamned whore.” Jakob Kuisl had spoken quietly, but everyone turned to look at him. The hangman ground his teeth.

  “I hate to admit it, but my son-in-law is right. We should have listened more closely. Uffele hires out girls as prostitutes. Not just to the houses of the high and mighty, but also to balls and festivities. I’m guessing the girls get slightly sedated, with poppy syrup or devil’s trumpets or something similar. Or they get them drunk if they don’t do as they’re told. And then men use them as they please. It’s possible Magdalena has been taken to a feast like that.”

  “Is there a ball somewhere in Munich tonight?” Simon asked Michael Deibler, but he seemed lost in thought again and didn’t reply. Simon nervously turned to Walburga. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Hmm, the envoy from earlier was talking about a ball,” Walburga replied. “Maybe that’s what everyone at the market was talking about today. Apparently, they’re celebrating the erection of that new palace outside the city. The electress herself is going to be there—she asked her husband to build the place for her, after all, and gave it its fairy-tale name.”

  “And what’s this palace called?” Simon asked with growing impatience.

  “The electress named it Nymphenburg Palace, after nymphs, the mythical creatures haunting forests and streams. They say everyone attending tonight is dressing up as nymphs, fauns, satyrs, or elves.” Walburga shook her head. “Everyone wears masks and costumes, just like during carnival. And the likes of us have to try to make it through winter somehow.”

  “Masks and costumes?” Simon thought frantically. There must be a solution, there always was one. If he wanted to save Magdalena, he had to think of something right now. Time was running out.

  Masks and costumes . . .

  A thin smile spread across Simon’s face. He turned to Walburga.

  “How long would it take you to alter a few costumes?”

  The lights were everywhere, twinkling above and below her. Barbara pulled her woolen scarf tighter and watched the tiny dots, spread around them in a large circle until they merged with the blackness of night. She felt as if she were on the roof of the world.

  “Do you like it?” Valentin took a step closer and placed one arm around her shoulders. Unlike every other time a man had touched her in the last few years, Barbara didn’t wince.

  “It’s . . . it’s beautiful,” she breathed.

  Valentin laughed. “I told you I’d take you to a special place. We just can’t forget to keep an eye out for fires, or Gustl won’t let me up here again.”

  They stood at the top of the tower of Old Peter, almost fifty paces above the rooftops of Munich. Valentin was friends with the watchman, who kindly let them have his room for a little while. A pan with glowing embers in the center of the watchman’s room exuded a little heat, but the night was freezing nonetheless, with an icy northerly wind howling around the tower.

  They had been here earlier that afternoon, when Valentin had led Barbara away from the jugglers’ show at Anger Square. The view had been spectacular in the daytime as well, with the snow-covered mountains so close Barbara felt she could almost touch them. Now, at night, the stars sparkled above them, and the lights of the city sparkled below—candles in the houses of patricians, open fires in the taverns, and the lanterns of night watchmen making their rounds in their respective quarters. Beyond the city walls, the surrounding countryside was completely dark. Munich was like a glittering island in a sea of black.

  At that moment, Barbara understood all those poor young men and women who were drawn to Munich in the hope of finding work in a city that promised glamour, freedom, and new beginnings, and was so different from all the stinking, dingy backwaters surrounding it. Backwaters like Schongau.

  In the last few hours, Valentin had shown her this glamorous side of Munich. They had meandered down Neuhauser Street, past the better taverns of town, past churches and monasteries; they had admired the electoral Resi
denz and also the new fortifications, surrounding the city in the shape of a star. Valentin had shown her hidden gardens and palaces, men with powdered wigs and women with fancy muffs and fur coats, and explained to her how Electress Henriette Adelaide was responsible for Munich’s blossoming culture.

  With his warm and kind ways, Valentin had once again managed to help Barbara forget her worries for a while. Not once had he pressed her or steered the conversation in a particular direction. But now she sensed the moment had come to tell him everything. About Conrad Näher, the marriage her father demanded, and most of all about the child she carried in her belly and didn’t want. So far, she had only really spoken to Magdalena about it. She felt that she needed to open up to someone else if she didn’t want to burst with fear and sorrow.

  “After Frauenkirche church, Old Peter is the second-highest point in Munich,” Valentin explained and leaned closer; she could smell his cold sweat. She didn’t mind it—on the contrary, it was beguiling.

  “You could probably tell by all those steps we had to climb,” he continued. “From up here, the watchman looks out for fires. But his first task is to ring the bells.” He pointed at the bells behind them, hanging on a massive beam in order of their size. Some of them looked like they weighed over a thousand pounds.

  “We should go back down before the next ringing,” Valentin said with a smile. “People have gone deaf up here when the eleven o’clock bell tolls.”

  “I like the smallest one, right at the back,” Barbara said and pointed at a tiny bell in the corner. “When do they ring that one?”

  Valentin’s expression turned serious. “That’s the poor sinner’s bell. The watchman only rings it when there’s an execution. It announces someone’s final hour. But I’m sure you know the custom from your father.”

  Barbara didn’t say anything. She wondered how many more times she’d hear the ringing of a poor sinner’s bell in her life.

  Every time my future husband walks to the scaffold with his sword. Is there no way out?