The Beggar King

  For a while neither spoke. The boat drifted gently downriver as the sun rose over the eastern treetops and burned down on the backs of the men’s necks.

  “What did you do in the war?” Teuber asked. “Pikeman, swordsman, musketeer?”

  “I was a sergeant.”

  Teuber whistled through his teeth. “A hangman sergeant—well, isn’t that something! You must have been a good soldier to have risen so far above your station.”

  “I know a thing or two about killing.”

  They were silent once more, until at long last, around a bend in the river, a dreary little city came into view with a hastily repaired castle perched atop a hill. A crooked jetty lined the shore, where a number of boats and rafts were docked. As they drew closer, Kuisl could see that many of the buildings were in ruins, their roofs collapsed and walls black with soot. The wall that once surrounded this city had been eaten away like a piece of old cheese.

  “Donaustauf,” said Teuber, steering the boat toward a mud-splattered pier. “Used to be a pretty little market town, but once the Swedes were done with it, Plague and hunger ravaged it only further. No doubt it’ll be a while before they can rebuild it, and the next war will come along.” He laughed softly and tethered the boat to a rotted post. “So, then, where did your dreams tell you to look?”

  Kuisl held his nose in the air as if trying to catch a scent. “Don’t know. Weidenfeld… was a little village, actually more like a hamlet, just a few miles from our winter quarters. More or less that way.” He pointed uncertainly toward the castle on the hill. “We could see that ruin from there.”

  “Great,” Teuber said. “Behind that hill the forest begins. That won’t get us very far. Wait here.”

  He approached the jetty, where a few ragged fishermen had spread out their morning catch. They eyed him warily at first but didn’t seem to recognize him as the Regensburg executioner. When he asked about the town, they shook their heads and pointed toward the other side of the hill.

  In a few minutes Teuber returned. “I have news—some good and some bad,” he reported. “Your Weidenfeld is in fact back in the forest over there—a little hamlet. The older men can still remember it. But there isn’t much left of it. Everything’s ruined and overgrown, and nobody lives there anymore. Why don’t you finally come out with it and tell me about this Weidenfeld?”

  “Later.” With a deep sigh, Kuisl stood up in the boat and climbed onto the shore. “There’s no time now. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Wait.” Teuber pulled a two-foot-long boat knife and a nicked rapier from under the rowing bench. He clamped the rapier onto his belt and handed Kuisl the other weapon. “We’ll need these. I talked the old fisherman who lent us this rotten boat into letting me have them. The old fellow was probably in the war himself.”

  Kuisl stopped to think for a moment. “I’d prefer a good old larch-wood cudgel,” he said. “And if it’s a ghost we meet, even the sharpest blade won’t do us any good.”

  “If it’s a ghost, you won’t need a club either,” Teuber said. “And now stop fussing and take the damned knife!”

  Kuisl took the weapon. As he ran his fingers along the rusty blade and the discolored greenish handle, his eyes glassed over. “I’ve always fought with a two-hander or a shortsword,” he said. “That’ll rip open a stomach like paper. This here is nothing more than a toy. But what difference does it make?” He turned to leave without looking back. “Come on.”

  They left Donaustauf and entered a narrow lane behind the village that led into a dense forest. Soon tall beeches and firs surrounded them, and the path was bathed in an almost surreal green light. Apart from the rustling trees and a jaybird call, an oppressive silence prevailed. Down here on the forest floor it was shady, almost cool, and their boots sank into the swampy ground an earlier thunderstorm had left in its wake. From time to time broad wheel treads were visible in the mire.

  “This road continues on to a hammer mill,” Teuber explained, looking around intently. “Just before it a small hidden path ought to branch off to the left. The fishermen in town said it’s mostly overgrown now, so we’ll have to keep our eyes peeled.”

  “That won’t be necessary—look!” Kuisl pointed to fresh prints in the swampy ground that trailed off further down the path. “These are fresh, not three hours old.”

  Teuber bent down to study the prints. “There’s not just one of them—evidently your ghost has a helper.”

  Kuisl nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out there were three. They always come in threes… three men, risen from the dead.”

  “Quit that, or I’ll be seeing ghosts, too.” The Regensburg executioner crossed himself and made another sign to ward off evil spirits. “You’ll drive a man crazy with your superstitious blathering.”

  All of a sudden he stopped. To their left a narrow, overgrown path—more like a deer trail—led off into the forest. They’d almost overlooked it. On closer inspection they spied a border stone among the leaves and rotting branches. And next to that, half rotted and buried in foliage, were the remains of a wayside cross.

  Kuisl picked up the splintered crucifix and leaned it almost reverently against the stone.

  “Weidenfeld,” he murmured. “We’re on the right track.”

  They headed down the path, making their way with difficulty through fallen trees and dense undergrowth. Freshly broken branches indicated someone had recently passed this way. The air filled with the odor of mushrooms, decay, and rotting wood, and all they could hear now were their own footsteps and muffled breathing.

  After a good quarter-hour the forest brightened and a sunny clearing with tall bushes and young trees opened before them. It took Kuisl a while to realize this grove concealed the remnants of houses. Nibbling on a hazelnut bush that grew out of a crumbling well, a deer caught sight of the two intruders and bounded away, leaving behind it a deep silence that took Kuisl’s breath away.

  Weidenfeld…

  His mind awash in memories, the hangman looked around. Roofs had collapsed, scorched beams rose out of the ground; all that was left of the houses were piles of stones among which blue forget-me-nots were growing. In the town center a street was now overgrown with ferns and wild grain, and a little tower rose up over a pile of stones in the distance. Crooked mossy gravestones reminded Kuisl that at one time a village church must have stood there.

  High in the tower, in a burned-out window, a man sat, legs dangling over the ledge. He beckoned to them, but instinctively the hangman took a step backward.

  How is this possible? From what hell has he returned?

  The man who sat there cackling like an old hag, his lips twisted in a wolf-like grin… this man had been dead for almost thirty years.

  Almost prancing, the Venetian ambassador circled Simon and Magdalena, who were both bound with heavy ropes on the floor of the mill.

  “Simon, Simon,” Silvio Contarini said, dabbing the sweat on his forehead with a white lace handkerchief. “You put me in a difficult position. You tell me what I should do with you now. I most certainly have a use for your charming companion—but for you?” He shook his head. “All three of you ought never to have left Schongau—you, honorable medicus; the bella signorina; and her hulk of a father, as well. But now isn’t the time for regrets. How did you ever find out about our hiding place? Speak up now. Or will I have to fill your throat with flour to get you to talk?”

  Simon tried to pull his arms free, but the boat ropes were as tight as iron clamps. He turned his eyes to Silvio’s servants, seated in a corner of the mill drinking brandy. In the meantime three enormous fellows had joined them. Like their comrades, they wore soiled leather vests and trousers spotted with mud, and Simon thought he’d seen one or the other before, working as day laborers on the boat landing.

  All five cast fierce looks at the medicus who’d killed their friend. Simon was sure an excruciating end awaited him if he couldn’t come up with something quick. What in the world had he gotten
himself into?

  “It was just a guess, but it turns out I was right!” he panted, red with effort. Despairing, he stared up at Silvio, who still regarded him like some annoying insect. “Where else could you have milled such a huge quantity of grain?” He struggled to loosen the fetters, then sank back onto the floor.

  “When I realized the milled powder was ergot, I remembered just how much of it we saw down in the little bathhouse laboratory,” he continued. “Of course, it was nothing but ash by the time we found it, but there must have once been hundreds of pounds of it. To grind so much flour, you’d need a big mill, and someplace out of town, where you could go about your work undisturbed. The mill on the Wöhrd!”

  “Hmm, not bad.” Silvio considered him with interest. “But couldn’t it have also been a mill somewhere outside of town, in a suburb perhaps?”

  “The sacks gave you away.” In spite of his desperate situation, Simon almost laughed when he saw the Venetian bite his lip. “I was here not long ago, and the linen sacks in the bathhouse cellar were the same as the ones here—gray-white and tied with black rope. And only this morning did the thought occur to me… What have you done with the Wöhrd miller? Did you bribe him, or kill him?”

  Silvio shrugged. “That wasn’t necessary. He is one of us, and in our blessed brotherhood each of us has his duty.” Now he counted off with his fingers: “The bathhouse owner, Hofmann, was responsible for growing the pure ergot; a few loyal farmers cultivated it; the miller on the Wöhrd ground it; and the baker mixed it into his dough. Each among us knows his place.”

  “But it’s unfortunate that Hofmann and Haberger had their sudden qualms of conscience,” Simon replied defiantly. “So they had to be eliminated.”

  Silvio scowled. “Sad, yes, but those were precautionary measures and couldn’t have been avoided. Our cause is much too important; there’s no place among us for ditherers.” The Venetian ambassador bent down to stroke Magdalena’s hair. “The only thing we were missing was a test subject for the ergot. We tried it out on rats and cats at first.” He smiled. “And, admittedly, with highly satisfactory results. The animals began to quiver and run in circles, though unfortunately some died. I then found some young girls willing to sacrifice their bodies for science.”

  Magdalena shuddered. “The prostitutes who vanished,” she gasped. “That was you! You fed them more and more ergot until they died! You probably locked them in your cellar and fattened them up like cattle.”

  Silvio frowned. “What an ugly thing to say. Honestly, I didn’t want to see them die. Insanity is enough for us; we’ll happily leave mass murder to the military. It’s just that we haven’t yet fine-tuned the dose; though this time around I’m sure we’ll get it right.” He stroked Magdalena’s hair. “One final experiment and we’ll have it.”

  Simon remembered the strange cages they’d found down in the alchemist’s workshop, the buckets of dirt in the courtyard, the herbarium upstairs in the pharmacy… Hofmann’s house had been one gigantic laboratory! Simon wondered whether the bathhouse owner had known anything about the experiments on prostitutes. Perhaps that was the real reason Andreas Hofmann wanted out.

  “You cloven-hoofed devil! You’re completely mad!” Magdalena spat in Silvio’s face, causing the rouge on his cheeks to run. “You hope to poison a whole city—men, women, and children! Who are you? Some kind of religious zealot? A groveling papist who can’t live with the fact that Regensburg is a Protestant city? Or maybe you’ve dipped into the ergot yourself.”

  “The time of the nobles and the patricians is over,” the ambassador began smugly, wiping the spit from his face with his lace handkerchief. “The time has come for free working people, the workers and peasants.” He raised his voice so that even his men across the room could hear him. “The prophets have proclaimed the year 1666 the year of Christ’s return, and we shall prepare a dignified reception for our Savior. When the entire city has gone mad, we freemen will take command of Regensburg, and soon—”

  But Simon didn’t allow him to finish. “Enough of this foolishness!” he spit out. “The return of Christ! Free working men! Nobody’s going to believe that! You’re a smug little nobleman yourself, and you’re proposing the freemen wipe all nobles off the face of the earth. You can’t be serious! You’ve got something else in mind, Silvio Contarini.” His lips twisting into a grimace, Simon looked the Venetian up and down. Silvio’s face was now strangely rigid.

  “I saw through you long ago,” Simon continued. “You don’t give a rotten fig for religion, for ordinary, hard-working people; it’s all politics for you, or at least whatever you consider politics to be.”

  “So, if he’s not one of the crazy freemen, or some heretic who’s out to get the rich,” Magdalena began disbelievingly, “then what—”

  “The Reichstag!” Simon interrupted. When once again the monstrousness of Silvio’s plan became clear to him, he shuddered. “He wants to poison the entire Reichstag!”

  Magdalena’s mouth fell open. “Poison the Reichstag?”

  The Venetian ambassador glanced quickly at his five helpers. The brandy was still making its rounds among them, and they didn’t seem to be paying particular attention to the conversation across the room. “Nonsense!” Silvio whispered. “Nonetheless, I’d be very much obliged if we might continue our discussion in a somewhat softer tone. The men here are simple raftsmen who don’t take any special interest in politics.”

  All of a sudden Simon thought he saw his chance. “If we promise not to tell a single soul about your real plans, not even your men over there, will you let us go?” he asked hesitantly.

  Silvio shrugged, absent-mindedly toying with the rings on his fingers. “We’ll see about that. First you can tell me what you think I’m up to. If the story you’ve concocted amuses me, I might let you go. Who’d believe a suspected arsonist, anyway?”

  Simon swallowed hard, then, in a soft voice, began: “In a few months the Reichstag will meet in Regensburg. Representatives from across the German Empire will travel here—princes, dukes, bishops, perhaps even the kaiser. The most powerful men in the land will convene, making Regensburg the ideal place to inflict damage on the German Empire. You won’t find such a collection of noblemen anywhere else in the world.”

  “Not bad,” Silvio whispered. “Go on…”

  “The bathhouse owner Andreas Hofmann was experimenting with an especially pure ergot in his secret workshop,” Simon hurried on. “In the courtyard behind the bathhouse we found row after row of pots filled with soil. You probably leased fields outside the city, where you transferred this fungus from Hofmann’s garden on a massive scale. You milled the grain here and stockpiled the flour in sacks.” By the look on Silvio’s face Simon could tell he was right. “The master baker, Haberger, is the sole supplier to the old city hall, where the Reichstag will convene, and I assume he was supposed to bake the poisoned flour into bread. But then Haberger got cold feet and had to be eliminated…” Simon frowned. “But now you’ve lost your means of making bread from the flour and of delivering it to the conference—but surely you’ve thought up something else by now.”

  “Haberger’s son is perfectly clueless,” Silvio replied. “We’ll offer him the flour at such a good price he’ll be unable to refuse.”

  Simon nodded. “And so your poisoned bread will make its way at last onto the plates of the noblemen and ambassadors, after all. At each meal they’ll ingest a bit more of the ergot. The consequences will be dire! Hundreds will turn stark raving mad. They’ll stagger through the streets in a state of rapture, plagued by visions and terrible nightmares. Negotiations will be impossible, and it’s likely most of the emissaries will leave the city in a panic. The entire Reichstag will be thrown into chaos and brought to a standstill!”

  “And thus the German Empire, as well. Bravissimo!” Silvio clapped loudly, genuine enthusiasm on his powdered face. “My compliments! What splendid work! It’s too bad, you know—in another life, at another time, we might have made
very good use of someone like you.” He spoke the last words somewhat regretfully. “You would have made an excellent agent, just like Heinrich von Bütten. What a waste! He, too, unfortunately chose the wrong side.”

  “Heinrich von Bütten?” Simon asked in confusion. “I don’t understand…”

  “The baldheaded assassin,” Magdalena interrupted. “He was an agent of the kaiser!” She sighed. “He probably wanted to warn me all along about this scheming dwarf. Silvio killed him this morning.”

  Simon opened his eyes wide. “But that means that Paulus Mämminger…”

  “He’s a well-behaved little patrician in cahoots with the kaiser trying to cut us off.” Silvio nodded. “But he had only suspicions, nothing more. Heinrich von Bütten was trying to learn more about our plans.”

  Magdalena’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you? The devil? Who else comes up with a plan as demonic as yours, to drive an entire city to the brink of madness?”

  The Venetian was silent, but Simon picked up the thread. “Why don’t you just come out with it, then? Why so coy? It’s obvious anyway.”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Silvio, still playing with his rings.

  “Then let me guess, if I may,” said Simon. “You’re working on behalf of the Turkish Grand Vizier. The Ottoman Empire is, after all, the greatest threat to the German Empire.”

  “Of course!” Magdalena cried out. “Mämminger told me himself at the ball at Heuport House that the kaiser intends to collect money at the upcoming Reichstag to arm the Germanic lands against the Turks. If the Reichstag dissolves into madness, the Grand Vizier will have an easy time of it.”

  The Venetian’s expression told them they were both correct.

  “What a dastardly plan,” the medicus said, impressed. “The city hall, where the negotiations take place, is heavily guarded, but no one would give a second thought to the bread—why would they? The Reichstag would collapse in chaos, all to the advantage of the Turkish Empire.” He pointed at the raftsmen, who were still wholeheartedly absorbed in their bottle of brandy. “You make fools of your cronies here and pretend to be the bold defender of the poor. I’m sure you’ve made them promises of heaven on earth. The Venetian ambassador, a freeman—what a joke! Nobody must have the slightest suspicion of your connection with the Grand Vizier. Isn’t that so?”