It’s winter, near Breisach on the Upper Rhine. He and Jakob are together on a battlefield, surrounded by corpses buried under the snow, forming little mounds on the otherwise barren countryside. All day long they ride through destroyed, forsaken villages and burned cities, where stooped-over men pull oxcarts full of corpses through the streets—victims of the Plague. These men are often the only living things in an otherwise empty world. Nepomuk has read the Bible and knows the prophesies of Saint John. Is this the apocalypse? Sometimes he wonders why he and Jakob don’t turn into animals like so many others. It’s probably their long conversations in the evening around the fire—about the laws of mechanics, medicine, and morals—that save them, or the many books they rescue from the charred ruins, or the faith Nepomuk feels, kneeling before a desecrated altar in a small village church. While Nepomuk prays, Jakob waits outside. The son of the Schongau executioner doesn’t want to pray to a God that permits all this to happen. Jakob says he believes in his reason and the law, and nothing else.
But when Nepomuk finally emerges from the church with his reverent mien, he thinks he sees something like a glimmer of envy in his friend’s eyes.
A scraping sound overhead startled Nepomuk from his reveries. When the monk looked up, he saw a slender crack of light that grew larger and larger. Someone was opening the trapdoor, and evidently dawn was just breaking outside.
Even the dim light was enough to blind Nepomuk. Blinking, he held his hand over his eyes. After a while he was able to make out about a half dozen faces staring down from far above, not guards but strangers clothed in the simple garb of peasants and workmen. Some of them thought they’d seen Nepomuk the day before as he was pulled out of the box amid the raucous cries of the mob and led into the Rotting Tower.
“Hey. Is he still alive?” asked one man with a face as round as a full moon. “He isn’t moving, and I can’t see anything. I want my money back if he’s not alive anymore.”
“Throw down a rock, and then you’ll see,” said a bearded man beside him. “But be careful not to hit his head—we’d miss a beautiful execution.”
The others laughed, and Nepomuk could hear children cry out among them. When he saw a glowing object hurtling toward him, he quickly dodged to one side, scraping his shoulder on the rough rock wall. Blinded with pain, he screamed as the torch fell to the ground beside him, flickered in the damp straw, and fortunately went out.
“Look how ugly he is,” shouted the man with the moon face. “The soldiers were right—he really looks like a fat toad.”
“Hey, sorcerer,” a woman taunted. “Can you fly? Fly up to us. Or have you lost your broom?”
Once again the crowd hooted and hollered. Nepomuk buried his head in his hands, trying to ignore everything around him, but then another object was hurled down at him. This time it was a heavy clod of clay that hit him on the back. Pain shot through his body. Stones followed, along with a few soggy turnips and cabbages, then a hail of all kinds of projectiles.
“Here, eat this, you fat toad,” a woman taunted. “Eat it so you can grow big and strong for the torture.”
“Get out of here! Go to hell!” The deep voice that spoke now came from a man accustomed to giving orders. “Just stop. You’re going to kill him for me.”
The crowd murmured, but the bombardment ended. “We paid good money to see the sorcerer,” a bearded man complained. “And now we’re not even allowed to throw things at him?”
Nepomuk looked up again. The torch tossed onto the straw had gone out, but in the dim light at the top of the shaft, he could make out the outline of a person dressed entirely in black. His wavy hair, however, was combed straight back and snow-white, as if the man had aged far before his time. He was perhaps forty and wore a tight jerkin that highlighted his broad back and strong arms. He looked into the hole, holding the torch down so that for a moment Nepomuk could look him in the face. The man’s eyes flashed red just like those of the rats sharing Nepomuk’s cell. He inspected his victim like an animal handed over for slaughter, and Nepomuk instinctively recoiled.
“Still looks to be in good shape,” he mumbled. “Thank God.” Then he turned to the spectators, who were no doubt jostling him for a better look. “Just don’t mess up my work,” he growled. “If you kill him, you’ll owe me—and I promise it will cost you dearly. Do you hear?”
“Very well, Master Hans,” a timid voice replied. “We… we won’t do that; but he’s a sorcerer, after all. Certainly a few clods of earth won’t hurt him.”
“Nonsense,” the white-haired man growled. “Believe me, I know these sorcerers. Once you throw them into the hole, they scream and bleed just as we do, and so far none has ever flown away on me.”
He cast one last glance down at Nepomuk as if trying to calculate what he would earn flaying this body, then he shoved the cover back over the hole. The crack of light became smaller until finally the cell was once again engulfed in darkness.
“Come back tomorrow, people,” Nepomuk could hear the man’s muffled voice say through the rotted wood overhead. “If it’s up to the district judge, we’ll start the interrogation tomorrow morning, and for one kreutzer each, I’ll let you into the yard so you can hear the sorcerer scream.”
The sound of footsteps faded until finally the only thing to be heard was the squeaking of the rats.
Tomorrow, Nepomuk. Tomorrow they’ll pull out your nails and crush your legs. Sleep well, Nepomuk. Dream of heaven, because what starts tomorrow is hell.
The monk, once a hangman himself, turned on his side and cried like a small child. He knew that what he’d seen in the red eyes of the Weilheim executioner was his own death.
That’s how Nepomuk got to know Master Hans.
11
THE ANDECHS FOREST, EARLY THE MORNING OF FRIDAY, JUNE 18, 1666 AD
LEAVING THE TURMOIL behind, the family hiked along the monastery wall that followed the Kien Valley northeast. The hangman’s grandchildren took turns riding on his shoulders, where, rocking like ships on the ocean, they looked down in amazement into the valley—and occasionally pulled their grandfather’s hair. Simon and Magdalena walked ahead, and the hangman’s daughter, especially, couldn’t refrain from looking around cautiously. It wasn’t easy to find a quiet place to talk in a pilgrimage site as busy as Andechs.
“I haven’t had a moment of peace since I learned that that madman is still running around,” Magdalena confessed with a sigh. “Perhaps we should have chosen the church or the tavern for our conversation. At least that’s a busy place.”
“So anyone could eavesdrop on our conversation?” Simon shook his head. “Until we know who’s responsible for these strange events, it’s better that as few people as possible know what we’re up to. I don’t trust anyone in the monastery anymore. These priests are just liars and schemers.”
They continued in silence along the weathered monastery wall. Despite the early hour, pilgrims streamed toward them as they returned from washing their eyes in the healing waters of St. Elizabeth’s chapel nearby. The little stream was reputed to cure blindness and all kinds of visual impairments. Simon felt his tired eyes could use a refreshing splash of water, too. He’d been awake until late, leafing through the Andechs chronicle, but found no clue about who might be behind the abduction of the watchmaker Virgilius.
Finally they came to a rusty gate in the wall. Simon pushed down on the latch, and it swung open with a squeak. Inside, long rows of weathered, crooked stone crosses stood amid ivy-covered mounds of dirt.
“The Andechs Monastery cemetery,” Simon murmured. “Wonderful. Nobody will disturb us here.”
And in fact there was not a soul present in this place overgrown with grass, meadow flowers, and poppies. A few wild pigeons settled down on the crosses, and the children chased after them, laughing. In the middle of the yard, at the edge of an abandoned well, a few salamanders were dozing in the sun. And silence had settled over the area, which seemed both peaceful and surreal after all the pilgrims’ noise an
d commotion.
Kuisl headed for a stone bench not far from the monastery wall, took out his pipe, knocked out the cold ashes, and motioned to Simon and Magdalena to join him. “The best place to hold an undisturbed conversation is among the dead,” he said. “Now let’s think about how we can help the abbot and Nepomuk.”
Simon took a seat alongside his father-in-law while Magdalena found an overturned gravestone where she could keep an eye on the children.
“We still don’t know what this madman intends to do with the hosts,” Simon began. “So far, it seems he wants to spread fear and anxiety in the monastery. The gruesome murders, the disappearance of the automaton, and now the stolen relics…” He sighed. “One thing is clear: if the hosts aren’t found in two days, unrest among the pilgrims will only grow. It will be viewed as a bad sign; it’s even possible that panic will break out.”
“Well, at least for now they think they’ve found their villain in Nepomuk,” the hangman said. “They’ll torture and execute him as soon as possible to get this case behind them.”
Magdalena angrily tossed a stone at the cemetery wall. “But it’s clear Nepomuk couldn’t have stolen the hosts,” she retorted. “He was already in the dungeon by then.”
Her father grunted and calmly continued stuffing his pipe. “They’ll just say Nepomuk magically escaped from the prison. Believe me, nobody cares about that. The main thing is they have a scapegoat to keep peace among the people.”
“If it wasn’t Nepomuk, who else would it be?” Simon counted off suspects on his fingers. “First, of course, the prior. After all, he wants to become abbot, and after what’s happened thus far, he’ll soon be taking Rambeck’s place.”
Magdalena raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know. All that trouble just to discredit the present abbot?”
“Let me finish,” Simon said. “So first the prior; then the old librarian. He behaved very strangely toward me up in the Andechs library. He did everything he could to keep me from poking around. He’s a member of the monastery council, and thus also among the inner circle who knows the monastery’s secrets.”
“You could say the same of the cellarer and the novitiate master,” Magdalena groaned. “The circle of suspects just gets larger and larger.” She looked up at the church tower where bells were just ringing in the next hour. “But I know one thing now: the man in the bell tower who pushed me was not the abbot. I was confused yesterday by the black robe. It was a younger man—young and athletic.”
“Then perhaps it was indeed the novitiate master? This is all just getting more confusing.” Simon rubbed his temples, exhausted. “Or perhaps it was some entirely different person and we’re heading up a blind alley. Damn!”
“Didn’t you see anything in that book that might give us a clue?” Magdalena asked. “You sat there with that book half the night while I sang Paul to sleep three times.”
Simon ignored the implicit criticism. “The Andechs chronicle is written in a very ancient form of Latin,” he explained. “It takes time, and so far, all I’ve learned is that a castle once stood here belonging to the counts of Andechs and Meranien. It was later destroyed by the Wittelsbachs, who ruled over Bavaria, as well as Andechs. That’s why Count Wartenberg has one of the three keys to the relics room.”
“Just a moment,” Magdalena interjected. “Isn’t it possible the Wittelsbachs wanted to take the hosts? It must anger them that the hosts are still kept in the monastery even though their ancestors conquered this land centuries ago.”
“The Wittelsbachs have indeed tried over and over to have the relics moved to Munich,” Simon replied. “A few hundred years ago, the hosts were even kept in the duke’s chapel for some time. Up to sixty thousand pilgrims were said to have gone there to see them every week—it was a big source of income for the state. But I don’t think the count would steal the hosts,” the medicus said, shaking his head. “He might have put someone up to it—I’m not sure—but what would be the point of taking the hosts to Munich if they couldn’t be displayed there? It would be obvious they were stolen.”
“Just thinking out loud,” Magdalena pouted. “Maybe you can come up with a better idea.”
“Damn. We won’t get anywhere like this,” said Kuisl, who, until now, had been silently filling his pipe. “We’re groping around like a fellow looking for the shithouse in the dark. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” He pointed to Simon. “You get more information about this count. Perhaps my daughter’s idea isn’t as foolish as it seems. And I’ll slip into this goddamned monk’s robe again and look around the monastery.”
“And what about me?” Magdalena asked curiously.
“You’ll start taking care of your kids.” With his smoking pipe clenched between his teeth, he stood up. “It’s about time the little brats learn to behave,” he said, pointing toward the children. “It looks like they’re digging up a corpse right now.”
In fact, the two boys were digging in the earth of a fresh grave with their hands, and Peter had already carved out a rather deep hole.
“Stop!” Magdalena shouted, running toward the astonished children, who had no idea they were doing anything wrong.
“Are you crazy?” she scolded, tearing them from the gravesite. “What if the monks see you brats digging up one of their Brothers…?” She hesitated as she read the name on the wooden cross at the fresh grave.
REQUIESCAT IN PACE, FILIUS VITALIS, 9-14-1648–6-15-1666
The grave of the young watchmaker’s assistant.
“Look,” Magdalena whispered. “Someone was in a hurry to bury the poor fellow. It can’t have been a big burial service.”
Beside the excavated mound was a second fresh grave, and Magdalena wasn’t surprised to see the name on that wooden cross marked the burial site of novitiate Coelestin, the apothecary’s assistant. She motioned to Simon and her father, and together they stared down quietly for a while at the two graves.
“Damn,” Simon hissed. “They must have been buried quickly yesterday. I wanted to examine their wounds again, as well as that remarkable phosphorus glow. Perhaps I missed something in my first examination.”
Magdalena gave the two boys a slap and ran after them as they started climbing over another burial mound. “It was surely the work of the prior,” she shouted as she dashed off. “He doesn’t want us poking around here any longer, but he can forget about that.”
“You’ve got your hands full if you want to poke around here,” Kuisl grumbled, looking out over the cemetery. “Have you noticed all the suspicious deaths here recently? I count six, or rather seven, fresh graves.”
“That’s surely because of the damned fever,” Simon replied with a shrug. “Just yesterday two pilgrims in my care died, and they were probably buried in haste to avoid any excitement.”
“And how about this one?” Kuisl walked ahead a few yards, stopping in front of a fresh grave covered with black, damp soil.
“What are you trying to say?” Simon asked. “Another grave. So what?”
“Have a look at the cross.”
Only now did the medicus notice the crooked cross half hidden behind the mound of dirt. Squinting hard, he was able to make out the name on the plaque.
R.I.P., PATER QUIRIN, 12-7-1608–5-2-1666
“I still can’t see what you find unusual there,” Simon replied. “The man was buried at the venerable age of almost sixty years, and—”
“The ground on top is fresh,” Kuisl interrupted. “How can it be fresh when the man was buried more than a month ago?”
Simon stood still a moment with his mouth open wide. “You’re… you’re right,” he whispered. “It looks as if the grave was dug just yesterday.”
“Or it was excavated again. Look.” The hangman pointed to a place alongside the grave. “Here a little grass has already grown back, but beside that the ground is black and moist. And there are tracks here.”
“Tracks?” Simon bent down and noticed shoeprints at the edge of the grave, leading i
nto the tall grass some distance off.
Then, the medicus noticed something white shining in the high grass. He bent down and picked up a handkerchief wet with dew and rain. Made of the finest quality silk, it was embroidered with a tiny monogram in one corner.
A.
Simon shuddered when he realized what this letter reminded him of.
A for Aurora.
“My God,” he whispered. “Is it possible?” With the handkerchief in hand, he rushed back to the hangman and told him what he’d begun to fear.
“Do you really think this kerchief comes from the automaton?” Kuisl asked skeptically. “That this golem was here last night and dug up the corpse?”
Simon rubbed the wet cloth between his fingers, trying to figure out what it all meant. The cloth still smelled slightly of perfume. “I know it sounds crazy,” he said, “but perhaps there really is something to this talk about golems. Perhaps the puppet really is haunting the monastery.”
“Nonsense,” the hangman scoffed. “I believe in evil, but not in ghosts. Only we humans can be evil; we don’t need ghosts for that. You’ll see… there’s an explanation for all this.” He drew so hard on his pipe that Simon could hear the crackling embers and sensed his father-in-law seething inside. This was the sound of the hangman deep in thought.
“Now put that damned kerchief away before you drive your wife crazy. She’s already scared to death of this sorcerer.” Kuisl stomped over to the exit gate where Magdalena was already waiting with the children.
Shuddering, Simon tucked the handkerchief inside his jacket and ran after the hangman. They’d barely made it through the gate when they ran into the Schongau alderman, Jakob Schreevogl. The patrician was panting and needed some time to catch his breath.