“What’s this?”
“Your friend, the Dominican with the fair hair,” the servant panted.
“Yes? And? Out with it!”
“He gave it to me, sir.”
“Without saying anything? Pull yourself together, man. Where did you meet him?”
“He met me, sir. We were checking the area around St. Cecilia’s when he suddenly appeared. He was pushing a large handcart, fully loaded, with a blanket over it, all I know is—no, just a minute, I was to tell you the cart was full of life and that it was, was—how did he put it, for God’s sake?—oh yes, it was of the utmost importance that you read the letter, and, and—”
He halted. From the expression of despair on his face, it was clear he had lost the thread of Urquhart’s words.
“Remember,” Matthias barked at him, “or it’ll be the last thing you forget.”
“—and lose no time at all.” As the words came rushing out, the servant heaved a sigh of relief.
Impatiently Matthias tore the scroll out of his hand, untied the thong, and started to read. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kuno edging closer. Lowering the letter, he gave him an icy stare. “It’s about time you left.”
“You can’t simply send me away like that,” wailed Kuno. “I promise to make up for my mistake—”
“Go!”
Breathing heavily, Kuno stared at him for a moment, as if undecided whether to fall to his knees or strike Matthias down. Then he angrily gathered his cloak around him, turned on his heel without a further word, and stalked off. Matthias watched him until he had disappeared through the gate.
The servant was hopping nervously from one foot to the other. “There’s something else, sir—”
“Out with it, then.”
With a nervous start, the man began his tale, but went about it in such a stuttering, roundabout way, Matthias at first had no idea what he was trying to tell him. Finally he realized they had allowed the redhead and the dean to escape.
He stared at the parchment. “You all deserve a good thrashing,” he said. A thin smile appeared on his lips. “However, the news is not entirely bad and I’ve better things to do at the moment. Get back to your post before I change my mind.”
The servant made a clumsy bow and ran off.
Matthias waved his chief clerk over and gave him a series of instructions. Then he left the wharf and hurried up Rheingasse, past the Overstolz mansion to the modest building where Johann performed his miracles of accounting. He flew up the stairs, two at a time, and burst into Johann’s office.
“The dean and the redhead have got away,” he cried, slapping the scroll down on the table, right under Johann’s nose.
Johann looked up. He seemed worn out. “I know,” he said dully. “And I can add that we have two further deaths to—how shall I put it?—to cheer? To deplore?”
“What!? Who?”
“Urquhart’s witnesses. Things get around. Someone has disturbed the discreet activities at the Little St. Martin bathhouse. For the moment they’ve arrested the owner and his assistants. Some whores also fell under suspicion.” Johann snorted. “But they say the whores have been freed. No one could explain how they managed to break three ribs of one of their customers, plus his shoulder blade and neck.”
“And the other?” asked Matthias, fascinated.
Johann shrugged his shoulders. “They can’t decide whether he drowned or suffocated.”
“Well, well, well.”
Johann stood up and went to the window. “Matthias, I can’t say I feel happy about all this. I thought Urquhart was going to be our instrument, but I’m starting to feel like the butcher who took on a wolf as his assistant. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Of course.” Matthias went over and held up the scroll in front of his face. “But before you start worrying about Urquhart, you should read his message.”
With a dubious look, Johann took the scroll. He read it, read it again, then shook his head in disbelief. “He’s taken a hostage?”
“Yes. And we’ve got a safe hiding place.”
“Not in the house again!”
Matthias made a calming gesture. “No, not in the house. I was thinking of the old warehouse by the river. No one ever goes there. Everything will be over by tomorrow, God—or the Devil, if you prefer—willing. Then he can do what he likes with his hostage, and with all the foxes and deans he can find. The important thing is that they all hold their tongues until then.”
“Tomorrow,” whispered Johann.
Matthias grasped his arm, squeezing it hard. “We’re so close to success, Johann, we mustn’t lose heart now. Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow! Let’s keep our minds fixed on tomorrow.”
Johann kept looking out of the window. Life outside was so peaceful, so orderly, everything in its place. What would things be like after tomorrow?
“Send one of the servants to show him the way,” he said.
“The servants are too woolly headed,” Matthias snapped. “The one who came to tell me they’d lost Jaspar and the Fox, for example, forgot to mention the two dead bodies in the bathhouse. I’d prefer to see Urquhart myself.”
“Too risky. It was bad enough bringing him to the house.”
“I—”
“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have thought of a better idea. Send one of the servants to go with him, no, better get him just to tell Urquhart the way—and hand over a supply of leather straps,” he added with a humorless smile. “Hostages are best when they’re tightly tied to one’s interests.”
“He’ll make sure of that.” Matthias grinned.
“I hope so.” Johann ran his fingers through his hair, then went back to his desk. “With all this to worry about, the work’s just piling up,” he moaned.
“Perhaps. But it’s worth it.”
“Yes, you’re right, of course. See the necessary steps are taken. I’ll inform the others.”
In the doorway Matthias turned around. “By the way, Kuno wants to come back,” he said hesitantly.
Johann looked up. “Did he tell you that?”
“Yes. Just now.”
“And what did you say?”
“I sent him away. Although—” Matthias frowned. “Perhaps it would be better to send him straight to hell.”
“I didn’t hear that,” said Johann grimly.
“No? Oh, well,” said Matthias, “a time and place for everything, eh, Johann? A time and a place for everything.”
THE LIVING DEAD
Thrrummp!
A hole in the road. Full of water.
Jacob would have liked to be able to feel his body all over. He had the suspicion his breastbone had slipped down to somewhere near his pelvis. For the time being, however, he had to abandon his efforts to free his fingers from the grip of the planks above. As long as the cart was still moving, there was nothing for it but to wait patiently and pray to some saint or other who had been in a similar situation.
He was sopping wet. Windmills were whirling inside his head. No saint had ever been through anything like this. They were grilled over a low flame, boiled in extra-virgin olive oil, cut up with red-hot pincers, or pulled in all directions at once by four horses. None had ever gone to heaven via a cart shaft. It was ridiculous.
Jacob stared at the planks. By now he knew every line and curve of the grain. His imagination turned them into rivers through a dark forest, into unmade roads like this one, pitted and fissured; the panorama of wormholes became a hellish, crater-pocked landscape and the knothole a mysterious land beyond human knowledge. You didn’t realize what there was in a simple piece of wood until you were forced to stare at it from close proximity.
After what seemed like an eternity he heard the carter shout, “Whoa.” As far as he could tell from his admittedly restricted viewpoint, there was nothing around that suggested human habitation. He saw the carter’s legs as he jumped down. They moved away, parted. There was a splash as a stream of urine hit the ground.
Jacob tri
ed once more to free his fingers from the planks. He went about it systematically this time, one by one, instead of trying to pull them all out at once. He began with the little finger of his left hand, twisting and jiggling it, freeing it little by little until it was released. One out of ten! At least it was a start. If he could get one out there was hope he might eventually be able to resume an upright posture.
He just had to keep on twisting and jiggling.
The relieved carter came back, climbed up into his seat, and urged the horses on. He would have to make do with just the little finger for the moment.
Some time later Jacob saw walls along the side of the road. Once he briefly heard voices. Then, with a repeat of the nerve-jangling noises, the cart turned off to the right onto a flat area, where it halted. Clearly it was likely to be a longer stop this time, since the carter had disappeared into a building a few yards away.
Patiently Jacob set to work. Now that he no longer had to brace himself against the swaying and shuddering of the cart, it turned out that things weren’t as bad as he thought. The remaining fingers of his left hand did cling rather obstinately to the planks, but once they were free, the right hand slipped out by itself and Jacob fell off the shaft onto the dusty ground.
With a sigh of relief, he lay there, trying to recover. Then he examined his hands. His knuckles hurt and were bleeding, but he didn’t care. He had escaped and that was the only thing that mattered.
Only—escaped to where?
Like a little mouse, silent and on all fours, he crept out from under the cart and surveyed the terrain. His first impression was of a spacious courtyard or, rather, a gently rising square ending a little way ahead in an ivy-covered wall with closely planted trees behind. On the right was a long row of low buildings, not dissimilar to a monastery dormitory, with a wide entrance leading into a still larger open space. Beyond it the squat tower of a small church could be seen, also surrounded by trees. From the closest building, where the carter had gone, Jacob could hear the faint sound of voices.
He walked around the cart and saw a wall with a gate, through which they had evidently come.
A gate that two men were just closing.
He quickly pulled the hood back over his head. He couldn’t make out what kind of building this was. It didn’t seem to be a monastery, nor a village or hamlet, and the walls were too low for a castle compound. The men wore cloaks and hoods, but they weren’t monks. His preferred option was to run away, but that was no longer possible. The two men could turn at any moment. Better to take the bull by the horns.
Assuming a dignified priestly posture, he went over to one of the cloaked figures and tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said.
The man turned around.
Jacob recoiled in horror. He was staring at a decaying skull without nose or lips. Where the left eye should have been was a hole gleaming with yellow pus. The other was regarding him expressionlessly.
Unable to repress his retching, he took another step back.
The being stretched out something toward him that had perhaps once been a hand and came closer. Unarticulated grunts came from its throat. Now the other man had joined them. A tangle of beard covered his face, which was unmarked, apart from a few weeping patches. With a suspicious look, he watched Jacob as he staggered back, unable to take his eyes off the horrifying figure. Then he burst out into harsh laughter.
Slowly they came toward him.
Jacob turned and ran toward the church, where a few men and women were standing, talking quietly among themselves. As he approached they looked up at him.
Ravaged faces. Missing limbs.
At that moment the door of the building where the carter had gone opened. A man whose legs ended at his knees crawled out to see what was going on. Laboriously he struggled in Jacob’s direction. The two from the gate were catching up with him while the group by the church prepared to encircle him. Desperately Jacob searched for an escape, but wherever he looked the place was bounded by walls. He was trapped. They had surrounded him, were ready to fall on him, tear him to pieces, transform him into one of them. Jacob’s head was ringing. He stumbled and fell to his knees.
One of the men opened a hole of a mouth with spittle dribbling out, and squatted down. “Can we help you?” he asked politely.
Help? Jacob blinked and looked around. Regarded dispassionately, one could hardly say they had surrounded him. On the contrary, they were observing him timidly and keeping their distance.
Again the bearded man from the gate laughed. “Hannes always gives them a fright the first time,” he roared. It didn’t sound at all threatening, just amused and friendly. The strange grunts were still coming from the faceless man’s chest, but now Jacob realized he was laughing, too, the laughter of a man with no mouth, probably no tongue.
The bell inside Jacob’s head stopped ringing. “Where am I?” he asked, getting back to his feet. He could feel his heart beating at the top of his chest, just below his throat.
The two men exchanged puzzled glances, then looked at Jacob again. “You’re in Melaten. How can you not know the leper colony, since you came here yourself?”
Melaten! The leper colony! The largest in Cologne, to the west of the city, on the road to Aachen. He had escaped—to a leper colony!
The living dead, they called them. To contract leprosy meant to be taken away from your family and friends, no longer be part of their lives. The laws were inexorable. There was even a rite, with obsequies, eulogy, and last blessing, in which the congregation said farewell to lepers as to someone who had died. After that they began their lives in the leper community, away from society. Any contact with healthy people—in church, at the market, the inn, the mill, the communal oven—was forbidden on pain of punishment. They were not allowed to wash in flowing water. If they wanted to buy something, they were not allowed to touch it until they had bought it. If they should happen to speak with a healthy person, they had to keep downwind of them. They were only allowed to go out of the colony with the permission of the hospice master, only allowed to visit the city on a few days of the year to beg, clearly identifiable in their jacket and breeches, white cloak down to their knees, white gloves, and large hat, and carrying their wooden rattle so people could hear them coming.
Lepers died twice. They were the dead who were still waiting for death. Excluded from society and left with nothing but their hope of heaven. Those who could afford it bought a place in a leper house like Melaten, one of the largest in the German Empire, others built primitive shacks on designated land or lived a vagrant life.
The immense pity everyone felt for them was only outweighed by their revulsion.
Jacob shivered. He pulled his habit around him and clasped his arms tightly. “Excuse me, but—” He shot a quick glance at the gate.
“Did you come with the cart?” asked the man.
“Yes, I—”
“Saint Dionysus be praised! You must be the priest they were going to send. Follow me, Father, he’s in the last house. Though whether he’s still alive or not, I don’t know.”
Now they thought he was a priest! Was he going to have to give someone the last rites? “I—I really ought to be going,” he stammered.
The man shook his head. “It won’t take long, Father. Who else is there to pray for him?”
“Pray? But I’m—no, wait.” Jacob rubbed his eyes and thought. He was wearing a habit, therefore he was a monk. Would they let him go if he admitted he wasn’t?
He’d think of a way out of the situation. Somehow. “Good,” he said, “let’s go.”
“No!” It was a well-known voice that rang out.
Jacob spun around. “Jaspar!” he exclaimed, as much in bewilderment as relief.
“I’ll do that,” said Jaspar, as if their meeting was expected. “Got here before me, did you? Have you been cadging a lift again? No matter. You wait here. My novice,” he explained to the man. “A bit timid, unfortunately, and not quite right in the head, eit
her. Always forgetting things, sometimes even his own name.”
“A bit old for a novice, isn’t he?” said the man hesitantly, with a side glance at Jacob.
“Yes. It’s his low intelligence. He’ll never rise any higher.”
Jacob’s chin sank. “Hey, Jaspar, what’s all this?”
“You just keep your mouth shut and wait for me, d’you hear? Stay here till I get back, don’t run away and don’t talk to people.”
“But—”
“No buts. Sit over there by that wall.”
Speechless, Jacob watched him go with the man and a few others across to the buildings, entering the last one. The lepers remaining outside went about their business, leaving Jacob by himself. With a shake of the head, he sat down against the church wall and examined his scraped fingers again.
It was quite a long time before Jaspar returned. The man was still with him. “I’m glad his sufferings are at an end,” Jacob heard him say.
“The grace of the Lord is immeasurable and His ways a mystery to us” was Jaspar’s devout reply. “Peace be unto his soul. Spend the night in prayer for him. He partakes of eternal life, but his way will be hard and full of danger. The Powers of Darkness lie in wait for him on his way to heavenly bliss, like robbers trying to steal his soul.”
“We will pray, I promise. In the meantime may I invite you to a mug of wine in our inn?”
“Thank you for the kind thought, but my novice and I have a long walk ahead of us. To the leper house on Judenbüchel.” Jaspar put on a mournful expression. “The same story. It’s a tragedy.”
“The Lord is calling many to appear before Him at the moment.”
“He calls them to join the heavenly choirs in praising Him.”
“Surely. By the way, I heard there have been some strange deaths in the city.”
Jacob went over to join them. “I—” he said.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep your mouth shut?” snapped Jaspar, then went on to the man, “If you would like to do me a favor, you could let me have a couple of white cloaks, pairs of gloves, and hats. There was a fire in the washhouse and they’re a bit short of them in the Judenbüchel house at the moment. Some of them need to go into the city tomorrow. Oh, and two rattles. If you can spare them, of course.”