Friedrich paid close attention as Marla introduced the men in the room: the brothers Tuchman, Rudolf and Josef, who smiled and nodded; Thomas Schwartzberg, tall and lanky, who gave an easy grin; Hermann Katzberg, short enough to almost be a dwarf; Isaac Fremdling, dark and intense, standing with arms crossed; Paul Georg Seiler, dour but still giving a nod; and three of the Amsel brothers, Matthaüs, Marcus and Johann, alike as three sons of the same parents could be, with only the difference in their years providing any solid clue as to which was which.
These were the men in Marla Linder and Franz Sylwester’s inner circle. He noted them and made sure he knew the names and faces. These were the men who had come to Magdeburg and coalesced into a nucleus of musicians around which the new music seemed to pour out like water from a fountain. It behooved him to know them, and know them well.
“My thanks to you all,” he responded to the introductions. “I am here to simply see how my words fit with the music. Do not let me stop or interfere with anything.” He looked around for a chair, but saw they were all occupied. There was only a stool in one corner. He strode over and took a seat, resting his chin on his clasped hands atop his walking stick.
For the next half hour he was a silent witness to a master at work. The Amsels and Paul Georg Seiler were also just observers, but the others played the music, three violins, two flutes, and a harp. Marla worked with them as separate groups first: beating time; leading them to phrase certain notes together; adjusting the tempo here, the volume there; cajoling, urging, driving them to achieve a fusion of sound. Friedrich noticed that both Franz and Matthaüs Amsel were making notes along the way.
At the end of the half hour, Marla brushed an errant strand of hair out of her face, looked at them all, and said, “All right, let’s try it together. English first.”
She stepped to one side and Franz stepped forward. “One, two, three,” he counted. The three violinists began, playing unison notes, low-pitched and regular on the beat. At the end of the second measure, Marla opened her mouth.
“Do you hear the people sing…”
Logau sat, transfixed. He almost forgot to breathe. God above, the woman’s voice was like nothing he had ever heard. He had heard her sing from a distance once, but to be in this room, to sit almost within arm’s reach of her, and to hear her sing so…so indescribably. For once, he, the man of words, had no words at hand that could describe such a sensation.
The song was short, and all too soon Marla’s voice ceased sounding. Logau twitched and sat up straight, taking a deep breath.
“Good,” Marla said matter-of-factly. “We’ll work the parts some more later, but that was good. Now with the German words, so Herr Logau—Friedrich—can hear his work and judge its fitness. From the top, gentlemen.”
Again Franz gave the count; again the violins began the low rhythmic pulsing. Again Marla’s lips opened, and beauty poured forth.
Logau forced himself to ignore the siren song of Marla’s voice and concentrate on the words. Image followed image: angry men singing, men who would no longer be slaves, men responding to the sound of the drums, all for the sake of tomorrow. Then came the verse calling these men forth to stand forth and be a part of reaching that future.
The chorus of angry men sounded again. It was followed by the second verse calling men to sacrifice and martyrdom. And then the chorus again, the final time, flutes skirling and violins somehow evoking martial airs.
The last line rang out, and the song again came to a close. Logau closed his eyes for a moment, calming his heart. He opened them again, to find the gaze of all the others fixed on him.
He licked his lips, for a moment uncertain. “Frau Marla, are you sure…” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Are you certain you want to sing this song, now, the way things are?”
“Now, yes, by all means now,” Marla replied forcefully. “This song was made for this time. I will stand before the face of the chancellor and throw this in his teeth if I must. Just watch me.”
Logau looked around the room, suddenly aware that he was an alien in this group. Thomas and Hermann echoed Marla’s smile. The others, even Johann Amsel, who was not much more than a youth, wore hard-eyed expressions. He was struck by the resemblance to a painting he had once seen of Alexander the Great surrounded by his captains. He saw in this room that same edge, that same ferocity, that same obdurate hardness that was in the faces of the captains in that picture. Being on the receiving end of those stares was not a comfortable sensation.
He stood, gave a slight bow to Marla, and addressed her formally. “As you will, Frau Linder.” He was not astonished to hear that his voice was a bit unsteady. He stepped to the table and collected his hat, then turned to face them all again. “And do you know when you will unleash this upon an unsuspecting world?”
Marla’s face softened, the smile slipping away. “On January 19th, at the Green Horse Tavern.”
Logau gave a final nod. “I will be there.” He settled his hat on his head, touched his walking stick to the brim. “Good day to you, Frau Linder, meine Herren.”
* * *
After the door closed behind Logau, Marla sighed and looked around. “That’s all for today, guys. Can we meet at our house in two days?”
There were murmurs of assent as the others cased instruments and gathered coats. They left quietly, leaving Marla standing with Franz. He set his violin on the table and came and stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her beneath her chin and resting his hands on the opposite shoulders. She leaned back against him, drained, almost exhausted, and pressed her hands against her face for a moment. “Am I crazy to be doing this?” She dropped her hands and turned in his embrace to rest her head on his shoulder. “God, Franz, I…” Her voice broke, and she could feel tears forming in her eyes.
“Shh, shh,” Franz said. His hand rose to cup the back of her head, beneath the rubber band that was holding her pony tail. “If you feel it needs to be done, then it is not a crazy thing.”
“It’s just that…I don’t know…I never cared about politics in my whole life, but what the chancellor wants to do…that world would kill me. I couldn’t live in it. And it would kill my babies. I’ve already lost Alison. I can’t…I can’t…” Marla gulped.
“Shh,” Franz said again. His embrace strengthened, until she felt for a moment as if she were held in oak. “It is enough that you feel this must be done. We will do it; for you, and for Alison’s memory.”
Chapter 23
Ciclope walked up to the gate at the construction site. “You looking to hire anybody?” he asked the burly man standing there with a clipboard in hand and a shallow helmet on his head.
“Might be. You have any special skills?” The burly man spoke in a gravelly voice without looking up.
“I am strong, I can use a shovel or a pick, and I have laid a course or two of stone in my day.”
“We will be laying brick. It is not the same.”
Ciclope shrugged. “I can learn.”
The man looked him over, seeming to pay more attention to his hands than anything. He looked back to his clipboard as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Go see Heinrich, the mason boss. He should be over by the brick supply in the northeast corner. Tell him I said to give you a try.”
“And you are?”
The man looked up again. “I’m Leonhart Kolman, head crew boss for Schiffer Construction. Remember that name.”
“Got it.” Ciclope nodded.
Kolman focused on the clipboard and jerked his thumb again. “Get moving.”
Ciclope got. Once he was through the gate and past the crew boss, he slowed his pace and looked around. Pietro had hired on two days earlier as a general laborer, and had spent last night describing the layout of the construction site to him. Right: brick pile to the northeast, sand for mortar to the southeast, lumber pile to the northwest, and the excavation site to the southwest. Lots of men hurrying across the site in different directions. And that derrick pointing u
p to the sky swinging a cable with a load of barrels hanging from it must be the steam crane.
The arsenal masters in Venice must be rubbing their hands at the thought of getting one of those, he thought to himself. Whether the arsenal workers would accept it was another question.
Ahead he could see a group of men gathered together by the great mound of bricks on pallets. One was talking and gesticulating, the others were gathered around him. That was probably the mason boss.
Ciclope squared his shoulders and headed for him. He needed to convince the man to keep him on, or he and his partner would have a much harder time figuring out where to do their sabotage.
Maybe those months he spent apprenticed to that sot of a mason in Dresden all those years ago would come in handy after all.
* * *
Every day after he swept at Frau Zenzi’s, Simon would give a scrap of food to Schatzi. Most nights he would then go back to the rooms and spend the time nibbling on whatever food was on the table that night while Hans and Ursula talked, or while Ursula would read the Bible aloud to them.
But on some nights, perhaps every fortnight or so, Hans would meet him when he was done and they would go to the bear pit. The quality of Hans’ opponents did improve somewhat, but no one that Simon had seen gave the hard man a real challenge.
Tonight was one of those nights. Hans was waiting on him when he stepped out the door. “Come on.” He pounded a fist into the opposite palm. “It’s fight night.”
“Okay.” Simon kept on the lookout for Schatzi as they walked down the street, but there was no sign of her in the dimming evening light. He hoped the little dog was okay.
The walk out to the bear pit went quickly. Neither of them spoke much. Hans was in a good mood. His battered hat was shoved back on his head, letting his hair escape its confines. Simon looked over at his friend, walking along with his shoulders back and his hands tucked in his belt, whistling. Hans seemed immortal, indestructible.
The crowds had already begun to gather when they arrived. Simon saw Lieutenant Chieske and Sergeant Hoch walking among the voluble men. The lieutenant raised his head a bit when he saw Simon, then winked at him.
“Hans!” someone called out, which caused them to veer away from the pit. Simon’s eyes followed their new direction to see a man approaching with several companions. He was of middling height and build, shorter than Hans and definitely not as wide, dressed very well with a large gold ring on one hand. “Hans,” he exclaimed again in a resonant baritone, “I have been hearing of your exploits in the pit, and have come to see for myself.” He clapped a hand on Hans’ shoulder.
“It is good of you to come, Master Schardius,” Hans replied with a quick bob of the head and shoulders. “I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
So this was Hans’ employer, Simon realized, the very prosperous corn factor whose warehouse Hans labored in during the daylight hours. He looked at the man with fresh interest, only to be somewhat disappointed. Somehow he’d expected a man of Master Schardius’ wealth and reputation to be…larger, somehow more impressive.
“I shall only be disappointed if you lose, Hans.” The merchant squeezed his shoulder, then turned back to his friends. “Now, who will take my bets on Stark Hans? Anyone for even money? No? Then what odds will it take…”
The merchant wandered off. Simon noticed that Hans’ hands were fisted by his sides. “Hans? What’s the matter?”
Hans stood motionless for a long moment, then heaved a long breath in and out. “Nothing. Come on.” He turned back toward the pit. Simon followed, hearing the murmurs of “Stark Hans” all around them.
They climbed down the ladder into the pit, where Hans as usual took off his jacket and shirt and placed them on a ladder rung. His hat went on Simon’s head. The gloves went on his hands. He swung his arms a bit, but was staring off toward the crowd instead of his opponent. Simon grew concerned.
“Hans.” No reaction. “Hans!” Still no reaction. He reached out and touched his friend. Hans started and looked over at him. “The fight, Hans. Look at him,” Simon pointed to the other end of the pit, “not all those overstuffed pigeons who came to see you beat him.”
Hans looked at him for a moment, then a slow smile crossed his face. “Pigeons, huh?” He looked at the crowd again, then back at Simon. “Mayhap you’re right, boy. And you’re my luck, so I’d best listen to you.” His gaze went down the pit and locked on the other fighter. “So, let’s be about this.”
Just then Herr Pierpoint came down the other ladder and moved to the center of the pit. Simon didn’t listen as the up-timer went through his usual before-the-fight routine, focusing instead on the other fighter. Whoever he was, he looked to be more of a challenge than the last few men Hans had faced, especially poor Sokolovsky. He stood erect, head up and eyes staring at Hans. There was no fat around his middle; he was lean, and a bit taller than Hans. Simon shivered all of a sudden. Hans might have to work for this one.
Herr Pierpoint pointed to the timekeeper and the bell rang. Hans stepped forward, and the fight began.
In the event, Simon needn’t have worried. This fight was more of a contest than any that Simon had seen before, true. The other fighter was good enough to land a number of solid body blows, and early on he managed to thoroughly blacken Hans’ left eye. But in return, Hans’ relentless pounding just wore the other man down. He dropped in the seventh round.
The crowd went wild—as Simon had come to expect. But even for a fight night crowd, they were very exuberant. He looked at the people leaning over the rail, shouting and pounding on each other. At the same moment, he caught a whiff of the old blood smell from the pit itself. And in a moment of insight well beyond his years, Simon saw that the people cheering for Hans would most likely have been cheering on the dogs in the bear baitings that used to occur in the pit. That almost made him want to throw up, and he only kept his supper in his stomach by gulping hard a couple of times and taking deep breaths.
Hans walked over to Simon after Herr Pierpoint lifted his arm in victory. He was breathing deeply and flexing his hands, but there was a smile on his face. “That was a good fight,” he said. “That man knew what he was doing.” A touch to his left eye brought a wince, but didn’t dim the smile. “A good fight,” Hans repeated. He started whistling again as he donned his clothes, finishing off by plucking his hat off Simon’s head and giving the boy’s hair a ruffle.
Up the ladder they went. Simon had been up and down the ladder so many times over the last few weeks that he’d learned how to balance himself to get on and off at the top and didn’t even think about it now.
“Now, where’s Tobias?” Hans was looking around.
“Ferret-face,” Simon muttered. Hans heard him and laughed.
“There he is.” Hans pointed and they pushed their way through the crowd, accepting congratulation and claps on the back as they moved. In a moment Hans had Tobias by the arm and was watching him count out bills.
Simon counted along with them. “…ten, eleven, twelve.” Twelve hundred dollars! Hans was making even more money for each fight. It still amazed Simon that people would pay to see a fight, despite all the proof he had received over the last weeks.
“Twelve for tonight,” Hans said as he pocketed the money. “Next time it’s fifteen.”
“Fifteen!” Tobias almost screamed. “That’s robbery!”
Hans shrugged. “The people pay to come see me. If you want me in your fights, the price is now fifteen hundred dollars.”
Tobias’ eyes nearly popped out of his head. This increased his resemblance to the weasellike ferrets to such an extent that Simon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting out laughing. They left Tobias wordless and huffing.
“There you are, Hans.” The crowd parted to let Andreas Schardius and his friends through. “You are indeed the Samson of Magdeburg. Congratulations on your win tonight. May it not be the last.”
“Thank you, Master Schardius,” Hans said. Simon could h
ear a strained note in his voice.
The merchant waved a hand. “I’m so glad you didn’t disappoint me, Hans. If you had lost, well, it would have been costly.” With that, he turned and walked away.
Simon was alarmed. Hans’ hands were fists again. He laid a hand on Hans’ arm. “Hans…Hans…pigeons, remember.”
After a moment the fists relaxed, but this time there was no smile. “No, Simon, not a pigeon. Not that one. A kestrel, maybe, or better yet, a carrion crow.” Hans spat as if clearing his mouth. “Come on.”
* * *
Byron and Gotthilf looked at each other from where they stood on the fringe of the crowd.
“Interesting,” Gotthilf said.
Byron nodded.
* * *
The torchlight around the bear pit dimmed behind them. The moon was in half-phase, riding high in the sky, so their way was lit before them. Simon was perplexed, and finally worked up his courage to ask a question.
“Hans?”
“Hmm?”
“Why is Master Schardius not a pigeon?”
Hans spat again. “The preachers say that we are God’s flock, the sheep of His pasture. They might as well say we are the pigeons in His roost. Sheep and pigeons are both stupid, messy, nasty creatures, helpless for the most part. That probably describes most people—certainly the ones you and I know.” They walked a few steps farther on. “But there are always those who prey on the flocks. Call them wolves, or hawks, or carrion crows…” Hans kicked a rock out of his path. “…but they batten on the misery of others. And some of them…” Simon heard the smack of a fist into a palm. “…some of them feed on pain. And Master Schardius,” loathing dripped from the title, “he is one of the worst. He misses no opportunity to increase his wealth at the expense of others. I know that he brings stolen property into Magdeburg on his barges. I know that he cheats his customers, giving them short weights when they buy his grain. And I know that he delights in tearing at people to cause pain or to receive gain, and if he can do both at once then he is a happy man.”