Kuisl’s gaze wandered aimlessly over the city wall as if he sensed something lurking behind it.
“Since last night I believe I know, too. If it’s who I think it is. But it’s not possible…” He hesitated. “He sent me a letter—a letter from a dead man.”
“Weidenfeld?” Teuber asked incredulously. “But…”
“Weidenfeld, ha!” Kuisl took out the crumpled note he had discovered in his breast pocket just two hours before. “The bastard was inside the bishop’s palace! At first I thought I was dreaming—until I found this letter.” Gingerly he held up the paper as if it were poison. “He must have brought it to me while I was sleeping. He probably bribed the guards and managed to slip in unnoticed. Or he’s a ghost.” His face darkened. “This man is dead. I killed him with my own hands. It’s impossible he’s alive.”
“Ghost or no ghost,” Teuber retorted. “If vengeance is what he’s after, why didn’t he simply slit your throat while he was inside the bishop’s palace?”
“He wants something more. He wants to torment me as long as he can. Look.” Kuisl handed the paper to Teuber. Squinting, the Regensburg executioner read the few lines, whistling softly between his teeth.
“Is it true what it says here?”
Kuisl’s lips became as narrow as the edge of a knife. “I—I don’t know,” he said finally. “To find out I’ll have to pull out each and every one of the bastard’s fingernails, one by one. And if he’s indeed a ghost, I’ll whip him straight back to hell.”
Teuber frowned. “But where are you planning to look for him? You have no idea where this damned Weidenfeld could be. Besides, I still don’t understand what this name is supposed to mean. That’s not the third inquisitor’s name. He goes by—”
“You idiot! You dumb ass!” Kuisl exploded. “You still don’t get it? Weidenfeld is not the name of a man; it’s the name of a place!”
Silence fell between them; only the shoveling of the gold diggers behind them was audible.
“A… place?” Teuber shook his head in disbelief. “But…?”
“Look here.” Kuisl pointed to the first line on the tattered sheet. “‘Greetings from Weidenfeld,’ it says, just as in the first letter he sent to Magdalena. It’s a greeting from a place! The names of all the battlefields I ever fought in were scratched on the walls in that cell: Magdeburg, Breitenfeld, Rain on the Lech, Nördlingen… and Weidenfeld. He’s the one who inscribed them down there to torment me. He even gave the dates, damn it!” Kuisl closed his eyes as if he were trying to remember something. “P.F.K. Weidenfeld, anno domini 1637. How could I ever forget that day! It’s the day he died.”
“So Weidenfeld is a battlefield?” the Regensburg executioner asked.
Kuisl gazed absently into space. “Not a battlefield, but a bad place, a wicked place. I tried to banish it from my mind forever, but it has been haunting me for years; I buried it but couldn’t banish it. When I opened the letter last night, it all came rushing back.”
Teuber’s eyes widened. “By all the saints, I think I’m beginning to understand. The second line of the letter—”
“I must go,” Kuisl interrupted gruffly. “At once. He’ll be waiting there for me.”
He began to climb over the muck toward the hole in the city wall but slipped suddenly and landed again on his injured shoulder.
“Damn!”
“Wait!” Teuber ran after him. “You’re injured, you have no weapon, and you don’t even know your way to Weidenfeld from here. If you—”
“Let me go! You don’t understand!” Kuisl drew himself up and continued to march to the top of the trash heap. Behind the ruins of the wall the Danube sparkled like a green ribbon in the sunlight, and soon the Schongau hangman disappeared through the ivy-covered breach in the city wall.
“I don’t understand? You damned thick-headed fool! Who do you think you are? My priest?” Teuber picked up a handful of rocks, then debris, and flung them through the hole in the wall. “You shameless good-for-nothing! Just how do you think you’re going to fight this devil all by yourself? He’ll tear you to pieces before you can utter an Ave Maria. Don’t you see you’re playing right into his hands?”
But no answer came from the other side. Teuber sighed, then hesitated a moment before ascending the pile of garbage.
“You’d better not believe I’ve risked the life of my entire family just to watch you die now, you bastard! Just hold on; I’m coming, too!”
Moments later he disappeared from sight.
The gold diggers shook their heads, picked up their shovels, and got back to the work of ridding the city of trash. Today was shaping up to be sultry and foul.
Simon stood in the shadow of a huge salt warehouse next to the boat landing, waiting nervously for the Stone Bridge to open. His heart was pounding as he watched the bridge guards slowly open the gate.
Just like Jakob Kuisl and his daughter after him, Simon had made his way through the hidden corridor into the storage room and out into the city from there. He had hoped he might find Magdalena somewhere in front of the bishop’s palace, but she was long gone. Only a short while ago this might have infuriated him, but now he was relieved. He knew where he could find her—at the home of that smug Venetian dwarf. There, at least, she’d be safe. And, considering what he now had in mind, it was best he acted alone.
Simon took the quickest way he knew through the city to the place he figured he could pick up the trail of the mysterious powder. The streets were still completely dark and deserted at this hour. Now, as he stood at the gateway to the Stone Bridge, waiting what seemed an eternity for it to open, his patience was put to the test.
While Simon drummed his fingers against the stone wall, he studied irritably the guards who calmly slid open one bolt after another. Why couldn’t these bastards hurry up? The fate of the city probably stood in the balance, and these half-drunk provincial constables couldn’t get their asses moving! Now Simon noticed he’d been chewing his fingernails for some time.
Ultimately the medicus had to admit he was happy Magdalena had gone to stay with Silvio. The situation was just too dangerous, and no one could predict who or what really awaited him where he was headed. Simon could only hope it wasn’t too late. Still, he couldn’t be the only one who’d come to this conclusion, could he? The ramifications of this powder’s existence were so great, so monstrous, so obviously horrible, that he couldn’t possibly be the only one to whom it had occurred by now. Simon breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently the conspirators hadn’t yet set their plan into motion. Of course, he first had to make sure his assumption was correct. If he was right, he’d go straight to the powers that be and…
Simon was painfully aware that city treasurer Paulus Mämminger was one of the most powerful men in Regensburg. Whom could Simon trust, then? It still wasn’t clear what Mämminger’s role was in this game, to say nothing of Nathan or the baldheaded murderer! For that reason Simon hadn’t taken the secret tunnel under the Danube. Nathan and his henchmen could very well be lying in wait for him there, their pockets lined by powerful men to whom Simon was no more than a pesky bug to be squashed.
The medicus bit his lip. He had to figure out whether his hunch was right before he could determine just whom to trust.
At last the guards managed to open the gate, and along with a dozen shopkeepers, farmers, and day laborers, Simon headed across the Stone Bridge. With fifteen arches, it spanned the river to the other side, where the Electorate of Bavaria began. In the slowly lifting morning fog, the medicus could see that the customs barrier on the other side was now raised. Walking briskly, his head bent, he hurried past the guards. The day before, Simon had found in the brewmaster’s room a brown felt hat, which he now drew down over his face. He could only hope the guards were too tired to look closely.
It seemed to work. He didn’t hear anyone call out after him, so, breathing deeply, he continued over the bridge, glancing over the railing at eddies that formed between the artificial islands. Rafts a
nd fishing boats glided under the arches and then passed by the Lower Wöhrd Island.
His goal was almost within reach.
About halfway across the bridge Simon caught sight of a wooden ramp that led to the larger island, the Upper Wöhrd. A little house with a clock tower stood at the entry to the ramp. Here a city official leaned back on a bench, eyes sleepy and small, taking pleasure in the first rays of morning sun.
Simon slowed his pace to avoid arousing suspicion.
“What business do you have on the Wöhrd?” the bearded guard asked gruffly. “You don’t exactly look like a miller or carpenter.” He squinted beneath his helmet as he eyed Simon. “You look more like a pen pusher to me.”
Simon nodded. “That I am.” He casually produced the tattered page he’d torn from the brewmaster’s herbarium. In the shadow of the gate’s parapet, it was just about impossible to make out anything on the page. Simon held his breath and prayed the guard would fall for the cheap trick. “The Wöhrd miller is behind on his taxes, and I’m here on behalf of the city.”
“Let me see that.” The bailiff tore the paper from Simon’s hand and studied it carefully.
My God, he’s going to call the guards! Simon thought. They’re going to lock me up, and all will be lost! All of Regensburg will—
“Fine. You may pass.” The bailiff pompously handed the paper back. “Looks all right to me.”
Simon nodded respectfully, suppressing a grin. This man was illiterate! Not even the drawings on the back had aroused his suspicion. Bowing a few times, the medicus took leave of the grim watchman and proceeded down the ramp. He waited a few yards before he dared to stand up straight.
At that moment he heard banging and pounding across the water. Not far from where he stood, mill wheels turned in the swift current, powering huge hammers and millstones inside the island’s several buildings and sheds. Clattering sawmills stood side by side with rattling grain, fulling, and paper mills. The island was a single rumbling beast, and Simon could almost feel its vibration underfoot.
The mill…
His goal was in sight. Now he only hoped his hunch was right.
The island was overgrown with low bushes, and it took Simon some time to orient himself in the daylight, but he finally recognized the big wooden gabled building to which Nathan had brought him that night. He slackened his pace, still uncertain what he might find inside. Was the mill being guarded?
On the spur of the moment he decided to avoid the main door and first take a quick look inside through one of the windows. He clambered up onto a stack of wood against the side of the building until he reached the sealed window shutters. Bending a slat to one side, he stared into the half darkness.
There wasn’t much to see. Just as last time, sacks of grain and flour were scattered throughout, and at the rear an enormous millstone creaked and groaned, driven by a water wheel on the building’s shore side. Simon was about to turn away when he spotted an especially large sack that had fallen from a larger pile and now lay by itself in the middle of the large room.
The sack was moving.
Simon blinked and took another look. Indeed, the big sack quivered and shook. Only now did the medicus realize it wasn’t a sack of grain at all but a person tied into a tight bundle. When this person rolled to the side and Simon saw her face, he had to suppress a scream.
It was Magdalena!
Her hair wet and tousled, her face pale, she trembled from head to toe. Nevertheless, her eyes flashed with anger, reminding Simon of a captured lynx.
Seconds later several figures emerged from the shadows inside the mill. Two were hefty thugs with broad shoulders and the fixed gazes of men accustomed to carrying out orders. Simon thought he recognized at least one of them from the raft landing. The third was different—small, he wore a red shirt with white ribbons and, on his head, one of those chic musketeer hats Simon so wished he could afford.
The man was Silvio Contarini.
Crossing his legs, the Venetian took a seat on a sack of grain and scrutinized the quivering bundle in front of him. During the whole trip on the river Magdalena had struggled in vain to free herself from her bonds. In the meantime she seemed to have tired, and her movements had grown weaker. Silvio shook his head regretfully.
“It’s really such a shame that our relationship had to come to this.” He sighed. “But the ways of the Lord are inscrutable. Believe me, I adore you all the same—your courage, your intelligence, and, of course, your beauty.”
“You miserable dwarf!” Magdalena barked as she tried to get up. “I’ll cut off your tiny little prick if you so much as touch me again!”
“Scusate, but that’s unavoidable,” Silvio purred. “After all, I need you for our experiment. But if you prefer, I’ll see that from now on, only these charming cavaliere—” He gestured to the two grinning behemoths at his side. “—that only their hands touch you. Would you prefer that?”
“What kind of damned experiment?” Magdalena snapped, a hint of uncertainty resonating in her voice. “Give it to me straight for once.”
Silvio settled onto his sack of grain as he might a chaise longue, folding his arms behind his head and looking around the mill as if for the first time. Wholly satisfied, he turned back to Magdalena.
“So tell me, what do you think all this is here?”
“Grain. Flour. What else?” the hangman’s daughter snapped.
Silvio nodded. “Esattamente. But flour from a very special grain.” With a flash, the Venetian thrust his sword into one of the bags on which he’d sat just a moment ago like a king atop his throne. Rye trickled through his fingers and spilled across the floor. Almost half of the grains were blackish blue in color as if they’d begun to mold.
“Freshly harvested and threshed from fields I leased around Regensburg,” he continued. “We’ve taken great pains to produce grain so pure. In fact, the color comes from a simple fungus that grows on the grain during warm, wet summers. The farmers fear it, but its effects are truly astonishing. You could almost say these grains are blessed by God. They give humankind the ignis sanctus, the Holy Fire.” Looking into Magdalena’s eyes, he added, “But you midwives probably know it better by the name Saint Anthony’s Fire.”
“My God!” Magdalena panted. Her face turned a shade whiter. “Saint Anthony’s Fire! Then inside all these grains is…”
Silvio nodded. “Ergot. Indeed. God’s poison. It offers man a vision of Judgment Day. Those who partake of it behold a vision of heaven… and hell. It’s said the grain is as old as humankind.” Again the grain trickled through his fingers. “Entire villages have given themselves up to the Almighty God after a taste. Men who’ve eaten bread baked with ergot-laced flour have gone into ecstasies, identifying witches and devils in their midst and destroying them. Twitching and dancing, they move through the streets singing our Savior’s praise. A purifying poison! I can proudly say that never has such a great amount of ergot been produced by the hand of man.” He gestured grandly at the sacks piled up all over the mill as a rapturous smile spread across his lips.
“Enough for an entire city.”
From his hiding place Simon watched the Venetian stand up and stride down the line of sacks like a commander inspecting his troops. Simon’s heart was racing. They should have guessed this from the start! Bluish, musty powder. Ground ergot! This fungus grew not only in rye but in other types of grain as well—and on more than one occasion it had infected entire grain fields, resulting in mass intoxication. People who ate contaminated bread went mad, and many even died. Only in very small quantities did it have any healing power, and even then it was primarily used to induce labor or abort a pregnancy. Now this madman intended to poison an entire city!
Simon cursed himself for not having considered this possibility before. Just the day before they’d left for Regensburg, the baker, Berchtholdt, had poisoned his maid, Resl, with ergot. The medicus had never seen the stuff in Schongau, so his father must have been storing it secretly. Before th
at Simon’s last experience with it was at the university in Ingolstadt.
He remembered the bathhouse owner’s illustrated herbarium, in which some types of grain had been highlighted. In his secret alchemist workshop Hofmann must have been producing an especially pure form of ergot. It had been right in front of Simon’s eyes all this time!
Desperately Simon tried to think of a way out, for himself and for Magdalena. The Venetian’s two hulking henchmen had withdrawn to a corner of the mill below and were taking turns drinking from a clay jug that—to judge from their blissful expressions—must have contained some high-proof brandy. All the same, the medicus was sure the thugs were still sober enough to present a real danger. What should he do? Alert the city guards? By the time the blundering bailiffs made it here from the bridge, Silvio would be long gone, and Magdalena with him. And who was to say that the patricians weren’t in on it themselves? Hadn’t Mämminger tried to get a hold of this powder, too? Hadn’t he hired a murderer to do just that?
At that moment Simon heard movement behind him. When he turned around, he was horrified to find another of Silvio’s servants climbing the woodpile like a cat. So there were three of them! This one had apparently been keeping watch by the door.
When the servant realized Simon saw him, too, he uttered a loud curse and reached for Simon’s foot a few inches away. The medicus kicked frantically and struck the man in the face. The servant tumbled back with a scream, bringing down some logs with him. As the whole pile started to shift, Simon could feel logs slipping beneath him and knew that at any moment he could be crushed among them like grain in a millstone.
He straightened up, trying to regain his balance atop the tumbling logs, and just managed to save himself with a daring leap to the side. With a loud crash, the logs on which he’d just been standing toppled to the ground. He watched the servant desperately try to crawl out from under the thundering chaos. In the next moment, however, a heavy trunk, which surely weighed a ton, crashed down on the man, silencing his cries abruptly.
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