1636: The Devil's Opera

by Eric Flint

  “Ten thousand dollars; in good silver, mind you. I don’t hold with paper money.”

  “All right.”

  Ciclope was surprised that Schmidt didn’t try to bargain with him. He must be desperate.

  Schmidt actually relaxed a little now.

  “How will you do it?”

  “Well, I’m not going to blow him up, with Pietro dead.” Ciclope took his hat off his head with his right hand while pulling Pietro’s pistol from his coat pocket with his left hand and sliding it under the hat on the table. He tilted the hat for a moment, so that only Schmidt could see the pistol. “But I can take care of him, have no doubt.”

  He slid the pistol out from under the hat and put it back in his coat pocket.

  “Now, who is it you need removed?”

  Schmidt’s throat worked as he swallowed.

  “Schardius. Andreas Schardius.”

  Chapter 53

  From the beginning it was obvious this would be a fight like no other in Hans’ career. The crowd knew it, and their yelling approached the level of a frenzy as the two men approached each other. Hans circled the bigger man slowly, hands up, arms tucked in. Recke just turned in place, flat-footed, fists at the level of his chin.

  The action began when Hans stepped in and threw a punch at Recke’s gut. The big man didn’t bother to block the blow but threw a riposte at Hans. He ducked but not enough and the punch glanced off the top of his head. He stepped back and shook his head, testimony to Recke’s power.

  The first round consisted of the two fighters feeling each other out. The second started out the same way, but midway through it Recke went on the attack. He smashed a fist through Hans’s guard and delivered a thundering body blow. It was followed up by a punch to the head and one to the chest. Hans was staggered and his defense wavered.

  Recke was not lightning fast; nowhere near as quick as Hans. But he was faster than anyone in the Magdeburg crowd would have believed before the fight. The crowd noise faltered as they saw their favorite being stalked around the ring. Not every Recke punch connected, but enough did that Hans was definitely absorbing some punishment. A cut had opened on his left cheek and blood was beginning to trickle down.

  Simon’s stomach was churning so badly he thought he was going to be sick. He wished with all his heart that Hans had not accepted the fight, but he knew that Hans being who he was, that would never have happened.

  The bell ending the second round rang. The two fighters retreated to their corners. Simon watched as Hans picked up the towel and wiped the blood from his face. He’d never seen Hans cut before. His skin crawled at the thought of it.

  The third round began. Now Hans tried to take the fight to Recke. He would dance in and out, throwing mixtures of punches, trying to wear down his opponent. The problem was his punches seemed to be having no effect. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of the hits made by Recke. When the big man connected, everyone could see Hans absorbing the jolt.

  Fourth round—more of the same.

  It was early in the fifth round when Hans finally did some damage. After several attempts at body blows, he unleashed a straight right hand that landed full on the big man’s nose. Everyone around the ring could hear the crunch of the broken cartilage. Blood began streaming from the now misshapen nostrils.

  Recke wiped his hand across his mouth. When he saw the blood, he growled…or at least, that’s what it sounded like to Simon. The big man hunched his shoulders and stepped up the pace, launching a flurry of punches that had Hans back-stepping and blocking and ducking. Punches landing on his arms and shoulders had Hans twisting. But then the worst one hit; a low blow caught Hans in the groin; he dropped to the canvas, clutching himself. The crowd screamed, Simon among them, and pointed to the Hannover fighter.

  Herr Pierpoint jumped in between them and ordered Recke back to his corner. For a moment, it looked to Simon as if the big man was going to throw the referee aside and finish Hans off, but he finally backed away. Pierpoint didn’t take his eyes off Recke, but backed up until he could kneel by Hans. He finally looked at Hans. “Can you continue?” Simon heard him ask.

  The fighter put one fist to the ground and pushed himself up. The referee watched him stand, moving in slow motion.

  Simon almost wished that Hans would give up. He couldn’t stand to see him hurt anymore. But he knew that Hans would continue.

  Hans stood straight, shrugged his shoulders and shook his arms. He took a deep breath and nodded to Pierpoint.

  The referee faced Recke. “One more low blow, one more breach of the rules of any kind, and I give the fight to Metzger.” His voice was loud and it carried well out into the crowd. He stared at Recke until the big man nodded. Just as Pierpoint was about to beckon the fighters to resume, the bell rang for the end of the round.

  Simon was glad. That gave Hans more time to breathe and try to shake off the effects of the low blow. The boy’s head was spinning. He was gulping great gasps of air himself, trying to keep from spewing or passing out. Gus laid an arm around his shoulders, and he didn’t care.

  The bell rang for the next round. Simon flinched in response.

  Round followed round; Simon lost count. The evening became a blur. All he could see was Hans taking punch after punch, the new cuts that opened in his cheeks and forehead, the blood that ribboned down his face and dripped on his body.

  Hans went down twice more. Each time it took longer to get back to his feet. And each time, as soon as he did get up Recke bored in; pitiless, relentless, ruthless. He was like a game hunter stalking a prize, taking aim with his fists, and watching as his prey weakened.

  All Simon could do was watch numbly as his friend endured horrific punishment.

  The end seemed near. The crowd was quiet. Simon hadn’t been able to watch during the last round, but when the bell rang at the end of it, he looked to see Hans stagger back to his corner, where he leaned against it, gasping deep breaths. All too quickly the bell rang for whatever round it was. Hans gave a weary push to straighten to his feet and go out to meet his foe.

  This time Recke unleashed a blow to the side of Hans’ head. It snapped his head around and he dropped to one knee. Simon came to his feet, hand at his mouth. The crowd, which had grown quiet, burst out in fresh noise. The referee jumped between the two fighters and again sent Recke back to his corner. Once Recke moved, Pierpoint turned and began counting.

  Simon looked at his friend, kneeling in the center of the ring. “Stark Hans,” slipped from his lips. He took a deep breath and shouted, “Stark Hans.” Heads turned near him. “Stark Hans,” he shouted again, Gus chiming in.

  The third time he shouted other voices joined him.

  The fourth time it seemed that half the crowd was shouting.

  “Stark Hans! Stark Hans! Stark Hans!”

  Everyone was shouting now.

  “STARK HANS! STARK HANS! STARK HANS!”

  Simon watched even as he shouted at the top of his lungs. Before Herr Pierpoint reached ten Hans rose to his feet. In the glare of the lights he seemed somehow to swell, to be larger than life. When the referee got out of the way, he rushed in and delivered a thunderous blow to Recke’s face, smack on top of his already smashed nose.

  The fresh blast of pain must have staggered Recke, for he stopped still for a moment. That was all Hans needed. He became a rapid-fire automaton, throwing punch after punch after punch, all aimed at Recke’s head.

  The crowd continued to shout for Stark Hans, Simon included. He shook his fist up and down and jigged from foot to foot, all the while shouting and all the while with his gaze glued on his friend’s magnificent return from the brink of defeat.

  Blow after blow landed on Recke’s blocky head, snapping it from side to side. Cuts opened, blood poured, his nose was smashed flatter and flatter and spread across his face.

  The final blow was an uppercut that seemed to rise from the ground. It landed on Recke’s chin. His head jerked back and he crumpled to the ground.
<
br />   Hans stood over his foe, glaring at his battered form. It took Herr Pierpoint a moment to get him to move back, then the ten count began and this time there was nothing to stop it.

  The crowd erupted in wild cheering. Hans lifted both arms in victory. The cheering resolved into thunderous chants of “Stark Hans. Stark Hans. Stark Hans.”

  Simon felt tears in his eyes as he chanted along with everyone else. He saw Hans turn to his side of the ring, look at him and grin. He waved back.

  Behind the victor, the defeated Recke stirred. He pushed to his hands and knees, shaking his head, then clambered to his feet where he wobbled a bit. Recke passed a hand in front of his eyes. With each passing moment his vision and his mind obviously began to clear. He shook his head again and saw Hans.

  Simon pointed to Recke, trying to shout to Hans to watch out. He couldn’t be heard over the chants of the crowd. Others began to point as well. Hans saw that and began to turn.

  Recke screamed and charged, arms spread wide. Simon watched in horror as Hans tried to evade. He spun far enough out of the way that Recke’s hand scraped down his back, leaving bloody furrows.

  The Hannoverian plowed into Hans’ corner. Hans was on him before he could turn. The official fight was over and Herr Pierpoint was no longer in charge. What happened now was governed by street law.

  Hans grabbed Recke’s hair and slammed his head into the corner post over and over again. When he released Recke, Hans did so only to slam several blows onto his kidneys.

  Recke was hurt. He tried to turn around and Hans let him stagger a few steps away from the corner before he kicked the back of the big man’s leg. On one knee, Recke was almost helpless as Hans delivered fists to his face and head. Then Hans threw a kick to his belly and he doubled over.

  Hans raised a fist. To Simon it seemed to reach up to the sky. For a split second, no one moved. Then the fist fell like a thunderbolt and hammered the back of Recke’s head.

  Recke dropped prone on the canvas. Hans stood over him, fists clenched, chest heaving.

  The crowd had gone quiet watching Hans take Recke down. No one doubted that Recke deserved it after his attack, but Hans’ violent response seemed to shock most of the crowd.

  Hans toed the form of his foe with his boot. Simon was afraid he was going to give Recke another kick, but Hans spat on him and turned away instead. Tobias tossed Herr Pierpoint the microphone, and he stepped over to Hans and raised his arm.

  “The winner,” Pierpoint proclaimed loudly, “and still undefeated champion, Staaark Haaans Meeetz-geeerrrr!”

  * * *

  The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Hans slowly climbed through the ropes and dropped to the ground, where he was immediately mobbed by what seemed like every male in Magdeburg over the age of ten, all shouting and congratulating and clapping him on the shoulder or back.

  Simon had been ignoring certain signals from his own body for what seemed like hours. Now that the pressure of the fight was over and his adrenaline was dropping, he became aware that his bladder was about to burst. He turned to Gus. “I’ve got to pee. Watch this and tell Hans I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He pushed Hans’ shirt and coat into Gus’ hands and headed for the darkness.

  Chapter 54

  “Schardius,” Ciclope mused. “A merchant?”

  Schmidt nodded.

  “This is the man you’ve been trying to ruin all this time?”

  Schmidt gave another jerk of his head.

  “So what has changed that you want him dead instead of ruined?”

  “All those dead men,” Schmidt whispered after a moment. “The Polizei will be looking, the CoC will be looking, and Schardius himself will be looking. If the Polizei or Schardius find me, I am ruined. If the CoC finds me, I am dead. But I will take Schardius down with me, no matter what.”

  “Ah.” Ciclope tilted his head to one side as he considered the man who had brought him and Pietro to Magdeburg; the man who was ultimately responsible for Pietro’s death. “I believe I understand.”

  “So will you do it?” Schmidt looked at him with hard eyes.

  Ciclope let the silence build, until Schmidt looked ready to explode.

  “Yes, I will do it.” He snorted as a look of relief passed over the other man’s face. “Just stay out of his sight until I can deal with him.”

  “He has a lot of men around him all the time.”

  Ciclope patted the pocket Pietro’s pistol was in.

  “I can deal with that.”

  * * *

  Simon hoped there wasn’t anyone from the CoC around, because he didn’t have time to search for the outhouses they had insisted be built out by the arena. From the sounds he was hearing, he wasn’t the only one who had the same problem.

  A couple of minutes later, business done and feeling at least a gallon lighter, he tugged his clothes back into order and started back toward the lights. Just as he was about to step out of a pool of darkness behind one of the light poles, he heard something that made him freeze against the pole, praying that no one could see him.

  “You idiot! Couldn’t you have found at least one good fighter in all of the Germanies?” The voice was that of Andreas Schardius. That resonant sound couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else. But the tone was so cold, and the words were so clipped. He didn’t sound anything like he did in the midst of the crowd. Simon shivered. Their voices, which had been quiet at first, were growing louder, like they were walking toward him. He shrank to the bottom of the pole.

  “I thought I had.” That had to be Karl Elting, Simon thought. From the tone of his voice, he was angry, too. “That fool Recke was supposed to be the best. God knows I offered him enough to take Metzger out.”

  “A fool brought by a fool,” Schardius snarled. Elting tried to object, but Schardius overrode him. “Shut up!”

  They moved into Simon’s view. He could see Elting being pushed back by Schardius’ hand around his neck. Now he was afraid to stay, but also afraid to move. Staying won.

  “Between the purse and the bets, you’ve cost me enough tonight as it is. Any more mistakes from you—well, after our talk the other day, you know what I would have done to that fool Vogler if the police hadn’t shot him. You’ll envy him if you say another word.” The last was delivered with a snarl that made Thomas shiver again. “We have to get back out there with the crowd. Smile. Be gracious. But don’t think that this is over. You owe me.”

  Schardius stomped off, Elting following in his wake trying to explain.

  Simon spared a moment for a big sigh, then headed back to Gus.

  * * *

  “Good job tonight,” Amber announced at the end of the rehearsal. “Tomorrow night’s dress rehearsal, the night after that we’re on for real. Everyone go home and get some rest.”

  She watched as the cast and crew grabbed their coats and other things and headed for the door. A few of them still bounced with excitement, but most of them were dragging a little. Long days and nights of rehearsal were beginning to tell on all of them, she thought. It would be a relief to actually go to production.

  “It feels like it’s coming together,” Marla said to her as she picked up her music folder.

  “Yeah, I think so,” Amber replied, “which is a good thing, considering we raise the curtain in forty-eight hours.”

  Amber looked at Marla for a moment, then looked around. Schardius hadn’t come that evening, for which she was thankful. No one else was close. Frau Frontilia and the props manager were getting the props table organized for the next rehearsal, and were definitely out of earshot. No one else was around by now.

  “So,” Amber said, “has Herr Schardius come on to you yet?”

  Marla shook her head, and said, “Nope. Not a whisper or a touch.”

  “Good,” Amber said. “Sorry, I should have warned you even earlier that he might try that.”

  “You knew?” Marla’s brows contracted.

  “No, I didn’t know for sure he would try an
ything,” Amber replied. “But I was in community and professional theater for thirty years, girl. I’ve seen men like him before, many times. I even married one of them, God help me. So, no, I didn’t know, but it still wouldn’t surprise me if he tries something even now.”

  “If he does, I’ll deal with it,” Marla replied. “He won’t get to first base with me, and if he tries anything he’s liable to be singing soprano right along with Master Andrea.”

  Amber smiled. Andrea Abati had a magnificent singing voice with the power of a big man’s lungs to drive it. But the voice itself was a soprano because Abati was a castrato.

  “I’ll be okay,” Marla smiled in return. “Promise.”

  Amber placed her hands on Marla’s shoulders.

  “Okay, but if that changes, you tell me, right?”

  Marla laughed. “I’m a big girl, Amber. I can take care of myself.”

  * * *

  Hans won free from the crowd just as Simon got back to take the clothes from Gus. Seen up close, Hans looked even worse than he did from the ring level. There were several cuts on his face and his brows. Both eyes were blacked and one was almost swollen shut. He leaned a little to one side and winced when he touched a hand to his ribs.

  The big man almost fell down on the bench. Simon and Gus helped remove his gore-sodden gloves, and both hands had swollen knuckles with blood oozing from split skin. Simon felt the return of his nausea and gulped to force it down.

  Herr Pierpoint dropped through the ropes and handed the purse to Hans. “Great fight, Hans!” He clapped him on the shoulder. “Now go home and heal up and don’t do this again.”

  Hans nodded without a word. He seemed to be having problems holding his head straight. Simon picked up the bloody towel scrap from the ground and tried to wipe the blood from his friend’s face, but all it did was move it around. Hans picked at his shirt, so Simon handed it to him. Before Hans fumbled into it, he leaned forward and slid the purse inside Simon’s jacket. “Hide that,” he slurred.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just hide it. Don’t let anyone see it.”