Benedikta could only shake her head silently.
“Your Excellency, let me explain—” Simon started to say, only to be interrupted by Bonenmayr.
“My astonishment changed to distrust when, half an hour ago, the remains of Saint Felicianus were desecrated in a manner more diabolical than anything the world has ever seen!” The abbot shook his head as if he had just looked down into the jaws of hell. “The desecration of the very remains that your loyal companion, Madame Bouillon, wanted to view this morning. What an astonishing coincidence!” Bonenmayr looked from one to the other. “So tell me now, what is going on here? Speak up before I forget that our dear Savior preached love and forgiveness!”
Simon swallowed. Frantically, he tried to think how to dig himself out of this trap. Downstairs the Rottenbuch bailiffs were no doubt waiting to drag him off to the dungeon. He knew what would follow. It was as inevitable as the amen in church—namely, torture and an execution that would be the equal in every respect to what was in store for Hans Scheller. Desecration of relics! The hangman would probably rip open their stomachs, pull out their guts for all to see, and then burn them alive.
At the same moment, it occurred to Simon that the hangman would be none other than Jakob Kuisl! Ever since the death of the old Rottenbuch executioner, this district fell under his jurisdiction. Kuisl would look at them both with sad, empty eyes; shake his head, perhaps; then stuff them into an animal hide like slaughterhouse waste and drag them off to be burned.
And Magdalena would stand by and watch…
But perhaps there was a way out, after all. The medicus decided to lay all his cards on the table. He looked over at Benedikta, who was still sitting on the bed. She nodded almost imperceptibly.
“It’s not what you think,” he began. “This woman here is really the sister of Andreas Koppmeyer. Her brother discovered something that probably cost him his life…” Then Simon told the Steingaden abbot the entire story. He started with the death of the Altenstadt priest, then the crypt and the riddles, and his suspicion they were on the trail of the fabulous Templar treasure. He poured his heart out and put his future in the abbot’s hands.
Bonenmayr sat down on the only stool in the room, listening attentively while Simon told his story. When Simon had finished, the abbot remained silent for a long time. Outside, the bells were still tolling.
Finally Bonenmayr turned to the medicus. “Riddles pointing to a treasure that people have been looking for centuries…” He shook his head. “Simon, either you are crazy or that is the greatest lie that a convicted heretic ever told.”
“It’s all true!” Simon cried. “So help me God!” As proof, he picked the sword up from the bed and handed it to Bonenmayr, who ran his finger across the blade, examining the inscription.
“Heredium in baptistae sepulcro…” he murmured. “The heritage in the grave of the baptist…”
He looked up. “That doesn’t prove a thing. An epigraph on a sword, nothing more. Besides, who can prove this is, in fact, the sword of Saint Felicianus? It could be your own.”
“Ask Michael Piscator!” Benedikta chimed in. “He’ll verify that this is the sword from the coffin!”
“To do that, I’d have to hand you over to the Augustinian monks,” he said. “Desecration of relics is one of the worst crimes again Christianity. They’ll skin you alive—”
“I have a proposal,” Simon interjected. “We’ll work together to find this treasure! If we succeed, that will be the proof we’re not lying. We’ll donate all the money to the monastery in Steingaden, and nobody will ever find out who desecrated the bones of Saint Felicianus.”
Augustin Bonenmayr frowned. “I’m supposed to make a pact with heretics and the defilers of holy relics?”
“For the good of the church!” Simon replied. “After all, you have nothing to lose. If we don’t find the treasure, you can still turn us in.”
The abbot thought it over a long time. Outside, they could hear church bells ringing and shouts from far off. Evidently, the people of Rottenbuch still believed the devil was afoot in the monastery.
I hope they don’t look for him here in the inn, Simon thought anxiously.
Finally, Bonenmayr cleared his throat. “Very well, then. I’ll take the gamble. Under one condition.”
“Whatever you say,” replied Simon.
“Beginning now, the two of you will be in my custody. Here in Rottenbuch, you’re no longer safe, anyway. Brother Michael is not stupid. He’ll soon have people out searching for a French lady and her companion. Therefore, we’ll return to Steingaden at once.” He took the sword and opened the door. Only now did Simon see two burly looking monks who had been waiting outside. Noticing the look on Simon’s face, the abbot smiled. “Brother Johannes and Brother Lothar,” he said, introducing the two. “Both are novitiates who haven’t yet taken their vows and thus haven’t yet foresworn violence. They have many…experiences from before.” He started down the stairs. “Or did you think I would enter the room of two wanted defilers of the church without protection?”
Simon and Benedikta followed the abbot, with the two grim monks close behind.
Outside, four black horses hitched to a covered sleigh awaited them. Simon noticed that someone had already hitched Benedikta’s horse and his own to the rear of the sleigh. They would disappear without a trace. They took their places on padded seats alongside the silent monks and the abbot. The two huge novitiates stared impassively into the night, but Simon was certain that the two thugs dressed in monk’s habits would attack fast and decisively at the mere hint of an escape.
A whip sounded and the four-in-hand set out. Just before the wagon disappeared around the corner, a figure appeared and jumped up onto the back. Silently, the person climbed onto the roof and lay down flat so the cold wind would meet no resistance.
12
THE EXECUTION WAS set for twelve o’clock noon sharp on Saturday.
Since the early morning hours, people had streamed into the city from surrounding towns. At market stalls around the square, vendors sold sausages dripping with fat and piping-hot mulled wine that made everyone’s cheeks red and their eyes sparkle. A scissors grinder strolled down the Münzgasse with his whetstone, loudly proclaiming his services, and in the wooden booths hastily set up the night before, copper pots, clay bowls, and withered apples were displayed for sale. The air smelled of coal, horse sweat, and cow dung, which had been trodden underfoot. People laughed and chatted, and only occasionally did anyone cast a furtive eye in the direction of the dungeon, where watchmen stood guard.
Finally, at around eleven thirty, the death knell began—a high-pitched, plaintive sound—and the crowd fell silent. Now all eyes turned to the dungeon door, which opened with a loud grating sound and spewed out a small band of ragged figures.
People laughed and hooted, pointing at the slowly approaching line of prisoners. Was this pathetic group really the notorious Scheller gang? The night before, one of the robbers had died of cold and exhaustion. The five remaining men didn’t walk so much as they staggered, looking straight ahead, their filthy faces black and blue, their hands roped together. The two measures of wine to which each condemned man was entitled on his execution day had all been emptied in a few gulps, and the men were clearly having trouble walking upright. Accordingly, the confessions the priest had taken from them earlier that morning were slurred and halting.
Behind them came the robbers’ wives. One carried a screaming infant in a sling on her back, while the other pushed a crying boy forward. The boy kept reaching for the hand of his drunken father, but the bailiffs pushed him away each time.
The hangman walked in front. Despite the cold, he wore only a leather waistcoat over a linen shirt and gloves that would be burned immediately after the execution. He dispensed with the usual wide-brimmed hat that day so that his long black hair and shaggy beard blew in the wind. In his right hand, Jakob Kuisl swung a long, heavy iron rod like a walking stick. It was this rod he would use
in a little more than half an hour to break the bones of Hans Scheller, the robber chief.
The crowd jeered and threw snowballs, bones they’d been gnawing on, and moldy bread at the robbers. In the midst of the group was Hans Scheller. He appeared composed and carried his head high. Despite his wounds and bruises, there was something almost sublime about his gaze. People could sense that and tried to say things to frighten him.
“Hey, Scheller,” one called out. “Are your bones aching from loafing around so much? They’ll hurt even more in just a while!”
“Start with the legs! Kuisl, start with the legs! Then he won’t be able to run away!”
The Schongauers laughed, but Jakob Kuisl paid them no mind. At six feet tall, he towered over them. When the crowd got too close, he swung the iron rod through the air as if he were chasing away some barking dogs.
In the market square, they were joined by the aldermen and the court clerk, Lechner, who would preside over the execution as the representative of the elector. He gazed over the ragged crowd of robbers, nodded to Jakob Kuisl, then together they moved through the Hof Gate and down the Altenstadt Road, along a noisy line of people winding through the snowy countryside.
Accompanied by a fiddle, a street musician improvised on an ancient melody. “Scheller, Hans, Scheller, Hans, Just wait to feel Kuisl’s batons…!”
Arriving at the gallows, Johann Lechner looked approvingly at the broad area that had been cleared of snow. The hangman had done a thorough job in the last few days. Alongside the ten-foot-high platform where the convict was to be placed on the wheel, Kuisl had sunk three posts into the frozen ground, each with a crossbar so as to form a triangle. This is where the other four robbers would be hanged. In the front row, benches had been set up for the aldermen. The rest of the crowd would have to be content standing.
The death knell was still ringing. When everyone had arrived at the site, the clerk climbed the narrow stairway up to the wooden platform and held up a thin black wooden stick. Despite the large crowd, absolute silence reigned for a moment. The only thing audible was the ringing of the bell and the breaking of the stick.
Then Johann Lechner called out, “In the name of the power vested in me and as representative of His Noble Majesty Ferdinand Maria, I herewith announce that the execution can begin!”
The moment of silence was past, and the crowd howled. The robbers’ wives ducked as snowballs started to fly again. They withdrew with the children behind the gallows, protected from the angry crowd by two bailiffs. With the exception of Hans Scheller’s wife, the council had given all the women permission to bury their husbands, a concession made at the request of the hangman. In fact, Jakob Kuisl had the first rights to the men’s clothing and bodies and could have made a tidy sum through the sale of human fat, hides, and four pairs of the thieves’ thumbs.
The crowd was getting more and more agitated, surging against the makeshift roped-off area around the execution site. Jakob Kuisl looked into their foaming mouths contorted with hatred and their predatory eyes glazed from the hot mulled wine.
I’m looking into an abyss, he thought.
Snowballs and pieces of ice were still flying. A clump struck one of the robbers in the face so that his skin split open and bright-red blood trickled into the snow. The robber seemed oblivious to the pain after two mugs of wine. He staggered a bit, but even the bawling of his little son wouldn’t bring him back to reality.
Johann Lechner took his place next to the wooden platform. “Let’s go,” he whispered in the hangman’s ear, “the people want to see blood. If you don’t hurry up, it will be yours they see.”
Kuisl nodded. It wasn’t uncommon for a crowd to lynch a hangman if the execution didn’t go according to plan. If the executioner slipped up, if his blow missed the target, or if, in the excitement, he simply slaughtered the condemned men, he could be quickly strung up on the nearest tree. Or even on the gallows.
Jakob Kuisl clenched his fists and cracked his knuckles—his ritual at the start of every execution. Then he put on his gloves, walked to the gallows, and went to work.
The hanging of the four condemned robbers went quickly and silently. The hangman went about his task as if he were just roofing a house or constructing a table. He climbed up the gallows ladder with each of the condemned men, placed the noose around his neck, tied the rope to the crossbeam, climbed back down again, and pulled the ladder away.
The men wriggled around briefly, wet spots appeared on their trousers, then they swayed back and forth like scarecrows in the wind. Only the fourth robber writhed a bit longer, much to the Schongauers’ amusement, but soon enough it was all over for him as well.
None of this was new to the crowd. They saw something like this at least once a year. But this was only the prologue; the main attraction was yet to come.
The hangman looked at Hans Scheller, who clenched his fists and nodded imperceptibly. Then Scheller climbed up the stairs to the wooden platform.
A drawn-out, ecstatic cry went through the crowd as Hans Scheller reached the top and turned around to scan the surrounding countryside—the mountains, the forests, the gentle hills. He closed his eyes briefly and breathed in the cold January air.
There are worse places to die, the hangman thought. A battlefield, for example.
With the iron rod in hand, Kuisl now stepped onto the wooden platform and motioned for Scheller to lie down. In one corner lay a heavy wagon wheel encased in iron, which the robber chief would be bound to later. Wooden wedges were set on the floor of the platform at regular intervals so that Scheller’s limbs wouldn’t lie flat and would break more easily. The hangman would begin with the lower part of the legs, then slowly work his way up. The last blow to the cervical vertebra was the so-called coup de grâce. For especially abhorrent crimes, this blow was avoided and the condemned man left on the wheel to die out in the open.
“One moment, Kuisl,” Hans Scheller said to Kuisl up on the platform. “I want to thank you for—”
The hangman waved him off. “Never mind. Take the poison and keep your mouth shut.”
Scheller shook his head. “There’s something else you ought to know. When we surprised those three other highwaymen, I didn’t just find the perfume, but something else, too. I had forgotten, but it came to me again last night.”
The executioner turned away from Scheller and looked down at the surging crowd. The people were getting impatient.
“Hey, Kuisl, what’s wrong up there?” some of them shouted. “You’re supposed to break his bones, not hear his confession!”
The first pieces of ice struck the hangman. Jakob Kuisl wiped the slush from his face and looked impatiently at the robber chief. “Spit it out, if it’s bothering you, but make it quick.”
Hans Scheller told the executioner what he’d found at the highwaymen’s campfire. The hangman listened without batting an eye. For the people down below, it had to look like the robber chief was begging for mercy one last time. When he finished, Scheller bowed his head and whispered a short prayer.
“Thank you,” Jakob Kuisl said softly. “If there is a just God, others will soon follow you. Now, put an end to it.”
Hans Scheller opened his fist, put the little poison pill in his mouth, and bit down. There was a soft crunching sound, and he had just enough time to lie down before darkness raced upon him like a summer thunderstorm.
Magdalena pushed aside the silken altar cloth and shook out the contents of the leather bag—a colorful collection of black and red berries, little bouquets of herbs, and pressed blossoms. Even the bezoar had survived the long trip! Unfortunately, the little bag was damp and crushed from being transported under her skirt for so long, and the herbs inside didn’t look very usable—some had even begun to take on a moldy sheen. Nevertheless, Magdalena hoped they would serve her purpose.
Basically, all she needed were two ingredients.
When she found the bag under the pew, she thought back on everything the Augsburg pharmacist Nepomuk
Biermann had put together for her before Brother Jakobus appeared. Most of these ingredients she had been able to put in her pockets, along with some herbs lying out on the counter for another customer. Magdalena tried to remember which plants Biermann had already packed in the bag for her.
Ergot, artemisia, St. John’s wort, daphne, belladona, and thorn apple…
Belladona and thorn apple.
A few moments later, she found the small dried berries between two little bunches of herbs. Small and deadly. She grinned. Both belladonna and thorn apple were known among midwives and hangmen as medicines, but also as poisons that could bring swift and certain death. Possession alone was a punishable offense, as they could allegedly be used to make a salve that Satan’s playmates used to coat their brooms. Magdalena didn’t know if that was true, but she did know that both plants triggered nightmares and hallucinations. Presumably, anyone ingesting these herbs would actually be able to fly, and unfortunately dosage was a problem, particularly for thorn apple. After taking it, not just a few people took their last flight.
Magdalena thought of something Paracelsus had said more than a hundred years before.
The dosage makes the poison.
She nodded grimly. Brother Jakobus would get a dose that would send him flying straight to hell.
Magdalena picked out the dried belladonna berries and the thorn apple seeds, which reminded her a bit of black mouse droppings. She kept checking the door to see if Brother Jakobus was paying her an unannounced visit, but all was quiet.
When Magdalena had gotten everything together, she looked around for something she could use as a pestle. Her eye fell on a small bronze statue of Jesus standing on the altar. She turned it over and, using the Savior’s head, crushed the berries and seeds to a dark-brown powder. The hangman’s daughter was certain God would pardon her this sacrilege.
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