Death and the Devil

by Frank Schätzing

  “What sins did Gerhard confess to?” a man in the crowd shouted.

  The monk went red as a beetroot and clenched his fist. “How dare you ask!” he roared. “May God send His lightning down upon you and shrivel you up, body and soul.”

  “You should be praying instead of asking questions,” the second monk broke in, making the sign of the cross again, “praying all the time. Do you want to meet the poor soul in your dreams, accusing you of not having supported it with all your heart? Recite the Creed, sing the Te deum. Remember, at this very moment the dead man is on his way to appear before his heavenly Judge, weighed down with his sins, humbly offering up his remorse. But woe betide the sinner who stumbles, for the Devil’s fiendish crew lies in wait for the lamb along the path it must take to its Merciful Shepherd. Stinking filth, demonic obscenities, the wolves of darkness!” He made a grand gesture, as if to damn Cologne and all the surrounding villages. “Verily I say unto you, all of you, each and every one, will have to take that path, and you will long to have the prayers of the whole of Christendom to keep you safe from the clutches of the Evil One, who will try to drag you down to the darkest depths of hell where Leviathan writhes in transports of satanic delight on its red-hot grill, crushing human souls in its countless claws. Remember, we all must die! It opens its gaping maw, and its teeth are terrible round about! Its eyes are like the eyelids of the morning! Out of its mouth go burning lamps, and sparks of fire leap out! Out of its nostrils goeth smoke, as out of a seething cauldron! Its breath kindleth coals and a flame goeth out of its mouth! There is not its like upon earth.”

  The terrifying image the monk had neatly borrowed from the Book of Job had its effect. Many of those around turned pale, some putting their heads in their hands and groaning, “Lord, forgive us our sins.”

  “Forgive us our sins, is it? Then pray. Did not the angels, when they were taking Saint Martin to the world above, have such terrible struggles with the Powers of Darkness, that even the heavenly choirs fell silent? Pray! Pray!”

  “Yes, pray, pray.” The crowd took up his words, heads were bowed, hands clasped, some sank to their knees, sobbing and trembling.

  The fatter of the two monks gave the other a meaningful look and jerked his head in the direction of the corner of the street. Time to leave. The pair of them slowly made their way out of the kneeling crowd, then gradually quickened their pace.

  Urquhart’s witnesses.

  Matthias gathered up the skirts of his cloak, pushed his way through the crowd, and hurried after them. “Reverend Brothers!” he called out.

  The monks stopped and turned, their eyes full of suspicion. When they saw he was a patrician, they immediately bowed their heads and adopted a deferential posture. “How can we be of service?” asked the fat monk.

  “You were the only ones who saw Gerhard fall?” Matthias asked.

  “Definitely.”

  “Then there is just one thing I would ask of you. Speak in praise of Gerhard wherever you go.”

  “Well, er—”

  “You are itinerant monks?”

  “Yes.” The taller raised his chin and a smug look appeared on his face. “It is the Lord’s will that we preach His Word all over the land. We say mass in the villages and hamlets, but sometimes we come to the towns and cities.”

  “A magnificent city, this Cologne, a holy city,” added the other in hushed tones, moving his head this way and that, as if he could not see enough of it.

  Matthias smiled. “Yes, of course. Tell people what you saw at the cathedral. People everywhere. They say there are some”—he leaned forward and put on a conspiratorial air—“who would drag Gerhard’s name through the mud.”

  “Is that possible?” gasped the fat monk.

  “I’m afraid it is. They bear false witness against you and claim it was not an accident.”

  A wary glint appeared in the monk’s eyes. “But?”

  “But murder. Perhaps even the Devil.”

  “Absolute nonsense, of course.” The monk drew out the words.

  “And a great sin to make such a claim,” the other added. “A good thing such lies are without foundation, since we can testify to what really happened.”

  Matthias nodded. “A real blessing, Brother. Let us thank the Lord that He led you to the right place at the right time. I can rely on you, then?”

  The two nodded alacritously.

  “Most certainly.”

  “We will announce it wherever we go.”

  “Provided God watches over us and supplies our modest needs.”

  “Which He does not always do.”

  “Brother! Who would criticize the Creator? If He does not always do so, then I am sure it is for the good of our souls. We will go on our way in humility—”

  “And hunger. Sometimes.”

  They looked at him, smiling. Matthias took out a coin.

  “The Lord be with you,” the fat monk murmured unctuously. The coin vanished into the depths of his grubby habit. “And now you must excuse us. Our Christian duty calls.”

  “Of course, reverend Brothers.”

  They grinned their excuses once more and took off. Matthias watched them until they had disappeared around the corner. He hadn’t realized Urquhart would send the two to the funeral. Not a bad idea. The people had certainly swallowed their account of Gerhard’s death. That would make things more difficult for the redhead.

  But not difficult enough.

  Matthias shivered at the thought of the damage he might do. They had to find him.

  He hurried back to Gerhard’s house. The funeral procession was just starting. The bells of the old cathedral had begun to ring out the death knell. The bier was preceded by monks, deacons and acolytes, the provost of the cathedral chapter, and the suffragan in their vestments, with the processional crucifix, holy water basin, thurible, and candles, even though it was broad daylight. The body was carried by members of the stonemasons’ guild, followed by Guda, the family, and friends. Nuns and lay sisters carrying candles sang psalms and said prayers. One of the nuns pushed another aside to get nearer the body, a routine happening at the funeral of important persons. Those who prayed most for the salvation of the dignitary would have a better chance at the Last Judgment.

  Gerhard’s body would lie in state in the cathedral for three days. Monks would sit beside him, reciting the Kyrie and perhaps, even though it was forbidden, one of the pagan songs from the old religion, all the time waving the thurible to mask the inevitable smell. Now, in the cooler days of September, it wasn’t so bad, but three days was still three days.

  First, however, there was the requiem mass to get through. That meant listening to interminable sermons, then enduring visions of the end of the world and the Day of Judgment called up by the power of the Dies irae, when the trumpet shall sound and even death will look on in amazement. Since the Franciscans had made this poem—its author was said to have carved the words in stone—part of the mass, it struck fear and terror into the hearts of the faithful with apocalyptic visions, to comfort them in the end with a reminder of the mercy of Jesus.

  Matthias took his place in the procession and concentrated on business matters.

  At that moment the quarrel blew up.

  Whatever Daniel, who unfortunately was walking beside Kuno, may have said, he suddenly slumped to the ground as if felled by an axe. Kuno had punched him. And he was pulling him back to his feet, his face contorted with rage, preparing to hit him again.

  Daniel’s nose was bleeding. He ducked and butted Kuno in the stomach. With a yelp, Kuno stumbled backward, gasping for breath. Then he kicked Daniel in the groin, which had the desired effect.

  The front half of the procession was continuing on its way, as if nothing had happened; the rear half halted.

  Daniel drew his sword. With two strides, Matthias was beside him and knocked it out of his hand. Immediately Kuno attacked. Johann quickly came up from behind and held him, while Matthias immobilized Daniel.

  �
��Let him go,” shouted Kuno.

  “That’s enough,” Johann barked.

  “No. Let him use his sword. Let everyone see what a gang of murderers he’s in.”

  “Imbecile,” hissed Daniel. “You want my sword? You can have it. Right between the eyes would be best, if you ask me.”

  Matthias gave him a few quick slaps on the face. “Not another word, do you hear?”

  “But he started it. I—”

  “You will keep your mouth shut,” growled Matthias, quivering with rage. “Remember this is a funeral, not an ale house, and try not to bring any more dishonor on the name of Overstolz. Or shall we bury the two of you along with Gerhard?”

  “He—”

  “I don’t give a damn what he did.” He turned to Kuno. “And you, off you go. Don’t let me see you till the funeral’s over. We’ll talk about this later.”

  “I don’t take orders from you,” Kuno retorted, beside himself. He wriggled out of Johann’s grasp. “And certainly not from that bastard, that ruffian, that killer, that—”

  “Oh, yes, you do,” said Johann calmly. “And you obey them, otherwise I’ll see you get a public whipping. And don’t go talking about killers.”

  The people behind, clerics, patricians, and burghers, were crowding round, full of curiosity.

  “I warn you,” said Johann.

  The two faced each other, panting. Kuno was white as a sheet while Daniel’s features were contorted with hatred and loathing.

  “Traitor!” said Daniel hoarsely. Without so much as a glance at Kuno, he wiped the blood from his upper lip, picked up his sword, and rejoined the procession, limping.

  Kuno watched him go. Then he became aware of all the eyes on him. He straightened up, turned his back on the crowd, and not without a certain dignity, strode away in the opposite direction.

  “He loved him, too much,” muttered Johann.

  “Yes, he loved Gerhard,” said Matthias out loud, turning to the people around. “And Daniel loved him, too. Love made them blind and each thought he was closest to him. Thus love can engender hatred and turn friends into enemies. Forgive them. Now let us go and pay our last respects to Gerhard.”

  Strangely, the crowd seemed happy with the explanation he had quickly cobbled together. As if Daniel had ever felt anything like love for Gerhard! They all set off again together.

  Johann moved next to him. “Well lied,” he said.

  “Sweet bleeding Jesus!” Matthias exclaimed, contrary to his usual dislike of strong language. “If Kuno goes on like this, we’ll all be saying our last prayers.”

  Johann was silent for a while. Eventually he said, “He will not go on like that.”

  “It’s easy enough to say that! And what about your mad son who almost split the other madman’s head open? These things have got to stop, Johann.”

  “They will stop.”

  Matthias muttered a few more curses. The procession was slowly approaching the cathedral. The sound of the bells made their whole bodies vibrate.

  They will stop—

  Matthias could not let the matter rest. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I spoke with Mother yesterday evening. We discussed Kuno. She suggested I read the Bible.”

  “Blithildis!?” said Matthias. “What’s wrong with her? She usually gives rather more practical advice than that. I can’t believe she’s getting soft in her old age. After all, it was her idea to—”

  “Shh.” Johann placed a finger to his lips.

  “Sorry,” Matthias mumbled.

  “She recommended the Psalms because there’s a passage she felt fit the situation. How well do you know your Bible?”

  “I know my account books better.”

  “As was to be expected. Psalm one hundred and nine, verse eight.”

  Matthias’s brow furrowed. “No idea.”

  “Neither had I. So I went and looked it up to see what Mother’s advice was.”

  “And?”

  Johann gave a deep sigh. “It is very clear: Let his days be few—”

  Matthias let out a low whistle. “That’s what she thinks, is it?”

  “—and let another take his office.”

  HAYMARKET

  Urquhart was standing under the lime trees, watching the market. He knew that his instructions had been too much for the servants’ simple minds. He had positioned them around the city on the chain principle. It was a strategy they used in the Scottish Highlands to communicate over long distances. They were divided into pairs and each kept an area under observation, just within view of the next pair. They carried a torch with them, and when they saw the enemy, one of them held it aloft so that the flame and the inevitable greasy black smoke could be seen from a distance. Sword in hand, the other would approach the enemy, assuming there were not too many, then retreat in order to lure them toward his other comrades. They in their turn would light their torches, that being the signal to close up. Carried out competently, this maneuver allowed a scattered group of warriors slowly to surround an enemy, who would keep on chasing after a different man until they realized too late they had fallen into a trap.

  Accordingly Urquhart had divided the servants up into pairs. Since, in the city, they could not rely on keeping the next pair in sight, the aim was to drive the redhead, once he had been spotted, toward the other pairs, until they had him trapped. A simple plan, one would have thought.

  Matthias’s servants had stared at him openmouthed. He had had to explain the principle several times. By the time they had understood it, they had forgotten the color of Jacob’s hair or what he looked like. Urquhart repeated his explanations patiently, but he found their stupidity infuriating. If, as appeared to be the case, Jacob had at least a modicum of common sense, he would make himself unrecognizable. His only hope was that Jacob would make a mistake.

  At the moment one pair was keeping Haymarket under observation, one Old Market Square, and a third the area around the cathedral site. Six men for at most one-tenth of the city. There was no other way. He had to station most of his men in the crowded parts of the city. Three other pairs were patrolling the area between St. Severin’s and the Brook, from the Church of the Apostles past New Market Square as far as St. Cecilia’s and the district around St. Ursula’s and Eigelstein Gate.

  Urquhart put them out of his mind. He hoped Matthias’s contact would be able to post soldiers at the city gates.

  His only reassurance at the moment was the tiny crossbow he could feel under his cloak. He strolled across Haymarket, studying faces. The market was in full swing. He walked along the meat stalls, submitting each man he passed to a few seconds of highly concentrated scrutiny. He worked to a set scheme, which allowed him to register the essential details, categorize and assess them before acting or proceeding to the next. It was a skill acquired through years of practice; he could not have explained how he went about it. Urquhart was far from being vain, but there was hardly anyone he had come across who was capable of seeing patterns as he could; very few could even think logically. People perceived things as if through a haze, and the haze was called religion.

  This worked to his advantage. Urquhart believed in nothing. Neither in God, nor the Devil. He didn’t even believe in the value of his own or any other existence.

  Perhaps, he thought, as his eyes captured another face, analyzed and released it, this architect would have been a man he could have talked to, a man with whom he could have shared a jug of wine and a few jokes about their fellow men. What he had seen of the cathedral under construction had inspired his respect. If it did actually represent the overall plan, he had a logical structure before him. For the ring of chapels around the apse, that steeply soaring, straining caricature of perfection, was cold. Its mathematical precision took the life out of any inspiration.

  Capture, analyze, release.

  A little farther on was the part of the market where offal was sold: liver, heart, and tripe, kidneys and sweetbreads. He elbowed his way through and watched t
he butchers as they weighed handfuls of pale white or blue-and-red-veined collops, strings, and folds, and passed them to the customer. One rummaged around in a mass of undefined entrails and pulled out a long, tangled intestine. The pile started to move, pieces slithering over each other like skinned snakes, bodies still warm and twitching. He saw the butcher’s arm plunge back into the mass, again and again, presumably the pieces on offer were too long, too short, too thick, or too thin. Again and again the man plunged his hand into the moist pile and pulled something out—

  The world turned red.

  He saw a man in armor, an iron claw descending and pulling something out of the body of a child, something warm, gleaming, sticky. The child was still alive. It must be making the high-pitched, unearthly shrill sound, and all about him—

  His head was pounding.

  Urquhart closed his eyes and pressed his fists to the sides of his head.

  The image faded.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you feel well?”

  He blinked. He was at the market. It was just the entrails of dead animals.

  “Do you need help?”

  He turned to face the woman and looked at her, without really registering her features. A nun. Concerned.

  Urquhart forced his lips into a smile. Then he realized he was recovering quickly. A different man’s strange memory of a different life had almost gone.

  “It’s all right, thank you, reverend Sister,” he murmured, bowing his head in acknowledgment.

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “A slight headache, that’s all. The unexpected blessing of your Christian sympathy has worked miracles. I thank you.”

  She blushed. “The Lord be with you.”