She was about to reach out to the baboon, when the animal suddenly snarled at her and jumped toward her. The attack came so quickly that Magdalena fell over backward. Little demonic hands tugged at her hair, and Luther’s sharp fangs were just a few inches from her nose.
“Do something!” she shouted to her uncle. “The thing is trying to bite me.”
“Luther, behave yourself.”
Bartholomäus seized the baboon by its mane and pulled him away from his victim. The animal was furious and flailed about with his arms and legs.
“The cellar door!” Bartholomäus shouted as the animal howled and struck out. “Open the cellar door!”
At first Magdalena didn’t know what her uncle meant, but then she spotted a wooden trapdoor at the foot of the stairway leading down. She quickly descended the staircase, found a rusty ring in the middle of the door, and pulled. Nothing happened immediately, but after some shaking and tugging, it opened. Bartholomäus followed her, still holding the enraged baboon, tossed him through the opening, and quickly closed the cover. Luther’s shrieking continued from down below, like a voice from the depths of the underworld. Bartholomäus straightened up with relief. His coat was ripped, his hair disheveled, and his face covered with bloody scratches.
“That damned beast,” he ranted, wiping the blood and sweat from his brow. “Let Lebrecht try to figure out how to get this little monster back to the menagerie. For all I care, he can lock the bishop up in the cage with him, where His Excellency can delouse the beast and we’ll be relieved of the two baboons at the same time.”
Angrily, Bartholomäus hobbled toward the front door, kicked it so hard it flew open, and disappeared outside into the foggy night.
“Rabies?”
Samuel looked at his friend Simon, puzzled. The two were still standing at the bedside of the suffragan bishop, who lay like a piece of dead wood in a pile of soft pillows. The Bamberg city physician slapped his forehead. “You may be right.”
“Not only may be, I am right,” Simon replied with a trace of satisfaction in his voice. “It’s really amazing we didn’t think of this before—but we were thinking only of wizardry and human illnesses, and completely forgot animal ones. These werewolf stories can make you dizzy, like bad wine that addles your brain.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Actually, I just read about it again this morning. Uncle Bartholomäus has an astonishing collection of works on veterinary medicine, among them some about dogs, which he loves more than anything else. One of the books discusses rabies. It affects dogs, but also wolves, foxes, cats, and even some smaller animals. If one of those animals bites a person, the victim shows the same symptoms as the suffragan bishop here.” Simon paused to look down at Harsee. A long thread of saliva was dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “It occurs to me that Aloysius, the hangman’s servant, also mentioned cases of rabies in this area several times.”
Simon remembered now that his father-in-law, too, had spoken of it several times, and the furrier had also mentioned the spread of the illness.
“So you think Sebastian Harsee contracted rabies from an animal?” Samuel asked, looking at the paralyzed bishop, who was glaring at him with wide-open eyes like a dead fiansh.
Simon nodded. “The infection must have come from this bite in his neck. All the symptoms point in that direction. The victim, whether animal or human, becomes very aggressive, and then there is paralysis and hardening of the muscles, and the victim loses the ability to swallow, resulting in a buildup of saliva. At the end, the victim goes mad.” He leaned down to Sebastian Harsee, who struggled to sit up as if he were restrained by invisible chains. “Eventually the victim dies of thirst,” Simon added. “In the case of dogs, even the sight of liquid is painful. That’s probably how it works with humans, as well.”
Simon watched sadly as the suffragan bishop lay there quivering. He’d known Sebastian Harsee as a power-hungry and almost pathologically bigoted man, but now he felt great sympathy for him.
I wouldn’t wish such an illness on my worst enemy—buried alive as you’re slowly eviscerated by madness from within.
“It’s all described in great detail in my uncle’s books,” he said, shaking his head. “That is, in various aspects and in several books, in a bombastic prose style. But I should have recognized it earlier.”
“That wouldn’t have changed anything,” Samuel replied with a shrug. “As far as I know, there is no cure for rabies.”
Simon frowned. “Well, some scholars recommend a Saint Hubertus key, a sort of branding iron in the shape of a key that is heated until it glows and can be used to cauterize the wound. Others believe in the power of certain magical letters. But that is no doubt just hocus-pocus. You’re right, there probably is no cure.”
Once again, Samuel leaned down over the patient, who was now just trembling slightly. Taking out an eyeglass, he checked the wound.
“The bite is rather small,” he said. “It certainly wasn’t caused by a wolf or a dog, and even a fox is too big. Was it perhaps a rat?”
Simon mulled it all over, inwardly cursing himself. Would they never get to the bottom of this?
“It’s possible,” he replied after a while. “I think I recall that bats were also mentioned in the books. But I’ll have to check on that. Still . . . there’s still something here I can’t quite put my finger on . . .” He hesitated.
Samuel rolled his eyes. “Don’t start in again with this pussyfooting around, just speak up.”
With his hands folded behind his back, Simon paced the floor, trying to get his thoughts together. Finally, he turned to Samuel.
“It’s a strange coincidence that all of Bamberg is going crazy because of a werewolf at the very moment the Bamberg suffragan bishop catches rabies—which, in the eyes of simple people, makes him a werewolf, too. If this was a stage play, then you could say the playwright tied it up a bit too neatly.”
“Do you think, perhaps, this illness was a plot?” Samuel asked in astonishment. “That Harsee was poisoned?”
Simon nodded. “Poisoned with one of the most horrible plagues that exist. It’s possible. Didn’t Harsee tell you he had probably been bitten in his sleep? Suppose someone hid a rabid rat in his room . . . or a bat?”
Once more Samuel inspected the wound with a magnifying glass. “I don’t know,” he murmured finally. “I’ve seen rat bites before, and they’re smaller. And even though I’ve never seen a bat bite, I think that’s also out of the question.”
“It really doesn’t matter what kind of an animal it was,” Simon replied. “At least now we know—”
There was a knock on the door, and old Agathe peered out through the opening. She seemed quite excited.
“Gentlemen,” she said.
“What is it?” Samuel demanded angrily. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”
“You have a visitor,” she replied. “A very important visitor.” “Well, who is it?” Simon asked. “One of the councilors?”
Agathe shook her head. “No, no, much more important. His Excellency the elector, the bishop of Würzburg, is standing downstairs at the door! Oh God, oh God,” she exclaimed, rubbing her hands together nervously. “He says he would like to speak with both of you.”
Simon took a deep breath, smoothed down his hair, and passed his hands several times over the creases in his soiled clothing.
“I’m afraid it’s rude to keep His Excellency the elector waiting longer than necessary,” he said, turning to Samuel. Then he sighed deeply. “Why must such noble personages always come to visit when I am not properly attired?”
About half an hour later, Simon, Samuel, and Archbishop Johann Philipp von Schönborn stood in the small chapel of the suffragan bishop’s quarters. The chapel had three rows of pews and a simple house altar with a single wooden crucifix on top, alongside a vase of dried roses and a statuette of Mary.
The sacral surroundings made it easier for Simon to engage in conversation with the archbishop, who was also a German elector and
a friend of the kaiser. Old Bonifaz Fronwieser had always hoped his son would rise to a prominent position as a doctor, and now Simon was meeting face-to-face not only with mayors and counts but even with one of the mightiest men in the Empire.
If only my father were here to see this, he thought. How proud he would be of me. But in the next moment he suddenly felt ashamed of his vanity.
Johann Philipp von Schönborn turned out to be an exceptionally cordial gentleman. Samuel had told Simon earlier that the Würzburg bishop was inclined to liberal ideas and abhorred belief in witches. The seizure suffered by Sebastian Harsee the day before had unsettled him so much, however, that he wanted to speak with the two doctors again. His bodyguards waited outside on the walkway in front of the chapel, rattling their swords and halberds. Trembling, Agathe entered with a carafe of wine but was politely dismissed by the bishop.
“I hope you know how it reassures me that this matter can be explained logically,” Schönborn said, reaching out to shake hands with the astonished Simon. “I was beginning to think I’d lost my mind. Thank you for that.”
Embarrassed, Simon made a cursory bow. “I hope your thanks are not premature, Your Excellency. It’s just a suspicion—”
“A suspicion based on a careful diagnosis,” Samuel interrupted with a smile. “Don’t hide your light under a bushel, Simon,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m just annoyed I didn’t think of it myself. Rabies. I should have known.”
At the victim’s bedside, Simon had told the archbishop of his suspicion that Harsee was suffering from the contagious animal disease. At first he had hesitated to mention his further suspicion that the suffragan bishop had been poisoned, but Schönborn’s friendly manner had convinced him not to withhold that detail.
“And you really believe that the disappearance of all these people and the bishop’s rabies are somehow connected?” Schönborn asked with interest. “That they could both be the work of one and the same person?”
Simon raised his hands defensively. “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. I have no proof, but it seems at least more logical to me than belief in a howling werewolf. I believe, in any case, it was hasty to immediately suspect the actors.”
“But they were not just suspected—a few were already killed and hanged.” Schönborn pounded his fist so hard on the altar that the crucifix quivered. “This superstitious riffraff really believe they can set themselves up as judges. And the judge actually responsible in this case is not much better.” He lowered his voice. “Our dear Philipp may know his way around animals, but he wasn’t born with the gift of dealing with people. Unfortunately, a bishop’s position is not awarded based on suitability but only on noble lineage. One can only hope that Philipp grows into his position.” He sighed and collapsed into one of the pews. “On the other hand, he’s at least harmless and not a zealot like Harsee—or like the former Bamberg prince-bishop, Fuchs von Dornheim, under whom those terrible witch trials took place.”
“Is it true there are no witch trials under your jurisdiction?” Samuel asked.
Schönborn appeared deep in thought, but he nodded. “We must do away with this nonsense throughout the entire Reich. But we are perhaps ahead of our times.” Then he turned to the two doctors. “Are you familiar with the Cautio Criminalis, by the Jesuit priest Friedrich Spee von Langenfeld? You ought to go to meet this outstanding scholar personally in Cologne. Even back then, Spee was convinced that torture was never useful in finding the truth. Probably after enough turns of the wheel, even I would confess on the rack to having danced with the devil. It’s such nonsense!”
“I believe the actors are to be tortured today,” Simon said softly. “If even one of them confesses to having put a curse on the suffragan bishop, we’ll have a hard time presenting our case.”
“I see what you’re trying to say.” Johann Philipp von Schönborn rose from the pew. “Very well, I’ll do what I can to see if my friend Philipp will put off the torturing for a while. I’m afraid, though, that there are limits to what I can do, especially since this Malcolm, the director of the group, actually was found in possession of some magical trinkets. By the day after tomorrow at the latest, when I leave Bamberg to return home, you’re on your own. By then you’ll have to present evidence convincing enough for even the most slow-witted citizens to understand.”
“It’s hard to fight superstition,” Samuel said.
“You’re telling me?” The elector extended his hand. When Simon and Samuel tried to kneel before him, Schönborn gently pulled them back to their feet. “Here, where no one is watching, that’s really unnecessary, gentlemen. Sometimes I wish there were a little less etiquette and a little more honesty in our daily dealings.” One last time he looked deep into Simon’s eyes. “I trust you, Master Fronwieser. Bring me the true culprit, and I’ll support you. Philipp needs my money to finish building his bishop’s residence, so I have a little influence over him. But you must realize that even I am powerless against a whole city that has gone mad.”
He turned away and left the building, where the guards outside reverently bowed before him.
Jakob and Jeremias were standing in front of a shelf in the bishop’s archives, leafing intently through some papers. The heavy volume in Jakob’s hands bearing the inscription 1628 was by far the largest he’d ever seen. It was secured both by string and glue. The title of the proceedings was announced in large letters on the leather cover: TRIAL OF THE BAMBERG CHANCELLOR DOCTOR GEORGE HAAN.
“Was the accused in fact the Bamberg chancellor himself?” Jakob asked, turning to Jeremias in surprise.
The old man nodded. “The witch trials allowed the powerful to settle some scores among themselves. No fewer than six burgomasters were executed, along with a few council members.” A smile passed over his face. “They burn just the way you and I do, as you perhaps know from your own experience.” Then he turned serious again. “But the trial of George Haan was something special. Haan was a smart man and was at first protected by the prince-bishop. The other noblemen were annoyed that he wasn’t originally from Bamberg, and in addition, he didn’t want to end the witch trials, just cut back on them. Until then, the accuser and the judge had been sharing the assets of the condemned party, and Haan wanted to forbid that. He also wanted to disband the Witches Commission.”
“The bastards were afraid they wouldn’t get their cut,” Jakob growled.
“Indeed.” Jeremias turned to the next page and pointed to some names. “And for that reason, some of the councilors concocted a plot that eventually led to the downfall of the entire Haan family.”
Jakob stared at him in astonishment. “The entire family?”
“They started with his wife and his daughter, accusing them both of having an affair with the devil. The ever-so-high-and-mighty gentlemen also accused the two women of making an ointment from the bodies of children, with which they could influence the weather. And, of course, witch’s marks were found on their bodies.” Jeremias scratched his bald head. “I clearly remember how my servants finally found the marks under the mother’s armpit. They pierced them with a knife, but no blood came out, and that settled the matter.”
With growing disgust, Jakob stared at the former executioner Michael Binder, who spoke so casually about his past deeds. Jakob, too, had been ordered, one time in Schongau, to search for such witch’s marks—suspiciously shaped birthmarks with which the devil allegedly branded witches as a sign of their alliance. But he was able to stop the investigation before it got to that point.
“After the woman and her daughter came the chancellor himself and his son,” Jeremias continued casually. “I must say that the old nobleman was rather steadfast under torture, but eventually he gave in, too, and confessed he had kissed the devil’s anus.” He winked at Jakob. “You know, yourself, that in the end they all confess, though in his case we had to be pretty firm. We beheaded him before throwing his body in the fire.”
Jakob closed his eyes as his revulsion spread like a
bad taste in his mouth.
He is only a tool, just like you. He’s not to blame.
But it was hard to cling to this conviction.
“What happened then?” he asked, to take his mind off it.
“After the old guy came another daughter and a daughter-in-law—in this way almost the entire Haan family was wiped out, even though they had once belonged to the most distinguished and powerful families in all of Bamberg.”
Jakob stared in shock at the large document in his hand, describing in matter-of-fact, prosaic words the story of so much grief.
“It’s clear someone wanted to do away with the chancellor,” he said finally. “But the entire family? What was the reason for that?”
“It sounds pointless and cruel, but it was part of the plan,” Jeremias explained. “When his wife and eldest daughter were accused of witchcraft, the chancellor went to the Imperial Court in Speyer to enter an appeal. That was a serious error, but one provoked intentionally by his adversaries. The Bamberg prince-bishop resented Haan for taking things into his own hands and refused to support him, and the remaining members of the family were also eliminated so there would be no witnesses later. I believe that after the witch trials, other members of the family also died under mysterious circumstances. In a few years, all the Haans had disappeared.”
“Who was behind all that?” Jakob asked.
“Hm . . .” Jeremias seemed to be thinking it over, then he opened the book to the page where the individual members of the commission were named. They were the same names as those on Jakob’s list.
“Well, presumably they were all somewhat involved in it,” Jeremias concluded, “but I’m guessing it was principally the chairman—who, as I recall, had earlier been promised the position of chancellor.”
“And who was the chairman?” Jakob clenched his fists; he was having trouble keeping his voice down. “For God’s sake, don’t make me drag it out of you.”
Jeremias leaned down to inspect the document. “God, isn’t it here somewhere?” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Indeed it is, but it’s crossed out several times in ink. Probably someone was trying to wipe the slate clean afterward. But wait . . .” He turned the sheet over and found another note. Someone had signed the transcript of the interrogation in a large, flowing script.
The Werewolf of Bamberg (US Edition) (A Hangman's Daughter Tale Book 5) Page 47