The poor die on flea-infested straw, and the rich on down pillows, Simon thought. But no matter where they are, people die. Death makes no exceptions.
In the middle of the bed lay Count Wartenberg’s younger son under a mountain of blankets and pillows. About four years old, he was so pale it looked as if the Grim Reaper might carry him off at any moment. His chubby pink cheeks were sunken, his long lashes closed over his eyes, and he trembled all over as he let out little periodic cries for help. The grief-stricken count knelt before him, holding the boy’s hand, and when he caught sight of the medicus, he rose to his feet angrily.
“Here you are finally,” he snapped, his anger directed more at Schreevogl than Simon while his eyes flashed coldly beneath his bushy eyebrows. “I can only hope the wait has been worth it. In the meanwhile, I could just as easily have taken Martin to Munich for examination by a real doctor.”
“In his condition, I don’t think that’s advisable, Your Excellency,” Schreevogl replied in a firm voice. “Besides, Master Fronwieser is one of most competent doctors in the entire Priests’ Corner.”
“Perhaps in the Priests’ Corner,” the count replied condescendingly as a strong scent of soap and expensive perfume wafted toward Simon. “In this wilderness of stupid peasants, a traveling bathhouse doctor might easily be thought of as a miracle worker, but in Munich he’d be considered nothing more than a quack.”
Simon cleared his throat. The count’s arrogance made him flush with anger, but he tried to remain calm. “Your Excellency should feel free to take his boys to Munich if he doesn’t trust my capabilities,” he replied. “There are certainly trained doctors there who will give the boy a purgative or bleed him for a hefty fee.”
Not until that moment did the count notice Simon. Wheeling around, he eyed the medicus suspiciously. Still, for a long while, no one said a thing.
“Would you bleed my son?” the count finally asked.
Simon leaned over the boy, then looked questioningly at the count. “May I have a look?”
When Wartenberg nodded, Simon opened the boy’s sweaty shirt and felt for the heartbeat. He looked into the boy’s bloodshot eyes and had him show him his tongue, which was just as gray and yellow as that of the other sick people. The reddish dots on his chest were the same, too. Finally Simon shook his head determinedly.
“No, I wouldn’t bleed him,” he answered confidently. “The boy seems extremely weakened by the fever and needs every drop of his blood to regain his health.”
“Interesting.” Count Wartenberg rubbed his narrow lips thoughtfully as he continued staring intently at Simon. “But the most famous, reputed doctors bleed their patients all the time to drain the bad fluids. Are they perhaps all wrong?”
“Galen’s teachings about the four bodily fluids may be useful in treating some illnesses,” Simon replied cautiously, “but with a fever it’s better to draw off the heat with cold compresses. At least that’s what I do with my patients.” He reached down again to feel the boy’s pulse, which was as weak as a little bird’s. “Heat, by the way, is not harmful. The body is fighting an illness, and that makes his temperature rise. I would give Martin lots of liquids and perhaps a potion of angelica, buckbeans, and elderberries or yarrow and fennel. I’d experiment to see what he responds to.”
Count Wartenberg raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “You really seem to know a lot about medicine. Master Schreevogl evidently didn’t overstate his case when he recommended you to me today in the tavern.”
And got me into this mess, Simon thought. Thanks so much, Master Schreevogl. If the boy dies in my care, I’ll be sent to the scaffold along with Nepomuk.
But then he remembered he wanted to learn more about the count and his intentions; perhaps divine providence had sent this boy to him as a patient. In the course of the treatment he would surely learn something. In any case, the count’s son wasn’t much older than Peter, and hadn’t he and Magdalena come to Andechs to thank the Savior for saving their own two sons?
“I would gladly treat the sick child,” he finally said to the count. “Will you allow me?”
The boy cried out in his sleep as Wartenberg looked on anxiously; he then squeezed the boy’s hand and stroked his feverish cheek. “Do I have any choice?” he murmured. “You’re right, Fronwieser. In Munich I’m surrounded by greedy bloodsuckers and pompous asses who confuse theory with healing. And I don’t think the boy would survive the trip back there, so I’ll have to entrust him to your care.” He stood up abruptly. “Everything is up to you, and money is no object. If you need money for medicine or any other expenses, let me know. You also have free access to this room day and night.” Suddenly the count came so close the medicus could once again smell his strong perfume. “But if the boy dies, I’ll have you hanged as a fraud from atop the monastery’s battlements as a warning for future cases,” he said softly. “And I’ll see to it that you’ll wriggle and thrash around for a long time. Do you understand?”
Simon blanched and nodded. “You… you can depend on me, Your Excellency,” he replied. “I’ll do everything I can to save the life of your child, but allow me first to make a quick visit to the hospital to fetch the necessary medication.”
Count Wartenberg dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and bowing repeatedly, Simon left the building with Schreevogl.
“What have you gotten me into?” Simon hissed at the alderman when they were finally out of earshot. “As if I don’t have enough worries already.”
Schreevogl squeezed the medicus’s hand. “Master Fronwieser,” he said, “did you see how red the count’s eyes were? This man is just a father anxious about his child, just as I was back then with my Clara. Do you remember?”
Simon nodded hesitantly. Some years ago he had in fact cured Schreevogl’s beloved step-daughter of a similar severe flu with the help of an unusual remedy he happened to have on hand. This time he would have to make do with the usual medications.
“When the count asked me this morning in the monastery tavern whether I knew of a good doctor, I mentioned your name at once,” Schreevogl continued. “I had to; I’m sure you’ll heal the child.”
“Ah, but how about the other patients, who aren’t so fortunate as to have a count as a father?” Simon replied angrily. “Who’s going to care for the poor while I spoon-feed the spoiled kid with tea and honey?”
“I thought your wife-” Schreevogl started.
“Forget about my wife. She has to watch our two children.”
The patrician smiled. “Then your humble servant will have to help out.”
“You?” Simon looked at the patrician skeptically. “A councilman serving as a bathhouse surgeon’s helper?”
“I’d rather be doing God’s work in the clinic than running around the church praying,” Schreevogl answered dryly. “And didn’t your wife herself say that caring for the sick is not all that hard? Besides, I’ve even developed a taste for it. It feels… well…” He hesitated, looking for the right word. “It feels useful. At least more so than sitting in a backroom negotiating contracts for the delivery of crockery.”
Simon couldn’t help laughing. “You’re probably right. Caring for the sick is more exciting than that, and I really can use the help.” He held out his hand to the alderman. “Then here’s to our collaboration, my dear bathhouse assistant. Let’s hope this nightmare will soon be over and we can return to Schongau.”
Schreevogl’s smile suddenly faded, and he crossed himself. “Let’s pray together and ask for God’s help. This place indeed harbors more evil than a single monastery can cope with.”
After her father donned his monk’s robe and left hurriedly to look around some more, Magdalena wandered aimlessly with her children through the busy streets in front of the monastery. She alone seemed to have nothing to do and was annoyed Simon had taken off so quickly, even though she realized he was the only one caring for the count’s son. Still she wished he would spend more time with his family.
Wit
h a sigh Magdalena let Peter drag her along to one of the many stands displaying pictures of saints, candles, and little rosaries. In the last few days, shops like this had shot up all around the Holy Mountain like mushrooms out of the ground. They sold small hand-size votive tablets for the devotional corner in homes, overpriced glass pictures of the monastery, candles, rosaries, badly printed Bible verses, and little charm necklaces with prayers for divine intercession attached. Magdalena remembered a conversation with Jakob Schreevogl some time ago in which he told her that both the Schongau burgomaster and the count were doing a brisk business with these religious knickknacks, but if the count’s son was really as sick as everyone feared, all this would be for naught for the Wittelsbachs. No one had ever been able to buy off death with money.
Magdalena caught Peter just as he was reaching for a rosary. “For God’s sake, keep your hands off that,” she scolded. “That’s nothing to play with.” When she pulled her elder son away from the stand more roughly than intended, he began to cry, and then the younger boy joined in.
“Father! Where’s Father?” Paul whined. “I want my father and grandfather.”
“I’ve got to disappoint you,” Magdalena snapped. “Those high-and-mighty gentlemen are occupied with more important things now, so you’ll have to settle for your mother.”
When the crying didn’t stop, she reached frantically into her jacket pocket and pulled out a few candied fruits to quiet them down. She continued alongside a flock of pilgrims in gray penitential robes who were singing and praying in the monastery square in preparation for the next mass.
Magdalena clenched her teeth to keep from cursing. She felt so worthless. It seemed that everyone around her had something to do; only she was condemned to care for the children. To make matters worse, she had been feeling ill again all morning but had said nothing to Simon so as not to upset him even more. Secretly she’d examined her tongue in a polished copper dish and was relieved to see no tell-tale grayish-yellow sheen. Whatever was bothering her, then, seemed not to be the nervous fever.
Magdalena was so absorbed in her thoughts that it took her a few moments to notice a hand on her shoulder. Startled, she turned around and found herself looking into the smiling face of Matthias. He rocked his head coquettishly and made a face that caused the children to break out in loud laughter.
Magdalena, too, had to smile. The boys seemed to have really taken a shine to the mute fellow, just as she had, she admitted to herself again.
“Good day, Matthias,” Magdalena said brightly, even though she knew she wouldn’t receive a reply. “What are you doing? Looking for a nice rosary for your sweetheart?” she teased.
Matthias grunted and rolled his eyes, as if to say all women got on his nerves. Magdalena laughed loudly. She loved the silent assistant’s expressions, which reminded her of the magicians who visited Schongau once a year.
“Would you like to go for a walk with me on the meadow behind the monastery?” she asked impulsively. It was still early in the day, the children weren’t tired yet, and she wanted to get away from all the people who stank of incense and frightened her with their excessive humility and fear of God. “Come along, we’ll pick a bouquet of flowers for your girl, if you have one.”
Matthias hesitated briefly, then let out a throaty laugh and took the cheering children onto his broad shoulders. Together they walked through the small north gate, then turned left onto the flowery meadow beside the forest, where the boys chased beetles and dragonflies buzzing around in the tall grass.
Magdalena absent-mindedly picked a few daisies, thinking dolefully, I should give these to Simon, but that’s out of the question.
When she finally looked up again, she found herself a few yards from a wall that was perhaps six feet high. The rough-hewn stones enclosed a small rectangular area directly bordering the forest, with steep cliffs rising up behind it. The entrance was a rusty gate entwined with ivy and secured with a huge lock. Magdalena had started to walk over to the wall when she heard Matthias approach from behind, grunting and shaking his head in warning.
“Is it forbidden to enter?” Magdalena asked curiously. “Why?”
Matthias thought for a while, then tore up a few weeds, smelled them with a pleased expression, then finally pointed to the monastery. “Urbe uf onstry,” he stammered.
“This is the monastery’s herb garden?” Magdalena asked. “Is that what you are trying to say?”
When the mute man nodded, Magdalena shrugged. “And why shouldn’t I go in? Are the priests always so secretive about their healing plants? Let me tell you, Matthias, in Schongau, I’m a midwife, and I probably know more about the herbs in there than all the monks in Andechs together.” She took her children by the hand and led them up to the gate. “Come along, Mama will show you a magic garden.”
Matthias shook his head furiously, but Magdalena’s curiosity had been awakened. If this really was the monastery herb garden, she was interested to see what was growing inside. Perhaps she’d find a few healing plants she didn’t know or were hard to find in the forest.
Magdalena ignored the angry sounds of the knacker’s assistant and turned the handle of the gate. She was happy to see it was not locked and opened with a soft squeak. Scarcely had she stepped inside when she was surrounded by the bewitching fragrances of chamomile, sage, and mint. From inside, the garden seemed much larger than it appeared from the meadow-perhaps due to the many climbing trellises of beans and gourds beside the beds, which turned the garden into a labyrinth. Lizards dozed in the sun on little walls covered with blooming alyssum, which seemed like pleasant places to rest. Inside, small beds of shrubs and herbs were carefully divided according to type. Magdalena recognized the usual healing plants, such as rue, wormwood, and fennel, but discovered other, stranger plants. She rubbed the aromatic leaves of sticklewort and ambrosia between her fingers and smelled the intoxicating, overwhelming fragrance of the iris blossoms.
In the meanwhile, the children were frolicking on the little walls, chasing lizards. Magdalena tried not to lose sight of them. Even if this garden seemed like paradise on earth, she knew that forbidden fruits grew in this paradise as well. Many of the plants here were highly poisonous and used only in small doses for medicinal purposes.
Gradually she moved deeper and deeper into the garden. The mute Matthias hadn’t followed her; evidently something here frightened him, even though she had no idea what. Perhaps he was just respectful of the monks who obviously kept a close eye on their monastery garden.
In the middle of the garden a surprise awaited her.
Behind some rosebushes, she found a stone water basin surrounded by four benches. In the basin itself stood a full-size marble statue of a mythical beast-a bearded man with the hooves and horns of a goat, his lips pursed scornfully and blowing on a strange flute. With dead eyes, he looked out at the forest where steep cliffs led down to the garden.
Magdalena sat on one of the benches and gazed at the statue in astonishment. She’d never seen anything like it before. The creature seemed a bit like the devil in the frightening depictions of hell in the churches of the Priests’ Corner, but in contrast to them, this figure had a roguish smile and seemed almost friendly. What in the world was such a statue doing in the monastery?
The hangman’s daughter suddenly froze. It was surely just her imagination, but for a moment the head of the statue seemed to turn just slightly in her direction. The creature’s smile seemed no longer friendly, but more like that of a goblin looking to play a wicked prank.
And then Magdalena was certain-the statue’s head was moving.
The stone devil turned its head toward her. Slowly, unrelentingly, its gaze enveloped her-almost as if it were struggling to tell her something. Had its mouth opened just a bit? Magdalena sat rooted to the bench, wondering whether the creature would suddenly begin to speak.
In the next moment a slender stream of water shot out of the devil’s mouth, striking her right in the face.
W
ith a scream, Magdalena fell backward off the bench, and the frightened children turned around to look at her. Her bodice was soaked and her backside ached from her sudden fall into the herb garden, but otherwise she was uninjured.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to frighten you so,” a voice said behind the trellises. “But the temptation was just too great. My brother always enjoyed himself immensely with this performance.”
Magdalena turned toward where the voice was coming from and saw none other than the abbot himself walk out from behind the trellises.
“But Your Excellency,” she began hesitantly. “I mean… how is it that-”
“I came here to think a bit,” the abbot interrupted with a smile. “About myself and my brother. Actually pilgrims aren’t permitted in the garden, so anyone who enters has to be prepared for surprises like this.”
In the meantime, Magdalena had gotten a hold of herself again. Straightening her wet bodice, she took a seat alongside her children on the stone bench.
“Excuse me,” she said, embarrassed. “But as a midwife, I was just interested in knowing what sort of herbs grew in your garden. I must say I’m impressed.”
The abbot chuckled. “By what? By the herbs or by our faun?”
“Faun?” Magdalena asked, perplexed.
Rambeck pointed at the statue with the horns and goat hooves. “That’s what the Romans used to call this creature. A wild man of the forest who loves drinking and dancing. There are people who compare him to our devil, but that’s naturally nonsense.” He sat down beside Magdalena. “My brother had it brought here over the Alps, and… well… he changed it a bit,” he said, winking at Magdalena. “There’s a device for moving the head in any direction, and the stream of water from his mouth works by a complicated system of pumps. But you mustn’t ask me for details. Such water devices were always my brother’s hobby.” Rambeck stood up and took Magdalena by the hand. “Come along. I’ll show you something that the children will also enjoy.”
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