“Another murder, yes?” said Rolof impassively.
Everyone turned to look at him, but Rolof was fully occupied with a pear.
“That can’t be my Rolof,” mocked Jaspar. “Someone must have been speaking through him.”
“But he could still have been speaking the truth,” cried Richmodis.
“You must go and see your magistrate friend,” Goddert insisted. “You must tell him everything.”
“No,” Jaspar decided, “not yet.”
“But there’s no point in making inquiries ourselves. It’s too dangerous.”
“Then go home, you old coward. You’re the one who was determined to help Jacob. We can’t go to the magistrates before we’ve got these supposed witnesses on our side. That reminds me. Do you happen to have forty gold marks?”
“Of course, Jaspar,” Goddert declared. “Forty thousand, if you want. I’m the richest man in Cologne, aren’t I?”
“All right, all right.”
“That’s not a bad idea at all, Uncle Jaspar,” said Richmodis. “Tell the magistrates. It’s the only way of protecting Jacob and it’ll still allow us to talk to the witnesses.”
“They wouldn’t believe us, child,” Jaspar insisted. Whenever he called her child he was being serious. “We have no proof, and Jacob is not exactly what you’d call a pillar of society. And anyway, what do you think the magistrates would do, now the old wolves have been replaced by a herd of sheep? Conrad’s puppets wherever you look. Whatever you think of the so-called noble houses—arrogant, corrupt, cruel—there’s too few left on the council. Only this morning Bodo was boasting about his important position again. I like the old fellow, but he’s just as spineless and brainless as most of the tradesmen who fell for Conrad’s sweet talk when he got nowhere with the patricians.”
“There are still some patricians.”
“But they’ve lost influence. Perhaps it’s a good thing, but you can have too much of a good thing. Even the Overstolzes provide just one magistrate. That’s all that’s left of their power and authority.”
“That’s right,” agreed Goddert. “I heard his name mentioned recently. What was he called?”
Jaspar sighed. “Theoderich. But that’s irrelevant.”
RHEINGASSE
“Bodo Schuif,” said Theoderich. “But that’s irrelevant.”
“Bodo Schuif,” mused Matthias, and he slowly strode up and down the room. “That’s that ignorant ass of a brewer. And he believes the murder theory?”
“Bodo will believe anything until someone comes to persuade him of the opposite. He’s not a danger. The one we have to concentrate on is this Jaspar Rodenkirchen.”
“You think he’s been talking to the redhead?”
“There’s a strong presumption.”
“What do you know about him?”
Theoderich Overstolz shrugged his shoulders. “There wasn’t much time. I did what I could. Jaspar Rodenkirchen is dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s; also claims to be a physician and Master of the Seven Arts. Lives diagonally opposite St. Severin’s. A braggart, if you ask me, whom God has blessed with remarkable ugliness, but loved by his congregation.”
Matthias looked at him, brows furrowed. “We can’t afford to keep on killing people. A whore I don’t care about, but a dean—”
“Forget the dean. We can let him live. What I mean is we might get at the redhead through him.”
“Too late. The fox has put the dean in the picture, therefore both represent a risk.” Matthias was rocking back and forth on his feet. He was nervous and getting irritated because he couldn’t think what to do.
“Let’s discuss it with Urquhart,” suggested Theoderich.
“Yes,” said Matthias reflectively.
“And I agree with Johann,” said Theoderich, taking a handful of grapes from a bowl and stuffing some in his mouth. “It wasn’t particularly clever to bring Urquhart into the house. We can ignore the redhead. The important thing is that no one connects the murderer with us.
Matthias shook his head irascibly. “I’ve told you a hundred times, when I brought him here he was wearing the habit of a Friar Minor. He was unrecognizable; can’t you get that into your thick skull? We’ve got other problems. We must stop this talk of murder spreading and putting people on the alert. No one’ll pay much attention to whores and down-and-outs getting killed; those kinds of things happen. But how are we going to carry out our plan if respected burghers start deciding their lives aren’t safe in Cologne, dammit? And then this problem with Gerhard’s last words.”
“Gerhard fell off the cathedral,” said Theoderich matter-of-factly, chewing his grapes. “There were no last words.”
With a few quick steps Matthias was beside him and dashed the grapes out of his hand. He grabbed Theoderich by the collar. “Urquhart said this Fox, or whatever he calls himself, put his ear to Gerhard’s lips, you idiot,” he snarled. “What if he could still speak? Perhaps he said, yes, one of my murderers is called Theoderich Overstolz, you all know him, he’s a magistrate. And Jacob tells the dean, and the dean works on Urquhart’s witnesses, and tomorrow they come to fetch you—and me as well. And they’ll drag your blind old aunt Blithildis to the place of execution and tie her between two horses, before they hand you over to the executioner.”
Theoderich took a deep breath. “You’re right,” he croaked.
“Good.” Matthias straightened up and wiped his hand on his breeches.
“Matthias, we’re starting to quarrel among ourselves.”
“Don’t be such a baby.”
“That’s not what I’m getting at. Our alliance is in crisis and I can’t see things improving. It’s dangerous. Remember Daniel and Kuno. Even you and Johann don’t always agree.”
Matthias brooded for a few moment. “You’re right,” he said softly. “So close to our goal and we threaten to split apart.” He drew himself up. “Back to this dean. You talked to Bodo—what do you think he’ll do?”
“Try to find the witnesses.”
“Hmm. The witnesses.”
“We haven’t much time. It’s past ten and I don’t know where Urquhart is—”
“But I do. He’s distributed the servants around the city. His own section is the market district. It won’t take me long to find him. There, you see, Theoderich, things aren’t as bad as they seem. Now we know where the Fox is most likely to be hiding, we know who’s protecting him, and we know they’re tracking down the witnesses.”
Matthias smiled to himself. “That should give Urquhart something to work on.”
THE BATHHOUSE
“Aaaaah!” Justinius von Singen sighed.
The girl laughed and poured another stream of warm water over him. She was pretty and well worth the sin.
“O Lord, I thank you,” murmured Justinius, half blissfully, half remorsefully, as his right hand felt the breasts of his ministering angel and his left slipped down her stomach and under the water. At the same time he watched the girl sitting at the edge of the pool, playing her harp and singing to her instrument. She was in the bloom of youth, a veritable goddess, and her thin white dress revealed more than it concealed.
Drunk with joy, Justinius hummed to the music, out of tune, while his eyes wandered from the beautiful harper up to the galleries above the bathers, where men, young and old, some very old, were standing. They occasionally threw down coins and wreaths of flowers and the girls would jump up and, laughing, spread out their dresses to catch them, at the same time revealing their hidden charms. The music, the singing, the murmur of conversation, the splash of water all merged into a timeless stream in which rational thought was swallowed up as he abandoned himself to the siren voice of lust.
Justinius burped and laid his head on the girl’s shoulder.
Little St. Martin’s bathhouse was crowded at that hour. Clerics were there, though they tended to slip in quietly, for the attendants were as experienced in the arts of love as in giving hot and cold baths, massaging, beating the bathe
rs with bundles of twigs, or rubbing them down with brushes made of cardoon bristles, which left them feeling as if liquid fire were running through their veins. At one time there had probably been a curtain separating the men’s from the women’s section, but all that remained were three iron rings in the ceiling.
Now the copper tubs and great brick basins were open to all. Decorated trays floated on the water, loaded with jugs of wine and various delicacies. Justinius had one right by his belly with a chicken on it roasted to such a crisp golden brown that it was a delight to the eye.
The girl giggled even more and pushed his hand away.
“Oooooh,” said Justinius, winking at Andreas, who was sitting on the other side of the basin, taking no notice of anything.
Justinius frowned. Then he sent a huge wave of water splashing over Andreas. “Hey! Why so gloomy?”
“What?” Andreas shook his head. “I’m not gloomy. I just can’t stop thinking about that man who came to see us this morning.”
“Oh, him again.” Justinius sighed. “Don’t I keep telling you not to worry so much? I agreed with you, didn’t I, that we should accept his generous offer and get out of Cologne as quickly as possible?”
“He wants us to make a statement to the council,” Andreas reminded him. “That makes a quick getaway impossible.”
“The council can go hang itself. We tell the man what we know, take the money, and before the council can get off their fat arses we’ll be spending it on a life of luxury in Aachen.” He leaned forward and grinned. “I’ve heard Aachen’s fantastic. Have you been there? What else would you expect from the city where they crown the kings?” He put his head to one side and shrugged. “On the other hand, they say nothing can compare with Cologne, so I can understand your feelings.” He nestled his head against the girl’s shoulder, groaning with pleasure.
Andreas pursed his lips. “I hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right. The big fellow with the long hair gave us something and we did what he asked. Now someone else wants to give us something, so we do what he asks. What’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t know. How did he find out we had anything to do with Blondie?”
“What does it matter? This Jaspar will be here soon. We’ll go into one of the side rooms, do the deal, take the money, tell him what happened and what we know—God knows, I’m an honest man, Andreas—and take ourselves off to some other place where you can get plenty of meat on your dagger. By the time Blondie’s realized we’ve let something slip, we’ll be over the hills and far away.”
“I hope you’re right,” Andreas repeated, a little less tensed up.
“Of course I am. Look around. This is the life! And we’ll live forever, God forgive my sinful tongue.”
The girl laughed. “Here everything’s forgiven,” she said, pouring another bowl of water over him.
Justinius shook himself luxuriously and pulled himself up onto the side. “What manly passion our Creator has implanted in us,” he cried. “Keep yourself in readiness for me, my rose, pearl of this holy city. I will betake myself to the massage couch and when I return you will feel the sword of my desire, O blessed body of the Whore of Babylon.”
Andreas gave him a scornful look. “You should have another look at the scriptures some time,” he said. “That was a load of nonsense.”
Justinius gave a roar of laughter. “Life is a load of nonsense.”
“Yes,” said Andreas, sighing, “for once you might just be right.”
Still laughing, Justinius went to the back of the room and pushed aside a curtain, revealing a small candle-lit cubicle with a wooden table covered in towels and blankets, a tub of steaming water, and some jugs filled with fragrant oil. One could have a massage from the owner and his assistants, or from the girls as long as the curtain remained closed.
Grunting and groaning, Justinius pulled himself onto the table, pressed his belly flat on the soft blankets, and closed his eyes. He had paid for the full treatment. First a good kneading from a pair of strong male hands, then he would roll over on his back and take on the sweet burden of sin in whatever shapely form it should appear. The owner of the bathhouse was discreet and showed a sure touch in his selection of companions for his customers. The surprise was all part of the fun.
Justinius began to hum softly.
The curtain rustled and he heard the masseur come in. No point in turning over yet. There was a scraping noise. The man was pulling one of the jugs of oil closer.
“Give me a good going over.” He giggled, not opening his eyes. “I want to erupt like a volcano.”
The man laughed softly and placed his hands on Justinius’s back. They were pleasantly warm. With powerful yet gentle movements he spread the oil over his shoulders and started to loosen the muscles with rhythmic kneading. Justinius gave a groan of pleasure.
“You like it?” asked the masseur quietly.
“Oh, yes. You do it perfectly.”
“Thank you.”
“Although—but don’t take this personally—you lack the charms of the priestess who will succeed you in this temple and spoil me in a quite different and more delightful way.”
“Of course.”
The hands moved across his shoulder blades to his spine, parting and coming together again as they slowly made their way down to his waist. Justinius felt the warmth begin to spread over his whole body.
“This is going to be something”—he grinned in anticipation—“a fitting farewell to the holy city.”
“All in good time,” said the masseur. “Aren’t you a monk?”
“Yes.” Justinius frowned. What was the point of a question like that in a place like this? “There are worse sins,” he quickly added, at the same time wondering why he felt the need to excuse himself to this fellow. On the other hand, God could see everything. Even in a closed cubicle of a bathhouse in Cologne.
“There’s no need to worry,” said the masseur softly. His thumbs glided up Justinius’s ribs to his armpits. “There have been saints who were fond of women, if you know what I mean. Abstinence is a modern invention. You don’t have to pretend with me. I knew some students, years ago. Their only reason for studying was to gain a well-endowed benefice and well-endowed women. There was a song—”
The tips of his fingers squeezed the fat at the base of Justinius’s neck, released it, then moved lower down. “It’s a confession the wandering scholars used to sing—presumably they granted themselves absolution. Light are the elements forming my matter, they sang, Like a dry leaf, the storm winds scatter. And My breast is pierced by women’s beauty. My hand can’t touch? Let the heart do duty.”
“Sounds like a good song,” said Justinius, though with a frisson of unease somewhere at the back of his mind. He had the feeling he knew this masseur.
“Greedier for love I am, than God’s grace to win. Dead my soul, so all I care is to save my skin,” the man continued. The movements of his hands followed the rhythm of the poem. Or was it the other way around? “The hardest thing of all, I say, is to tame our nature. Who can keep out lustful thoughts near a lovely creature? We are young, impossible to obey this hard law. Our bodies too are young, they know omnia vincit amor.”
“Quite right,” agreed Justinius, if slightly doubtfully.
“And what does it say in the Romance of the Rose? Marriage is a hateful tie. Nature is not so stupid as to put Mariette in the world for Robichon alone, or Robichon for Mariette, or Agnes or Perette. There is no doubt, dear child, that she made everyone for everyone. How true! Then Follow nature without hesitation. I forgive you all your sins as long as you are in harmony with nature. Be swifter than the squirrel, tuck up your skirts to enjoy the wind, or, if you prefer, go naked and so on and so forth. And all these supposed blasphemers who wrote such verses ended their lives as good Christians. The Archpoet sang the praises of Frederick Barbarossa, Hugo Primas taught in Paris and Orleans, and Serlo of Wilton mended his ways in England and died a pious Cistercian, Walte
r of Chatillon as a canon, all of them men who enjoyed life to the full and cared little for the Church’s rules.”
“How comforting,” muttered Justinius. What was the point of all this? All the names and things the fellow knew? Much too well-educated for a bathhouse assistant. And then the voice. He knew that voice. But from where?
“Listen,” said Justinius, “I—”
“But”—the pleasantly powerful hands continued without pause—“how many died in misery? A chaste, God-fearing man like Tristan, burning with such love and fleshly desire he fell sick and died. Even if he was united with his beloved after death, how he suffered for it.”
Who was this Tristan, dammit? Justinius von Singen was no monk, he was a swindler, a charlatan in a monk’s habit who could churn out standard portions of the Bible, usually mixing them up. What was it this bastard wanted of him?
Suddenly he felt afraid. “I want you to stop,” he gabbled.
As if he had not heard, the masseur continued to knead his flesh, digging the tips of his fingers into Justinius’s ribs.
“And fair Isolde, promised to King Mark of Cornwall”—he continued his lecture—“where did love lead her? Did it protect her against the deceived king, who wondered whether to burn her or abandon her to the lepers? And when he finally relented and let her go, what was left for her? Brokenhearted for her Tristan, she lay beside a rotting carcass, Justinius. What an end to love!”
“What do you want?” panted Justinius, trying to get up.
The fingers flitted up and down his spine.
“For there are no secrets on earth, everything comes to light, and in the light everything looks shabby, and the light is the punishment, and the punishment is—pain.”
“Please, I—”
Something cracked.
Justinius gave a yelp of pain. His head was pressed down, then the hands continued their gentle, pleasant massaging.
“And now we’ll see,” said that terribly familiar voice, “who can bear pain. And who can’t.”
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