The Council of Twelve

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Magdalena struggled to sit up, her head aching as if she’d boozed for several nights in a row. How long had she been asleep? She staggered through the darkness, bumping into old looms and other junk, until she felt something like a door handle. She rattled it, but, as expected, it was locked. They had locked her up to deal with later. Well, at least they hadn’t killed her yet.

  That was the good news.

  Now she heard more screaming and the barking of a dog. The strange, shrill bark must have pulled her back to reality. From another direction she could hear several dogs, then the screaming became louder, and then a gunshot rang out. What in God’s name was going on out there?

  Magdalena hesitated briefly, then she started banging against the door.

  “Help!” she screamed as loud as she could. “I’m locked up down here! Can anybody hear me? Help!”

  She knew she might attract the attention of the wrong people, but she didn’t care. She thought of the dead girls, of Eva. Had Eva spent her final hour in this cell, too?

  “Help me!” Magdalena screamed again and kicked the door. “I’m in here!” But no one seemed to hear her.

  A wave of nausea overcame her and she crouched down. Pain throbbed in her head, growing worse and worse. Another shot was fired.

  And then something happened that made her blood run cold.

  A single scream rang out, high and shrill. Magdalena froze. She could pick out this scream among a thousand others, probably even if it came from the other side of the ocean.

  It was the scream of one of her children.

  She couldn’t have been mistaken. She’d heard Peter. Or was it Paul? It had been a scream of enormous pain mixed with anger. Magdalena had no idea what one of her sons might be doing out there. Had Peter and Paul come to free her? But then where were her father, Simon, and Georg? Then another scream, and again Magdalena was certain it was one of her sons.

  He was screaming for his life.

  “Peter! Paul! Your mother is here!” Desperately Magdalena threw herself against the solid door and pounded it with her fists, her pain and nausea forgotten.

  But as much as she called out and cried, the door didn’t open.

  One of her children was in mortal danger, and she couldn’t do anything to help.

  14

  THE PARK OF NYMPHENBURG PALACE, NIGHT, FEBRUARY 7, AD 1672

  IT WAS AS IF SUMMER had suddenly appeared in the middle of winter—only deep underground.

  Jakob Kuisl gaped at the sea of colorful flowers growing out of the walls of the grotto, out of cracks, gray plaster rocks, and the ground as well. Some even hung from the ceiling, about seven feet up, as though they’d accidentally sprouted into the mountain instead of outside toward the sun. They shimmered red, blue, green, purple, and yellow in the light of three lanterns hanging on the wall, like a meadow of wildflowers. Only on second glance did Kuisl realize they were made of tin. Still, they lent something fairylike to the grotto, as if tiny winged elves would flutter out from the flowers any moment.

  But the smell didn’t fit with the picture at all.

  It was caustic and pungent, and probably had something to do with the rather earthly objects standing around a well in the center of the cave. Kuisl saw fire pans and crucibles, and several large pots and wooden tubs with a white substance on the edges. Pokers and ladles leaned against their sides. A wooden case containing long, shiny molds of metal sat atop a rustic wooden table.

  The whole scene looked like the subterranean forge of Hephaestus, the Greek god of blacksmiths.

  Between the fire pans, Daniel Pfundner and the bald man were busy throwing the crucibles into a chest, and more empty crates and containers suggested they were going to pack up the remaining objects as well. The two men seemed to be in a hurry. Pfundner’s mask and the bald-headed man’s Roman helmet lay in the corner. The bald man was sweating heavily under his armor, and beads of sweat stood on his hairless head as he packed more crucibles and pots into a crate.

  “The electress might come here any day now that the palace is officially opened—tomorrow, if we’re unlucky.” He gasped. “Or some other curious courtier. We’ll never get everything out of here in time.”

  “The dies and crucibles should suffice, Master Frießhammer,” the treasurer replied. “We can leave anything that won’t lead them to us.”

  “What about the tubs? You can still see the remains of acid,” the man named Frießhammer objected. “And the molds? Anyone with half a brain knows what they’re for. It won’t even take a day until the guards suspect me. Who else would have taken the dies from the mint? But I can tell you one thing: I’m not climbing the scaffold alone.”

  “No one is going to climb the scaffold if we clean up after ourselves,” Pfundner said calmly. “And now quit whining and hurry up before any of the guests discover this place as a love nest. The door upstairs is shut, but the electress and several courtiers know of this grotto.”

  Slowly, it dawned on Kuisl what was going on here. He remembered Simon and various citizens talking about coin counterfeiters who were flooding the market in and around Munich with cheap silver coins. He looked again at the wooden case, into which Pfundner was now throwing several longish metal bolts.

  Coin dies. Those bastards actually stole the electoral coin dies.

  Those dies for minting coins were more closely guarded than many treasures. Every electorate had its own, and they never left the mint. Anyone holding the dies could create far superior counterfeits than they could just with molds.

  Kuisl nodded grimly. They added copper to the silver to make the coins as cheaply as possible. The tubs were probably filled with acid and used to turn the added copper white like silver. This grotto was nothing but a well-hidden counterfeiting operation.

  Pfundner and the bald man probably chose this place for its seclusion. Kuisl remembered the carriage that had raced through Sendlinger Gate a few nights ago. The guard had spoken of wealthy people who were paying a ton of money to leave and enter the city after the gates were shut without being asked questions. Hadn’t Pfundner spoken about a carriage that would soon await them outside?

  “If the dies aren’t back at the mint by tomorrow, it’s too late,” Master Frießhammer continued to complain. “I told you a hundred times that the warden of the mint is paying me a visit tomorrow. I have to show him the dies.”

  “And that’s why we’re taking them back tonight,” Pfundner said, carefully closing one of the chests. “The money’s going back to city hall, and the dies to the mint, just like always. No reason to get upset.”

  From their hideout behind the artificial rock, Kuisl and Georg watched the proceedings for a while. Georg gently tapped his father’s shoulder.

  “So, if I understand correctly,” he whispered, “those two dressed-up fops are forging money?”

  “They probably turn one good silver coin into two bad ones,” Kuisl replied. “One they keep, and the other goes back into the city treasury, and no one notices a thing. If it wasn’t such a nasty thing to do, I’d congratulate them on their cunning.”

  When he was a child, the hangman remembered, many merchants, smaller tradesmen, and mercenaries had been ruined that way. Those two scoundrels were getting rich through the misery of others. It was no coincidence that one of them was the Munich city treasurer. And that Frießhammer appeared to work at the electoral mint, perhaps as the mintmaster or diemaker.

  Money from the treasurer and dies from the mintmaster, Kuisl thought. And a secret hideout not far from Munich. An almost-perfect crime—but only almost . . .

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Georg whispered into his father’s ear. “We thought those two would lead us to Magdalena. But what does Magdalena have to do with counterfeiters? Can you explain?”

  Jakob Kuisl didn’t reply, but deep down he knew they’d made a big mistake.

  They had followed the wrong villains.

  Simon stood at the edge of the dance floor in the great hall of Ny
mphenburg Palace and stared at the masked ball guests twirling endlessly to the music. Gypsies danced with mermen, Amazons with Greek philosophers, and forest sprites with made-up shepherdesses and flower girls. The feast was definitely nearing its climax.

  Silent despair took hold of him. Three times he had searched through every room in the palace, throughout the park, and all around the main entrance where carriages came and went—but no sign of Jakob Kuisl or Georg anywhere. Nor of Magdalena, even though he’d seen several women he felt sure were prostitutes. Some of them looked like very young girls. Once he tore off the mask of a drunk fairy in the hope of finding the face of his beloved wife. Instead, a lady-in-waiting with a large nose and a beauty spot had slapped him across the face. He’d only just managed to evade her lover’s revenge.

  After studying the guests on the dance floor one last time, Simon gave up. No hangman, no harlequin, and no Magdalena . . . And Pfundner and the bald man hadn’t returned, either. Something must have happened. And he could do nothing but stand around watching a bunch of crazy court people woo each other. Simon had rarely felt so helpless. He had taken off his mask, disgusted at this whole charade.

  He was about to turn away when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

  Probably a guard taking me back to the electress, he thought. She probably wants to know exactly what I’m planning to do about her accursed mutt. I wish Magdalena and I had never come to this city full of fops and dandies.

  It was no guard, however, but someone he knew reasonably well by now.

  “Dr. Geiger!” Simon exclaimed with surprise. “You’re here, too?”

  Malachias Geiger smiled at him, his mask off, too. The rest of his costume, like Simon’s, consisted of a black coat and a white ruff. Geiger looked practically the same as always.

  The doctor shrugged. “Part of my duties,” he said unhappily. “I hate these balls. But if I don’t make an appearance, everyone talks. I can’t afford that.” He indicated Simon’s costume. “I see we both went for the dottore. How appropriate.”

  Simon didn’t know if Geiger’s last remark had been ironic or serious. But he was probably glad to find a like-minded acquaintance among all these crazy people.

  “I saw one of your patients,” Simon said to the doctor, raising his voice above the music. “Daniel Pfundner, the treasurer. I don’t suppose you know where he went?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Malachias Geiger shook his head. “It’s fine by me if I don’t constantly run into my patients at occasions like these.” He looked around cautiously, but no one was paying them any attention. “It’s very exhausting to be on duty all the time.”

  Simon gave a tired smile. “Then you should have picked a different costume. A shepherd, perhaps, like the elector? People rarely approach shepherds regarding urinary-tract infections or boils.”

  “Haha! Touché!” Malachias Geiger smirked, an expression that seemed strangely foreign on his face. “You’re right. I’ll think of something else next time.” Then he turned serious again. “Anyway, I’m pleased to run into you here, because now I can tell you what I found out for you.”

  “For me . . . ?” Simon was puzzled for a moment, but then he realized what the doctor meant. In all the excitement of the last few hours, he had forgotten that he’d stopped by Geiger’s house earlier that day to ask him a favor. There was something he just couldn’t get out of his mind.

  “So my letter reached you?” Simon asked, feeling increasingly jittery. That damned coffee had been awfully strong. The music was picking up tempo, and the couples spun round and round like windmills.

  Geiger nodded. “Yes, it did. And I set off immediately.” He sighed. “It was the perfect excuse not to look for a better costume. My wife always wants me to dress up more originally, but—”

  “And?” Simon interrupted him hoarsely. “Did you find anything?”

  “I don’t think so.” Geiger shrugged apologetically, and Simon’s hopes were dashed. It would have been too good to hope for. But he’d been carried away by the idea, like he so often was in recent days.

  But then the doctor hesitated. “Hmm, but there’s one name I found rather interesting. Let’s say I wouldn’t have expected it—not on this list.”

  Simon listened up. “And the name is . . . ?”

  “Well, as I said, I’m sure it means nothing . . .”

  “For Christ’s sake, speak up.” Simon forgot all his manners in his agitation. “Please,” he added quietly.

  Dr. Malachias Geiger told him the name.

  And a piece in Simon’s mental mosaic fell into just the right place.

  It was as if he’d been looking too closely at a chaotic picture and had now taken a step back. Everything made sense all of a sudden. Simon held his breath, his thoughts racing.

  How could we have been so stupid? It was right in front of us all along, and we didn’t see it. Didn’t want to see it.

  The dance ended with a final flourish, and the couples fell into one another’s arms, laughing.

  “Thank you,” Simon breathed. “That name is . . . interesting indeed.” He squeezed Geiger’s hand. Then he remembered something.

  “Um, I’m sorry to bother you with this, but you don’t happen to have a carriage I could borrow? I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”

  When the second shot was fired, Peter threw himself to the ground. He heard a whistling noise directly above him, then someone screamed. Peter winced. The boy who had screamed was Paul, his brother. And it had been a scream of pain.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Schorsch and Seppi jump on one of the Venetians, trying to wrestle his pistol from him. But the huge man struck Seppi on the head with the butt, making Schorsch even angrier. Meanwhile, Luki and two other boys wrestled with the second Venetian on the ground. Several of the imprisoned dogs had returned and tore at the sleeves of their former jailers or snapped at their throats.

  Uffele and Mother Joseffa were barely visible among a throng of children and dogs. Where was Paul? Peter desperately scanned the corridor. There! His brother lay in a dim corner, his body strangely twisted. Peter saw a dark pool growing underneath the eight-year-old in the light of a torch.

  “Paul!” he screamed. “Jesus, Paul!”

  Without checking whether the Venetians were about to shoot again, he ran over to his brother. Paul had been among the first to hurl himself at the scoundrels. The men had been completely taken by surprise, but still managed to fire two shots.

  The second shot must have hit Paul.

  His eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily. Peter ripped off his brother’s shirt to see where the bullet had hit him. He wiped away the blood with his sleeve until he found the hole. The bullet had struck his left upper arm, just above the elbow. The wound was bleeding heavily. Most likely Paul was still in shock, but soon the pain would set in, and he’d scream much louder than before.

  While the battle raged around Peter, he tried to focus on what his father had taught him. He needed to stop the bleeding, that was the most important thing. He clenched his teeth and tore his own shirt into strips, tying one of them tightly around Paul’s arm above the wound and the others loosely around the bullet hole. Then he grabbed a torch that had gone out, broke off the lower half, and pushed the stick under the loose bandage. He turned the stick until the bandage was so tight that no more blood came out of the wound—but he knew that this was merely a temporary solution. He needed medicine to stanch the bleeding for good! If the arm stayed tied off for too long, his father had told him, it would die and need to be amputated.

  And his brother would be a cripple for the rest of his life, if he didn’t die of gangrene in the next few days.

  Paul groaned, but he didn’t seem to be fully conscious. His small knife lay next to him. Boundless rage took hold of Peter. He grabbed the knife and threw himself at the Venetian wrestling with Schorsch. The fellow was holding his pistol in his right hand, aiming for the leader of the Anger Wolves.

  “You pigs!�
�� screamed Peter deliriously. “You goddamned pigs! Shooting at my little brother! To hell with all of you!”

  He stabbed the Venetian with the knife, and the man dropped his pistol with a shout of pain. But Peter didn’t stop, stabbing the Venetian again and again. The knife was small, but the sharp point dug into the man’s arms and chest, and cut open his cheek. Peter had never felt such rage. The anger helped him conquer his fear. Perhaps it was the same kind of anger that fueled his brother to commit all sorts of mischief?

  “Finitela!” the Venetian screamed in panic while trying to fend off the knife. “Mi arrendo!”

  In the meantime, several of the other boys had rushed to Peter’s and Schorsch’s aid. They held the large, whimpering man to the ground and tied him with ropes they had found in a nearby chamber. Peter attacked until someone touched him on the shoulder and pulled him back. It was Moser.

  “He can’t hurt us anymore, Peter,” he said gently. “You can stop now. Do you hear me? It’s over.”

  Peter started up with fright and looked at his bloodstained hands. He felt as though he were waking up from a nightmare. Rage had carried him away and nearly turned him into a murderer. Sobbing, he threw the knife to the ground while the Venetian moaned quietly.

  “He . . . he shot my brother,” Peter whimpered. “If Paul dies . . .”

  “I don’t think he’ll die,” Schorsch tried to reassure him. “He just needs a doctor as soon as possible.” He gave the man on the ground a grim look. “Just like that Venetian scoundrel you taught more than one lesson.”

  Peter looked around. The battle was over. The two Venetians, Uffele, and Mother Joseffa lay on the ground, tied. A good dozen boys and a bunch of mangy dogs had won over four armed, grown-up villains; the prince’s dog was found; and a healthy reward was on the horizon.