“Why are you standing around daydreaming, you good-for-nothing!” his father snapped, interrupting his reveries. “Here, take some blood from Johannes Steringer! I’m going to the alderman now. Bleeding is something you can do by yourself!”
He handed Simon the sharp little stiletto they used for slitting a patient’s veins. Then, after briefly wishing them a good recovery, he set out on his way. “And don’t let them put you off with a few eggs and a loaf of bread,” he scolded Simon as he walked past him.
Simon looked down at Johannes Steringer, who was sitting on the bench in front of him, coughing and shaking and spitting up reddish-yellow phlegm into a ratty handkerchief. He knew the blacksmith’s journeyman from a few previous house calls, a strong, solid fellow who was slumped over now, hardly able to move, and staring blankly into space. The idea of letting blood from this sick, weakened body seemed outright foolish to Simon. He knew that bloodletting was a tried-and-tested remedy for almost any sickness; nevertheless, he put the stiletto aside.
“It’s all right, Steringer,” he said. “You can go home now. Have your wife make you some sage broth and lie down next to the stove until it gets better.”
“And the bloodletting?” the journeyman gasped.
“We’ll do that another time. For now, you need your blood. Go home.”
Steringer nodded and set out for home, as did the two farmers. Simon gave each of them a little jar of wild thyme. As payment, the young medicus pocketed a few old discolored coins and half a leg of smoked ham. He thanked them and closed the door behind them as they left.
Simon took a deep breath. Finally, he had time to devote to the little book the patrician had given him. He sat down excitedly on the bench next to the stove and leafed through the yellowing pages.
There was a lot to learn about the rise and fall of the Templars. He read that they had even lent money to the Pope and that they had been almost invincible in battle, a band with strange rites and customs whose members had sworn allegiance to one another, who had flung themselves headlong into battle for God, and who were even admired by their enemies for their bravery. He read about the great battles in the Holy Land, the destruction of Jerusalem, the flight of the Templars to Cyprus, and their continuing power in Europe. He was astonished to learn that, in the end, the knightly order owned more than ten thousand castles and estates, from England to Byzantium! Had there also been a branch here in Schongau? Which Templar’s bones had they found under the St. Lawrence Church? Had he left a message to posterity on the marble slab?
Two witnesses who prophesy…the beast that arises from the depths that fights, conquers, and kills them.
But even after studying the book a long time, Simon still couldn’t find the strange saying engraved on the marble slab in the coffin. The book also said nothing about the Templars’ legendary treasure. Was it possible it had never existed? Simon rubbed his tired eyes and went to bed. The wind continued whistling through the shutters, while in his room a thin layer of ice slowly formed over the bedposts.
3
MAGDALENA KNOCKED AT the door of the carpenter Balthasar Hemerle’s house and listened for the sound of steps inside. It was early in the morning, but she had already visited the masons and the stonecutter in Altenstadt the day before. The men all looked at her distrustfully at first-nobody was comfortable with the daughter of the hangman at their door. It was quite possible that her presence might make the cattle sick the next day. When she explained that she wanted to ask them about the dead priest in Altenstadt and the renovation work in the St. Lawrence Church, they let her in reluctantly, often under the suspicious eyes of their wives. Magdalena was not just the hangman’s daughter, but with her thick black hair, bushy eyebrows, and full lips, she was also an attractive woman who was quite capable of exciting passions. She knew very well that men stared at her behind her back. Still, none of the young fellows ever asked her for a dance. No one except Simon.
Her conversations on the previous evening had not revealed anything new. All the workers agreed they had found the crypt, but only the priest had gone down into it. He looked pale when he came back, went to fetch some incense, and burned it there, and then immediately had the entrance sealed. They also mentioned the strange crosses on the walls in the balcony, but they all said they hadn’t told anyone else about it. The visit to the carpenter’s house was Magdalena’s last try. Balthasar Hemerle led her into the living room. He was a large, good-natured man with a full, shaggy beard, a twinkle in his eye, and a face distorted by pockmarks. Unlike many other men in town, he was never troubled by the fact that Magdalena was just a dishonorable hangman’s daughter. On the contrary, he had smiled at her at the last church fair and even tipped his large carpenter’s hat mischievously to her by way of greeting. But Magdalena knew that he made eyes at other girls, too, and his wife had scolded him once or twice about it. Fortunately, Katharina happened to be at the market in Schongau at the moment.
“Well, young lady, what do you need from me?” Hemerle grinned, pushing a mug of mulled wine across the table to her. “Does the city need a new gallows? The old one looks pretty rotted, don’t you think? I’ll bet that it will snap at the next hanging, and your father will look like a damn fool.”
Magdalena smiled and shook her head, sipping on the invigorating drink. She took another gulp and then finally got around to explaining why she was there. Balthasar Hemerle looked at her for a long time, thinking about it.
“The word going around is that the fat old Koppmeyer was poisoned. Does this have anything to do with that?”
Magdalena shrugged. “That’s just what we want to find out.”
Hemerle nodded. “I don’t know how you have gotten involved in this,” he began, “but it’s true that none of us went down into the crypt. And the workers painted over the crosses just as they were told.”
“Have you spoken with anyone about it?” Magdalena asked as she kept sipping on her mulled wine. She could feel its warming effects; she absolutely could not empty the whole mug, or she’d never make it home again.
“Who could we have talked to?” Hemerle said. “But wait…” He paused. “We were all talking about it last Sunday after church when our group was sitting at our regular table at Strasser’s Tavern in Altenstadt. The priest had seemed nervous delivering his homily, and we did notice a few strangers in the tavern.”
“Who were they?” Magdalena could feel her heart beginning to race, and not just from the strong wine.
“Strangers…I don’t know,” Hemerle grumbled. “Didn’t look at them that closely. They sat at the next table with black cowls, like monks, and didn’t even take off their hoods.”
“Did you notice anything else?”
The carpenter knitted his brow. Finally, he seemed to remember something.
“There was an odor in the air like an expensive perfume,” he said, “and three black horses standing just outside the door-not mares like your father’s, but big jet-black horses. Could put a real fright into you…” He shook his head and laughed.
“But come now…Let’s talk about something else,” he said, leering at her. “I just finished making myself a new bed out of spruce. It’s over there in the other room, and it’s nice and big and warm. Would you like to see it?”
Magdalena smiled. “So that your wife will wring my neck? No thanks.”
She emptied the mug in one long gulp and headed out the door. Swaying slightly, she stomped through the snow on her way back to Schongau.
Balthasar Hemerle waved to her as she left, but suddenly he looked serious again. He couldn’t help but think of the men with the black horses. For a brief moment, he thought he could smell a whiff of perfume in the cold winter air. But no doubt it was just the aroma of mulled wine.