“Who would that be?” Matthias Holzhofer interrupted. “My men have discussed it only with me.”
“And mine, too,” said Burgomaster Semer. “Nobody here knew this fellow Weyer from Augsburg. Who might he have spoken with?”
“Maybe it was the Augsburgers themselves who killed our people!” cried out the baker Michael Berchtholdt from the back of the room. “Our wagon drivers have always been a thorn in their side. If they had their way, they would be the only ones transporting goods from Venice and elsewhere.”
“Nonsense,” replied Jakob Schreevogl. “Weyer was himself an Augsburger. They aren’t going to kill their own people.”
Berchtholdt shrugged. “Perhaps he was a maverick. Who knows? Someone other Augsburgers had a score to settle with? Those damn Swabian punks!”
There was a murmur of approval in the room.
Johann Lechner tapped his signet ring against his wineglass again. “Quiet! We won’t get anywhere like this!” he shouted. “We can only hope that the two injured wagon drivers can give us information about the bandits. Perhaps that way we can learn who’s behind this.” Before proceeding, he examined the face of each member of the council. “It must be our common mission to put an end to this second gang of robbers as well. I suggest, therefore, sending the hangman out with a group of men again.”
“What? Put the hangman at the head of a group of honorable men again?” Burgomaster Semer shook his head in disbelief. “My son told me about the hunt. It’s outrageous that an executioner was put in charge of honorable citizens. Chasing and executing people is the job of hangmen, bailiffs, and court officers. If they hear of this in Munich or Landsberg, participants in this hunt will quickly lose their rights of citizenship.”
“They’ll lose their rights of citizenship when they ignore directions and slaughter a gang that includes women and children!” Jakob Schreevogl interrupted. “Your son and Berchtholdt’s have blood on their hands-more than the hangman in his entire life!”
“What an outrageous insinuation!” Berchtholdt shouted. “My son kept things from getting worse. Scheller and his bloodthirsty companions were about to kill us!”
“Silence, for God’s sake!” Johann Lechner shouted, louder than usual. Quiet quickly returned to the room. It was rare for the clerk to lose his composure, and after a few moments, he got a hold of himself again. He took a deep breath. “Arguing and brawling won’t get us anywhere,” he finally said. “I’ll send the hangman out again. He has shown that he understands what he’s doing. But this time, only the men who are actually suited for the job will go with him.” He cast a sideways glance at the burgomaster. “Your son and the son of the baker certainly are not; they’ve already demonstrated that. As far as the Scheller gang is concerned…” Lechner paused as if thinking it over. “Hans Scheller has already confessed. In my opinion, further torture is not necessary. With the agreement of the council, I can begin the trial as representative of the elector in the next few days. The execution will take place shortly after-the sooner the better-as an example to the other gangs.”
The aldermen nodded. As so often, the remarks of their clerk seemed sound and logical, and a general feeling of satisfaction reigned immediately after he spoke. “You’ll see,” Johann Lechner said, packing his goose quill and inkpot in his leather briefcase. “When Scheller is strung up on Gallows Hill, peace will return to the town. You have my word on that.”
9
THE FOLLOWING DAY, a snowstorm swept over the entire Priests’ Corner, as if the good Lord wanted to bury all life under a white cover. People stayed inside their houses and cottages, and when they did peek outside, it was only to briefly mumble a short prayer and shut their doors against the rattling wind. Traffic on the river, as well as on the roads, came to a halt, and the blizzard took a number of wagon drivers by surprise, leaving them to die lonely deaths, struggling to free their horses from snowdrifts several yards deep. They were not found until days later, frozen stiff alongside their wagons, some torn to shreds by the wolves, their horses having run off in the vast expanse of white.
The blizzard hit Augsburg, too. Since the day after Magdalena’s arrival, she had not been able to leave the hangman’s house for even a minute. Of course, time was of no importance, since a leisurely stroll through town was out of the question, in any case. The apothecary was surely closed in such weather, and the next commercial convoy to Schongau would have to wait until the weather cleared. Magdalena knew that traveling on her own would be suicide.
Thus, during the day, she made friends with little Barbara, who quickly captured her heart. Sitting by the fire, Magdalena whittled a wooden doll for her, singing the same children’s songs she had for the twins at home. She could sense the girl needed a mother. Barbara stared at her with her big eyes, running her hands over Magdalena’s cheeks, and pleaded “Again!” whenever Magdalena got tired and stopped singing. Magdalena often thought about the fact that little Barbara was a hangman’s daughter just like herself, except she had no brothers or sisters and, above all, no mother. How often had she herself sat just like this long ago in the lap of her father? How often had her own mother sung her to sleep with the same children’s songs?
During this time, Philipp Hartmann was working in the room next door, tying together bundles of herbs, making new ropes, and distilling herbal brandy in dark flasks. The aroma of alcohol drifted through the room, almost intoxicating Magdalena. From time to time, the hangman dropped in and patted his daughter on the head or gave her and Magdalena a prune or a dried apple. He avoided touching or making any unseemly advances on Magdalena, but she could sense him staring at her back. When he did so, a chill came over her despite the warmth in the room. Philipp Hartmann was certainly a good man and a good father, and well-to-do, but she loved someone else.
But did she really still love Simon? After the whole business with Benedikta, she noticed how her feelings had cooled-whether out of anger or disappointment, she couldn’t say. It would take time for her heart to warm to him again.
The blizzard raged into the next day, not letting up until evening, so the stores remained closed. Not until the third morning after her arrival could she finally get out to the apothecary. Along the way, she passed the enormous Augustus Fountain, now draped in icicles a yard long, and looked up at the five-story city hall on her left. Magdalena shuddered. How could men make such huge buildings? Patricians wrapped in heavy fur coats streamed out of the portal, absorbed in deep conversation. The snow was still knee-high, but city watchmen were already shoveling narrow lanes through the town square and the surrounding streets. Homes and shops were coming to life. People had been confined for two days, and now they could go out shopping again. They bought fresh bread and meat or fetched pitchers of foaming brown beer from the innkeeper. Magdalena made her way through crowds of quarreling cooks, each trying to buy a rabbit or pheasant for his master, and a group of choirboys on their way to the Augsburg Cathedral.
Finally, she arrived. Straight ahead, between Maximilianstraße and the magnificent St. Moritz Church, was the Marienapotheke, the oldest apothecary in Augsburg. That morning, Philipp Hartmann had told Magdalena that the owner, Nepomuk Biermann, worked closely with him and had the best selection of herbs and other ingredients in town. Hartmann bought several ingredients there that he couldn’t prepare himself, and in return, Nepomuk Biermann ordered from the hangman human fat and leather to treat joint pain and tight muscles.