Kuisl belched loudly and wiped the corner of his mouth. “Who gives a damn? But go ahead, spit it out. You can’t just keep it to yourself.”
Simon smiled. He knew how curious the hangman was, even when he was stoned. “It goes like this: In gremio Mariae eris primus et felicianus.”
Kuisl nodded, then translated aloud. “You will be first at Mary’s bosom, and a happy person.” He broke into a laugh. “Just a pious sentiment, nothing more! That can’t be the clue.”
He picked up the bottle again with a vacant look, one that Simon had trouble reconciling with Kuisl’s other, sensitive and educated side. People were always astonished that the executioner knew Latin so well, even when he was completely soused. They would be even more astonished if they looked around the hangman’s library and saw all the books in German, Latin, and even Greek, written by scholars still completely unknown in most German universities.
“But it must be the next riddle,” Simon objected. “He put his name at the bottom of it. Friedrich Wildgraf, anno domini 1328-a year before his death.”
Kuisl rubbed his temples, trying to think clearly. “Well, it’s not anything from the Bible that I can remember,” he growled. “And I know most of those biblical aphorisms. You wouldn’t believe how pious people become when it’s time for them to die. I’ve heard it all, but never these words.”
Simon swallowed before continuing. Jakob Kuisl’s father had been the local hangman before him, and before that, his grandfather-a true dynasty of executioners now extending over a whole host of Bavarian cities and towns. The Kuisls had probably heard more whining and pious words than the Pope himself.
“If it’s not from the Bible, maybe it’s some secret message,” Simon said, repeating the words. “You will be first at Mary’s bosom, and a happy person. What does that mean?”
The hangman shrugged before picking up the bottle again. “Damned if I know. What’s it to me, anyway?” He took such a long swig that Simon was afraid he might choke. Finally, he put the bottle down again. “For my part, I’m going to break Scheller on the wheel on Saturday, and there’s nothing more I can do to help you. Till then, there’s a lot to do. The people want a spectacle.”
Simon could see from the hangman’s bloodshot eyes that the bottle was almost empty. Jakob Kuisl was leaning farther and farther over on his stool. A whole bottle of brandy apparently was a little too much even for a big, broad-shouldered man six feet tall.
“You’ll need some medicine,” Simon sighed, “or you won’t have a clear head tomorrow.”
“Don’t need no medicine from you goddamned quacks. I’ll make my own.”
Simon shook his head. “This medicine is something only I have.” He stood up and walked over to the living room, where Anna Maria was still sitting at a table mending the rip in the Simon’s jacket.
“Make a strong cup of coffee for your husband,” Simon said. “But don’t skimp on the beans. It’ll only work if it’s strong enough for the spoon to stand up in the cup without falling over.”
Magdalena awoke to a monotonous humming sound that grew louder and louder until she thought her head would split. Her headache was even worse than the last time she woke up. Her lips were so rough and dry that when she passed the tip of her tongue over them, they felt like the bark of a tree. She opened her eyes, blinded at first by bursts of light, but after a while the flashing stopped, things came into focus-and what she saw was paradise!
Cherubs fluttered around the head of the Savior, who was wearing a crown and looking down at her compassionately from the cross. St. Luke and St. John were off to one side, keeping watch over the starry heavens, while down below, the serpent Lucifer writhed about, impaled by the lance of the Archangel Michael, and high above, the twelve apostles sat enthroned in glory on the clouds. All the figures were ablaze in gleaming gold, bright silver, and all the shimmering colors of the rainbow. Never before had Magdalena seen such splendor.
Was she in heaven?
At least I’m no longer lying in the coffin, she thought. That’s an improvement, in any case.
As soon as she turned her head, she could see she was not in heaven, but in a sort of little chapel. She lay on her back on a stone altar surrounded by four burning candles. The walls of the whitewashed room were so densely covered with lavish oil paintings depicting various scenes from the Bible that there was hardly any space between them. Sunlight entered the room from the east through a tiny window, but the stone was so cold that her muscles felt like ice.
The murmuring came from one side. Turning her head a bit farther, Magdalena could see Brother Jakobus dressed in a simple black robe kneeling before a small altar to the Virgin Mary, his head bowed in quiet prayer. A golden cross with the two beams dangled at his chest.
“Ave Maria, the Lord be with you, blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your body, Jesus Christ…”
Magdalena tried to sit up. Could she flee without the monk noticing? Only a few steps behind her, she spotted a low wooden door with a golden handle. If she could only get to it…
When she tried to prop herself up, she found she was bound by her hands and feet like a lamb on its way to slaughter.
Christ, Lamb of God, who bears the sins of the world…
Magdalena panicked remembering the words from the Bible. What did this madman intend to do with her? Was he going to sacrifice her on the altar? Was this the reason for the lighted candles? Another Bible quotation came to mind.
God spoke to Abraham: Take your son Isaac, whom you love, and bring him to the mountain as a sacrifice…
The monk’s monotonous chant grew louder and higher in pitch until he was almost screaming in a falsetto. Magdalena tried to fight the fear rising in her and forced herself to breathe calmly and evenly. Perhaps she could even manage to crawl through the door? Crawling, creeping, hopping-it didn’t matter. She just had to get away from here. She rocked back and forth, managing to reach the left side of the altar. Just a few more inches and she would be there. She could already feel the edge underneath her when she tipped over and fell…
Her feet bumped against a large candlestick, which fell to the ground with a crash.
The singing stopped abruptly. She could hear footsteps, and a moment later, Brother Jakobus stood over her, his dagger drawn. Magdalena screamed as he pointed the dagger at her.
“Hold your tongue, stupid woman. Nobody is going to hurt you.” The monk cut the cords tying her hands and stepped off to one side. “If you promise to hold still, I’ll cut off the shackles on your feet as well. Do you promise?”
Magdalena nodded and was free a moment later. She stood up and tried to move her arms and legs but was still too weak even to remain standing. Breathing heavily, she sank down onto one of the pews and felt as if she were going to pass out.
“The poison does that to you,” Brother Jakobus said, sitting down on the bench alongside her. “A mixture of opium poppies and a few rare plants from the nightshade family. You’ll feel weak for a while; then it will pass.”
“Where…where am I?” Magdalena rubbed her wrists, which tingled as if ants were crawling around inside them.
“That’s of no concern to you,” the monk said. “This is a place where no one will disturb us. The walls are thick, and not a sound can penetrate the windows. A wonderful place to find God.”
He let his gaze wander over the splendid fresco on the ceiling. “Don’t worry. For now, you are our guarantee that your father won’t disturb us, and later…” He looked her directly in the face with what suddenly seemed like a soft, tender look. Again, the sweet scent of perfume wafted over to her.