Jakob Schreevogl, too, was now looking out the window at the falling snow. “I want you to know that I spoke out in the city council meeting against breaking the prisoner on the wheel. It’s…bestial, a throwback to a time I thought we had outgrown. But the war turned us into beasts again.” He sighed. “As an alderman, I must unfortunately attend the execution. Perhaps I’m one of the few who takes no joy in the spectacle.”
He motioned for Simon to accompany him out of the room, where Maria Schreevogl was still kneeling in prayer. As they descended the stairs, the alderman put his hand on Simon’s shoulder again.
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me and about these words the men were whispering in the crypt-Deus lo vult. I’ve been wondering for a long time where I heard this expression.”
“And?” Simon asked.
“Last night it came to me. It’s the cry the Crusaders made as they rode off into battle against the unbelievers-God wills it. This is how they attempt to excuse all the massacres of the Arabs. God wills it…”
Simon shook his head. “The old Crusaders’ battle cry on the lips of murderers and bandits. Just who are these lunatics we’re trying to track down?” He hesitated. “Do you know the bishop of Augsburg?” he finally asked.
“The bishop of Augsburg?” The alderman frowned. “Well, I’ve seen him once or twice in the Imperial City at large receptions-a young, ambitious man, people say. He’s said to be very literal in his understanding of the Bible, very pious.” Schreevogl smiled wanly. “The pope certainly has his reasons for sending one of his strictest shepherds to Augsburg, this den of iniquity, full of Protestants. But why do you ask?”
Simon shrugged. “Nothing in particular…a suspicion, that’s all. No doubt complete nonsense.”
Jakob Schreevogl shook his hand firmly. “In any case, keep alert. And there’s something else…”
“Yes?”
“This Friedrich Wildgraf. I’ve seen his name somewhere before.” The patrician bit his lip. “If only I knew where!”
Simon nodded. “I feel the same way. It’s like a ghost that keeps coming back to haunt me, but when I try to grab hold of it, it slips away and dissolves into thin air. I think it has something to do with that little book about the Templars you gave me. Could you spare it for two more days?”
“Certainly,” Schreevogl replied. “All I really want is for my Clara to get well again.” They’d reached the front door now, and snowflakes were blowing over the doorsill into the house.
“I wish you much luck. Godspeed!” Jakob Schreevogl looked Simon firmly in the eye again, then closed the door.
The medicus turned to leave. And then he stopped short.
Benedikta was standing down below on the street. She had loaded her things onto her horse and bridled it, and she was waving good-bye.
Magdalena stared up at the benevolent Jesus on the ceiling, knowing he wouldn’t be able to help her, either. Time slowed to a drag. She had been locked in this chapel for three days-three days of waiting, cursing, and sometimes crying. At first she thought of nothing except how to escape, but the only window, no more than a hand’s breadth across and made of some sort of translucent stone, was located about fifteen feet above the altar.
Her cries for help had echoed from the walls of the chapel unanswered. The door was massive and furnished with a lock, an additional bolt, and a peephole at eye level that her jailer, the monk, used regularly to keep an eye on her.
Brother Jakobus was, in fact, the only person she’d been able to talk to during these three days. He brought her food and drink, provided her with blankets, and once a day took away the bucket she had to use to relieve herself under the watchful eyes of all the archangels and evangelists. Before entering the chapel, Brother Jakobus would open the peephole. Magdalena then had to sit on one of the prayer stools visible from the peephole, and only then would he push back the bolt and enter. This was intended to keep her from attacking him when he entered the chapel, and indeed, she soon gave up on the idea. The monk might have been haggard, but he was also very hardy and muscular and, besides that, always carried a dagger at his side, which Magdalena assumed to be poisoned.
At first she refused to say more than just a few words to him, even though Brother Jakobus tried several times to engage her in conversation. With time, however, she became more and more bored in the drafty chapel. By now she knew the ceiling frescos like the back of her hand, as well as how many paces it was from the altar to the door and from the shrine of the Virgin to the altar. The only book here was a dog-eared prayer and hymn book whose Catholic hymns she had practically memorized by now.
On the second day, she started paying more attention to the monk’s diatribes-for the most part, endless, bigoted lectures full of quotes from the Bible. Brother Jakobus approached her with a mix of contempt, hatred, and even…adoration, something that increasingly confused her. Often, he passed his hands through her hair, only to break away a moment later and start pacing furiously among the pews again. More than once, she was afraid he would cut her throat in a sudden fit of madness.
“It was you women who brought evil into the world!” he lectured, waving his finger in the air. “You ate the apple, and since then, we have been living in sin!”
Magdalena couldn’t resist an answer: “Aha, and Adam just stood there and watched?” A moment later, she regretted speaking up.
Brother Jakobus walked over to her and seized her head like a ripe pumpkin he wanted to crush between his hands. “She talked him into it, do you understand?” he mumbled. “Adam had a moment of weakness, but God does not tolerate weakness, not a moment. He punished us all-all of us!”
Once more, she could smell his sweet perfume, but now, for the first time, Magdalena detected another scent behind the fragrance of violets-a vile, overpowering breath. The monk’s whole body stank like rotting flesh; his mouth smelled like a sewer, and his crooked black stubs of teeth jutted out from foul, festering gums. The white tunic he wore under his black hooded cowl was stained with wet spots, which she came to realize were caused by festering ulcers. Magdalena could see that his tonsure was not shaved by hand but, in fact, that his hair on top had fallen out.
Brother Jakobus seemed to be rotting from the inside out.
The hangman’s daughter remembered she’d seen these symptoms before in a Genoese merchant who had come to see her father some years ago. The man had staggered into the hangman’s house, evidently in great pain. Most of his hair had fallen off, like balls of wool flying from a spindle, and he was twitching oddly. Her father had spoken of a French disease and sent the merchant off with a phial of mercury and a drink of opium poppies to relieve the pain. When Magdalena asked her father whether the man could be cured, he’d shaken his head. “He’s been sick for too long,” he had said. “If he’s lucky, he’ll die before he’s completely in the grip of madness.”
Was Brother Jakobus in the grip of madness, too? Magdalena wondered what the monk intended to do with her.
At times, he’d gently stroke her head, almost lovingly passing his hand through her hair. Then his mind seemed far off, on some distant voyage. On one such occasion, Brother Jakobus had poured out his heart to her.