“I just turned twenty-four this summer, if you want to know exactly. You needn’t bow when you talk to me.” Magdalena smiled to herself as she stared at the plate in front of her. She had never before seen a scrambled egg so yellow-it gleamed like liquid gold. “It looks wonderful,” she said.
“The saffron does that,” Silvio explained as he noticed Magdalena’s astonishment. “I like my eggs to shimmer like the sun.”
“But isn’t saffron very expensive?” she asked, perplexed. The hangman’s daughter knew that saffron was weighed against gold and therefore merchants often mixed powdered marigolds in with it, despite the high fines for being caught doing so.
The Venetian shrugged. “Food, drink, love… There are some things one doesn’t scrimp on.”
Magdalena nodded, her mouth full. “Stlishish!”
“Perdonate?”
She wiped the grease from her lips. “I said it’s delicious. Have you ever heard of a drink called coffee?”
Silvio nodded. “Caffe! Ah, a wonderful brew! If I’d known you’d drink it, I would have gone to the market-”
“That’s not necessary,” she interrupted. “Simon always has a few beans with him. I was only thinking it would go well with the egg.” Suddenly she remembered why she’d come to the kitchen in the first place. She took one more bite before she stood up. “Have you by chance seen Simon?”
“Your grim little amico?” Silvio rolled his eyes theatrically. “No. Can’t you forget about him for once and, come si dice, chat with me for a bit?”
Magdalena smiled. “Didn’t we do enough of that yesterday?” She turned to leave. “But as far as the coffee and the saffron egg are concerned… we’ll do that again some other time. Thank you very much.”
The little Venetian raised his hands to heaven. “You’re ungrateful! At least allow me to accompany you. I know my way around this city almost as well as I do Venice. Surely I can help you find your friend.”
Magdalena sighed. “All right, then; you don’t give up, do you?”
Together they walked out into the dazzling daylight. The sun was so blinding that Magdalena didn’t notice a figure crouched in an alley across the street, studying her every move.
Simon had to be careful not to lose sight of Hans Reiser. His guide kept turning ahead of him into little alleys, each one narrower than the one before, often groping his way along the walls with his hands; evidently Reiser still hadn’t completely regained his sight. The medicus begged him again and again to keep the patch on if he didn’t want to risk losing his sight again, but each time the beggar waved him off.
“Who will lead you to the beggar king, then, huh?” he replied as he continued to stumble through the dark alleys.
They clambered over piles of excrement, rotten vegetables, and animal carcasses piled up in the narrow streets. The sun almost never shone in these close, suffocating back alleys, and the stench was so bad that Simon had to hold his jacket sleeve over his mouth and nose to keep from vomiting.
“Aren’t we almost there?” the medicus asked repeatedly, but the old man replied only with an impatient shake of his head.
“I want to make sure no one is following us,” Reiser whispered. “It’s better if we go around in circles a few times. If the guards learn where our guild house is, the beggar king will have my hide, personally.”
“But how can you have a secret guild house that nobody knows about in a city as crowded as this?” Simon asked. “It’s not like there are just a few of you, and the guards must certainly have noticed already.”
“You might be surprised.”
Reiser giggled and continued groping his way along the walls of the houses. Cursing, Simon followed, wading as best he could with his sprained foot through the muck, which was nearly ankle-deep in places.
The beggar came to a halt in the middle of a deserted, shadowy back courtyard, put his finger in his mouth, and whistled. Another whistle answered from somewhere nearby. Reiser pushed aside a rotting two-wheeled wooden cart to reveal a crumbling stone staircase underneath. Simon guessed that at one time a house had stood on the spot where the courtyard was now, and all that remained were these steep, deeply worn steps into the cellar. Grinning, Reiser made an imperceptible bow.
“The beggars’ guild house! Please, after you, Your Honor.”
Simon headed down reluctantly. After they’d gone just a few yards, he was surprised to see a line of torches along the walls, lighting the way. The walls themselves appeared to consist of weathered stone blocks painted with strange runes. It took a while for the medicus to recognize the markings as Hebrew, which he was unable to decipher.
After another dozen or so steps the stairway ended in a wide, sloping corridor that led further down into darkness. As they walked, they passed a number of forks and intersections, where they encountered ragged, stooped forms. Reiser seemed to know most of them and greeted them warmly. As the people shuffled past, it occurred to Simon that many of them walked with a limp, and some wore bandages over their eyes or hobbled along on just one leg with the help of crutches. All their faces were gaunt, and all were dressed in rags. Simon sensed he was walking step by step down into an abyss, past a virtually endless procession of the miserable and the sick.
Just like in Dante’s underworld, he thought. Good heavens, just what have I gotten myself into?
The crowd of the downtrodden grew denser, whispering and pointing to the young medicus as he passed by, until at last Simon and his escort came to a low, vaulted torch-lit room. The flickering flames cast a mournful light on a ragged group gathered around an enormous oak table rotting in the middle of the cellar. The room was a good fifteen paces long and just as wide. On the ground and in the corners more people were dozing, gnawing on chicken bones, and quarreling loudly over jugs of wine. There was a strong stench of old men, urine, straw, and smoke, which emanated from wood fires in the room’s corners and alcoves. The conversation that filled the room died quickly as Reiser entered with the medicus. Simon could feel dozens of eyes on him. He took a deep breath and returned the stares.
What is this place? A robbers’ den? Or a vestibule to hell?
A figure emerged from the group of men sitting around the table. In contrast with the others’ ragged garb, he was clad in a threadbare jacket inlaid with golden threads and knickers that, though frequently patched, still looked magnificent. He wore a wide-brimmed hat over long gray hair, and an equally gray full beard framed his wrinkled face. As he began to speak, light flashed in Simon’s eyes, and he realized that the man’s upper incisors were made of pure gold! Thin wires seemed to attach these treasures to his brown gums and adjacent teeth.
“Is this the itinerant doctor who cured you?” the beggar asked, pointing to Simon with his scarred right hand.
Reiser nodded. “It is he! He’s the one who stuck the needle in my eyes as carefully as if they were his own. This man is divinely gifted-”
“Or a devil and an arsonist!” interrupted the other with a grin. “At least if we were to take the word of those fools in the city guards.” He turned to Simon, scrutinizing his now almost faded black eye, the last sign of the brawl in Schongau. “So,” he asked, “are you the devil? From the looks of it I think you’re probably just a little devil that Beelzebub roughed up.”
The men sitting around the table roared, but Simon kept silent. Once more he cursed himself for having come here at all. How could these crazy, tattered creatures help him discover anything about the bathhouse murders? He was already cautiously backing away from the scene when the leader raised a finger, and immediately the laughter ceased. With a grin, he extended his hand to Simon in greeting.