They passed through an ivy-covered gallery, coming at last to a chamber with high, almost church-like windows. At first Magdalena was blinded by the light streaming through them, but once her eyes adjusted to the brightness, a small miracle appeared before her eyes.
Am I dreaming? How is this possible?
It seemed there were at least a dozen other women standing beside her, all around the room, all with the same dirty linen dress and the same disheveled black hair. Dumbstruck, Magdalena realized she was in fact staring at herself. The walls were covered by six-foot mirrors, which reflected her image over and over. Between the mirrors enormous, ceiling-high wardrobes were flung open, full of frilled garments, velvet gowns, and other splendid clothing. Some clothes had been carelessly tossed off and draped across a round table in the center of the room and over the chairs and gleaming inlaid wooden floor. Each piece must have been worth more than Magdalena’s father earned in an entire year.
“I beg your pardon,” Silvio said. “I wasn’t sure yesterday what they-that is, what I should wear, so I made a bit of a mess. My servants were supposed to have cleaned this up.”
Magdalena didn’t even seem to hear him. She stepped into the middle of the room and began to spin around, faster and faster. Around her, dozens of Magdalenas danced, an entire dancehall full of her, which seemed to go on and on, a dancehall where she alone was the centerpiece.
The only mirror the hangman’s daughter had ever seen was the small, cloudy pocket mirror her father had given her mother when they were first married. The old thing was cracked, and it distorted Magdalena’s face so much that she’d put it aside in disgust more than once. Until today all she’d ever seen of her own face and body was what she’d been able to make out in her quivering image in the waters of the Lech. Now she could see for the first time what others saw when they looked at her. Awestruck, she passed her fingers through her black hair, tracing the lines of her eyebrows, nose, and lips.
Am I beautiful?
The hall of mirrors in the Venetian’s house was the most impressive thing she’d ever seen.
“I ordered these mirrors specially from Venice,” Silvio explained, dreamily passing his hand over a smooth silvery surface near the door. “Nowhere else on earth can you find such quality. I’m happy you like it,” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “But now we must find something for la bella donna to wear.”
The Venetian strode confidently toward one of the wardrobes. As he opened it, Magdalena, who was having difficulty tearing her eyes away from her reflection, saw countless women’s dresses hanging in neat rows, as if they’d never been worn before-broadly tailored skirts, narrow bodices with puffy sleeves, dainty pointed bonnets, cloaks lined in ermine, and velvet jackets with fur collars.
“I have lady visitors on occasion,” Silvio admitted. “And I’ve ordered some clothing so that the signorine can feel at home here with me. Take your time to look around, and perhaps you’ll find something that suits you.”
It was clear to Magdalena who the ladies were who visited this house, and she was tempted to turn back right then and there and return to the Whale. Simon would certainly be waiting for her, and this farce would finally come to an end.
On the other hand…
Magdalena’s gaze wandered back to the mirrors and to the magnificent colorful clothing. Never in her life had she seen such skirts, much less worn anything so splendid. Perhaps she and Silvio could just send a message to Simon, telling him that all was in order and she would be back at the Whale that evening-or first thing in the morning at the latest. Why shouldn’t she browse around here a while and enjoy herself?
But then her conscience intruded on the fantasy. What about her father then? He was languishing in his prison cell while, like a cheap streetwalker, she let herself be tempted by the prospect of a night of dancing in the arms of Regensburg’s rich and powerful men. How could she possibly…?
Powerful men?
Magdalena turned to the Venetian ambassador.
“Tell me, Silvio. At the ball tonight,” she asked casually, “just who will be in attendance?”
The Venetian grimaced. “Ah, the usual. Some ambassadors; some merchants with their overweight, garishly made-up wives; some important patricians from the city council. If the city treasurer shows up, I’ll probably have to waste some time discussing Regensburg’s ridiculous mountain of debt. Madonna, it’s going to be an awful bore!” He fell dramatically to his knees in front of Magdalena. “Please! Grant me the favor of your company, I beg you!”
Magdalena tilted back her head in cool deliberation. “Who knows? That may not be such a bad idea after all,” she said. “Surely these gentlemen have some interesting things to say.”
With only the briefest hesitation, the hangman’s daughter reached for a small red velvet jacket with lace sleeves trimmed in fur, and a wide hoop skirt. Why not marry pleasure and practicality? If anyone could help her father, it would be the men attending the ball tonight. She might even discover a few things that would otherwise remain strictly the province of the innermost circles of power.
Magdalena’s gaze wandered back to the mirrors. Before her stood a proud woman, a woman determined to fight.
Tooth and nail, if that’s what it came to.
Shortly after nightfall Nathan finally had news from the free-men.
All day Simon had been cooped up in the catacombs, caring for his destitute wards. He’d scraped scabies from the heads of three children, splinted a trembling old man’s broken leg, treated countless festering wounds with arnica, prepared packets of dried blueberries for patients with dysentery, and pulled five rotten teeth. After all that work he was more than a little happy when the beggar king finally informed him the freemen were willing to meet him down at the raft landing that evening. Nathan agreed to act as his guide, with the qualification, however, that Simon would continue treating Nathan’s crew of beggars, at least for the next few days.
The two set out, passing again through winding subterranean corridors before finally emerging into the cellar of a tavern. The tavern keeper didn’t seem surprised in the least when Nathan and his companion appeared out of thin air from behind a stack of firewood. Simon had to assume the man was aware of the beggars’ secret passageways, but when he asked Nathan about it, the beggar king replied in a disparaging tone.
“When there isn’t enough room in the hospitals or among us down below, some of my brothers have to stay in lousy inns like this one,” he said as they stepped out the back door. “That bastard demands two hellers a night, and if they don’t pay, he reports them to the city.” Then he winked. “But if the bailiffs throw us out at Jakob’s Gate, we come right back in by Peter’s Gate. Just like fleas-there’s no getting rid of us.”
From this point on, the moon illuminated their way through back alleys. No shadows leaped at them from dark corners, nor were any suspicious sounds to be heard behind them. The medicus felt certain that with Nathan by his side he was as safe as if he were home in bed in Schongau. Only a lunatic would dream of attacking the beggar king.
As they walked along, Simon thought constantly of Magdalena. When the beggars brought his medical instruments to him that morning from the Whale, they also brought news that Magdalena had disappeared. Simon was still not seriously concerned, though; it was quite possible she’d just gone out for a stroll around town or was making inquiries into the murders. Just to be sure, a beggar was waiting to intercept her at the Whale and bring her to the catacombs. But what if the guards had already seized her for arson? And then, of course, there was another possibility that tormented Simon…
Perhaps she was simply out enjoying herself with that puny Venetian!