Simon stopped to reach for the stiletto hanging on his belt. “Whoever you are, come out now! I don’t much care for this game of hide-and-seek.” He tried to speak firmly, but his voice cracked at the end.
A small light flared up in the corridor on his right and started moving toward him. On his left, too-in front of and behind him-more and more lights materialized. Simon blinked as at least a dozen men with lanterns approached, all of them wearing brown cowls and hoods with only narrow slits at the eyes. Unhurried, they approached the medicus until they’d cornered him between two sacks of grain.
Simon looked around frantically like a trapped animal. There was no escape!
Slowly, ever so slowly, one of the men approached and, once he stood directly in front of the medicus, removed his hood.
Instinctively Simon raised his stiletto. Only at the last moment did he realize that the man before him was no stranger at all.
Chandeliers sparkled, bathing the ballroom in a flickering light. A small band of flutes, fiddles, trumpets, and a harp played a French dance while the ball guests moved in unison. Laughter and chatter filled the room, while a diminutive turbaned Moor passed around jellied hors d’oeuvres and kept the guests’ glasses brimming with cold white wine from the Palatinate.
Magdalena leaned against the wall between two tall porcelain vases, observing the festivities in a tight-fitting bodice with a plunging neckline, a red velvet fur-trimmed jacket across her shoulders, and a hoop skirt to match. Her black hair, ordinarily so unruly, was pinned up in a delicate bird’s nest, and her feet suffered in tight shoes. Whenever she went to fetch smoked eel or a quince pastry from the lavish buffet, she felt as if she were walking on broken glass, and it was difficult to breathe under the many layers of heavy material. How could all these so-called fine ladies squeeze themselves into such clothing night after night?
Even though Magdalena was less than comfortable, she did seem to make an impression on the men. More than once, one or another patrician or ambassador glanced at her. Silvio made it clear from the outset, though, that the beautiful stranger was under his personal protection, and whenever he could, he tried to be near her, exchanging small talk.
Magdalena quickly realized that this ball was only superficially about socializing. Its real purpose was politics, and thus Silvio was busy most of the time discussing business alliances, foreign exchanges, and, above all, the approaching congregation of the Reichstag. The patricians and minor nobility flocked to him like moths to a light. Though most loomed over him by more than a head, the little Venetian was the focal point of nearly every conversation. With his wide petticoat breeches, form-fitting jacket, and wavy black hair, he exuded an aura of power that others eagerly soaked up.
The few women there not only steered well clear of the hangman’s daughter but sent mean-spirited glances her way. In their eyes Magdalena was just some prettied-up mistress the Venetian had likely picked up on the street. Only Silvio’s presence sheltered Magdalena from their ugly words-a fortunate thing, as the hangman’s daughter would likely have scratched the pale, made-up faces of any of the fine ladies who dared insult her.
Magdalena sighed and continued sipping from her wineglass that was almost as thin as parchment. She hadn’t learned a single thing that might help her father, and increasingly she felt like just some pretty painted doll placed amid vases as decoration. Just what had she expected? Here she was, nibbling on partridge wings caramelized with honey while her father languished in prison! It was time to put an end to this act.
She was about to hurry toward the door when someone leaned against the wall next to her and raised his glass in a toast. The elderly gentleman with thinning hair and a pince-nez seemed strangely out of place in his simple black frock coat and old-fashioned ruff, especially in the midst of all this finery. Having overheard his conversations with Silvio, she already knew he was none less than the Regensburg city treasurer. In their negotiations concerning sweet Vin Santo and Venetian ravioli, the men had mentioned sums of money that took Magdalena’s breath away.
And the very man who had just requested an additional credit of five thousand gold ducats now stood next to her and asked, “Have you tried the sweet almond paste? It’s called marzipan. Divine!” The gentleman gallantly filled her glass with wine from a glass carafe.
Magdalena managed a smile. “If I’m honest, I don’t care so much for sweets. I’d prefer a decent roast goose.”
The treasurer chuckled. “Silvio Contarini already told me you’re a real interesting woman. May I ask where you come from?”
“Oh, from around Nuremberg,” Magdalena said, picking the first place that came to mind. “A relative of mine is the valet for the Elector’s cavalry captain.”
“I wasn’t aware the cavalry captain had a valet.”
“Well, only since very recently,” the hangman’s daughter explained without batting an eyelash. “His wife always complained that he never took off his boots, even in bed-that he went around looking more like his own horse’s groom.”
The treasurer frowned. “But doesn’t the Elector’s cavalry captain live in Munich?”
“He’s moved. In Nuremberg there’s more-uh-forest for hunting. You understand…”
Good Lord, what am I saying? Magdalena thought in despair. Is there a hole somewhere around here I can crawl into?
“Hunting can become a real passion. I hunt quite a bit myself.” The patrician raised his glass to her with a smile. Magdalena had a growing suspicion the treasurer was toying with her. Had Silvio perhaps told him who she really was?
Or had he learned it from someone else?
As the treasurer continued speaking, he looked absent-mindedly out one of the large windows. “Perhaps this cavalry captain just developed a distaste for city life, particularly now in the summer, when it stinks to high heaven and your clothes stick to your body-and then there’s the constant, even imminent, danger of fire, as well.” All of a sudden he looked at Magdalena straight on. “I expect you’ve already heard of last night’s conflagration?”
The hangman’s daughter’s halfhearted smile froze on her face. “Of course. Who hasn’t?”
“An awful affair.” The old man nodded deliberately and regarded Magdalena through his pince-nez like an exotic beetle through a magnifying lens. “The word is that it was set by two arsonists-a man and a woman. We have quite good descriptions of both, and it looks as though the responsibility’s fallen to me to deal with this wretched business. As if I don’t have enough on my plate already… But here, I’m going on and on!” The treasurer instantly transformed into a kindly old man again. “I haven’t even introduced myself yet. My name is Paulus Mamminger; I’m responsible for the financial matters in our great city.” He made a small, stiff bow.
“Certainly an important job.” Sweat was streaming down Magdalena’s back now and surely seeping through her bodice. Her desperate attempt to keep up proper formal speech sounded ridiculous, even to her own ears, and she harbored no doubts the treasurer must have seen through her long ago.
Mamminger sighed and sipped from his glass. “At present not a soul in the council envies me this job. The coming Reichstag is costing us a fortune! And alas, I can’t find enough suitable lodging for the ambassadors and noblemen!” He shook his head, giving way to a long pause.
“And why has the kaiser summoned a meeting of the Reichstag at all?” Magdalena finally asked in an attempt to keep the conversation moving. “I’ve heard it’s about the war with the Turks. Is that true?”
The treasurer grinned. “Child, where have you been hiding? Of course it is! The kaiser needs money to wage war on his most hated enemy. We don’t want those heathens laying siege to Vienna again, do we? So, Kaiser Leopold is passing the collection plate around, and we Regensburgers are stuck with the expense of playing host yet again to spoiled noblemen from all over the empire.”