He is one of them.
When they are encamped before the gates of the city, the surrounding countryside is like a festering wound. The villages are scorched and deserted, the farmers are dead or have long since fled into the forests and swamps. His men now and then capture a ragged figure and hang the poor wretch by his feet over the fire. Where are your cattle? Out with it! Where have you stashed your silver? Where are the women? Speak! They force a tube down the farmer’s throat and fill it with urine and feces until he chokes. Spit it out! Talk! Die, you bastard! They take whatever they lay their hands on, then set the shabby cottages on fire.
How often has he watched this from afar? How often have his men ridden back into camp with bloodstained coats and a mad light in their eyes? He never asks. He keeps silent because that’s war. Because men have a gnawing hunger and a desire for women, and the long wait inflames them. Because he knows they respect him only for his strength and his courage. Because he fears punishment… Because…
Because he’s afraid?
Kuisl couldn’t take it anymore. He had to get out of here. Gasping, he struggled to his feet and leaned against the barrel blocking the low entrance. It was just yesterday that Teuber had wrenched Kuisl’s shoulder back into its socket. It throbbed now with pain, and the wounds on his arms and legs felt as if they were on fire. From outside the room he probably could have rolled the barrel aside, but from here all he could do was try to push with all his strength against the hundred-pound barrier. He braced his legs and bore down with his bandaged back against the wooden surface, biting his lip to avoid crying out in pain.
There was a soft scraping sound, and a crack of faint light appeared between the barrel and the wall.
Again the hangman pressed against the wooden barrier until the crack was at last wide enough to slip through. On the other side he collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily as the room around him began to spin. He closed his eyes and waited until his dizziness subsided.
The effort of moving the wine barrel had robbed him of much of the strength he’d gathered in the past few hours. But at least he was able to get to his feet and walk around unassisted now. He stood up straight and looked around the damp cellar. A smoking torch near the stairway cast a dim light over the room. Lined up along the walls among wine casks were barrels of sauerkraut. Smoked sausages and legs of pork hung from the low ceiling, and dried cherries, onions, and withered apples from the previous year lay in straw-filled baskets. Kuisl took an apple and bit into it.
It tasted wonderful.
While the hangman ground the apple’s flesh in his teeth, he pondered his next move. Outside it was probably night now. He could walk straight up the stairs, out the front door, and disappear into the darkness. But how far would he get once he was out there? If Fat Thea was right, if Kuisl was actually being sought for two more murders, every bailiff in the city would be looking for him. The gates would be under strict surveillance. He could possibly flee across the Danube; Kuisl was a good swimmer and the summer current wasn’t as strong as in springtime. He might even be able to break out over the city wall. But something held him back; something kept him from fleeing at once.
Magdalena.
Where was she hiding? Could she already be in the clutches of this madman? Was he torturing her now that his adversary had escaped? Kuisl couldn’t leave this city until he knew Magdalena was safe.
He felt warm juice running down his pant leg. Unwittingly he’d crushed the apple to a pulp in his palm.
He heard a sudden commotion from the ground floor above. Someone was pounding on the front door. The voice of Fat Thea answered.
“Yes, yes, gentlemen! Please be patient! My girls are absolutely wild to get their hands on you. No one’s going anywhere, believe me!”
Kuisl cringed. The aldermen! He’d completely forgotten about them. He heard the door creak softly and shortly thereafter, laughter and a loud chorus of voices. The procuress hadn’t lied. It did seem in fact as if half the town council had joined the party.
“Come right on in, gentlemen!” Fat Thea’s voice boomed from the top of the stairs. “There’s something here for everyone. Hey there, girl, let’s take it upstairs, please; there’s nothing of interest downstairs anyway.”
The hangman instinctively withdrew as he heard footsteps on the cellar stairs, but the sound receded soon and was lost in the upper reaches of the house. Evidently someone had just taken a wrong turn.
After a while he heard giggling and shouting upstairs, indicating the girls were receiving their guests now. There was a sound of breaking glass and of doors opening and closing, a sign that the men were withdrawing to the rooms with their playmates. Kuisl was just about to hide behind the wine barrel again when he heard someone knocking on the front door-no doubt a late arrival.
“Just a moment, I’m coming!”
Fat Thea opened the door to greet the new arrival.
“Oh, what an honor!” she purred. “I haven’t seen you here for a long time.”
“I’ve been rather busy of late,” the man replied. “I hope you haven’t forgotten the whip.”
“Of course I haven’t, silly boy. But this time don’t hit so hard, you hear? Or it will cost you a guilder extra. The girls have complained.”
The man chuckled softly to the sound of coins dropping into a purse.
“Then here are two more guilders right off,” he whispered. “Because believe me, this time it’s going to hurt. There’s a rage in my belly, and it’ll take more than one girl to fix that. Let’s go.”
As he crouched on the cellar floor, the Schongau hangman’s blood froze. Only after the stranger’s footsteps began to fade away did Kuisl’s mind spring back to life again.
He knew this voice. He knew it better than his own by now. He’d heard it all too often these past days and nights, even in his nightmares.
It was the voice of the third inquisitor.
Just after dusk Simon and Magdalena tiptoed through the subterranean hall, around the beggars, who had drunk the barrel of brandy down to the last drop and were now sprawled all over the cellar floor, sleeping it off. Every now and then one would moan and roll over in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent. Simon threaded his way through a litter of gnawed bones, smashed cups, and pools of vomit, careful not to stumble over any of the beggars. Nathan was slumped in a corner, his chin to his chest, cradling a clay mug. For a moment Simon thought the beggar king might still be awake, but then, with a long rattling snore, he toppled over and lay motionless on the ground.
“Quick,” Magdalena whispered. “Let’s get out of here. Who knows when one of them will wake up?”
Simon squeezed her hand. “Just a moment.”
He hurried over to the curtained niche that had served as a sick bay the past few days and began to pack his medical utensils. Meanwhile Magdalena kept a nervous eye on Nathan, who was twitching in his sleep, licking his lips now and then. At some point he reached across the floor as if in search of the clay mug that had slipped out of his hand.
“Hurry!” she whispered. “I think he’s coming to!”
“I’ll be right there.” Simon was frantically gathering his books and stuffing them into the bag when a heavy volume of Dioscorides slipped from his sweaty fingers and fell to the floor with a crash.
“Damn!”
Bending down to retrieve it, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that one of Nathan’s eyes had opened a crack. He seemed to be dreaming, but Simon had the feeling the eye was staring at them disapprovingly. The next moment Magdalena was by Nathan’s side, placing the mug back gently into his hand. Murmuring, Nathan clutched it to his chest like a doll, rolled onto his side, and was soon snoring away calmly and evenly.