Who, in God’s name, could know that we were taking the old road?
He pushed the corpse in front of him to one side and reached into his coat. The fur was so heavy he couldn’t find the opening. Where were his damned pistols? Finally, he felt their cold steel and slipped them out through the opening. He ignored the pain in his shoulder and sat up carefully. From this position, he could see that two of his servants lay bleeding on the ground and another was struggling with three robbers, one of whom struck him on the back of the neck with an ax. Out of the corner of his eye, Weyer noticed a shadow approaching from the left. He wheeled around to see a man running toward him. He had tied pine branches to his arms and legs, his face was blackened, and in his right hand, he held a polished pistol. He was short in stature, and his movements were sleek, like a cat’s. Despite the disguise, Weyer had the feeling he had seen this man before.
But where?
There was no time to think about it, however. Weyer pointed his loaded pistol at the bandit and pulled the trigger.
There was a click, nothing else.
Damn, the powder got wet, Leonhard Weyer thought. God help me!
The figure slowly moved closer, obviously enjoying this moment, and pointed the barrel of his pistol directly at Weyer’s forehead. Just before the cock came down, igniting the powder, Weyer finally recalled where he’d seen the figure.
Was it possible? But why…?
The sudden realization couldn’t help him now. The world flew apart into a thousand stars, and behind them was nothing but unending blackness.
They met on the market square before dawn, shadows in the darkness that only gradually took shape as Jakob Kuisl approached.
The hangman knew most of them: The gatekeeper, Jakob Rauch, was there as well as the powerfully built smith, Georg Krönauer, and Andre Wiedemann, an old war veteran leaning wearily on his musket, suspiciously eyeing the newcomers shuffling into the square in heavy overcoats, their breath turning into white clouds in front of them. Farther back, Kuisl saw the sons of aldermen Semer and Hardenberg standing with Hans Berchtholdt, whose father represented the bakers in the Outer Council. They whispered among themselves, pointed at the hangman, and played apathetically with their shining sabers. From time to time, as the remaining men arrived, Kuisl heard laughter coming from that group.
Nearly two dozen men had formed a circle around the hangman-aldermen, tavern keepers, and tradesmen, all honorable citizens, eyeing him with a mixture of distrust and hostility, as if they were just waiting for him to give them some reason to contradict him. Jakob Kuisl suddenly realized how futile Lechner’s plan was. He was nothing more than a dishonorable hangman, a torturer and butcher. How could he give orders to these people?
He cleared his throat and was about to speak when a voice rang out in the fog behind him.
“Gentlemen, I have some sad news for you all.”
Johann Lechner had appeared like a ghost out of the gloom. He looked as if he’d been awake for hours: Elegantly coiffed with a cleanly clipped beard, his jacket and coat neatly buttoned, he had the bearing of someone accustomed to giving orders. He directed his piercing eyes at the crowd.
“A few dead bodies have been discovered in the forest just on the other side of Lechbruck,” he continued. “They were the Augsburg merchant Leonhard Weyer and his servants, who departed from Schongau just yesterday morning.” He raised his voice, scrutinizing the men standing around him armed with scythes, flails, and rusty muskets. “The next time it may be one of us they rob and murder. My fellow citizens, it is finally time to crack down on this gang.”
There was whispering in the crowd and curses here and there.
“Quiet, please!” The clerk clapped his hands, and immediately, the crowd fell silent. “Kuisl was a mercenary in the Great War,” Johann Lechner began, pointing to the middle of the group, where the hangman stood completely outfitted with saber, rifle, and pistols. “An able and clever leader, as I have heard. He has had experience with these sorts of scoundrels, and he knows better than any of us how to handle weapons. I want you to follow his commands, for the good of us all.”
“And if we don’t want to, eh?” It was Hans Berchtholdt, the baker’s son, who struck a defiant posture across from the clerk. “My father thinks you don’t have any right to give us orders. This is still a free city! A Berchtholdt won’t be bossed around by a dirty butcher!”
A swish could be heard as Jakob Kuisl pulled his saber out of its sheath, gripping the handle tightly.
“Your father is an old fool.” The voice came from the right, where Jakob Schreevogl materialized out of the heavy morning mist. The patrician nodded in the direction of the clerk and Jakob Kuisl. “If you’ll allow me, I wish to join the group.” The young alderman put his well-oiled pistol back in his belt and took a stand next to the hangman.
“I’m pleased that another fighter has joined our ranks,” Johann Lechner responded with a smile. “And now, to your question…” He glared at the baker’s son, and Berchtholdt stepped back, intimidated. “The attack on the Augsburg merchant was a dastardly murder and thus no longer a concern of the town but of the elector,” Lechner continued. “I am the representative of the elector in Schongau, and I am directing the hangman to lead this group. Would you like to discuss this matter with me before the court in Munich?”
Hans Berchtholdt stepped back into the ranks again, and the two other patricians’ sons looked away, distraught.
“No…of course not. I…” Berchtholdt stammered.
“Good. Then we can finally begin.” The clerk turned to Jakob Kuisl. “The hangman will explain how we will proceed.”
Jakob Kuisl grinned. You could say what you wanted about Lechner, but he had a firm grip on his town. Grimly, the hangman rammed his saber back into its sheath, looking each of the men in the face, one after the other. Then he briefly explained his battle plan.
As Simon slammed the door behind him and set out to inspect the castle ruins in Peiting, he could hear his father cursing and carrying on behind him. It was just before eight in the morning, and the first farmers and tradespeople were up and about with their carts in the streets of Schongau.
Bonifaz Fronwieser had insisted that his son stay home to help with the patients who would be coming in for treatment. Just the night before, two more Schongauers had come to the house complaining of coughing and chills. The old doctor had talked them into buying a syrup of linden blossom extract and, for an exorbitant fee, also examined their urine. Then, with a few words of assurance, he had sent them on their way. Simon was so happy he wouldn’t have to watch this foolishness that day. They were so powerless! People were dying like flies, and the doctors here couldn’t think of anything better to do than to bleed the patients and administer enemas. In Paris, London, and in Leiden in the Netherlands, doctors were far more advanced. Some renowned scholars there even asserted that illness was transmitted from person to person-not by bad air and miasmas, but by creatures too small to be seen with the naked eye. In Schongau, they still thought snot was mucus draining from the brain and that a common cold could cause a person to wither up inside and become a zombie.
Simon cursed. Until just the week before, he’d held onto a bit of Jesuit’s powder, which was extracted from the bark of an exotic tree that grew on the other side of the Great Ocean. The fever was receding, but he’d used up the last bit of it now, and the next Venetian merchant would not be coming north over the mountain passes to Schongau until spring.