“I come from a hangman’s family in Reutlingen,” said Nepomuk, once again addressing the Weilheim executioner. “The Volkmars. It’s quite possible the same blood flows in our veins.” He struggled unsuccessfully to grin as the spikes cut into his neck. “After all, we dishonorable hangman are all related more or less, aren’t we, cousin?”
This time Master Hans didn’t even look up, but stopped suddenly, grabbing Nepomuk between the legs so hard that he doubled over, writhing in pain. The voice of the Weilheim executioner echoed through the rocky fortress. “Listen, sorcerer, you can whine and cry all you want,” Master Hans said softly, “you can shout your innocence from the rooftops or, for all I care, curse me up and down. But for God’s sake, stop kissing my ass. I don’t give a damn if you’re related to me or to a broomstick. I have a family to feed, and I’m saving my money one kreutzer at a time to buy my citizenship someday. So don’t expect pity from me.”
Master Hans let go of the monk’s genitals and gave the guards a signal to go on ahead. Then he started counting off on his fingers as Nepomuk lay on the floor writhing.
“For torturing you I’ll get a full three guilders,” Master Hans figured. “For burning you, ten. If I rip out your guts first, the council will certainly give me a bonus. And I can get good money for your blood, fingers, and eyes, too. I’ll make a powder from them that will offer protection from all kinds of magic spells. People pay good money for that.”
Finally a perverse smile passed across his face. “You’re my big prize, sorcerer, don’t you understand?” he hissed. “Something like you I get only once every few years. So shut your mouth and move your ass, and stop trying to be my friend, cousin.”
Master Hans spat on the floor, opened a heavy door reinforced with thick wooden beams at the end of the stairwell, and entered.
“You no doubt know most of the tools here,” he said matter-of-factly. “What luck that I can torture a colleague. That spares me all the explanation.”
Nepomuk looked around. His whole body began to tremble. A warm stream trickled down his leg, and he was overcome with shame.
They’d arrived in the torture chamber.
13
ANDECHS, THE MORNING OF SATURDAY, JUNE 19, 1666 AD
Sullen and brooding, Simon hurried along the shortest path from the monastery to the clinic. He noticed neither the twittering birds in the trees nor the pious pilgrims singing. For the moment he’d even forgotten his argument with Magdalena. His thoughts kept returning to the count’s sick son.
He feared that if he didn’t come up with something soon, his career as a medicus would end soon on the monastery battlements.
He’d spent the entire morning at the bedside of the young Wittelsbacher, but the boy’s fever hadn’t receded a bit. Even worse, the medicus had discovered the same red dots on the boy’s chest that many of his other patients had and which Girolamo Fracastoro had described in such detail in his book. Simon knew that the likelihood of dying from the fever was especially high for children, and that this fact also dramatically affected his own life expectancy: Count Wartenberg didn’t seem like the type to retract a threat of hanging a convicted quack. Just to be safe, Simon left Schreevogl in charge of the sick boy and asked him to report at once any change in the boy’s condition.
The boy was not Simon’s only problem. As the medicus made his way through the crowds of pilgrims in the narrow lanes below the monastery, he couldn’t help thinking of his angry wife. Since their confrontation in the clinic yesterday, Magdalena had been as silent as a clam; she’d spoken with him as little as possible and otherwise devoted her time to caring for the children. Why couldn’t she understand that he had no other choice?
A sudden uproar near the clinic jolted Simon out of his gloomy reveries. The medicus quickened his pace and soon caught sight of a group of monks crowding around the entrance and wailing loudly. They were carrying something large, and soon Simon recognized it as the body of a man either dead or badly wounded. His colleagues struggled to drag him into the clinic like a slaughtered pig while a crowd of pilgrims in front kept growing, trying to catch a glimpse.
“Out of the way, people,” Simon cried, pushing the onlookers aside. “I’m a doctor. Clear out of here.”
Only reluctantly the people stepped aside and allowed the medicus to enter. Simon pushed the door closed and secured it with a heavy beam. Angry shouts and wild pounding could be heard outside.
“Has the golem found another victim?” asked an anxious voice through the door. “It was the golem, wasn’t it?”
“I’ve seen this man’s wounds,” a woman bellowed. “I swear to you, they weren’t inflicted by any worldly thing.”
“Go home, people,” Simon shouted, trying to calm the crowd. “When we know something definite, we’ll be sure to let you know. There are sick people in here; you don’t want to get infected, do you?”
This last argument seemed to silence the nosy crowd. After a few more angry shouts, the mob withdrew, grumbling.
The Benedictines heaved the injured man onto the closest empty bed, and Simon rushed to his side. The other patients stared fearfully at the new patient, and finally the medicus, too, was able to have a look. He started when he finally recognized who it was beneath all the dirt and blood.
It was none other than the novitiate master Brother Laurentius.
Simon realized quickly that the monk didn’t have long to live. His breathing was shallow, his cheeks sunken like those of a dying man, but most shocking, wounds covered his entire body. The robe had burned in many places, and beneath it were black patches of what had once been human flesh. Simon remembered seeing this kind of injury before, after some dark, immeasurably evil creature had attacked young Vitalis with that hellish phosphorus powder.
The burns were in fact so severe and numerous that the medicus wondered how it was possible that Brother Laurentius was still alive. He groaned softly and seemed to be trying to mouth some words. It took Simon a while to realize the monk was asking for water. Apparently he was still conscious.
Simon quickly reached for a flask of diluted wine and poured it carefully, drop by drop, between the lips of the injured man.
“What happened?” he asked the Benedictines standing around as they crossed themselves again and again and fell to their knees.
“We… we found him in the forest,” one of the Brothers whispered. “Down in the Ox Gorge in the Kien Valley, alongside… this thing.” He pulled out a torn sack covered with spots of dried blood.
“And?” Simon asked, pointing to the closed sack. “Have you looked to see what’s inside?”
Another very young monk hesitated, then shook his head. “We… we don’t dare. It’s something heavy, perhaps one of those iron bars Brother Johannes carried around. Surely Laurentius was curious, opened the sack, and a burst of fire…”
“Just give it to me, you superstitious jackass.” Simon grabbed the sack impatiently, then opened it cautiously. When he saw what was inside, he stepped back. “My God,” he whispered. “How is it possible?”
Curious, the monks approached. When they finally realized what was in the sack, they fell to their knees again and crossed themselves several times.
Inside the dirty sack glistened an elegantly wrought silver monstrance shaped like a church steeple. Two angels hovered to the right and left of a small dome that contained three round sealed vessels.