A cry of many voices arises, as loud as if the earth itself were opening up and calling for revenge.
And then the killing begins.
The men who stagger toward them from the castle courtyard with uplifted swords are also weakened by disease and hunger. Only a few dozen have held out, and they are cut down like dogs.
“Death to all the Andechs!” the attackers cry, their eyes like those of wild animals. “Death, death, death!”
Blood flows over the stone steps, and the men keep slipping and falling, but driven by their hatred and lust, they wander from room to room looking for women, wine, food, and treasure. They were promised treasures, but where are the damned treasures? The Wittelsbach duke told them there were more precious objects here than in the entire Holy Land. The gold they could keep; all the duke wanted for himself were the many relics.
They race through the outer court, storm the tower, search the women’s chambers and the burning stables until finally they reach the chapel in the interior courtyard. A priest stands in their way, wringing his hands, but they push him aside, then run him through with lances. They beat down the door to the chapel. This is where they must be, the legendary treasures the duke had spoken of so often.
The room is empty.
No relics, no treasures, not a single accursed coin-everything was hauled away long ago. The men’s hatred is immense. They burn down everything, search the chaos for survivors who can tell them where the costly relics are stored. But there are no survivors; they’ve all been slaughtered. So the men search more and more frantically, leaving no stone unturned-digging, cursing, even mutilating the body of the priest-all in vain.
The relics have disappeared.
When they finally withdraw, all that is left of the once proud castle is a smoking ruin, a field of rubble that will soon be overgrown with ivy and moss. The castle will become what it once was.
Silent stone.
Not until centuries later will a little mouse reveal the hiding place of the relics. At that point, all the battles, the misery, the knights in shining armor-all will have been long forgotten…
Only the dream of the treasure lives on today…
When Simon put the book aside, he could feel the hair at the back of his neck standing on end.
Now he thought he knew what the count was seeking in the ancient passageways beneath the castle. Could treasures and relics still be hidden down there? Some of the relics had reappeared a few hundred years later, but if this castle was really the seat of the Andechs-Merianer, it was quite possible many other precious items were waiting to be found. Were the librarian and his helper chasing after these treasures? Had they already found them?
Before Simon could finish his train of thought, he was jolted by a loud wail from one of the beds in back. One of the Twangler brothers was thirsty. Simon brought him a cup of water while casting a glance at the other patients. Some needed bandages changed, and others needed a drink to help them sleep.
Sleep…
Despite the excitement, Simon suddenly felt how tired he was. The events of the last few days-the count’s sick son, the quarrel with Magdalena-it had all clearly been too much for him. And now he had to watch a badly injured monk who probably wouldn’t survive the next few hours anyway.
Simon rubbed his temples and sat down again on the chair alongside Laurentius’s bed. He picked up the little book again but could feel his eyes closing after just a few lines. He struggled to sit up straight in the uncomfortable armchair. The setting sun shone through the tiny windows and cracks in the wooden wall, warming his face, and his head fell forward. No, he couldn’t break his promise to his father-in-law and fall asleep-not now. Where, for heaven’s sake, was Schreevogl? It seemed like hours ago that Simon had sent him to the tavern. Shouldn’t he be coming to relieve him for a few hours? Had Schreevogl forgotten what he’d asked him to find out?
Once more the medicus cursed himself for running out of his beloved coffee beans. He almost thought he could smell the fragrance of the black ground powder mixing with the stench of dirty straw and reminding him of home. Of Schongau in the summer, when the grain stood tall in the fields… of Magdalena, his children… were they already asleep? Was she still angry at him? He really had to pay more attention to her. All of a sudden, he regretted he’d had so little time for his family in recent days. What did this murder case, the count’s son, and all the other sick people really have to do with his life? Sometimes it seemed to him that, in his concern for others and his thirst for knowledge, he forgot what was really dear to him.
When Simon’s head fell forward, he dreamed of his two small sons, of an automaton playing music, and of a castle going up in smoke and flames. He could hear the laughter of children and the rushing of a distant river. Seconds later, he was fast asleep.
He didn’t notice the figure quietly opening the door and tiptoeing to the bed of the novitiate master with outstretched arms. The man smiled at the medicus slumped over in his chair and peacefully snoring. The man had waited a long time at the window, hoping the medicus would fall asleep sooner or later.
And now he could finally finish his work.
Brother Laurentius was dreaming, as well, but his were not beautiful dreams. Once again he saw blue flames flickering around his body, he smelled his own burnt flesh, and he heard the sweet melody of the automaton along with his own screams.
Groaning softly, the monk tossed and turned in his bed. Ever since the unimaginable had happened, he’d hovered between sleeping and waking. In his waking moments, the pain surged like acid through his body; then merciful unconsciousness returned, followed again by short moments of lucidity. How many hours had passed since that nightmare? How many days? He didn’t know. People came and went around him; they laid cool compresses on his wounds and poured wine and water between his lips, but every time he tried to open his mouth to speak, all that came out of his burned throat was a rattle.
Except for once.
But the Schongau medicus hadn’t understood him; he hadn’t been able to make out his words; he didn’t know the danger.
Last night, in despair, the Brother had wandered through the forests around the monastery. Fear was nagging at him; the crime they committed would finally be exposed. This golem was like an avenging angel pounding loudly again and again on the door of his conscience. Laurentius, who had heard the melody, knew the automaton was going about its work somewhere down below. This creature would never rest until someone went down there and smashed it into a thousand pieces.
And then that someone would discover what they’d hidden down there so well. That mustn’t happen.
Brother Benedikt had assured him that the passage to their hiding place had been sealed, but Laurentius knew there were other entrances to the castle. He’d read about them himself in the library. It was a true labyrinth. Sooner or later the melody would lure someone into one of these passageways and the secret would come to light. Then they would all face the fire or be boiled alive in oil. Laurentius had read this punishment was used centuries ago in cases of high treason and counterfeiting, and wasn’t their crime worse-much worse-than both these crimes together?