Death and the Devil

The tips of his fingers squeezed the fat at the base of Justinius’s neck, released it, then moved lower down. “It’s a confession the wandering scholars used to sing—presumably they granted themselves absolution. Light are the elements forming my matter, they sang, Like a dry leaf, the storm winds scatter. And My breast is pierced by women’s beauty. My hand can’t touch? Let the heart do duty.”

“Sounds like a good song,” said Justinius, though with a frisson of unease somewhere at the back of his mind. He had the feeling he knew this masseur.

“Greedier for love I am, than God’s grace to win. Dead my soul, so all I care is to save my skin,” the man continued. The movements of his hands followed the rhythm of the poem. Or was it the other way around? “The hardest thing of all, I say, is to tame our nature. Who can keep out lustful thoughts near a lovely creature? We are young, impossible to obey this hard law. Our bodies too are young, they know omnia vincit amor.”

“Quite right,” agreed Justinius, if slightly doubtfully.

“And what does it say in the Romance of the Rose? Marriage is a hateful tie. Nature is not so stupid as to put Mariette in the world for Robichon alone, or Robichon for Mariette, or Agnes or Perette. There is no doubt, dear child, that she made everyone for everyone. How true! Then Follow nature without hesitation. I forgive you all your sins as long as you are in harmony with nature. Be swifter than the squirrel, tuck up your skirts to enjoy the wind, or, if you prefer, go naked and so on and so forth. And all these supposed blasphemers who wrote such verses ended their lives as good Christians. The Archpoet sang the praises of Frederick Barbarossa, Hugo Primas taught in Paris and Orleans, and Serlo of Wilton mended his ways in England and died a pious Cistercian, Walter of Chatillon as a canon, all of them men who enjoyed life to the full and cared little for the Church’s rules.”

“How comforting,” muttered Justinius. What was the point of all this? All the names and things the fellow knew? Much too well-educated for a bathhouse assistant. And then the voice. He knew that voice. But from where?

“Listen,” said Justinius, “I—”

“But”—the pleasantly powerful hands continued without pause—“how many died in misery? A chaste, God- fearing man like Tristan, burning with such love and fleshly desire he fell sick and died. Even if he was united with his beloved after death, how he suffered for it.”

Who was this Tristan, dammit? Justinius von Singen was no monk, he was a swindler, a charlatan in a monk’s habit who could churn out standard portions of the Bible, usually mixing them up. What was it this bastard wanted of him?

Suddenly he felt afraid. “I want you to stop,” he gabbled.

As if he had not heard, the masseur continued to knead his flesh, digging the tips of his fingers into Justinius’s ribs.

“And fair Isolde, promised to King Mark of Cornwall”—he continued his lecture—“where did love lead her? Did it protect her against the deceived king, who wondered whether to burn her or abandon her to the lepers? And when he finally relented and let her go, what was left for her? Brokenhearted for her Tristan, she lay beside a rotting carcass, Justinius. What an end to love!”

“What do you want?” panted Justinius, trying to get up.

The fingers flitted up and down his spine.

“For there are no secrets on earth, everything comes to light, and in the light everything looks shabby, and the light is the punishment, and the punishment is—pain.”

“Please, I—”

Something cracked.

Justinius gave a yelp of pain. His head was pressed down, then the hands continued their gentle, pleasant massaging.

“And now we’ll see,” said that terribly familiar voice, “who can bear pain. And who can’t.”

Again it was like a lance thrust between Justinius’s bones. He screamed and tried to get up, but the merciless iron grip forced him down onto the bed, his face in the towels.

His tormentor laughed. “You see, Justinius, that’s the advantage of these bathhouses. The audible expressions of pleasure go unheard in such a discreet establishment. And all that music out there. You can scream as much as you like.”

“What have I done to you?” Justinius whimpered.

“Done?” The hands gently grasped his shoulders and massaged the muscles. “Betrayed me, that’s what you’ve done, reverend Brother. I paid you well to be witnesses, but you obviously prefer to collaborate with the dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s.”

So that’s what it was. That was the voice. “Please—” Justinius begged.

“Now, now. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want the truth.”

The truth? “It was—it was nothing,” Justinius groaned. “This dean came along. I don’t know what he wanted, we talked about various things, but not about Gerhard—”

The sentence ended in a further scream. Justinius’s fingers gripped the edge of the bed.

“Interesting, human anatomy,” the voice went on calmly. “Didn’t you know how fragile a shoulder blade is?”

The tears were running down Justinius’s cheeks. Tears of pain.

“Will you tell me the truth now?”

Justinius tried to speak, but all that came out was a moan. In a futile attempt to escape he tried to pull himself to the top of the bed. The hands gripped him and pulled him back.

“Come now, Justinius, relax. How can two old friends have a sensible conversation if you’re all tensed up like that?”

“He—” Justinius swallowed. “He knew about you. And he knew you killed Gerhard and that’s the truth, in the name of God I swear it.”

“That’s more like it.” As if to reward him, the hands made soothing circular movements over his shoulders. “But he made you an offer, didn’t he?”

“Double.”

“Not more?”

“No,” Justinius cried, “as God is my witness, no.”

“And you accepted?”

“No, of course not, we—”

The sound of breaking bones was sickening. He almost fainted from the pain.

“Justinius? Are you still there? Sorry, but a good massage can get a bit rough. Did you accept his offer?”

Justinius let out an unintelligible babble. The saliva was running down his chin.

“Clearer, please.”

“Yes. Yes!”

“When and where are you to meet the dean?”

“Here,” Justinius whispered. “Please don’t hurt me anymore—Our Father, who art in heaven—”

“Oh, you know a prayer? Your piety shames me. I asked you when.”

“Soon—he should be here any minute. Please, I beg you, no more pain, please—”

The other leaned down close. Justinius could feel something soft on his back. Hair. Long blond hair. “Don’t worry, Justinius,” said Urquhart softly, “you won’t feel any more pain.”

The fingers reached his neck.

Justinius couldn’t hear the last dull crack.

Andreas von Helmerode leaned back in the water. He felt a profound disquiet. On the one hand, he wished he could take things as calmly as Justinius, who was at this moment doubtless lying on the bed in his cubicle and nothing would disturb him.

On the other hand, he was the one who had had to get them out of a jam more than once. As soon as money was mentioned, Justinius threw caution to the winds.

Perhaps it was time to turn respectable. The swindling and living on their wits had gone on for long enough, going around as false priests, exploiting the grief of simple people mourning their loved ones, the faith of those too