The Beggar King

might choke. “The Schongau hangman?” he gasped. “Ha, that’s a good one! Really good. We’ve never hanged a hangman here!” It took him a while to calm himself down again.

“Be that as it may…” he said, wiping a few tears from his eyes. In a flash his voice was cold and biting again. “You must know what’s in store for you, hangman, if you don’t confess soon. Believe me, the Regensburg hangman is a tough one and has brought many others much tougher than you to their knees.”

Kuisl folded his arms and leaned back. “Even if you break every last bone in my body, I’ll still be innocent.”

“Well, then, what do we have here?” The captain held a sheet of parchment up to the little hatch. “We found this letter upstairs in the bathhouse attic. Hofmann’s last will and testament. He had no children or surviving relatives, and upon his death a certain Jakob Kuisl from Schongau was to inherit everything. Your name is Kuisl, isn’t it?”

Blinking after being in the dark so long, the hangman stepped into the dim light to get a better look at the sheet. The parchment was embossed with a red seal, the bathhouse coat of arms. The handwriting was erratic, as if it had been written in a great hurry.

“You can’t possibly believe this rubbish, can you?” Kuisl said. “I’ve never even met this Hofmann fellow, and the last time I saw my sister was years ago. So why should I inherit anything? This scribbling is something you put together yourself. Give it to me!”

He thrust his hand through the hatch, but the captain pulled the parchment away just in time.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” he snarled. “To destroy the evidence! Now let me tell you a story. You knew your brother-in-law ran a successful bathhouse, and you knew about the will. You were having money problems, so you came to Regensburg. Maybe you pressed your sister for money, but she wouldn’t give you any, so you helped yourself. As a hangman you know only too well how to stick a pig.”

“Rubbish,” the hangman whispered. “Lisl is my sister. I would never so much as touch a hair-”

But the captain wouldn’t be interrupted. “You killed her, then began plotting your getaway,” he continued, “perhaps back to Schongau. There you could have safely waited until the postal coach arrived bearing the news of your sister’s tragic death. A savage robbery-murder-how very tragic indeed-but no one would have suspected you. Who would ever have known you’d just been to Regensburg? But you hadn’t reckoned you’d be controlled as you came through the city gate, and I saw right away that there was something fishy about you, country boy-”

“Dirty lies!” The hangman pounded his fists against the reinforced wooden door. “You’re nothing but dirty gallows birds, all of you! Tell me, how much did they pay you for locking me in the tower overnight? Who ordered you to take me prisoner in the bathhouse? Who? Say something!”

The alarmed captain’s face disappeared from the window for a moment. When he reappeared, he was smiling again.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally said. “Whatever the case, the investigation has concluded now, and the paperwork is complete. The city council will probably meet tomorrow morning to determine your fate. In Regensburg we make short shrift of scoundrels like you.” The watchman’s eyes wandered over the excrement-splattered cell walls. “I hope your stay in our lovely city dungeon has given you time to reflect. The hangman is already polishing his pincers. But why am I telling you this? You know all about these things, after all. Have a nice day in Regensburg.”

He winked at Kuisl, then walked away with a merry whistle.

Despairing, the Schongau hangman leaned back against the wall, then fell into a dejected heap in the corner. Things were not looking good for him. From experience he knew it was only a matter of days before torture would begin. According to age-old law, a suspect could be sentenced only once he’d made his confession, so the Regensburg hangman would use every means at his disposal to compel a confession from Kuisl. First, he would show him the instruments of torture. If this didn’t induce a confession, he would apply the thumb screws and remove Kuisl’s fingernails one by one. Finally, he would tie hundred-pound stones to his feet and hoist him up, arms bound behind his back, until his bones sprang from their sockets and cracked. The Schongau hangman knew the routine well; he’d performed it a dozen times himself. But he also knew that if the suspect wouldn’t confess in spite of all this, they’d let him go.

At least what was left of him.

Kuisl lay down on the dirty wooden floor, closed his eyes, and prepared himself for his long journey through the world of pain. He was sure that if he confessed, he would be broken on the wheel, at the very least. Probably they would hang him first, slit his belly open, and pull the guts from his body.

His gaze wandered over the dark cell walls, where innumerable prisoners had carved not only their names but their pleas, prayers, and curses into the wood. The captain had failed to fully close the little hatch in the door, so a small sliver of light fell across the words. Every inscription told a story, a fate, or gave testimony to a life that had no doubt ended much too soon and too painfully. His gaze stopped at a message just one line in length, a message carved deeply, apparently with a knife.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name…

Kuisl frowned. It was strange to see the words here, of all places. It was just the first line of a silly old mercenary’s song, but to the hangman the line said volumes. A muffled roar sounded in his ears. Long ago the words had been banished to the furthest reaches of his mind-almost forgotten entirely-but now, as he read the inscription, it all came rushing back.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name…

Images, sounds, even scents overwhelmed him-the smell of gun smoke, booze, and decay, a droning chorus of men’s voices, the rhythmic marching of feet.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name

From God above his power came.

The memory struck him like the blow of a hammer.

…The foot soldiers’ ballad resounds through the city, though individual words are impossible to discern-a low thrum, like the sound of a thousand insects. The nearer Jakob comes to the market square, the louder it grows. He can feel his heart pounding as he sets eyes on the crowd before him-day laborers, tailors, cobblers, greedy adventurers, and penniless wretches. They’re standing in a long line that snakes around the entire square, ending at a large, battered wooden table. Behind the table sits an officer with a big book, noting the names of new recruits. Drummers and fifers stand in tight formation behind the table, while brandy flows freely and anyone who is still able to sing is singing.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name

FROM GOD ABOVE HIS POWER CAME.

HIS BLADE KEEN AND STEADY

To mow us is ready…

Slowly, very slowly, the book swallows the line until finally Jakob stands before the officer, who considers him with a smirk, chewing a wad of tobacco and spitting brown liquid onto the pavement.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Jakob Kuisl.”

“And how old are you?”

“I’ll be fifteen this summer.”

The officer rubs his nose. “You look older. And damned strong, too. Ever been to war?”

Jakob shakes his head, silent.

“War’s a bloody affair. A lot of honor, a lot of death. A lot like a slaughterhouse. Can you stand the sight of death, hmm? Bodies hacked to pieces, severed heads… Well?”

Jakob remains silent.

“Very well,” the officer says with a sigh. “We could use a boy to carry supplies, or perhaps you could play the drums. Or-”

“I’m here to join the infantry, sir.”

“I beg your pardon?”