At Kuisl’s request the Regensburg executioner had left the small hatch in the door open so that the scribbling on the walls was legible in the faint light. Kuisl recognized some old sayings and names, among them a handful of initials. Only a few prisoners were able to write out their whole names, and some signed their confessions with simple crosses or initials. Often their last messages to the world were therefore just a few lines or circles carved laboriously into the wood.
Kuisl read the letters and dates: D. L., January 1617; J. R., May 1653; F. M., March 1650; P.F.K. Weidenfeld, anno domini 1637…
Kuisl stopped short. Something clicked in his head, but it remained vague and diaphanous. Was it possible?
Kuisl was trying to concentrate when he heard footsteps coming down the corridor. The bolt was pushed aside, and a guard entered.
“Your grub, you dog.” The soldier shoved a wooden dish toward him in which unidentifiable lumps were floating around in a grayish sludge. The man stood, waiting. When Kuisl didn’t react, the bailiff cleared his throat, then dug around in his nostril with his finger, as if a fat worm hid up there.
“The hangman told me I had to bring the bowl back right away,” he said finally. “And the paperwork, too.”
Kuisl nodded. The Regensburg executioner had sent him some paper, ink, and a quill, as promised. Until that moment Kuisl didn’t know what he wanted to say to his daughter. He hoped to give Magdalena some ideas about where to look for clues in the city, but the damned memories of the war kept distracting him. Now, all of a sudden, he had a vague thought, possibly just a whim, but Kuisl felt it worth looking into, since time was so short.
“You’ll have to wait a while,” the hangman said. He took out the pen and ink and hastily scribbled some lines on the paper while the guard drummed his fingers impatiently against the door. Finally Kuisl folded the paper and handed it to the bailiff. “Here. And you can take back the soup, as well, and feed it to the pigs.”
The hangman kicked the steaming bowl, sending it flying into the corridor where it landed with a clatter.
“Later, I promise you, you’ll beg for a bowl of soup half as delicious as that one,” the surprised guard replied. “You’ll whimper and pray when Teuber has at you with the red-hot pincers. You’ll die like a dog, you goddamned Bavarian, and I’ll be standing there, front and center, when he breaks you on the wheel.”
“Yes, yes, very well. Now get moving,” Kuisl snarled.
The guard swallowed his rage and turned to leave. Just as he was about to bolt the door, Kuisl looked up at him.
“Ah, and if you intend not to deliver that letter,” the Schongau hangman said casually, “I’ll see that Teuber breaks your bones, slowly, one after the other. He doesn’t like it, you know, when people try to put one over on him, you understand?”
The door slammed shut and the bailiff withdrew. Once again Kuisl’s thoughts turned back to the war, the murder, the pain. He stared at the initials on the wall and tried to remember.
The letters gnawed at his subconscious-eliciting just an inkling, an image from long ago, from another life.
Kuisl knew that if he had just an ounce of tobacco, the pipe would bring the image into focus.
In the corridor the guard squeezed the folded letter in his hands and cursed softly. Who the hell did this damn hangman think he was? The king of France? Never before had a prisoner spoken to him like that. Particularly not one about to face the gallows. Just what was this Bavarian thinking?
The bailiff thought back on Kuisl’s threat. The Regensburg executioner had indeed sent him to the cell to pick up that damned letter. No doubt Philipp Teuber was to pass the paper along to some relative-a last farewell from a condemned man seeking consolation and perhaps even a few sweets to uplift him at the end. That wasn’t uncommon.
But what the executioner didn’t know was that someone else had promised the bailiff a tidy sum for the privilege of having a look at the letter before handing it over to Teuber.
Grimacing, the guard secured the paper in his jacket pocket and strode out into the city hall square, whistling. As arranged, the stranger was waiting for him in Waaggasschen Lane in front of the constabulary. The man was stooped and, despite the summer heat, had turned up his coat collar to obscure his face. No one would be able to say later who he was; even the guard who delivered the letter in exchange for a bag of coins would be unable to describe him afterward. The man’s movements were too fluid; his appearance, nondescript. Everything about the man was calm and collected, except for his eyes.
As he hastily unfolded the letter, they seemed to glow with hatred.
At once a cold smile spread across his face. He took out another piece of paper and wrote a few lines on it, then tucked the real letter inside his coat.
“I’ll pose a riddle for the girl and this quack,” he whispered, more to himself than to the guard. “Sometimes you have to throw the dog a bone so it has something to chew on. Or else they’ll draw some very stupid conclusions. Here, give this to Teuber.” With these words, he handed the guard the paper.
As the bailiff entered the bustling city hall square, he felt such relief that he dropped his first few coins right away on a strong glass of wine. Nevertheless, cold shivers ran up and down his spine.
There were people you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, and then there were people you wouldn’t wish even on an alleged murderer.
7
REGENSBURG
NOON, AUGUST 20, 1662 AD
Do you have any idea what might be detaining your
Silvio Contarini gallantly offered Magdalena his arm. She hesitated briefly, then permitted the Venetian to guide her through the narrow Regensburg streets, while she towered over him by at least a full head.
“To be honest, no,” she said uncertainly. “Perhaps he just stepped out for a breath of fresh air. I only hope nothing has happened to him.”
“Didn’t you say he likes coffee?”
Magdalena nodded. “Coffee and books, yes, he’s addicted to both.”
“Then I know a place where Simon could be.”
Silvio guided her along a wide paved avenue with oxcarts and coaches rumbling by. He took care to walk on the outside to shield her from the occasional splashes of mud from passing vehicles. The hangman’s daughter couldn’t help but smile. This man was a real cavalier! She decided to allow herself to feel like a lady, at least for a short time-to give herself over to the care of her diminutive companion.
The two soon reached the city hall square. Across from the magnificent building was a neat, freshly whitewashed gabled tavern, complete with glass windows, bright stucco work, and a newly thatched roof. Patricians in wide trousers and tight-fitting jackets paraded in and out alongside brightly made-up women with broad-brimmed hats and elaborate pinned-up hair. Silvio tugged at Magdalena’s sleeve impatiently, pulling her toward the entry.
“You don’t believe they’ll let me in, looking the way I do!” she whispered, horrified. “I look like a despicable chambermaid!”
The little Venetian examined her uncertainly. “That may in fact be a problem. Take this,” he said, handing Magdalena his cloak. Only then did she notice that a small dagger was tied to the inside of the Venetian’s belt, its handle inlaid with rubies.
“Later we’ll find you some clothes more befitting your beauty,” Silvio said resolutely. “We can’t allow a
