The Beggar King

clattering and squeaking, causing something to pound inside the various buildings like the snore of a mighty giant.

“The mills on the Wohrd,” the beggar king whispered reverentially. “Do you hear that? The sound of the future! It will never cease to astonish me what man is capable of.” He pointed at the rattling and whirring wheels that, like enormous machines, cut furrows through the river along the shore. “Sawmills, paper mills, textile mills, and naturally the large grain mill. Do you see the house over there with the gabled roof? The largest mill in all of Regensburg! The freemen are expecting you there. I’ll stay here and wait for you.”

Simon hesitated. “Why don’t you come along?”

Nathan made an apologetic gesture. “They told me in no uncertain terms to stay outside. They’re a bit fussy about their anonymity. To be honest, I don’t really want to know who they are. It would only bring me grief. Now go before they grind you to bone meal in their millstones.” He gave Simon a last wink before he disappeared into a nearby bush.

Once the medicus had looked all around and noticed nothing out of the ordinary, he started walking past piles of logs and wooden shacks toward the towering mill. An enormous water wheel was attached to the front, extending into the Danube and turning with an earsplitting clatter. From inside the building the pounding and rattling mill mechanisms were so loud they drowned out nearly every other sound.

At the back of the building Simon finally discovered a door left slightly ajar. Inside, soft moonlight filtered through tall windows, illuminating sacks of grain, worm-eaten wooden tubs, and old millstones stacked high on either side of the entryway. Narrow paths wound between the sacks and into the dark interior, while farther back a millstone as big as a wagon turned with that dreadful grinding sound. Simon could feel a fine, soft dust beneath his feet as he groped his way along the widest path through the building.

“Hey, is anyone here?” he called out, feeling instantly foolish. Who would ever hear him over all this racket?

Or maybe nobody is supposed to hear me, Simon thought with growing fear.

The deafening noise suddenly ceased, and silence reigned in the cavernous room-a silence almost more troubling than the grinding and pounding of the machines. The only thing audible now was the soft sound of grain trickling to the ground.

Simon stopped to reach for the stiletto hanging on his belt. “Whoever you are, come out now! I don’t much care for this game of hide-and-seek.” He tried to speak firmly, but his voice cracked at the end.

A small light flared up in the corridor on his right and started moving toward him. On his left, too-in front of and behind him-more and more lights materialized. Simon blinked as at least a dozen men with lanterns approached, all of them wearing brown cowls and hoods with only narrow slits at the eyes. Unhurried, they approached the medicus until they’d cornered him between two sacks of grain.

Simon looked around frantically like a trapped animal. There was no escape!

Slowly, ever so slowly, one of the men approached and, once he stood directly in front of the medicus, removed his hood.

Instinctively Simon raised his stiletto. Only at the last moment did he realize that the man before him was no stranger at all.

Chandeliers sparkled, bathing the ballroom in a flickering light. A small band of flutes, fiddles, trumpets, and a harp played a French dance while the ball guests moved in unison. Laughter and chatter filled the room, while a diminutive turbaned Moor passed around jellied hors d’oeuvres and kept the guests’ glasses brimming with cold white wine from the Palatinate.

Magdalena leaned against the wall between two tall porcelain vases, observing the festivities in a tight-fitting bodice with a plunging neckline, a red velvet fur-trimmed jacket across her shoulders, and a hoop skirt to match. Her black hair, ordinarily so unruly, was pinned up in a delicate bird’s nest, and her feet suffered in tight shoes. Whenever she went to fetch smoked eel or a quince pastry from the lavish buffet, she felt as if she were walking on broken glass, and it was difficult to breathe under the many layers of heavy material. How could all these so-called fine ladies squeeze themselves into such clothing night after night?

Even though Magdalena was less than comfortable, she did seem to make an impression on the men. More than once, one or another patrician or ambassador glanced at her. Silvio made it clear from the outset, though, that the beautiful stranger was under his personal protection, and whenever he could, he tried to be near her, exchanging small talk.

Magdalena quickly realized that this ball was only superficially about socializing. Its real purpose was politics, and thus Silvio was busy most of the time discussing business alliances, foreign exchanges, and, above all, the approaching congregation of the Reichstag. The patricians and minor nobility flocked to him like moths to a light. Though most loomed over him by more than a head, the little Venetian was the focal point of nearly every conversation. With his wide petticoat breeches, form-fitting jacket, and wavy black hair, he exuded an aura of power that others eagerly soaked up.

The few women there not only steered well clear of the hangman’s daughter but sent mean-spirited glances her way. In their eyes Magdalena was just some prettied-up mistress the Venetian had likely picked up on the street. Only Silvio’s presence sheltered Magdalena from their ugly words-a fortunate thing, as the hangman’s daughter would likely have scratched the pale, made-up faces of any of the fine ladies who dared insult her.

Magdalena sighed and continued sipping from her wineglass that was almost as thin as parchment. She hadn’t learned a single thing that might help her father, and increasingly she felt like just some pretty painted doll placed amid vases as decoration. Just what had she expected? Here she was, nibbling on partridge wings caramelized with honey while her father languished in prison! It was time to put an end to this act.

She was about to hurry toward the door when someone leaned against the wall next to her and raised his glass in a toast. The elderly gentleman with thinning hair and a pince-nez seemed strangely out of place in his simple black frock coat and old-fashioned ruff, especially in the midst of all this finery. Having overheard his conversations with Silvio, she already knew he was none less than the Regensburg city treasurer. In their negotiations concerning sweet Vin Santo and Venetian ravioli, the men had mentioned sums of money that took Magdalena’s breath away.

And the very man who had just requested an additional credit of five thousand gold ducats now stood next to her and asked, “Have you tried the sweet almond paste? It’s called marzipan. Divine!” The gentleman gallantly filled her glass with wine from a glass carafe.

Magdalena managed a smile. “If I’m honest, I don’t care so much for sweets. I’d prefer a decent roast goose.”

The treasurer chuckled. “Silvio Contarini already told me you’re a real interesting woman. May I ask where you come from?”

“Oh, from around Nuremberg,” Magdalena said, picking the first place that came to mind. “A relative of mine is the valet for the Elector’s cavalry captain.”

“I wasn’t aware the cavalry captain had a valet.”

“Well, only since very recently,” the hangman’s daughter explained without batting an eyelash. “His wife always complained that he never took off his boots, even in bed-that he went around looking more like his own horse’s groom.”

The treasurer frowned. “But doesn’t the Elector’s cavalry captain live in Munich?”

“He’s moved. In Nuremberg there’s more-uh-forest for hunting. You understand…”

Good Lord, what am I saying? Magdalena thought in despair. Is there a hole somewhere around here I can crawl into?

“Hunting can become a real passion. I hunt quite a bit myself.” The patrician raised his glass to her with a smile. Magdalena had a growing suspicion the treasurer was toying with her. Had Silvio perhaps told him who she really was?

Or had he learned it from someone else?

As the treasurer continued speaking, he looked absent-mindedly out one of the large windows. “Perhaps this cavalry captain just developed a distaste for city life, particularly now in the summer, when it stinks to high heaven and your clothes stick to your body-and then there’s the constant, even imminent, danger of fire, as well.” All of a sudden he looked at Magdalena straight on. “I expect you’ve already heard of last night’s conflagration?”

The hangman’s daughter’s halfhearted smile froze on her face. “Of course. Who hasn’t?”