Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

Justinius frowned. Then he sent a huge wave of water splashing over Andreas. “Hey! Why so gloomy?”

“What?” Andreas shook his head. “I’m not gloomy. I just can’t stop thinking about that man who came to see us this morning.”

“Oh, him again.” Justinius sighed. “Don’t I keep telling you not to worry so much? I agreed with you, didn’t I, that we should accept his generous offer and get out of Cologne as quickly as possible?”

“He wants us to make a statement to the council,” Andreas reminded him. “That makes a quick getaway impossible.”

“The council can go hang itself. We tell the man what we know, take the money, and before the council can get off their fat arses we’ll be spending it on a life of luxury in Aachen.” He leaned forward and grinned. “I’ve heard Aachen’s fantastic. Have you been there? What else would you expect from the city where they crown the kings?” He put his head to one side and shrugged. “On the other hand, they say nothing can compare with Cologne, so I can understand your feelings.” He nestled his head against the girl’s shoulder, groaning with pleasure.

Andreas pursed his lips. “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right. The big fellow with the long hair gave us something and we did what he asked. Now someone else wants to give us something, so we do what he asks. What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t know. How did he find out we had anything to do with Blondie?”

“What does it matter? This Jaspar will be here soon. We’ll go into one of the side rooms, do the deal, take the money, tell him what happened and what we know—God knows, I’m an honest man, Andreas—and take ourselves off to some other place where you can get plenty of meat on your dagger. By the time Blondie’s realized we’ve let something slip, we’ll be over the hills and far away.”

“I hope you’re right,” Andreas repeated, a little less tensed up.

“Of course I am. Look around. This is the life! And we’ll live forever, God forgive my sinful tongue.”

The girl laughed. “Here everything’s forgiven,” she said, pouring another bowl of water over him.

Justinius shook himself luxuriously and pulled himself up onto the side. “What manly passion our Creator has implanted in us,” he cried. “Keep yourself in readiness for me, my rose, pearl of this holy city. I will betake myself to the massage couch and when I return you will feel the sword of my desire, O blessed body of the Whore of Babylon.”

Andreas gave him a scornful look. “You should have another look at the scriptures some time,” he said. “That was a load of nonsense.”

Justinius gave a roar of laughter. “Life is a load of nonsense.”

“Yes,” said Andreas, sighing, “for once you might just be right.”

Still laughing, Justinius went to the back of the room and pushed aside a curtain, revealing a small candle-lit cubicle with a wooden table covered in towels and blankets, a tub of steaming water, and some jugs filled with fragrant oil. One could have a massage from the owner and his assistants, or from the girls as long as the curtain remained closed.

Grunting and groaning, Justinius pulled himself onto the table, pressed his belly flat on the soft blankets, and closed his eyes. He had paid for the full treatment. First a good kneading from a pair of strong male hands, then he would roll over on his back and take on the sweet burden of sin in whatever shapely form it should appear. The owner of the bathhouse was discreet and showed a sure touch in his selection of companions for his customers. The surprise was all part of the fun.

Justinius began to hum softly.

The curtain rustled and he heard the masseur come in. No point in turning over yet. There was a scraping noise. The man was pulling one of the jugs of oil closer.

“Give me a good going over.” He giggled, not opening his eyes. “I want to erupt like a volcano.”

The man laughed softly and placed his hands on Justinius’s back. They were pleasantly warm. With powerful yet gentle movements he spread the oil over his shoulders and started to loosen the muscles with rhythmic kneading. Justinius gave a groan of pleasure.

“You like it?” asked the masseur quietly.

“Oh, yes. You do it perfectly.”

“Thank you.”

“Although—but don’t take this personally—you lack the charms of the priestess who will succeed you in this temple and spoil me in a quite different and more delightful way.”

“Of course.”

The hands moved across his shoulder blades to his spine, parting and coming together again as they slowly made their way down to his waist. Justinius felt the warmth begin to spread over his whole body.

“This is going to be something”—he grinned in anticipation—“a fitting farewell to the holy city.”

“All in good time,” said the masseur. “Aren’t you a monk?”

“Yes.” Justinius frowned. What was the point of a question like that in a place like this? “There are worse sins,” he quickly added, at the same time wondering why he felt the need to excuse himself to this fellow. On the other hand, God could see everything. Even in a closed cubicle of a bathhouse in Cologne.

“There’s no need to worry,” said the masseur softly. His thumbs glided up Justinius’s ribs to his armpits. “There have been saints who were fond of women, if you know what I mean. Abstinence is a modern invention. You don’t have to pretend with me. I knew some students, years ago. Their only reason for studying was to gain a well-endowed benefice and well-endowed women. There was a song—”

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?