Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

No! He could not allow these attacks to continue. Not now, not ever.

Urquhart filled his lungs to the bursting point with air and let his breath out in a slow, controlled exhalation. Then he held his right hand out in front of him. After a few seconds it started to tremble slightly.

Again he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This time his hand did not tremble.

His eyes scoured the street. If they were keeping to his instructions, two of Matthias’s servants ought to be somewhere nearby. After a while they came along the street, chattering away. He raised his hand in the agreed signal and went to meet them.

Jacob the Fox might cover his red mop, but they would recognize the dean. According to the description Matthias had given him an hour ago, there could only be one face like that. Jaspar Rodenkirchen would come alone or with the Fox, not suspecting that he was expected. One way or another he would fall into the trap. Then they would stay hard on his heels, unobserved.

The servants would, that is.

He himself had other plans. If Jaspar brought the Fox with him, all the better. If the dean came alone, Jacob was sure to be where Urquhart was about to go.

“I’ve been thinking about your friend a bit,” said Jaspar as they went down Severinstraße together.

“What friend?” Jacob asked. He pulled the hood of Jaspar’s old habit farther down over his face. During the last couple of days he’d worn more coats and cloaks than in his whole life before. Despite the disguise, he felt horribly exposed.

“The one who wants to get you,” replied Jaspar. “Word has got around that there is someone in Cologne using strange little arrows, and we two know who it is. But what kind of weapon is it?”

“A crossbow. Didn’t I tell you?”

“You did. With that power of penetration it has to be a crossbow. Only the bolts are too small for every known type of crossbow.”

Too small? Jacob thought. True, the bolts were too small. But he knew nothing about weapons.

“Tell me again, Fox-cub, what he was carrying while he was chasing you.”

“What we’ve been talking about all the time.”

“Yes, but how was he holding it?”

“Holding it?”

“God in heaven! Just describe how he was holding it.”

Jacob frowned, then stretched out his right hand. “Like that, I think. More or less.”

“In his right hand?” Jaspar clicked his tongue. “Not with both hands?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

Jacob tried to picture in his mind again what he had seen when he had turned around in the narrow alley and looked his pursuer in the face. “Yes,” he said, “absolutely sure.”

“Interesting.” Jaspar smiled. “There is no crossbow you can hold in one hand while running after someone at the same time.”

“But it was a crossbow,” Jacob insisted.

“Of course it was.” Jaspar seemed very pleased with himself.

“All right, you fount of knowledge,” said Jacob, sighing, “what is it you know this time that no one else knows?”

“Oh,” said Jaspar, putting on a humble expression, “I know that I know nothing. A man in ancient Greece said that. It appeals to me. Now Platonic forms, would you like to hear—”

“Oh, no, not another of your lectures!” Jacob protested.

“You’re not interested in learning? Your loss. But I know a lot about the Crusades as well. You may have noticed. I’ve read eyewitness accounts and heard the stories of various poor wretches who made it back home. I know the odd secret of the Orient—Al Khwarizmi’s algebra, Rhazes’s medical writings, Avicenna’s Canon medicinae , Alfarabius’s powerful philosophy—although I can’t remember as much as I should and I’d like to know more. But the key secret of the Muslims is well known to me. It’s called progress. In many ways they’re a good bit ahead of us.”

In unison, the bells of St. George’s, St Jacob’s, and the church of the Carmelites struck the first hour of the afternoon. Jaspar quickened his step. “Come on, we’d better hurry up before those scoundrels change their minds. Now: weapons. The crusaders discovered that the infidels were decidedly inventive in that respect. Rolling siege towers, castles bristling with lances on the backs of elephants, and catapults that not only send their projectiles into the enemy camp, but actually hit what they’re meant to hit. And among all these reports there was one I heard years ago about single-handed crossbows. Very light, a work of art almost, and extremely elastic. With small bolts. You can’t shoot as far with them as with the big ones, but you’re quicker on the draw and can keep the other hand free for your sword. The Saracens’ sharpshooters, the man told me, are incredibly accurate with them, even when they’re charging the enemy on horseback or on foot. Before you know it, you have one of those little bolts sticking out of your chest. Not a pleasant experience.”

It certainly made Jacob think as he trotted along beside Jaspar. “So the murderer’s a crusader,” he said. “How does that help us?”

“Was.” Jaspar corrected him. “Was a crusader. If he was, then he’ll have brought it back with him. A fairly recent invention, by all accounts. As far as I know, the first examples appeared during the last Crusade under Louis IX. He started out from France in 1248 and went via Cyprus to Egypt, where he took Damietta at the mouth of the Nile. I’ll spare you the horrors of the campaign. Suffice it to say that Louis was captured, but, incredibly, released for a large ransom. The Crusade ended in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, but not the city, and the army was wiped out at Acre on the coast. A total disaster. Most of those who did make it home never got over the experience. They felt they had failed, felt guilty for not having managed to carry out God’s will, whatever they thought that was, not to mention the constant massacres, less an expression of Christian liberation than a perversion of human nature.”

He paused for breath. “I have to say that some of the crusaders, however much I condemn their deeds, were motivated by a vision. But most of them were unscrupulous adventurers and they had no idea of what actually awaited them. They wallowed in dreams of immeasurable riches and generous remission of sins. Others, brave knights, experienced in warfare but blinded by the legends of the Holy Grail, probably imagined it would be like a grand tournament.”

Jaspar shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m going on like this, we haven’t the time. The point is, it was in connection with that Crusade that I heard about the tiny crossbow. Some poor devil who had lost his legs at the siege of Acre rambled on about it during confession. And I didn’t know whether to believe him. He was already a bit—” Jaspar tapped his forehead.

“When did this Crusade end?” Jacob asked.

“Six years ago. So it would fit in with this monster going about his business in Cologne. We know a little more about him.”

“So? What help is it to know him?”

“Knowledge always helps. Can’t you get that into that empty water-tub you have for a brain?” said Jaspar as they walked along by the Brook. “He is a former crusader who has committed murders. And will commit a further murder, if we assume that the main action is still to come. The basic question, it seems to me, is: is he acting on his own initiative or on someone else’s behalf? Gerhard’s death shocked Cologne. If that’s only the prelude, then it’s more than just an old crusader running amok, especially considering how well planned the whole thing was. So we assume the man’s being paid. Well paid, probably. They’ll have chosen him carefully.”

“Who’re they?”