Oliver Potzsch: The Poisoned Pilgrim

“But… but why did the tavern serve such food?” Simon asked, astonished.

“On the instruction of the prior. The supplier had influential allies in the monastery council. The same man also sold the monastery beeswax diluted with fat and overpriced pictures of saints. It seems there was a big payoff.”

His heart pounding, Simon held his breath. “Do I know the supplier?” he whispered.

Schreevogl nodded with a grin. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Oh, God, it’s-”

“Karl Semer. The abbot cancelled all deliveries from him as of this morning, and Semer will never be allowed to sell anything to the monastery again.” The patrician smiled mischievously. “And he will no longer be selling anything to the Wittelsbach count, either. I made sure myself that His Excellency learned about it.”

Simon laughed so loud that some of the patients woke up with a start. “That fat old moneybags,” he cried out, shaking his head again and again. “That’s what he and his son get for their wheeling and dealing. This will take Semer down a peg or two.” Suddenly he turned serious. “I hope this makes him a bit more reasonable in the Schongau town council. He’s made some serious threats against me and Magdalena.”

Schreevogl shrugged and went to one of the patients to change the dressing on his leg. “Don’t worry about that. I can’t imagine the Schongau Council would elect him burgomaster again under these conditions. Before that could happen-”

The door flew open with a crash, and Count Wittelsbach stormed in. He wore a stiff red jacket, just as the day before; his handlebar mustache was carefully curled; and as so often, he smelled of soap and perfume. But his eyes betrayed that he hadn’t slept much the night before.

“Ah, there you are, bathhouse surgeon,” he began impatiently, without so much as looking at Jakob Schreevogl. “I’ve been wondering where you were. Have you seen your father-in-law?”

Simon looked at him innocently. “I thought he had reported to you about the events yesterday, didn’t he?”

“No, confound it, he didn’t.” Then he waved his hand dismissively. “But basically I don’t care what this hangman does. Let the monks deal with him. I’ve had the entrances to those damned catacombs sealed and the relic forgerers led away. My work here is finished.” Then he hesitated briefly. “Actually, I’m not here on account of the hangman but because of my son.”

“Is he better?” Simon asked, his heart pounding. “Did the Jesuit’s Powder work?”

Leopold von Wartenberg nodded. “Yes, the fever has gone down and he does seem to be getting better. I… I have you to thank for that.” He straightened up. “Therefore I have an offer to make you.”

Simon frowned. “What do you have in mind?”

“We’re traveling back to Munich today,” he declared. “My family could use a doctor like you. There are still some rooms free in our palace, and the pay would be at least ten times what you’re earning now. You could care for my son, take on a few wealthy patients, and otherwise lead a good life. How would that suit you?”

Simon’s head began to spin. Was it possible? Could someone like him, who had dropped out of medical school in Ingolstadt and was working as a dishonorable bathhouse surgeon, really settle down and practice medicine in Munich? This was exactly the kind of post his late father had always wanted for him. And the count would certainly know how to help him gain the proper approvals.

“You’re hesitating?” the count asked.

“No, no, it’s just…” Simon shook his head and laughed, but then he looked at the count anxiously.

“And my wife and my children?” he asked softly. “What about them?”

“A hangman’s daughter?” Leopold von Wartenberg raised his bushy eyebrows. “A dishonorable woman and two equally dishonorable kids in my house? How would that be arranged?” He stopped to think for a moment. “Very well, I could let you visit them from time to time. They could live in the Tanners’ Quarter in Munich and you could send them a little money for a while.” The count chuckled. “But love comes and love goes, and I’m sure you’ll soon find another woman with a better social standing.”

Simon rocked his head from side to side as if he was considering the offer. “Well…”

Leopold von Wartenberg winked mischievously at him. “Our coach is leaving from the monastery at noon,” he said. “You could travel with our group.”

“That’s… really very generous of you,” the little medicus began hesitantly. “But… uh… I’m afraid Munich will have to get along without me.” He straightened up and turned his nose up almost the way the count had. “I’m sorry, but your city stinks too much of perfume; so I wish you a good day and farewell.” Bowing slightly, he skipped out the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the count standing in the middle of the clinic, open-mouthed like a carp gasping for air. He didn’t say a word.

“We’ll see each other in Schongau,” Schreevogl called after the medicus. “And give my greetings to Magdalena. By God, she’s the prettiest and stubbornest woman in the whole Priests’ Corner.”

Simon smiled and took a deep breath. The Andechs air still smelled of fire, but also of burning coal, sweat, beer mash, and a bit of incense.

This was the odor of people, and Simon loved it.

Nepomuk was startled when the door to his cell opened a crack. Blinded by the light, he squinted. Early that morning they had fetched him from the hole and locked him in this larger cell. There was no window here either and the straw stank as if it hadn’t been changed for years, but he had room enough now to stretch out, he had been given fresh water and a slice of bread, and there were far fewer rats. After the hell of recent days, it almost felt like paradise.

They had intended to continue the torture that morning, and the monk had been praying all night in preparation for his great journey. He knew he wouldn’t survive another day of torture. Six of his fingers had been broken, and Master Hans had pulled the fingernails out of the others, one by one. His right shoulder had been dislocated, pain radiated up to the top of his skull, and his arms and legs were covered with burns.

Nepomuk was sure the pain would be over that day. Either he would die from the torture or would, screaming and half-mad, confess to everything they asked. His subsequent burning at the stake would be a welcome relief.

Now the door opened all the way, and Nepomuk saw Master Hans on the threshold.

“Have you come to take me away?” he groaned, addressing the white-haired man with the red eyes who had tormented him over and over in his nightmares. “I almost thought you’d forgotten me.”

Master Hans shook his head. His lips were red, and his ratlike eyes seemed to glow in the dark. “The torture has been postponed,” he grumbled. “Who knows who ordered that. You seem to have powerful advocates, monk.”

“The torture… has been postponed?” Nepomuk struggled to get to his feet, but he was too weak. He fell back to the ground, groaning and glaring up at the executioner like a whipped ox. “But… but why?”

“Don’t ask me. The ways of the noble lords are unfathomable.” Master Hans picked a piece of meat from his teeth and flicked it into the putrid straw.

Then he began to curse loudly. “All that work for nothing. I had you almost to the point of confession. But they’ll pay me every penny, every penny.” He grinned. “And what does it matter? I got a nice delivery today: two new criminals. And you have a visitor.”

He stepped aside. Behind him appeared another man who had been visiting his dreams. At over six feet tall, he had shaggy black hair, a dirty coat, and a hooked nose. And he was smoking.