Oliver Potzsch - The Beggar King

He winked at Kuisl, then walked away with a merry whistle.

Despairing, the Schongau hangman leaned back against the wall, then fell into a dejected heap in the corner. Things were not looking good for him. From experience he knew it was only a matter of days before torture would begin. According to age-old law, a suspect could be sentenced only once he’d made his confession, so the Regensburg hangman would use every means at his disposal to compel a confession from Kuisl. First, he would show him the instruments of torture. If this didn’t induce a confession, he would apply the thumb screws and remove Kuisl’s fingernails one by one. Finally, he would tie hundred-pound stones to his feet and hoist him up, arms bound behind his back, until his bones sprang from their sockets and cracked. The Schongau hangman knew the routine well; he’d performed it a dozen times himself. But he also knew that if the suspect wouldn’t confess in spite of all this, they’d let him go.

At least what was left of him.

Kuisl lay down on the dirty wooden floor, closed his eyes, and prepared himself for his long journey through the world of pain. He was sure that if he confessed, he would be broken on the wheel, at the very least. Probably they would hang him first, slit his belly open, and pull the guts from his body.

His gaze wandered over the dark cell walls, where innumerable prisoners had carved not only their names but their pleas, prayers, and curses into the wood. The captain had failed to fully close the little hatch in the door, so a small sliver of light fell across the words. Every inscription told a story, a fate, or gave testimony to a life that had no doubt ended much too soon and too painfully. His gaze stopped at a message just one line in length, a message carved deeply, apparently with a knife.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name…

Kuisl frowned. It was strange to see the words here, of all places. It was just the first line of a silly old mercenary’s song, but to the hangman the line said volumes. A muffled roar sounded in his ears. Long ago the words had been banished to the furthest reaches of his mind-almost forgotten entirely-but now, as he read the inscription, it all came rushing back.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name …

Images, sounds, even scents overwhelmed him-the smell of gun smoke, booze, and decay, a droning chorus of men’s voices, the rhythmic marching of feet.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name

From God above his power came.

The memory struck him like the blow of a hammer.

… The foot soldiers’ ballad resounds through the city, though individual words are impossible to discern-a low thrum, like the sound of a thousand insects. The nearer Jakob comes to the market square, the louder it grows. He can feel his heart pounding as he sets eyes on the crowd before him-day laborers, tailors, cobblers, greedy adventurers, and penniless wretches. They’re standing in a long line that snakes around the entire square, ending at a large, battered wooden table. Behind the table sits an officer with a big book, noting the names of new recruits. Drummers and fifers stand in tight formation behind the table, while brandy flows freely and anyone who is still able to sing is singing.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name

FROM GOD ABOVE HIS POWER CAME.

HIS BLADE KEEN AND STEADY

To mow us is ready…

Slowly, very slowly, the book swallows the line until finally Jakob stands before the officer, who considers him with a smirk, chewing a wad of tobacco and spitting brown liquid onto the pavement.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Jakob Kuisl.”

“And how old are you?”

“I’ll be fifteen this summer.”

The officer rubs his nose. “You look older. And damned strong, too. Ever been to war?”

Jakob shakes his head, silent.

“War’s a bloody affair. A lot of honor, a lot of death. A lot like a slaughterhouse. Can you stand the sight of death, hmm? Bodies hacked to pieces, severed heads… Well?”

Jakob remains silent.

“Very well,” the officer says with a sigh. “We could use a boy to carry supplies, or perhaps you could play the drums. Or-”

“I’m here to join the infantry, sir.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want to fight-with a longsword.”

The officer hesitates, then breaks into a broad grin. His grin turns into a soft chuckle, then to an outright laugh, louder and louder until he turns around at last to his comrades. “Did you hear that?” he cries. “The young sprout wants a two-hander. Hasn’t even run a pike up a farmer’s ass in his life, and he wants a two-hander!”

The crowd roars. Some of the fifers stop playing to point at the big, pimply, clumsy boy whose shirt and trousers are much too small for his shapeless frame. Jakob is growing too fast; his mother says he’ll soon be able to spit on the heads of everyone in Schongau. But Schongau is far away.

Now the young man picks up a dirty bundle of linen covering a long and narrow object, which he handles as if it contains the kaiser’s own scepter. He lays it out on the table carefully and removes the wrapping.

Inside is a sword so long it reaches to the boy’s chest. With a short cross-guard and no point, its blade glints in the sun.

The crowd’s jeers die down to a murmur as all eyes turn to the weapon. The officer bends down over the longsword and runs a finger along the blood groove.

“By God, a genuine executioner’s sword,” he whispers. “Where did you get this? Did you steal it?”

The boy shakes his head. “It belonged to my father, and to my grandfather and great-grandfather before him.”

Jakob carefully wraps the weapon back up in the dirty, bloodstained linen. His words sound reverent and unusual from the mouth of a snot-nosed fifteen-year-old village boy who wants to enlist.

“My father is dead. Now the sword belongs to me.”

Then the hangman’s son walks down the silent ranks of infantrymen until he reaches the yoke, a horizontal pike supported by two halberds set in the ground.

An old ritual of mercenary foot soldiers: whoever passes through commits himself to war.

Jakob Kuisl was still lying on the floor of his cell at the Regensburg city hall, staring at the inscription on the wall.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name …

He got up at last, reached for a pebble on the floor, and began to scratch away the inscription.

Letter by letter.

At that moment Magdalena was farther from home than she’d ever been in her life.

Blissful, she stretched out on the hard planks of the river raft and looked up at clouds passing over her like white dragons. For the first time in a long while she was happy. The waves slapped rhythmically against the heavy boards, the raftsmen’s shouts sounded far-off, and only Simon, humming softly beside her, seemed real. The medicus was leaning on a wine barrel, staring dreamily across the water at the passing riverbank. His face was still black and blue from the Berchtholdts’ beating, but at least he could open his eyes again. From time to time he spat cherry pits in a wide arc into the water. When one struck the helmsman by mistake, he turned around and shook his finger playfully at Simon.

“If you keep that up, I’m going to have to dump you both into the Danube. Then you can swim all the way to Regensburg for all I care.” He shook his head. “The river is no place for children and lovers-this is a place for work.” He was grinning again, likely thinking back on how he’d met his own wife.