Oliver Potzsch: The Beggar King

While the women ran off toward the forest, Friedrich Lettner and some of the other mercenaries fanned out to corral them like a herd of wild cows. The men laughed, picking up the women and setting them down on their horses or dragging them by the hair behind them. Philipp turned now to the anxious farmers who came running out of the houses to save their dear lives and the lives of their women and children. They carried flails and scythes, and some even sabers, but none was experienced in battle and all were weakened by illness, half starved from having nothing to eat but thin porridge. Perhaps they were strong enough to cut the heads off chickens, but against a mercenary on horseback they were no match.

In a few minutes the slaughter was over. The villagers lay in their own blood-in their houses amid smashed tables, beds, and stools or outside in the street, groaning, as Philipp Lettner went from one to another, slashing their throats. Two mercenaries threw a dead farmer into a well in the village square. The rotting flesh would poison the well and make the entire town uninhabitable for years to come. In the meantime the other mercenaries ransacked the houses, looking for something to eat or anything else of value. There wasn’t much to be had-a few rusty coins, two silver spoons, a few cheap necklaces, and some rosaries. Young Karl Lettner tried on a white wedding gown he found in a trunk and danced around clumsily, singing a wedding tune in a shrill falsetto. The others laughed uproariously when he fell head over heels into a mud puddle. The blood- and mud-stained dress ripped and hung down on him in tatters.

Most valuable were the animals: eight cows, three pigs, a few goats, and a dozen chickens. They would fetch a fine price from the merchant women who followed the army.

And then there were, of course, the women.

Darkness was falling, and a cool dampness settled over the clearing. To keep warm, the mercenaries threw burning torches into the ruined houses. The dry reeds on the floors and the thatched roofs caught fire in seconds, and soon the flames were shooting out the windows and doors. The loud crackling fire served as a backdrop to the screams of the sobbing women.

The men corraled the women in the village square-about twenty of them. The monster Friedrich Lettner went from one to the other, pushing aside the old and ugly. When one old woman pounded him with her fists, he threw her into a burning house. Her screams didn’t last long. In the silence following, all that could be heard from the farm women was an occasional whimper.

Finally the men picked out a good dozen women. The youngest was a girl about ten years old who stared off into space with an open mouth and bulging eyes. She seemed to have already lost her mind.

“All right,” Philipp Lettner said, walking down the line of the trembling women. “This is how it goes. If you do what we say, you’ll live to see the sun rise tomorrow. It isn’t such a bad life being a soldier’s wife. You’ll get more to eat than what your old goats gave you here.”

The other soldiers laughed. Young Karl giggled in a high, shrill voice-a falsetto in a chorus of madmen.

Philipp Lettner stopped abruptly in front of one of the girls. Her disheveled black hair was probably tied up in a bun most days but now reached almost down to her waist. She was perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old. With bushy eyebrows and flashing eyes, she reminded Lettner of an angry little cat. She trembled, but she held her head high. Her coarse brown farm dress had been ripped, exposing one of her breasts. Lettner stared at the little nipple, which had hardened in the cold air. A faint smile passed over his face as he pointed at the girl.

“This one here is mine,” he said. “For all I care you can bash your heads in fighting over the others.”

He was about to reach for the young farm girl when his brother Friedrich, standing behind him, cleared his throat. “You can’t get away with that, Philipp,” he growled. “It was I who found her in the cornfield, and she’s mine.”

“Oh, indeed?” Philipp’s voice was cold and sharp. “You found her, did you? That may be, but you apparently also let her get away.”

He stepped closer to his brother until they were standing directly face-to-face. Friedrich was obviously the stronger of the two and as big around as a barrel of wine, but he stepped back a bit nonetheless. When Philipp got mad, strength no longer mattered-that’s the way it had always been, since they were kids. Now, too, he seemed ready to explode. He looked at his brother without blinking, and his lips formed a narrow, bloodless line.

“I found that one hiding in a trunk over in the big old house,” Philipp whispered. “She thought she could scurry away and hide like a little mouse. Well, we’ve had a little fun already. She’s stubborn, and somebody will have to teach her some manners. I think I’m the best one to do that.”

All at once, the harshness disappeared from Philipp’s eyes. He smiled again and patted his brother on the shoulder.

“But you have a point. Why should the leader get the best woman, especially since I’ve already taken three cows and two pigs, right?” Philipp’s gaze wandered down the line of his men, but nobody dared contradict him. “Do you know what, Friedrich?” he said finally. “We’ll do just as we used to do back in Leutkirchen in Muller’s Tavern. We’ll let a throw of the dice decide.”

“We’ll cast dice for her?” Friedrich hesitated. “The two of us, now?”

Philipp shook his head and furrowed his brow as if he were thinking hard about something. “No, I don’t think that would be right,” he continued. “We’ll all cast dice,” he said, looking around. “What do you say? We all have a right to this juicy little tart!”

The others laughed and cheered. Philipp was a leader after their own hearts. In his eyes they were all equal-brothers as well as comrades-in-arms. A young devil, with a heart as black as the devil’s ass. Young Karl hopped around in a circle like a whirling dervish, clapping his hands. “We’ll gamble for it!” he shouted. “Just like old times.”

Philipp nodded and settled down on the ground as he took out two worn dice he had carried around with him all through the war. He tossed them in the air and then caught them deftly in his hand as they fell.

“Well, who wants to play with me?” he called out. “Who? For the woman and the cow. Let’s see what you’re willing to gamble.”

They drove the black-haired girl to the middle of the village square like a cow and sat down in a circle around her. With a desperate cry the young girl tried to flee, but Philipp slapped her twice in the face.

“Back off, whore! Or we’ll all pile on you together and cut your tits off!”

The girl crouched down in a fetal position, her arms wrapped around her legs and her head bowed. Overwhelmed with grief and pain, she could hear the dice rattling in a cup, coins tinkling, and men laughing.

The mercenaries started singing a tune the girl knew well. When her mother was still alive, they sang it together as they worked in the fields. And later, on her deathbed, her mother hummed it one more time to herself just before she passed on and was gone forever. It had always been a sad song, but hearing it now suddenly seemed strange and gruesome. As the drunken mercenaries bellowed into the dark night sky, the sound wafted to her from across the field like a veil of fog. She could almost feel cold fingers wrap around her throat.

There is a reaper. Death’s his name.

From God his power came.

His blade keen and steady

To mow us is ready,

And soon he will reap us

In swaths for to heap us.