Oliver Potzsch: The Beggar King

When Kuisl’s gaze took in the towering spires and city walls in the distance, homesickness came over him. The Schongau hangman was not a man made for the wide world-the Sonnenbrau Tavern tucked behind the church, the green Lech River, and the deep Bavarian forests were good enough for him.

It was a hot August afternoon, and the fields shimmered gold in the sunlight. In the distance, black storm clouds were beginning to gather on the horizon. To his right, a gallows hill rose up from the fields; several corpses swayed gently in the breeze. Now-derelict trenches served as reminders that the Great War was not so far in the past. By now the hangman wasn’t alone on the road anymore; coaches and lone men on horseback rushed past him, as well as oxen slowly pulling farmers’ overladen carts. A broad stream of noisily babbling people, all on their way to Regensburg, had apparently come to a stop near the entrance to the high gate in the city’s western wall. Among the throng of poor farmers clad in wool and other coarse cloth, the pilgrims, the beggars, and the wagoners, Kuisl also caught sight of quite a few magnificently attired noblemen, mounted high on horseback, making their way through the crowd.

The Schongau hangman frowned as he watched this strange procession. Evidently one of the Reichstag meetings was close at hand. He took his place among the people in line before the gate. Judging from all the complaints and curses, this seemed to be taking longer than usual.

“Hey, big fellow! Which way is the wind blowing up there?”

Kuisl bent down to a farmer who was apparently addressing him. When the little man found himself eye to eye with the grim-faced hangman, he swallowed hard before continuing. “Can you see what the problem is up in front?” he asked with a modest smile. “Twice a week I bring my carrots to market, usually on Tuesday and Saturday, but I’ve never seen such a throng.”

The hangman stood on his toes. Now he was almost two heads taller than the people standing around him. Kuisl could see a half-dozen armed watchmen standing guard at the gate, holding tin boxes in their hands, in which they collected a toll from each traveler. To the sound of furious protests from the farmers, soldiers plunged their swords into wagons filled with corn, hay, and cabbages as if they were looking for someone.

“They’re inspecting every single wagon,” the hangman groused, sneering down at the farmer. “Is the kaiser in town, or do you always make such a fuss?”

The man sighed. “Ah, it’s probably because some important ambassador has just arrived. But the Reichstag doesn’t even meet till next year! If it continues like this, all the market stands will be taken before I make it to the Haid Square. Damn!” He cursed and took an angry bite out of a turnip he plucked from a basket in front of him. “Damned ambassadors! A plague-they’re no better than the Moslems! They bring us nothing but trouble. They don’t lift a finger and just hold up traffic.”

“But why are they here?” Kuisl asked.

The farmer laughed. “Why? Why, to eat us out of house and home! They don’t pay a cent in taxes, plus they bring their own servants along, taking the work from the rest of us! They claim they’re here to figure out how to keep the goddamned Turks from invading the German Empire. But if you ask me, that’s all hot air!” He sighed deeply. “Why can’t the kaiser hold his Reichstag somewhere else for once? But no, every few years they come around again, and we have to put up with it. It seems like the envoys are always here.”

Kuisl nodded, though he hadn’t really paid much attention. What did he care about the Reichstag? All he wanted was to see his little Lisbeth. In the meantime the high and mighty could go right on planning the next war. They’d have no trouble finding people willing to follow them, to let themselves be slaughtered for the promise of wealth and glory. As for himself, he’d have nothing more to do with that old cut and thrust.

“And how about yourself? What are you doing here?” the farmer asked. “Have you found a place to stay yet?”

Kuisl closed his eyes. Apparently he’d stumbled across the chattiest farmer in all of Regensburg. “I’ll be staying at my sister’s,” he mumbled, hoping that the little fellow might leave him in peace now.

All the while, the hangman and his companion had being moving along the line, and now only two wagonloads of hay separated them from what people were calling Jakob’s Gate. The watchmen peered beneath the wagons, prodded the hay with their swords, then waved the wagons through and turned to the next traveler in line. The first rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. A storm would not hold off for long.

Finally it was their turn. The farmer was allowed to pass without further ado, but Kuisl was waved aside.

“Hey, you… Yes, you!” A guard wearing a helmet and a breastplate pointed at the hangman and ordered him to step closer. “Where are you from?”

“Schongau, down by Augsburg,” the hangman replied, looking at his interlocutor as he would a stone.

“Aha, from Augsburg…” replied the watchman, twirling his fancy mustache.

“No, not Augsburg, from Schongau,” the hangman replied in a gruff voice. “I’m no dirty Swabian. I’m Bavarian.”

“No matter,” the watchman said, winking at his comrade behind him. He looked Kuisl up and down as if measuring him against some mental image. “And what brings you here, Bavarian?”

“My sister lives here,” the hangman replied curtly, refusing to indulge the mocking undertone. “She’s gravely ill, and I’m paying her a visit, with all due respect.”

The watchman grinned smugly. “Your sister, indeed! Well, if she looks anything like you, you should find her in no time.” He laughed and turned back to his comrade with a smirk. “Living and breathing lumps of rock with hooked noses are pretty uncommon ’round these parts, isn’t that so?”

Laughter broke out all around. Kuisl remained silent as the watchman continued poking fun at him. “I hear they feed you Swabians on noodles and cheese until you got ’em coming out your ears. You’re living proof that this stuff’ll make you fat and dumb.”

Without batting an eye, the hangman moved a step closer and seized the man by the collar. The watchman’s eyes bulged like marbles from their sockets as Kuisl yanked him off the ground and looked him in the eye.

“Listen, young fellow,” he snarled. “If there’s something you need me to tell you, just ask straight out. Otherwise, hold your tongue and let me through.”

Suddenly the hangman felt the point of a sword at his back. “Put him down,” a voice behind him said. “Nice and easy, big fellow, or I’ll ram this sword through your guts so it comes clean out the other side. You hear me?”

The hangman nodded slowly and set the frightened man back down. When he turned around, Kuisl saw a tall officer in a polished cuirass before him. Like his colleague, he wore a twirled walrus mustache and a helmet that gleamed in the bright sunlight and covered a mane of blond hair. He now had his sword positioned directly at the base of Kuisl’s throat. A small crowd of onlookers gathered around them, eagerly waiting to see what would happen next.

“Fine,” the captain said, his lips pressed in a thin, mirthless smile. “Now you will turn around and we’ll go together to the room in the tower. We keep some cozy quarters there, where Bavarians such as yourself can take time to reflect.”

The officer pressed the point of his sword a fraction of an inch into the hangman’s neck to emphasize his point. For a moment Kuisl was tempted to seize the man’s sword, pull him up close, and drive his larch-wood truncheon straight between his legs. But then he noticed the other watchmen standing around with lances and halberds raised, whispering among themselves. Why had he let himself get riled up? It almost seemed as if the watchman had deliberately gone out of his way just to provoke him. Was this how Regensburgers dealt with all strangers?