Oliver Potzsch - The Dark Monk

His father became even more displeased when Simon started consorting with the Schongau hangman, borrowing books on medicine from him and often looking over his shoulder when he was treating patients. Simon then used what he had learned from the hangman on patients in Fronwieser’s own practice.

Simon was also critical of his father during the amputation of the wagon driver’s three fingers, an operation Bonifaz Fronwieser could do in his sleep. They had sedated the patient with a bottle of brandy and shoved a board between his teeth. When old Fronwieser picked up his surgical pincers to nip off the black stumps that had once been fingers, Simon pointed to the rusty cutting blades.

“You have to clean them first,” he whispered to his father, “or the wound will become infected.”

“Nonsense,” said Bonifaz Fronwieser. “We’ll cauterize the places afterward with boiling oil-that’s what I learned from my father, and that’s the logical way to do it.”

Simon shook his head. “The wound will become inflamed, believe me.”

Before his father could answer, he’d taken the pincers and washed them off in a pot of boiling water on the stove, and only then did he start to operate. Watching silently, his father had to admit that Simon knew what he was doing and completed the job quickly. There was no doubt that the boy was talented. Why, for heaven’s sake, had he ever dropped out of school in Ingolstadt? He could have become a great doctor, not a run-of-the-mill barber surgeon like himself, but a doctor with university training, a learned, esteemed physician whom people would respect and reimburse with silver coins-not with rusty kreuzers, eggs from the farm, and worm-infested corned beef. A Dr. Fronwieser, a first in the family…

Sullenly, the old man watched as Simon finally applied the white linen bandage. “Not bad work at all,” he grumbled, “but what are you going to do with the dirty pincers? Are you going to throw them away and buy new ones?”

Simon shook his head and smiled. “I’ll wash them off again in boiling water and use them again; that’s what the hangman does when he clips off a thief’s thumb or index finger, and nobody has died on him.” He checked the wagon driver’s breathing. “Just recently Kuisl told me about an old remedy. He smears sheep dung and mold on the wound and says there’s nothing better for inflammation. The mold…” He stopped because he could see he had gone too far. His father’s face had turned a bright red.

“Just cut it out with your damned hangman and his filthy drug collection!” Bonifaz Fronwieser shouted. “He just puts crazy ideas in your head. He should be forbidden from practicing! Sheep dung and mold-bah! I didn’t send you off to school to study that!” He walked to the other room and slammed the door behind him. Shrugging, Simon watched as his father left, then poured a bucket of water over the wagon driver’s face to wake him up.

A few more hours passed before Simon finally found time again to delve into the world of the Templars and the Wessobrunn Prayer. At six o’clock sharp, as the bells tolled, he closed the office and went down to the marketplace. When he opened the door to the Stern, where he’d arranged to meet Benedikta, he was greeted with the warmth and stuffy odor of wet clothing. At this time of day, the tavern was full of wagon drivers and merchants stranded by the storm and whiling away the time drinking and playing dice. Under the low ceiling of the taproom, about a dozen men were milling about, most of them engaged in serious, muffled conversations.

The merchant woman was sitting at a corner table in the very rear, engrossed in a parchment. As Simon approached, she rolled up the document and smiled at him.

Simon pointed to the roll. “Well? Are you taking notes on the damned riddle?”

Benedikta laughed. “No, this is just a terribly boring balance sheet. Business goes on in Landsberg even when it rains or snows. Believe me, the life of a merchant’s widow is a rather boring one. And unfortunately, I haven’t yet found a new husband who is clever and loving and also knows how to deal with this tedious stuff.” She winked at Simon. “All my suitors up to now could do only one or the other.” She stuck the parchment roll in a bag at the end of the table and gestured for him to take a seat. “But enough of this sad story. Have you studied this Templar’s book some more?”

Simon nodded. “I actually do have some ideas.” He took the little guide out of his jacket pocket and started leafing through it, while Benedikta snapped her fingers to get the attention of the innkeeper and ordered two cups of brandy.

“The Order of the Knights Templar was founded by a certain…Hugues de Payens, a Norman knight,” the medicus began, his finger passing over the scrawled lines in the text. A small tallow candle on the table gave off so little light that Simon had difficulty continuing. “At first there were only nine men, a small fraternity, but the order soon spread, first to the Orient, along the routes to Jerusalem, and later to all of Europe-Italy, France, and England.”

“But how about German lands?” Benedikta interrupted.

Simon shrugged. “Not so much here. In our countries, the so-called Teutonic Order of Knights was in charge, an order that attempted to convert the heathen in Eastern Europe with fire and the sword…” He shook his head. The medicus had never thought highly of trying to convince people of the true faith through force of arms. Simon believed in the power of words over the sword. “Be that as it may,” he continued, “there were also German Templars and, naturally, German commanderies-that is to say, Templar settlements-here in Bavaria, in Augsburg, Bamberg, and Moosburg, for example. The settlement in Altenstadt must have been a part of the Moosburg commandery.” He sighed. “The little Saint Lawrence Church is all that remains of it, however.”

“And a certain Friedrich Wildgraf, who was no less than the German master of the Order of Templar Knights, sold this settlement, with all the land and the Saint Lawrence Church, to the monastery at Steingaden in the year 1289,” Benedikta continued. “Years later, when the Templars were being hunted down all over Europe, he hid a treasure here…”

She paused while a server set down two cups of brandy, giving Simon a flirtatious glance. Teresa, like so many other girls, had a crush on the medicus. Benedikta didn’t speak again until the girl left.

“All right, then, let’s assume this treasure is really buried somewhere around here. Then tell me something…Why is the grave of this Friedrich Wildgraf located in Altenstadt if nothing around here belonged to the Templars anymore?” She shook her head. “His date of death is given as 1329 on the memorial plaque at the Altenstadt basilica, and that’s long after the estate was sold. That doesn’t make any sense.”

Simon shrugged. “Or maybe it does. Let’s just imagine that Friedrich Wildgraf sells this settlement for the Templars because it’s just too remote, too far from the roads leading to Jerusalem. There’s too little activity here; it just doesn’t pay to keep the settlement. Twenty years later, the Templars are being hunted down all over Europe. Friedrich Wildgraf remembers this little remote commandery-”

“And decides to hide out here!” Benedikta interrupted him excitedly. “Naturally! No doubt he had compatriots here from back in the old days-loyal servants. Friedrich Wildgraf knew the aldermen in the area and influential citizens who were still well disposed toward him, and even the Templars’ church still existed. A perfect hiding place for him and for the treasure!”

Simon nodded. “This time he probably didn’t come as a Templar, but perhaps as a trader or the local priest-who knows? But he brought something to Schongau with him, something very valuable, and when he noticed that his hour of death was at hand, he decided to hide it in such a way that only a select group would be able to find it…”