Oliver Potzsch - The Dark Monk

When the bailiff Johannes saw the mood Kuisl was in, he quickly stepped aside to allow the hangman to enter the dungeon.

“A load of work, ain’t it?” he called after him. “It will be a bloody show on Saturday when you break the prisoner on the wheel. I hope everyone has a ball. You’ll break every bone, heh? I’ve bet two hellers that Scheller will still be screaming the next day.”

Kuisl ignored him and trudged straight to the cell holding the robber chief and his gang. A quick glance assured him that this time, in contrast to the last, there were blankets, water, and fresh bread. The sick boy, too, seemed better. The medicine appeared to have helped.

Hans Scheller stood directly behind the bars, his arms folded. As the hangman approached, the robber chief spat in his face.

“The gallows, huh?” he growled. “A clean, quick matter? Bah! Damn liar! It’s going to be slow, one blow after the other, and I trusted you, you goddamned hangman!”

Jakob Kuisl slowly wiped the spit from his face. “I’m sorry, whether you believe me or not,” he said calmly. “I tried, but the authorities wanted to see screaming and wailing. So be it,” he said, stepping right up to Scheller. “But we can still put one over on these fat cats,” he whispered softly so that those standing around couldn’t hear.

Hans Scheller looked at him in disbelief. “What are you thinking of?”

Jakob Kuisl looked around to see if anyone was listening, but the other robbers were too wrapped up in their own concerns, and the bailiff Johannes preferred to wait outside. Finally, the hangman took a little leather bag out of his coat. He opened it, and a little brown ball rolled into his wrinkled hand, a pill no larger than a marble.

“One bite and you’ll be with our Lord,” Kuisl said. He held it up like a valuable pearl. “I made it especially for you. You won’t feel any pain. Just put it in your mouth, and when I strike, bite into it.”

Taking the pill in his slender fingers, Scheller gave it a closer look. “No pain, you say?”

Kuisl nodded. “No pain, believe me, this is something I understand.”

“And what about the big show?” Scheller whispered. “The people will be disappointed. I’ve heard they sometimes hang the hangman himself if things don’t go as planned. They’ll think you haven’t done your job right.”

“Let me worry about that, Scheller. Just don’t take the poison now or the aldermen might decide to take out their anger on the others. Afterward, I’d have to break the boy on the wheel, too.”

The robber chief was silent for a long while before turning back to the hangman. “Then it’s right what they say about you, Kuisl.”

“What do they say?”

“That you are a good hangman.”

“I’m a hangman, but not a murderer. We’ll see each other again on Saturday.”

Jakob Kuisl turned and left the dungeon. For a long time, Hans Scheller rubbed the little ball between his fingers. He closed his eyes and tried to prepare himself for his long journey into darkness.

They found the book about saints at the far end of the shelf between the works of Plato and a dog-eared farmers’ almanac that had made its way into Schreevogl’s library unbeknownst to him. Presumably, his wife had acquired it from some itinerant merchant, along with the volume on the saints, the book of hymns and prayers, and the large eight-pound family Bible.

With the little book in hand, Simon summarized what he and the hangman had found in the crypt. He told Schreevogl about the riddles, of the feeling he was being constantly observed, and of his most recent find with Benedikta in the Tassilo Linden tree near Wessobrunn.

“We’re firmly convinced that all these riddles will lead us to the Templars’ treasure!” he concluded as he returned the other books to the shelves. “A treasure that the master of the German Templars, Friedrich Wildgraf, intentionally hid far away from the great cities. Not in Paris, nor in Rome, but right here in rural, provincial Bavaria, where he felt his treasure would be safe from the French king. The riddles are posed in such a way that only locals can solve them!”

Jakob Schreevogl was leaning against the edge of the table and listening with growing interest to what the medicus was telling him.

“It’s possible that Friedrich Wildgraf passed along his knowledge to his sons and grandchildren here in Schongau,” Simon continued, “and we assume that this line died out at some point and knowledge of the treasure and the riddles with it.”

“And what does the most recent riddle say?” Jakob Schreevogl asked.

Simon looked warily out the window to see if anyone was watching. Only then did he continue in a soft voice. “It says, In gremio Mariae eris primus et felicianus. I thought for a long time it was just a pious saying from the Bible, something like, You will be first at Mary’s bosom, and a happy person. ”

“And what does it really say?”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve found the right passage in this little book.” Simon leafed through it, finally stopping to read a passage to himself. “I was right!” he exclaimed, then lowered his voice again to a whisper. “It’s not a saying from the Bible, but simply a sentence that conceals two names- Primus and Felicianus. Translated, the names mean ‘the first’ and ‘the happy,’ but they are also the names of two saints from ancient Rome. Here!” He pointed to a page showing two fettered, naked men being tortured on the rack by a hangman’s helpers. Nevertheless, the two saints smiled, knowing they would soon meet their Savior.

“Primus and Felicianus were two Christian Romans who were tortured and finally beheaded on the order of Emperor Diocletian,” Simon continued excitedly. “But first they were able to convert thousands of Romans, according to this book, through pure steadfastness.”

“But that was in Rome!” Schreevogl objected. “Didn’t you just say that this Templar intentionally chose our provincial area over the great cities? That can’t be the riddle’s solution.”

The physician grinned and waved the little book around. “Don’t come to any hasty conclusions, Your Honor. Primus and Felicianus were buried in Rome, indeed, but eventually their remains were moved to another place, where they’re still revered today.”

In the meantime, Jakob Schreevogl had gotten up out of his chair. “And where is that?” he asked. “Don’t make all this sound so dramatic!”

Simon closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. “The Benedictine Monastery in Rottenbuch, just a few miles from here.”

Schreevogl looked at him in disbelief. “Rottenbuch?”

Simon nodded. “A monastery, which, by the way, is devoted to worship of the Virgin Mary. Primus and Felicianus at Mary’s bosom. That’s the solution!” He slapped himself on the forehead. “I’m so stupid! As a child, I even went on a pilgrimage there to honor the two saints!”

Schreevogl smiled. “And if I know you, you’re probably already planning another pilgrimage there.”

Simon was already at the library door when he stopped to contemplate. “I won’t go until Clara gets better,” he said. “Your girl is worth more than any treasure in the world.”

A day passed and Clara’s condition didn’t change. The next morning she was feverish and coughing. Simon made her a drink of linden blossoms and rosemary mixed with the last honey he could find at home. Once more he cursed himself for not buying more of the Jesuit’s powder the summer before. The Muslim merchant had demanded a high price, however, higher than a mere Schongau medicus could afford to buy in large quantities.

Simon paid Clara Schreevogl a visit both that morning and again in the afternoon, listening to her chest and speaking words of encouragement to the semiconscious child. He didn’t once see Benedikta during this time, and he knew he was secretly trying to avoid her. The last time they were together, something had changed between them; her derogatory remarks about Magdalena had probably angered him most.