Oliver Pötzsch - The Werewolf of Bamberg

Summoning up his courage, however, he strode across the bridge to a large doorway with two oaken wings, where the bishop’s guards stood on duty. Along the way he’d straightened his clothing a bit, and the soldiers who looked him up and down were not hostile toward him.

“Is the city physician available?” Simon asked, trying to sound both blasé and accustomed to giving orders.

One of the guards frowned. “He’s inside with one of the girls. Why do you ask?”

“Well, uh. . he forgot his package of Bengali fire beans.” Impulsively, Simon held up the small purse of coffee beans he’d just bought. “Without these, the patient’s treatment will probably be ineffective. I need to take them to the doctor right away.”

“Bengali fire. . what?” The guard’s forehead creased. “Do you think that will help cure the girl’s accursed French disease?”

Simon smiled inwardly. Now he at least knew what the bishop’s so-called maid was suffering from. The French disease, also known as syphilis, was a contagious and extremely dangerous sexual infection, often leading to madness and eventually death. It was especially feared in the royal courts, as there was practically no cure. The bathhouse owner shook the bag so that the beans rattled inside.

“A cure is possible only with the use of Bengali fire beans,” he announced solemnly. “They come directly from the West Indian Islands, and the prince-bishop paid a fortune for them. They’re effective for only one hour, and after that they start going bad.”

“For heaven’s sake!” It was clear from the look on the guard’s face that he was imagining what was in store for him if the bishop had any reason to complain. “Then get yourself in right away. The Jew must have forgotten to bring his medicine,” he grumbled softly, but Simon had already slipped by him and entered the shaded inner court of the palace. He could feel the suspicious gazes of the other guards like arrows in his back, so he hurried along, his head held high, toward a stone archway that appeared to lead to the back of the castle.

As soon as he’d passed through the arch, he stopped, overwhelmed by the sight in front of him. Before him lay a large park, with lines of green hedges bounded by two branches of a river. Some bushes were shaped in the form of animals, others stood in waving rows, and still others had leafy tops. Between the rows there were beds of all kinds of roses, many of which had faded. In the middle of the park stood a fountain with graceful statues; holy water sprayed from the antlers of a bronze stag. Colorful, exotic birds chirped in a nearby aviary, and next to it was a gleaming hothouse containing dark-green lemon trees. After all the filth and stench outside in the alleyways, this scene seemed so bizarre that Simon almost thought he was dreaming. A loud voice calling his name finally brought him back to the present.

“My God, Simon! Tell me it’s really you.”

From a balcony with steps leading into the castle, a tall man came running toward him. He was wearing a broad, black cloak and a pointed hat, making him look like a magician, and his arms were spread out in greeting. Not until the man had drawn closer did Simon recognize the friendly face, slightly hooked nose, and bushy eyebrows. His hair had thinned and he had a few more wrinkles around his eyes, but otherwise he looked just like he used to.

“Samuel!” Simon replied with a laugh.

They embraced warmly, and for a moment, the park with the fountain, the hedges, the exotic birds-indeed, all of Geyerswörth Castle-was forgotten.

“You should have sent a messenger to tell me you were coming,” Samuel chided him, raising his finger playfully. “I was worried something might have happened to you on your long trip.”

Simon sighed. “I’m afraid you overestimate my financial means, Samuel. I’m just a simple bathhouse owner who can’t afford a messenger on horseback.” His gaze wandered, half in wonder and half with envy, to the castle towers. “You, on the other hand, evidently are a regular guest of the Bamberg prince-bishop.”

“And shoot enemas up his fat ass,” Samuel laughed, waving him off. “The life of an esteemed city physician is not always as pleasant as people think. You know, of course, that the richer the patient, the more difficult he is to deal with. At present I’m treating not His Excellency but one of his playmates-”

“The one suffering from the French disease, I know,” Simon interrupted.

Samuel grinned. “I see you haven’t changed. Curious and sly as an old Jew. I don’t even want to know how you got wind of this highly secret information-nor how you slipped by the guards of the bishop’s summer residence,” he added with playful mock-seriousness.

“Well, let’s just say I managed both at the same time,” Simon replied with a smile. But then his face darkened. “The French disease is a horrible scourge. Years ago my father had some cases to treat, and all the patients died. Is just the girl infected? Or the prince-bishop, as well?” He lowered his voice and looked around to see if anyone might be listening.

Samuel shook his head. “Probably not, though naturally that is Philipp Rieneck’s greatest worry at present. I spread quicksilver all over the girl’s body to stop the disease, and the young thing screamed like a stuck pig. If the syphilis doesn’t drive her mad, then possibly the treatment will-but what can I do? I don’t know any other treatment.” He sighed sadly. “That’s why we’ve quarantined the patient here in Geyerswörth and not in his palace up in Mengersdorf where the prince-bishop resides in the cooler months.” Samuel smiled with tightly pursed lips. “The screams remind His Excellency too much of his own mortality-though today, at least, he deigned to come and visit her. After all, until now she was his favorite concubine.”

“Did you ever try using the potion made from the guaiac tree?” Simon asked. “I read about it just a few months ago. The great humanist Ulrich von Hutten, in an experiment on himself-”

Samuel laughed. “I see in this regard, as well, you haven’t changed-always in search of the newest treatments. Perhaps you’re right. I’ll. .”

He fell silent as two elegantly dressed men, accompanied by several guards, appeared beneath the archway and walked toward them. With a sigh, Samuel removed his hat and motioned to Simon to do the same.

“What a schlimazel,” Samuel muttered, falling back into the Yiddish jargon of his childhood. “The prince-bishop and the suffragan bishop at the same time. I am spared nothing. Let’s just hope these two high-placed gentlemen don’t both want to be bled at the same time, so I can return home before morning.”

He bowed deeply, and Simon, hesitantly, did the same.

A deep, booming voice greeted the city physician: “Ah, my dear Samuel.” The cleric was large, with long, elegantly waved gray hair and a goatee, likewise gray. His garb was that of a nobleman, with only the cap on his head revealing to Simon that the man standing before him was none other than the prince-bishop himself. He appeared to be about fifty years old.

“So how is treatment going for my beloved Francesca?” Philipp Rieneck asked with concern. “When I visited her this morning, the poor creature was beside herself. She didn’t even recognize me, her father confessor.” Only now did he notice Simon, and his eyes turned to tiny slits. “Have you perhaps shared our little secret with one of your servants?”

Samuel shook his head vigorously. “Of course not. This gentleman is the renowned physician Simon Fronwieser, a professional friend and esteemed doctor from the Munich area. We’re just discussing other treatment possibilities that won’t be as painful as quicksilver.”