Oliver Pötzsch - The Werewolf of Bamberg

Just as Jakob dodged another blow from a scythe, a commanding voice rang out nearby.

“You will stop at once, or I’ll have you all thrown into the city dungeon on orders of the prince-bishop.”

Jakob looked up in astonishment and saw some figures emerging from another small side road. There were a half dozen city guards armed with pikes and halberds. The man who had just spoken stood next to the guards, wearing the official robe and hat of a doctor. Behind him, Jakob spotted a smaller, somewhat foppishly clothed young man who appeared to be trying to hide behind the guards.

The Schongau hangman, relieved, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Damn, I would never have thought I’d be so happy to see my son-in-law!” he called out. Then he turned to his astonished attackers. “Didn’t you hear? Drop your weapons before these two learned gentlemen stab you to death with their letter openers.”

Simon stepped out from behind the guards and gave a smirk. “In return for our having saved your life, dear Father-in-Law, you will keep your mouth shut.”

“Saved my life? Since when have I had to ask you for help in a fight?”

“Perhaps you can put aside your family squabbles until later,” said the man standing next to Simon. “We have more important matters to attend to now.” Then he turned again and, in a firm voice, addressed the milling crowd.

“Haven’t I made myself clear? Hurry up and leave. You know me: I am the prince-bishop’s personal physician. Shall I report that you are being insubordinate? You know very well that rioting in the city is forbidden.” He pointed at the shepherd still standing beside the wall of the house, frozen in fear. “Whether this man has broken some law is up to the court to decide, not you. So move on, and let the law take care of this.”

Grumbling, the crowd dispersed, one person after another. They picked up the injured and carried them off-but not without turning around a few times with threatening glances. When the last steps had died away, the physician took a deep breath.

“That was close,” he said softly, and turned to Jakob. “You really should thank your son-in-law for this. He’s the one who called the guards. Otherwise, we would probably no longer have an executioner here in Bamberg, but only a murderous, pillaging mob. Take the poor fellow down to the Langgasser Gate. It would be best for him to stay away from Bamberg for the next few weeks.”

“But if he really is a werewolf-” one of the soldiers demurred.

“For God’s sake. How stupid are you, anyway?” the doctor interrupted. “It takes more than grease and herbs to make a werewolf. I give you my word, as the personal physician of the bishop, that this man is no monster. And now, off with you.”

The guards left with the shepherd, who was still trembling all over. Jakob Kuisl wiped the dried blood out of his eyes. “You have a pretty influential friend on your side,” he said appreciatively to Simon. “I’m guessing this Doctor Samuel is your old school friend”-he grinned at the two former classmates-“and your years at the university were not a total waste.”

“Well, I hope I haven’t exceeded my authority,” Samuel murmured. “While I do have some influence here in the city, when His Excellency the bishop learns I ordered the release of a man suspected of a crime, I can expect a reprimand-if the suffragan bishop does not skin me alive first.”

“But you saved a person’s life,” said Georg, who, except for a bloodied lip, appeared uninjured. “I think it was worth it,” he continued, casting an admiring look at his father. “You beat the crap out of them. It’s hard to believe you’re already over fifty.”

“It was enough to beat up a couple of wiseass farmers,” Kuisl growled. “I’ll turn on my rude son, too, if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut.” But even as he complained, a warm feeling of affection pulsed through him. The ice between him and his son seemed finally to have thawed.

“You know what, Jakob?” Bartholomäus chortled. “This fight reminds me of when we were kids, and how the sons of old Berchtholdt would sometimes beat us up down by the Lech River. That was always a real blast. I think we should do this more often. It’s what bonds us together.”

Simon shook his head in disbelief. “I always knew I’d married into a strange family,” he mumbled, beating the dust from his badly rumpled petticoat breeches. “Anyway, it’s time for us Kuisls to go back home. My youngster, I believe, has caught us some fish for supper, and if we wait any longer, he’ll be angry. That’s worse, by God, than any fight in the streets.”

A few hours later, after night had fallen like a black shroud over Bamberg, two stooped figures snuck over the City Hall Bridge toward the new section of town.

One of them was as tall and broad as a bear and wore swords, hunting knives, and a loaded wheel-lock pistol on his belt. Cautiously, the huge man stopped at every crossing and looked around before waving to the other man to follow. The hesitant man bringing up the rear was short and crippled, stooped with age, and visibly in pain as he moved forward, clutching his cane. Nevertheless, the elderly city councilman Thadäus Vasold insisted on paying a visit to his old friend at this unnatural hour.

The old man trembled all over, but that had little to do with the cool autumn night. Shivering, he closed the top button of his expensive woolen coat and followed his husky guide warily through the labyrinth of alleys that spread out below the cathedral. The friendly giant was Hans, Vasold’s most loyal servant, who had also served as a coachman to Vasold’s father, scion of an old patrician family. It had become clear, early on, that Hans, though blessed with enormous size and strength, had the intelligence of a doorstop. Still, Vasold had often taken him along on his trips as a bodyguard; the giant might not have been the brightest, but he was discreet-and robbers, thieves, and highwaymen always ran off when they saw him coming.

Vasold hoped his servant would have the same effect on werewolves.

Naturally, the patrician could have paid this visit officially during the day, but Thadäus Vasold wanted to prevent others from hearing about their conversation. Even after so many years, some people might have drawn the right conclusion, and Vasold wanted to attract as little attention as possible. Thus he had decided to make a far more dangerous trip in the dead of night.

In his calloused hands, big Hans carried a tiny lantern to help them find their way through the night. The lantern was just bright enough to form a flickering circle of light for the two men, beyond which lay nothing but the fog and darkness.

Vasold cursed softly to himself. How often had he urged the council to put up lanterns in at least the larger squares in town, as various big German cities had already done? But the council had repeatedly put him off because of the cost, and possibly for fear of starting a fire, and thus he, Thadäus Vasold, one of the most esteemed and oldest patricians in Bamberg, had to find his way like a thief in the night, stumbling over garbage, rotten barrels, and pieces of wood lying around, and nearly shitting in his pants with fear.

When Klaus Schwarzkontz, his old friend and colleague on the city council, had not returned from a trip to Nuremberg a few weeks ago, at first Vasold had not been at all worried. On the contrary: Schwarzkontz had been one of his major competitors in the wool trade, so that just meant more business for Vasold. But since then, more and more people had disappeared, and gradually Thadäus Vasold was beginning to suspect something horrible. Perhaps he was mistaken, but if the various pieces of the puzzle fell together, there was something there-something reaching far back into the past and touching upon an especially dark part of his life.