The Werewolf of Bamberg (52 page)

Just a few moments later, Simon was hurrying through the little streets of Bamberg to St. Martin’s Church, where the suffragan bishop lived. It was a simple, middle-class house connected to the church by a passageway. As he approached the door, he noticed that someone had drawn a large pentagram on the ground. From the door handle hung a small bouquet of dried Saint John’s wort; according to ancient tradition, it would ward off witches, demons, and evil spirits.

Simon looked around carefully. A few people walked by with their heads down, making a wide arc as they passed the house, as if fearing an infection. In the meantime, Simon had again donned his old medicus’s robe, as the splendid outfit he’d borrowed from Samuel was much worse for the wear after the attack by the deranged suffragan bishop. At least now he wouldn’t attract much attention from the crowd in the church square.

Bells rang out over the city, summoning the faithful to the mass for the dead up in the cathedral. Simon was sure the service would be well attended that day. In times like this, he knew from experience, people always looked to the church for consolation.

Besides, no doubt they’re looking forward to a fiery, bloodthirsty sermon,
he thought.
Hatred and fear of Satan are always a good adhesive for holding a city together.

He tapped cautiously on the door, and at once Samuel appeared in the doorway. The Bamberg city physician was unshaven and white as a sheet, looking as if he’d kept watch by the sick man’s bed all night. Through the crack in the door, Simon could smell the strong fragrance of incense.

“Come in,” Samuel said, sounding exhausted, and beckoned for Simon to enter the vestibule. “His condition has not changed much. Unfortunately, none of the servants are here except for a single lackey and the fat maid, both of whom you met yesterday. All the rest fled in terror. So you will have to do without your morning coffee.”

Simon smiled wanly. “I’ll survive, though I admit that the dark devil’s brew would help me to think. I’ve been racking my brain for half the night trying to make sense of all this.”

They went up to the second floor, entering a dark corridor whose walls were lined with votive pictures and paintings of saints, and with many doors leading off it. From his visit the day before, Simon knew that the patient’s room was at the far end of the hallway; he could have found it blindfolded, as the fragrance of incense became stronger, almost sickening, the closer they got.

“Don’t be surprised at how things look in there,” Samuel warned him as he opened the tall door. “None of this is mine. But the maid, this superstitious harpy, insisted, or she would have left.”

They entered the darkened room, and Simon thought he could already smell the stench of death—the familiar mixture of incense, burned herbs, sweat, feces, and disease, so familiar to him from his countless house calls. Just like outside the house, here, too, a large pentagram had been drawn on the floor; bundles of Saint John’s wort were tied to all four bedposts, and crucifixes of all sizes had been hastily hung around the room. The windows were covered with heavy curtains.

The old maid sat slumped over on a stool in the corner and seemed to be sleeping.

Samuel cleared his throat, and she awakened with a start and let out a sharp cry. For a moment she looked like she was going to faint, but then she recognized the two men standing in the dark room and crossed herself with a sigh of relief.

“Ah, it’s just you,” she sighed. “I was afraid that—”

“Don’t worry, the werewolf rarely uses the door,” Samuel interrupted. “He jumps through the window, howling. Isn’t that what you yourself said yesterday?” He pointed toward the hall. “Everything is fine, Agathe, you can go to mass now and we’ll care for the patient.”

Agathe nodded gratefully and dashed out of the room. As soon as the door had closed behind her, Samuel ran to the windows and tore open the curtains.

“Damn, damn, damn,” he cursed. “She thinks she can ward off evil this way.”

The bright light of morning came flooding into the room and onto the bed, and only then was Simon able to get a look at the Bamberg suffragan bishop. Under the many blankets, Sebastian Harsee looked like a little puppet, an impression reinforced by the waxen expression on his face. It took a while for Simon to realize it was because all the muscles in his face had tensed up; the only things moving were his eyes, which darted back and forth like those of a nervous mouse. A thin stream of saliva was oozing out of the corner of his mouth.

He can see us, I’m certain of that,
Simon thought,
and he can probably hear us, too. What a horrible condition. It’s as if you’re buried alive.

“Last night he quivered a bit and even moved a few times,” said Samuel as he pulled off the covers, revealing the pale body of the suffragan bishop dressed only in a thin nightshirt. “But in the last few hours the paralysis has spread to his entire body—except for his eyes. He can still give you that grim and threatening look.”

“And how about his teeth?” Simon asked. “Yesterday they looked so long and sharp. Have you examined them?”

Samuel nodded. “They look quite normal. I think that was because his lips and the muscles around them were pulled back due to cramps. But the reaction we witnessed yesterday was certainly interesting . . .”

The doctor took a cup of water and brought it toward the patient’s face for him to see. Suddenly Harsee’s body began to tremble all over. Though he couldn’t move, the aversion he felt was evident in his eyes. Every fiber of his body seemed stretched to the limit, and white foam formed on his lips. Samuel set the cup down on a table a bit farther away, and the suffragan bishop became visibly calmer.

“He’s afraid of water,” Simon whispered.

“Any liquid,” Samuel corrected him. “As I said, extremely interesting. I’ve never seen anything like this before.” He sighed and wiped the saliva from Harsee’s mouth with a cloth. “Unfortunately, our dear Agathe sprinkled him with holy water this morning, and he thrashed about like a fish on dry land. So now, of course, the old woman is completely convinced the suffragan bishop is a werewolf.”

“Well, he did pounce on me just like a wolf,” Simon mused. “What terrible illness is it that . . .” Suddenly he paused.

“What is it?” Samuel asked, puzzled.

Without replying, Simon leaned over the patient and quickly examined the spot on his neck. The small puncture wound was still there, as well as the red circle around it. Something Magdalena’s uncle had said kept going through his mind, like the murmuring of someone reciting the rosary.

You can learn all sorts of things from animals, Master Medicus. For example, humility and modesty.

Outside, the bells rang for the last time, and after that an eerie silence fell over the city.

You can learn all sorts of things from animals . . .

“We were so foolish,” Simon finally murmured, “so incredibly foolish. The whole time the answer was right before our eyes.”

“What do you mean?” Samuel asked. He, too, had now approached the patient and looked at Simon excitedly. “If you can solve this riddle, don’t torture me any longer!”

Simon grinned. “How many bags of coffee beans do I get if I can?”

“A whole storehouse full, if I can find them, you schmuck.” Samuel raised his arms to the ceiling. “Why has God punished me with a friend who’s such a joker? Say something, will you? Speak up!”

Simon cast one last look into the eyes of the suffragan bishop, who glared at him with a mixture of hatred and infinite terror. Another thread of saliva ran down Sebastian Harsee’s mouth and trickled into the pillow.

Then the medicus gave his diagnosis.

Wrapped in a simple, wide cloak and with his hood pulled down over his face, Jakob Kuisl stomped up the steep hill to the cathedral square. A gentle drizzle had set in, so his garb didn’t attract attention. Even though hardly anyone in this city knew him, the hangman considered it prudent to be as inconspicuous as possible. For a man of his size, that was a tall order.

Some people were already making their way to the cathedral. Many of them had first visited the graves of their deceased relatives and left behind a fresh-baked loaf of so-called soul bread in the shape of a stag or a little man. It was said that on All Souls’ Day the dead returned from purgatory for a day of rest. Jakob clenched his teeth and hoped that at least the ghosts would not harass him down below in the crypt.

Looking around the square, he soon spotted Jeremias, waiting for him as planned at the “Adam’s Portal” on the east side of the cathedral. He, too, was wearing a nondescript cloak with a wide hood; Jakob thought it a good idea, given Jeremias’s badly scarred face.

“All hell has broken loose here,” grumbled Jakob when he reached Jeremias.

The old man giggled. “Or rather, an angry God. Fear has always driven people to church, just like in the time of the witch trials.” He winked at Jakob. “Let’s just go along with the crowd, and we won’t attract attention,” he said, hurrying ahead.

They entered the cathedral through the east entrance and joined the long line of worshipers. Jakob was always amazed at the splendor in the cathedrals. Here in Bamberg, there were precious statues of saints, bishops, and martyrs; the altars were decorated in gold leaf; and silver and gold candelabras encircled huge sarcophagi. Bright morning light fell through the tall windows onto the many columns, arches, and niches.

Even if the world outside is going to hell,
Jakob couldn’t help thinking,
the church is a window on the paradise to come. It makes this wretched life not seem so terrible.

They passed a statue of a king riding a dapple-gray horse and were soon crushed between praying old women, crippled old men, and many young people and children who were all pushing their way forward to the pews in the nave. It seemed to Jakob that all of Bamberg had come to attend the All Souls’ mass. Clouds of incense drifted past the pillars, giving off an intoxicating fragrance, while deep, hypnotic tones emanated from the organ. In the pews, some people kneeled in prayer on the cold stone floor, still holding the empty baskets they had used to take bread to the cemeteries.

Looking toward the front of the cathedral, Jakob noticed that this church had two chancels, one facing east and another facing west, unlike the church in Schongau, which had only one. Jeremias followed his gaze.

“The service today is in front of the east altar,” he explained in a soft voice. “That’s good for us—since we’re going to the opposite side, hopefully no one will be looking in our direction.”

They continued to push their way through the crowd and finally took a seat in one of the back pews. The organ fell silent, and then the ministrant, the vicar-general representing the suffragan bishop, appeared in his clerical vestments swinging the censer. People rose to their feet and there were some words of greeting in Latin, but soon the vicar digressed from the usual order of the mass. With a serious mien he turned to the congregation.

“Dear fellow Christians,” he began in a quavering voice. “You all know that our beloved suffragan bishop Sebastian Harsee has”—he paused to cross himself—“has fallen victim to the werewolf. I have been told that his soul is still struggling with the devil, and let us therefore all pray for him.”

The faithful knelt down and murmured their prayers. Some cried, while others rocked back and forth as if in a trance. In order to blend in, Jakob also muttered a quiet prayer. From what Simon had told him, he knew the suffragan bishop was an unloved, evil son of a bitch, but nonetheless the people mourned for him as if he were the Lamb of God incarnate.

Finally the vicar continued with his sermon. “I stand here today,” he droned, “in the firm hope that this suffering inflicted on Bamberg will soon come to an end. I hear that our highly esteemed prince-bishop will now tackle the root of this problem. Some citizens who have given their souls to the devil have already been arrested. Each one of you is now summoned to do his part to throw light on this problem. Look around. Witches, druids, and magicians often disguise themselves as the most charming fellow citizens. Indeed, it could be your own neighbor . . .”

Jeremias, standing beside Jakob, groaned softly. “I can’t listen to this rubbish any longer,” he whispered. “That’s just how it all began back then. Anyway, we’ve got to hurry. The mass lasts about an hour, and we’ll have to finish by then. So let’s get going.”

The next time the faithful knelt down and lowered their heads in prayer, Jeremias and Jakob quietly stood up and headed as inconspicuously as possible toward the western side of the cathedral. With their black robes and their hoods still drawn over their heads, they looked somewhat like Franciscan monks on a pilgrimage, and thus no one paid any attention to them as they passed the rear altar in the northwest part of the transept. No one stopped them there, where the murmuring of the faithful could be heard in the distance. As they passed by, Jeremias picked up two burning candles and handed one to his companion.

“We’ll soon need these,” he whispered. “Let’s go, the time is right.”