Iudicandus homo reus–1
At that moment the heavy, iron door of the huge entrance swung open. The choir and the organ stopped abruptly. Twenty men, dressed in black, marched up the nave towards the altar, in total disregard of the liturgy.
A murmur went through the congregation, for no one knew what to make of the interruption or who the men were. The leader positioned himself theatrically in front of the coffin. Bishop Harrach took a couple of steps backwards.
Mayor Tepser observed the man: he was squarely-built with his hair and beard closely shorn and an icy, piercing gaze that betrayed no emotion. Tepser had never seen him before but his appearance and his demeanour did not bode well.
The man raised his hands and the murmuring ceased for a moment. With a loud bang, he shut the lid of the coffin. ‘You are honouring a traitor!’ he roared through the cathedral, so that the mourners started in shock.
Tepser jumped to his feet. ‘What gives you the right to barge your way in here like?’
The leader fixed his gaze on the Mayor, then he pulled out a bull from under his cape and unrolled it. ‘I am Antonio Maria Sovino, Apostolic Visitator of his Holiness Pope Clemens XI, and Commander of the Black Guard. And you will do as I say!’
There was a murmur from the congregation and the clergy lowered their heads.
Tepser could feel his blood rising in anger. He could not care less at that moment whether von Pranckh was the Saviour or the devil incarnate. He was certainly ‘a beautiful corpse,’ as the Viennese expression went, for that was what they called a magnificent, stately funeral with plenty of mourners and a funeral feast to follow. Who really cared, what evil acts this man had committed during his lifetime? To some, he was a general, to others, a butcher–it all depended on the obituary. And Tepser was determined to shape that obituary by the funeral. A dead Viennese hero was what was needed–and others would then follow as surely as God made little green apples.
But this so-called Visitator was about to ruin everything. And not only that, he was also publicly challenging Tepser’s authority.
Furious, the mayor glowered at Sovino. ‘Be in my chambers in an hour!’ he shouted at him.’ The funeral is postponed till further notice!’
Sovino nodded derisively. Tepser turned on his heels and strode out of the cathedral in a mighty rage.
VIII
After a while Elisabeth was scarcely aware of the jolting of the waggon, so accustomed had she become to it.
Her mind was no longer exclusively running upon when she would be rescued and how she could escape. A strange, empty feeling settled on her like a gathering fog.
Although Elisabeth was aware of it, she felt unable to shake it off and the other prisoners seemed to be suffering from similar apathy. They had stopped gossiping and speculating and asking questions and simply sat waiting for the next stop, the next bit of rotting food, or the next pothole in the road–anything to break up the monotony.
A painful dragging feeling in her womb gave Elisabeth a start. She wrapped her arms around the slight bulge in her belly and closed her eyes.
A bit later on that day a man sitting beside Elisabeth began to get increasingly restive. His skin was waxy, his lips all cracked and his gums were bleeding. He was clearly suffering from a more severe case of the disease than the others. ‘I can’t stand it anymore!’ he burst out suddenly.
‘Be quiet, will you?’ came a woman’s voice from the darkness at the other end of the cage.
But the man was breathing harder now and glancing frantically around him as if he had lost all sense of bearing. Elisabeth edged away from him, afraid of the angry aggression in his voice. He reminded her of her father, after he had become one of them.
All at once the man sprang to his feet and started rattling the iron bars. ‘I can’t take any more of this!’ he shouted at the top of his voice.
‘Shut your trap, you fool, you’ll get us all killed!’ cried one of the men.
‘Let ‘em kill us, I’ve got to get out of here!’
Now the children started crying. The waggon came to a halt and they heard the horses being reined in and footsteps running towards them.
‘I’m going to kill all of you out there, all of you!’ shouted the man, flying into in a mad rage.
The tarpaulin was wrenched back and shafts of hazy daylight slanted in through the cage, scorching the skin of the prisoners.
The man began to bang his head against the iron bars and blood coursed down his forehead, over the branching black veins under his milky skin.
‘Stop playing the fool or it’ll be the last time you do!’ shouted a mercenary, raising his musket with the bayonet fixed.
‘If you don’t let me out then I’ll murder everyone in here!’ cried the man, wiping the froth from his mouth. He grabbed a young woman by the neck and hoisted her into the air. The mercenaries jabbed their bayonets into the cage but the man drew back.
The mercenaries were trying to unbolt the heavy door when the man gave a loud roar and banged the woman’s head against the bars. She sank to the ground, unconscious.
Glancing madly around with bloodshot eyes, he caught sight of Elisabeth, who shrank back in panic. He grinned. ‘You!’
He was about to step towards her when he was suddenly grabbed from behind and dragged out of the waggon: the mercenaries had finally managed to unbolt the door. In desperation, the madman tried to wrench himself free but he had scarcely made it out of the cage when three mercenaries thrust their bayonets into his body.
His eyes were wide and staring fixedly now and his blood-smeared lips formed a gentle ‘yes’. His body went limp and lay still on the ground.
‘Merde!’ cursed a young mercenary, bending over him. He took hold of the man’s jaw and turned his head from side to side.
All at once the madman jerked his head up and bit the mercenary in the hand. The latter let out a scream, swung his leg backwards and smashed his boot into the face of the madman, again and again, until it was nothing but an unrecognisable, red blob.
‘What the blazes is going on here?’ barked General Lieutenant Gamelin. He looked at the man lying dead on the ground and then at the young mercenary. ‘Let’s see your hand!’
Taken aback, the mercenary showed Gamelin his bleeding hand.
‘And the other side!’
The mercenary turned over his hand so that Gamelin could see his palm.
Then he stared with horror at what was plain for all to see: fine, branching black veins extending from his wound up his arm.
Gamelin let out a cry of exasperation. ‘Throw him inside!’
‘But Monsieur Maréchal de camp–’
‘I said throw him inside!’
The mercenaries seized their comrade and flung him into the waggon.
‘Cover the dead man with straw and burn him. As you were!’
Gamelin turned on his heels and climbed back into his carriage.
The door of the prison waggon was bolted again and the tarpaulin shoved across.
Elisabeth’s breathing steadied.
Darkness again at last.
IX
Mayor Tepser was pacing up and down in his chambers. Breathing quickly, his face all flushed and his eyes staring, he tried to collect his thoughts and figure out why an envoy from Rome had suddenly turned up out of the blue.
Of course he had heard of the Black Guard, as had most people: that troop of men acting at the behest of the church to carry out tasks it could not, or preferred