1636 The Devil's Opera: Chapter Twenty Three

    Ciclope walked up to the gate at the construction site. “You looking to hire anybody?” he asked the burly man standing there with a clipboard in hand and a shallow helmet on his head.

    “Might be. You have any special skills?” The burly man spoke in a gravelly voice without looking up.

    “I am strong, I can use a shovel or a pick, and I have laid a course or two of stone in my day.”

    “We will be laying brick. It is not the same.”

    Ciclope shrugged. “I can learn.”

    The man looked him over, seeming to pay more attention to his hands than anything. He looked back to his clipboard as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Go see Heinrich, the mason boss. He should be over by the brick supply in the northeast corner. Tell him I said to give you a try.”

    “And you are?”

    The man looked up again. “I’m Leonhart Kolman, head crew boss for Schiffer Construction. Remember that name.”

    “Got it.” Ciclope nodded.

    Kolman focused on the clipboard and jerked his thumb again. “Get moving.”

    Ciclope got. Once he was through the gate and past the crew boss, he slowed his pace and looked around. Pietro had hired on two days earlier as a general laborer, and had spent last night describing the layout of the construction site to him. Right: brick pile to the northeast, sand for mortar to the southeast, lumber pile to the northwest, and the excavation site to the southwest. Lots of men hurrying across the site in different directions. And that derrick pointing up to the sky swinging a cable with a load of barrels hanging from it must be the steam crane.

    The arsenal masters in Venice must be rubbing their hands at the thought of getting one of those, he thought to himself. Whether the arsenal workers would accept it was another question.

    Ahead he could see a group of men gathered together by the great mound of bricks on pallets. One was talking and gesticulating, the others were gathered around him. That was probably the mason boss.

    Ciclope squared his shoulders and headed for him. He needed to convince the man to keep him on, or he and his partner would have a much harder time figuring out where to do their sabotage.

    Maybe those months he spent apprenticed to that sot of a mason in Dresden all those years ago would come in handy after all.

 

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    Every day after he swept at Frau Zenzi’s, Simon would give a scrap of food to Schatzi. Most nights he would then go back to the rooms and spend the time nibbling on whatever food was on the table that night while Hans and Ursula talked, or while Ursula would read the Bible aloud to them.

    But on some nights, perhaps every fortnight or so, Hans would meet him when he was done and they would go to the bear pit. The quality of Hans’ opponents did improve somewhat, but no one that Simon had seen gave the hard man a real challenge.

    Tonight was one of those nights. Hans was waiting on him when he stepped out the door. “Come on.” He pounded a fist into the opposite palm. “It’s fight night.”

    “Okay.” Simon kept on the lookout for Schatzi as they walked down the street, but there was no sign of her in the dimming evening light. He hoped the little dog was okay.

    The walk out to the bear pit went quickly. Neither of them spoke much. Hans was in a good mood. His battered hat was shoved back on his head, letting his hair escape its confines. Simon looked over at his friend, walking along with his shoulders back and his hands tucked in his belt, whistling. Hans seemed immortal, indestructible.

    The crowds had already begun to gather when they arrived. Simon saw Lieutenant Chieske and Sergeant Hoch walking among the voluble men. The lieutenant raised his head a bit when he saw Simon, then winked at him.

    “Hans!” someone called out, which caused them to veer away from the pit. Simon’s eyes followed their new direction to see a man approaching with several companions. He was of middling height and build, shorter than Hans and definitely not as wide, dressed very well with a large gold ring on one hand. “Hans,” he exclaimed again in a resonant baritone, “I have been hearing of your exploits in the pit, and have come to see for myself.” He clapped a hand on Hans’ shoulder.

    “It is good of you to come, Master Schardius,” Hans replied with a quick bob of the head and shoulders. “I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

    So this was Hans’ employer, Simon realized, the very prosperous corn factor whose warehouse Hans labored in during the daylight hours. He looked at the man with fresh interest, only to be somewhat disappointed. Somehow he’d expected a man of Master Schardius’ wealth and reputation to be . . . larger, somehow more impressive.

    “I shall only be disappointed if you lose, Hans.” The merchant squeezed his shoulder, then turned back to his friends. “Now, who will take my bets on Stark Hans? Anyone for even money? No? Then what odds will it take . . .”

    The merchant wandered off. Simon noticed that Hans’ hands were fisted by his sides. “Hans? What’s the matter?”

    Hans stood motionless for a long moment, then heaved a long breath in and out. “Nothing. Come on.” He turned back toward the pit. Simon followed, hearing the murmurs of “Stark Hans” all around them.

    They climbed down the ladder into the pit, where Hans as usual took off his jacket and shirt and placed them on a ladder rung. His hat went on Simon’s head. The gloves went on his hands. He swung his arms a bit, but was staring off toward the crowd instead of his opponent. Simon grew concerned.

    “Hans.” No reaction. “Hans!” Still no reaction. He reached out and touched his friend. Hans started and looked over at him. “The fight, Hans. Look at him,” Simon pointed to the other end of the pit, “not all those overstuffed pigeons who came to see you beat him.”

 

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    Hans looked at him for a moment, then a slow smile crossed his face. “Pigeons, huh?” He looked at the crowd again, then back at Simon. “Mayhap you’re right, boy. And you’re my luck, so I’d best listen to you.” His gaze went down the pit and locked on the other fighter. “So, let’s be about this.”

    Just then Herr Pierpoint came down the other ladder and moved to the center of the pit. Simon didn’t listen as the up-timer went through his usual before-the-fight routine, focusing instead on the other fighter. Whoever he was, he looked to be more of a challenge than the last few men Hans had faced, especially poor Sokolovsky. He stood erect, head up and eyes staring at Hans. There was no fat around his middle; he was lean, and a bit taller than Hans. Simon shivered all of a sudden. Hans might have to work for this one.

    Herr Pierpoint pointed to the timekeeper and the bell rang. Hans stepped forward, and the fight began.

    In the event, Simon needn’t have worried. This fight was more of a contest than any that Simon had seen before, true. The other fighter was good enough to land a number of solid body blows, and early on he managed to thoroughly blacken Hans’ left eye. But in return, Hans’ relentless pounding just wore the other man down. He dropped in the seventh round.

    The crowd went wild — as Simon had come to expect. But even for a fight night crowd, they were very exuberant. He looked at the people leaning over the rail, shouting and pounding on each other. At the same moment, he caught a whiff of the old blood smell from the pit itself. And in a moment of insight well beyond his years, Simon saw that the people cheering for Hans would most likely have been cheering on the dogs in the bear baitings that used to occur in the pit. That almost made him want to throw up, and he only kept his supper in his stomach by gulping hard a couple of times and taking deep breaths.

    Hans walked over to Simon after Herr Pierpoint lifted his arm in victory. He was breathing deeply and flexing his hands, but there was a smile on his face. “That was a good fight,” he said. “That man knew what he was doing.” A touch to his left eye brought a wince, but didn’t dim the smile. “A good fight,” Hans repeated. He started whistling again as he donned his clothes, finishing off by plucking his hat off Simon’s head and giving the boy’s hair a ruffle.

    Up the ladder they went. Simon had been up and down the ladder so many times over the last few weeks that he’d learned how to balance himself to get on and off at the top and didn’t even think about it now.

    “Now, where’s Tobias?” Hans was looking around.

    “Ferret-face,” Simon muttered. Hans heard him and laughed.

    “There he is.” Hans pointed and they pushed their way through the crowd, accepting congratulation and claps on the back as they moved. In a moment Hans had Tobias by the arm and was watching him count out bills.

    Simon counted along with them. “. . . ten, eleven, twelve.” Twelve hundred dollars! Hans was making even more money for each fight. It still amazed Simon that people would pay to see a fight, despite all the proof he had received over the last weeks.

    “Twelve for tonight,” Hans said as he pocketed the money. “Next time it’s fifteen.”

    “Fifteen!” Tobias almost screamed. “That’s robbery!”

    Hans shrugged. “The people pay to come see me. If you want me in your fights, the price is now fifteen hundred dollars.”

    Tobias’ eyes nearly popped out of his head. This increased his resemblance to the weasel-like ferrets to such an extent that Simon had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep from bursting out laughing. They left Tobias wordless and huffing.

    “There you are, Hans.” The crowd parted to let Andreas Schardius and his friends through. “You are indeed the Samson of Magdeburg. Congratulations on your win tonight. May it not be the last.”

    “Thank you, Master Schardius,” Hans said. Simon could hear a strained note in his voice.

    The merchant waved a hand. “I’m so glad you didn’t disappoint me, Hans. If you had lost, well, it would have been costly.” With that, he turned and walked away.

    Simon was alarmed. Hans’ hands were fists again. He laid a hand on Hans’ arm. “Hans . . . Hans . . . pigeons, remember.”

    After a moment the fists relaxed, but this time there was no smile. “No, Simon, not a pigeon. Not that one. A kestrel, maybe, or better yet, a carrion crow.” Hans spat as if clearing his mouth. “Come on.”

 

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    Byron and Gotthilf looked at each other from where they stood on the fringe of the crowd.

    “Interesting,” Gotthilf said.

    Byron nodded.

 

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    The torchlight around the bear pit dimmed behind them. The moon was in half-phase, riding high in the sky, so their way was lit before them. Simon was perplexed, and finally worked up his courage to ask a question.

    “Hans?”

    “Hmm?”

    “Why is Master Schardius not a pigeon?”

    Hans spat again. “The preachers say that we are God’s flock, the sheep of His pasture. They might as well say we are the pigeons in His roost. Sheep and pigeons are both stupid, messy, nasty creatures, helpless for the most part. That probably describes most people — certainly the ones you and I know.” They walked a few steps farther on. “But there are always those who prey on the flocks. Call them wolves, or hawks, or carrion crows . . .” Hans kicked a rock out of his path. “. . . but they batten on the misery of others. And some of them . . .” Simon heard the smack of a fist into a palm. “. . . some of them feed on pain. And Master Schardius,” loathing dripped from the title, “he is one of the worst. He misses no opportunity to increase his wealth at the expense of others. I know that he brings stolen property into Magdeburg on his barges. I know that he cheats his customers, giving them short weights when they buy his grain. And I know that he delights in tearing at people to cause pain or to receive gain, and if he can do both at once then he is a happy man.”

 

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    Simon walked beside his friend, trying to absorb everything that had just been said. “But . . . but he seems so nice and friendly.”

    “Does he? Think about what he told me before the fight. Think it over carefully.”

    Simon recalled the words the merchant had spoken. One phrase in particular stood out in his memory, I shall only be disappointed if you lose, Hans. He thought of the expression on the merchant’s face, of the tone of his voice. A realization dawned in his mind.

    “He ordered you to win.”

    Hans spat. “Yah. Ordered, and threatened.”

    Simon shuddered. “Threatened?”

    “Oh, I know the words seem mild. But there was a warehouseman who did something to ‘disappoint’ the good master some time back. One day he didn’t come to work, nor the next day. The day after that he was found floating face-down in the river.”

    “You think . . .”

    Hans was silent for a moment. “Not that it would have done much good, the words of such as us against the word of one of the richest men in Magdeburg.”

    Simon was very confused. What was Hans talking about? And if Master Schardius was such a bad man . . . “So why do you work for him?”

    Hans was silent for a long time. Then he said: “I was never able to read or write. The school master would write the letters down, but when I tried to read them they twisted around. So I ended up working for Schardius. I don’t like him, but…”

    He shrugged. “He pays his warehouse men better than anyone else for that kind of work, and in turn we do some other work for him now and then.”

    “Other work?”

    “Never mind. You don’t need to know right now. It’s just . . . I needed the money,” Hans muttered. “I still do. It’s the same reason I fight. I need the money to take care of Uschi.”

    “But you make enough money to take care of her from your job, don’t you? And she makes money with her embroidery.” Simon was confused.

    “It’s not enough,” Hans said. “If something happens to me, she needs money set back, money to keep her. I failed her once; I’m not going to fail her again; never. That’s why I fight.”

    Simon had trouble understanding. “What could happen to you?”

    “I may have seen something I shouldn’t have seen.”

    Hans stopped suddenly and placed both hands on Simon’s shoulder. “I’m not going to tell you to forget what I just told you. I know you won’t. But for the sake of your safety, and for Ursula’s, keep it behind your eyes. Don’t open the gate of your mouth and let it out.” He dropped his hands and started to turn, paused as if a thought had struck him, then turned back. “Unless something happens to me.”

    “Nothing will happen to you,” Simon protested.

    “Maybe it won’t. But if it does, you go to the policemen, Chieske and Hoch. Especially Chieske. No one else. They’re the only ones who look to be honest, and that up-timer Chieske is a hard man himself. Nobody will turn him. You tell them what I said. But no one else. Understand?”

    Simon nodded.

    “Promise?”

    Another nod.

    “Good. Now, I need something to get a bad taste out of my mouth.”

    It was not many more minutes before they were at The Chain. Hans walked up to the counter and slapped coins down in front of Veit. “Genever.” Veit produced another of the blue bottles from the table behind him. Hans grabbed it and headed toward a table. Veit turned a spigot and pulled a mug of small beer from its cask and handed it to Simon.

    “Fight not go well?” Veit nodded towards Hans where he was sitting alone at a table.

    “He won in seven rounds. He’s happy with the fight. It’s something else that’s chewing on his insides.” Simon was faithful to his promise and left it at that.

    “Right. If it gets worse, give me the high sign. A moody Hans is not good for the establishment.” Veit winked.

    Simon went over and took a seat on the bench next to where Hans was cradling the blue bottle between his palms.

    It was some time later that they wandered back to their rooms. Ursula was happy to see them home in one piece. She was not, however, happy about the black eye Hans had received. She let him know in very clear and concise language the extent of her unhappiness, with the aid of a finger pointing in his face. Simon was somewhat surprised to see his friend just stand with a smile on his face and let his sister upbraid him, but he was beginning to understand that Hans would give Ursula anything and everything he could, including being her target if that was what she needed.

    When she at length ran out of words and emotional steam, Ursula threw her hands up in the air and exclaimed, “You great lunk, you don’t even care that you got hurt, do you?”

    Hans shook his head, still grinning.

    Ursula started laughing. “Oh, Hans, what am I going to do with you?” He held his arms out, and she stepped into his embrace. “I love you, you know.”

    “I know,” Hans said, his face gone serious.

    “It just bothers me that you fight so much.”

    “I know,” Hans repeated. “But we need the money.”

    “Do we really?” Ursula pushed back from him. “Or is that just your excuse to fight?”

    Hans took the money Tobias had given him from his pocket and placed it in her cupped palms. Then he drew himself up. “I’m good at it, Uschi. I like it. And I’m going to keep doing it, to provide for you.” He spread his hands, shrugged, and turned to his room.

    Ursula looked after him and took a step, then stopped. Her shoulders drooped. After a moment, she put the money in her own pocket, then reached over to the table, picked up her cane, and made her way to her own room. “Blow out the candle, please, Simon,” she said over her shoulder in a dull voice.

    Simon waited for her door to close. His blanket lay folded on his stool. He sat long enough to take off his boots, then picked up the blanket. Blowing out the candle, he moved to his space in front of the fireplace. A moment later he was rolled up in the blanket, and moments after that his eyes drifted closed.