A Day Watch, just off duty, let everything he knew boil out his mouth. “He’s taken to the Watch barracks. He’s purple mess. Five days in a trunk, and he’s no Lazarus. Rough riding on the top of a coach. But that wasn’t what killed him; it’s his head’s half flat. A good heavy battering that was.”
“But who would have?” Knipper was no one’s friend but no one’s enemy. There wouldn’t be love or hate for the man who leveled that blow, only disapproval for evilly disturbing Basel, and veiled admiration for whoever could crack such a tough nut.
Then a fishmonger who was cousin to a baker who was husband to a sister of a town clerk’s housekeeper had stronger news. “A Grand Inquiry’s set. The Council will hear it in two days. Noon on Thursday.” This was disbelieved, very strongly.
“So quickly?” and “The Council?” The questions were the essence of the commons’ incredulity. Two days was swift even for Basel, but even more that the Town Council itself would hold the Inquiry for a low coach driver. Then a sergeant of the Night Watch arrived to say it was so and he had one answer to both questions.
“Caiaphas.”
“He’s here.” Fritz the stable lout said it from the fire where he sat as an oracle. “He wouldn’t take an invitation from Faulkner. He’ll stay at the Inn while the coach goes to Bern, then he’ll ride it back north on Friday morning.”
“The Inquiry’s not for Knipper,” Daniel said, interpreting the oracle’s riddles. “It’s Caiaphas who demands it.”
“Why does he?” and “Why did he come?” and other questions became a broad wave of discontent against the Magistrate of Strasbourg. There were some in the room who’d seen him in the Market Square and they fed the resentment with their descriptions of his harsh words and evil stare. The speculation ran wilder, the offense deeper. Then the rare sound of Nicolaus’ voice asked through the smoke and sounds, “Who is Inquisitor?” And that caused silence.
I knew little about Inquisitors: Their selection and actions were shrouded. The Inquiry into the disappearance of Master Grimm of the Logic Chair was the only appointment in my five years in Basel. That man, a lawyer named Reichen, had since died.
I knew more concerning the power of the Inquisitor. Inquisition was an ancient right of the Town Council. They would place all their authority onto the person of the Inquisitor. He would have the prerogative to search, imprison, and torture summarily and was only limited by his short tenure. Reichen was given three days, then four more, later, once the reply from Leipzig was received. He reported to the Council in secret and no one but the Council and his clerk ever knew what he found. That was unusual. An Inquisition would normally be concluded in a public meeting of the Council.
“Who’s Inquisitor? Well, what lawyers are there?” Daniel answered. “It will be one of them, but a low one. It’s an Inquiry for a coach driver, that’s all.”
“It’s an Inquiry for a magistrate,” Nicolaus said. “That’s who demanded it. Those were his first words to Uncle Faulkner. And I remember this Caiaphas. I’ve seen him before.”
At home I told Grandmother what I’d heard. “What is the man Caiaphas like?” was her only question.
“He’s like crows,” I said, “and like wolves,” and I went upstairs to my room and books.
4
THE OSCILLATING HOURGLASS
Late enough in the evening that Grandmother was already in bed, and the only light was my desk candle shining, and the only sound was the scratching of my quill and rustling of my papers, a lantern came into my street and then a fist to my door. I thought it might be the Night Watch. The church bell finished eleven tolls as I opened the door to see a dim lantern held out and a dimmer Cousin Gottlieb behind it.
“Leonhard. I want you.”
“To come?”
“Yes,” he said, impatient. “To come.”
It had become a chill evening but I didn’t stop to find a coat. I only took my brown hat from the peg, and the key, and I left and locked the house.
“Where do you want me?” I asked.
“To the inn,” he answered, and I followed and waited to hear why. The houses were more closed than when I’d walked home from the Boot and Thorn earlier, and it was back to there that we went. In the Barefoot Square, near enough the tavern door to be in its fiery glow, Cousin Gottlieb stopped and asked, “Did you bring paper?”
“No.”
“That’s a poor start. You’ll need it.”
“What would I write?” I asked.