Chapter 9
Archie
July 1635
Jena
It was the nicest day we’d had yet in the year 1635. The sun was shining, there were only a very few wispy clouds in the sky, and it was warm enough that a man could walk around in the weather with naught on but a heavy shirt if he was of such a mind. Me, I was wearing a light jacket, stout enough to cut the breeze that was already hinting at the evening chill, and full enough to cover the Suhl revolver that had recently replaced my wheellock pistols. And it was light on my feet I felt without having to traipse the weight of the pair of them around.
I was peregrinating down the road from Master Wulff’s house toward one of my favorite taverns, The Gray Goose, about to put myself outside of something the tavern called “Swedish meatballs.” I had my doubts if the meatballs or the recipe for the making of them had ever seen Sweden, but stranger things had come out of Grantville, and I confess that I had developed a taste for them.
A block or so before I reached the tavern a burly brindled tomcat swaggered out from between two buildings and proceeded down the street before me. He was missing the top half of his left ear, there were a few fearsome scars visible on his coat, and his tail had a kink in it, so he was obviously a man of parts, moving with confidence about his business. I admired him as he swaggered, tail at a jaunty angle. He reminded me of my cousin Rory MacDonald—on my mother’s side of the family, obviously. We had companioned each other for fourteen years in Captain—later Colonel—Farquhar’s company. He was dead these four years gone, which still left some grief in my heart over that big bold braw bonny man, but enough time had flowed under the bridge of life that I could remember now the good times we’d had with a smile.
At the next cross-street, the cat turned left, and I touched two fingers to the brim of my hat in respect of his élan.
“Archie!”
I stopped in place and turned to see who was calling me. It had to be me that was being called, because even in the year 1635 I was the only Archibald in Jena. There were a mort of Scotsmen in the Germanies right then, but even among them the name is uncommon, and among the native Germans it’s even rarer, so a Scot-German half-breed like myself carrying a name from Clan MacDonald finds himself standing out at even the best of times.
I didn’t see anyone in particular, so I turned back and continued on my way.
“Archie, you son of a sow, wait!”
Now whoever it was that was bellowing my name was getting personal, so I stopped and turned again, this time with my hands on my hips and my hat pulled low over my eyes. Sometimes a man needs to have a bit of an edge to his stance to keep others respectful. And being half descended from Clan MacDonald seems to bring that need forward more often than one might think.
Looking back up the street, I finally sighted my friend Heinrich limping along on a crutch. I chuckled rather much as I waited for him to reach me. When he stopped before me, puffing like a wind-blown horse, I shook my head. “Look at you now,” I said, spreading my hands before me, “if you’re not just the Sphinx’s Riddle In the very flesh.”
“And what foolishness are you spouting now, you crazed Scot, you?” Heinrich managed to huff out.
“Why, the oldest question of the ages, my friend: What goes about on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening?”
“What? What are you maundering about now?”
“Play the game, Heinrich. And where did you hear such a word as maunder?”
“From you, the last time you were telling me lies about your soldier days.”
“Ah.” I nodded. “That would do it. Talking about the past always enriches my wordcraft.”
“Especially when well lubricated with beer, I’ve noticed.” Heinrich let loose with a loud “haw-haw” laugh after that.
“Enough of the small talk,” I said, putting my hands back on my hips. “Play the game, Heinrich, or pay the forfeit.”
“All right, all right,” he said, “keep your trousers on. What was it you said again?”
“What goes about on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening?”
“Are you sure that’s what you meant? That makes no sense, soldier.”
I put my hands back on my hips. “That’s a classic riddle from the ancient Greeks, old man. I had it straight from Colonel Farquhar his own self, and him a learned man taught by Jesuits and all. You cannot blame that one on me for the telling of it or for you not knowing the answer of it.”
“Ancient Greeks, my left hand,” he muttered, waving that hand with its missing middle finger between us. “It sounds like ancient drunkards to me.”
“I might say that it takes one to know one, friend Heinrich,” I said with a laugh, “but that might come too close to proving you right. For the last time, play the game or pay the forfeit.”
“All right, all right. Who put fleas in your crotch, anyway?” Heinrich muttered a bit as he shifted his weight on the crutch. “Um, well…I’d say the answer is one of those little dogs the gypsies use in some of their shows.”
“What?” I was not believing what I was hearing.
“You know, the ones they sometimes put little costumes on. They come prancing out on all fours, just wiggling like they’ve got Hell’s own fleas on them, and they run around and jump over stuff and each other and through stuff and all, and then there’s always at least a couple of them that pop up on their back legs and walk and dance around for a while, and you know there’s always one of them that pulls a leg up and gimps around on three legs to make the trainer look stupid. So four legs, two legs, three legs, it’s a gypsy dog.”
I pushed my hat back on my head and stared at him in surprise. “I’m amazed, I am.”
“What?” It was his turn with the bewildered expression.
“That is an answer. It is indeed an answer. And by your lights, it is a good answer. It’s not the right answer, mind you,” I grinned at him, “but it is an answer. And I’m tickled enough by it that I’ll not enforce all the forfeit. You buy the Swedish Meatballs.”
“Only if you buy the beer,” he shot back.
“Fair enough,” I said. “But I’ve seen you drink, so you’ll get either one of the good stuff or two of the cheap stuff.”
“Two it is,” Heinrich said with a grin as he turned and started stumping toward the tavern with his crutch leading the way. “Come on, Archie, keep up, lad.”
A few minutes later we were seated in The Gray Goose, beers at hand, watching as Heinrich’s nephew—his wife’s nephew, actually—put bowls of meatballs before us. We already had our spoons out, and wasted no time in wielding them.
I finished first, licking my spoon off and burnishing it on my sleeve before returning it to my pocket. I picked up my mug and grinned at Heinrich. “Thanks for the repast, old man. I enjoyed it—and I finished first.”
Heinrich swallowed a huge bite, and licked the gravy off his lips before he said, “Of course you got done eating first. You have more teeth than I do.”
I spent the next few minutes chuckling to myself. Mind you, it was true…poor Heinrich was missing half the teeth that used to fill the space behind his lips and I have somewhat more than that. It was still funny, however. But ere long he finished the last of what was in his bowl and had cleaned and stowed his own spoon away. His nephew placed his second mug of cheap beer before him and carried off the empty bowls.
“So,” I said, setting my own mug down and licking the beer from my mustache, “what was it that you wanted from me so badly that you needs must bellow after me in the street like a love-lorn aurochs?”
“What?” Heinrich frowned and placed a hand on his chest. “Can a man not greet his greatest friend whom he hasn’t seen in donkey’s years without being lambasted with such calumny?” I stared at him in wonder. “What?” he repeated.
I shook my head. “That is perhaps the finest string of words I’ve heard you utter, my friend. Even the clan bard would be admiring of it. I doff my hat to you.”
And I did. I stood up, lifted my hat from my head and gave a short bow to him.
“Sit down, you great fool,” he said with a laugh.
I settled my hat on my head with care, resumed my rightful place, and lifted my mug for a long swallow, which left little indeed inside it. I cradled the mug in both hands, and looked at Heinrich. “So, what do you have to tell me of the doings of the civic watch? Any good stories? Anything I can use to earn a groschen or three?”
“I’m afraid not much, Archie. A few pick-pockets caught, a pimp arrested for abusing his only girl, a couple of lads caught truant from their grammar school.”
“That’s just pathetic,” I muttered.
Heinrich nodded. “It is. Nothing like the old days. I never thought I’d say this, Archie, but I miss the old Upright Pig. Between the up-timers burning it down and all the up-timers that came for the university, well, Jena is getting almost civilized. They’re even talking about fixing the places where the city wall collapsed.”
The Upright Pig was burned to the ground in October of 1631. I remembered the event well, as I hadn’t been long in the city at the time. Some of the more important patrons of that worst of the worst of taverns had taken it into their heads to object to Gretchen Richter’s doings, particularly after she shot one of them—the details were never very clear to most of the townspeople as to why, but knowing the sort of folk he favored, most of them thought he probably deserved it. The New United States Army was in the neighborhood at the time, and took objections of their own, and when they were done making their objections, the Upright Pig was a pile of smoldering coals and ashes. Of course, the bulk of the army officers were up-timers, so Heinrich was right in a way. Twice in an hour’s span. That almost had me looking around for a unicorn, it did.
No one had rebuilt the place, oddly enough. In fact, I don’t think anyone had done anything with the land. Some kind of legal issue among various parties with various claims to it, I’d heard. I shrugged. Such happens more than one might imagine. It’s why Master Titus’ brother Augustus Nero Domitian Wulff made a fine living as an attorney both in Grantville and in Magdeburg.
If I was of a mind to run a tavern, I might explore that situation. But alas, I’ve seen from my side of the bar too much of what too many tavern keepers have to deal with to even consider such a nonsense.
“You see anything interesting out at the turnpike gate to the city?”
Heinrich started to shake his head, then stopped and narrowed his eyes. “In truth, perhaps. I doubt me if you can make anything of it, but we have seen more clergy riding to and through Jena the last week or so than we’ve ever seen. Foreigners from the south, mostly.”
“Clergy?” This was a bit intriguing. “What type?”
“Romans, I think. Some in formal cassocks. Some few in regular clothes, but you can tell. They have that air about them—Jesuits, I’d wager.”
“Hmm.” I combed my fingers through my beard while I thought. “Do you know where they’ve gone or who they’ve talked to?”
“A couple of them asked how to find some of the university professors, but other than that, no.”
“Hmm,” I repeated, switching hands on my beard. “Perhaps Master Titus will be interested in the hearing of this.”
Heinrich shrugged his shoulder. “Stranger things have happened, I’d wager.” He took another long pull at his mug.
“Aye, and if you did, you’d likely win the wager this time.” I picked up my mug and finished the last few drops in it. Setting it down, I wiped my mustache on my sleeve and stood. “So I’ll be taking myself off to Master Titus and see if I can be enlivening his day. Enjoy your beer, old man.”
Heinrich grinned at me. “I’ll be doing that, Archie, and all the more so since it was your coin that paid for it.” We both laughed at that, I clapped him on the shoulder, and out the door I went.