Death and the Devil

“There’s no need to worry,” said the masseur softly. His thumbs glided up Justinius’s ribs to his armpits. “There have been saints who were fond of women, if you know what I mean. Abstinence is a modern invention. You don’t have to pretend with me. I knew some students, years ago. Their only reason for studying was to gain a well-endowed benefice and well-endowed women. There was a song—”

The tips of his fingers squeezed the fat at the base of Justinius’s neck, released it, then moved lower down. “It’s a confession the wandering scholars used to sing—presumably they granted themselves absolution. Light are the elements forming my matter, they sang, Like a dry leaf, the storm winds scatter. And My breast is pierced by women’s beauty. My hand can’t touch? Let the heart do duty.”

“Sounds like a good song,” said Justinius, though with a frisson of unease somewhere at the back of his mind. He had the feeling he knew this masseur.

“Greedier for love I am, than God’s grace to win. Dead my soul, so all I care is to save my skin,” the man continued. The movements of his hands followed the rhythm of the poem. Or was it the other way around? “The hardest thing of all, I say, is to tame our nature. Who can keep out lustful thoughts near a lovely creature? We are young, impossible to obey this hard law. Our bodies too are young, they know omnia vincit amor.”

“Quite right,” agreed Justinius, if slightly doubtfully.

“And what does it say in the Romance of the Rose? Marriage is a hateful tie. Nature is not so stupid as to put Mariette in the world for Robichon alone, or Robichon for Mariette, or Agnes or Perette. There is no doubt, dear child, that she made everyone for everyone. How true! Then Follow nature without hesitation. I forgive you all your sins as long as you are in harmony with nature. Be swifter than the squirrel, tuck up your skirts to enjoy the wind, or, if you prefer, go naked and so on and so forth. And all these supposed blasphemers who wrote such verses ended their lives as good Christians. The Archpoet sang the praises of Frederick Barbarossa, Hugo Primas taught in Paris and Orleans, and Serlo of Wilton mended his ways in England and died a pious Cistercian, Walter of Chatillon as a canon, all of them men who enjoyed life to the full and cared little for the Church’s rules.”

“How comforting,” muttered Justinius. What was the point of all this? All the names and things the fellow knew? Much too well-educated for a bathhouse assistant. And then the voice. He knew that voice. But from where?

“Listen,” said Justinius, “I—”

“But”—the pleasantly powerful hands continued without pause—“how many died in misery? A chaste, God-fearing man like Tristan, burning with such love and fleshly desire he fell sick and died. Even if he was united with his beloved after death, how he suffered for it.”

Who was this Tristan, dammit? Justinius von Singen was no monk, he was a swindler, a charlatan in a monk’s habit who could churn out standard portions of the Bible, usually mixing them up. What was it this bastard wanted of him?

Suddenly he felt afraid. “I want you to stop,” he gabbled.

As if he had not heard, the masseur continued to knead his flesh, digging the tips of his fingers into Justinius’s ribs.

“And fair Isolde, promised to King Mark of Cornwall”—he continued his lecture—“where did love lead her? Did it protect her against the deceived king, who wondered whether to burn her or abandon her to the lepers? And when he finally relented and let her go, what was left for her? Brokenhearted for her Tristan, she lay beside a rotting carcass, Justinius. What an end to love!”

“What do you want?” panted Justinius, trying to get up.

The fingers flitted up and down his spine.

“For there are no secrets on earth, everything comes to light, and in the light everything looks shabby, and the light is the punishment, and the punishment is—pain.”

“Please, I—”

Something cracked.

Justinius gave a yelp of pain. His head was pressed down, then the hands continued their gentle, pleasant massaging.