The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, November 11, 1639 – At the Guild

 It was cold on the market this morning, sharp as a blade across the skin. Mist lay like a cloth over the stalls, and the air smelled of soot and old bacon. At the entrance to the meat hall stood a man with a pouch under his arm, clearly returning from an inspection, his head bowed, shoulders hunched.

I was expected — not out of courtesy, but out of necessity.

The meat-inspectors’ guild had sent a messenger. No official letter, no seal, only a spoken request:
“The Master wishes to see you. There is something wrong with the meat from Langelsheim.”
The tone was not hostile, but neither was it welcoming.

In the guild room sat Guildmaster Cordt Bäumer with two other men, brothers of the craft, grown fat on the meat they judged. They sat by the hearth, steaming mugs before them, their eyes fixed on me as if I were already cutting.
“The goods from Langelsheim stink,” Bäumer said curtly.
“Too many entrails, too little salt. We want you to tighten inspection on the market.”
In his voice I heard no request, but a command — the kind one gives to a blade, not to a man.

I looked at them. All three wore the guild emblem on their chests — a crossed knife and spear above an ox’s head. Their fingers were greasy, their eyes dull.
I asked, holding my hand out over the fire:
“Do you want my hand — or also my name?”
For a moment there was silence, as if the question had not been understood. But Bäumer understood. His gaze shifted briefly to the window, where the marketplace lay like a wavering sea of canvas. Then he said, without hesitation:
“Your hand. Nothing more.”

I nodded. That was enough. No name. No right. Only the arm that cuts.
I drew my cloak tighter and left without another word.

On the square I went from stall to stall. Some butchers pretended not to see me; others frowned, their knives still in their hands. A woman with a wicker basket turned away as I passed. I inspected the sausages, the hams, the slabs of bacon on rough wooden boards. At three stalls I smelled decay. Not strong — but the sharp nose of my trade knows the first hint of rot.
One man from Langelsheim had pork that smelled as musty as damp wool.

I gave no order, spoke no judgment. I met his eyes and held his gaze.
That was enough. He knew I would return.
I walked on.
And no one greeted me.






Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, May 3, 1638 – Fire

Image
 The sky above Goslar shimmered with dryness. It was early May, yet the wind carried dust and smoke. No rain had fallen in weeks, and the town was as parched as parchment. The streets echoed hollow beneath my boots, as if even the stones wished to flee from what was to come. Gese Schraders. A woman of forty. Daughter of a weaver, widow of a brewer. She lived by the Gose, near the bridge, in a house that smelled of herbs and yeast. Her name had long drifted through the whispers of the town. They said cows went lame when she looked at them, that children took fevers when she anointed their heads, that she spoke with cats by night. I had seen her once or twice at the market, bent forward, a basket of linen on her arm. Not a woman who joined in talk. Not a woman who smiled. Her arrest was no surprise. I had heard her name whispered in the pews since Candlemas. When the child of Councillor Witte died of convulsions, all glances soon turned one way. And the Council... the Council was...
Read more

The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, January 9, 1640 – The Miller

Image
 Four nights ago it had snowed — not soft, silent snow, but sharp, uneven flakes that gathered between the cobblestones and in the folds of my cloak. The city smelled of wood smoke and ice. People no longer spoke of hunger aloud, but it was felt in everything: in the empty market stalls, the thin winter soups, the red noses of children with worn-out shoes. There was no flour. Barely any beer. Even the rats seemed unwilling to leave their holes. And then they brought Sigebert Meurer . A miller. A strong man, broad-shouldered, with calluses like leather on his palms. His mill stood by the water near the southern rampart, and for months there had been whispers that his sacks were fuller than he admitted. Rumors said he had hidden grain while others buried their children. That he sold flour to soldiers outside the gate. That his wife wore new shoes. I believed nothing without proof. But the Council needed a reason for confiscation. They did not seek vengeance, but possession. Land....
Read more