Q by Luther Blissett (poetry books to read txt) 📕

M�hlhausen, 10 May 1525

The news of Thomas M�ntzer’s departure for Frankenhausen swept through the city before half the day was up. In the morning, barely awake after a sleepless night, when we look out of the window we see that the forecourt of the church of Our Lady is already crowded. If we wished to delude ourselves we might conclude that the good conscience of the inhabitants of M�hlhausen has finally prevailed over their interests. But we know by now how these things work: the sermons of Magister Thomas, whether you approve of them or not, are a hard habit to quit, apart from anything because for many days now they have been one of the fundamental topics of conversation in the squares and shops. And it’s clear to everyone, even to those who only know him by reputation, that Thomas M�ntzer will not leave the imperial city without making one final, angry salute to his townspeople.

‘Magister,’ I shout so that he’ll hear me in the next room. ‘They’re already down there!’

He joins me and appears briefly on the balcony, greeted by an exclamation from the crowd.

‘Let’s wait until the square is full, so that the Lord can choose his troops.’ That’s his only comment.

An excited noise rises from the churchyard. Four resolute knocks on the door. Then two more. ‘Magister, Magister, open up!’

‘Who are you?’ I ask, rather surprised by the piercing tone of the voices.

‘Jacob and Mathias Ziegler, Georg’s sons. We’ve got to talk to you.’

I open with a smile to the sons of the tailor Ziegler, two devoted followers of ours in the face of the opposition of their father, who actually threatened the Magister a while ago and whom Elias dissuaded from his belligerent intentions.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, dumbfounded. ‘Shouldn’t you be with your parents in the shop?’

‘No,’ replies Jacob, the elder brother, fifteen. ‘Not after today.’

‘We’re coming with you,’ continues his brother, two years younger, with enthusiasm.

‘Calm down, now,’ I reply. ‘Coming with us? Have you any idea what that means?’

‘Yes, the elect are going to defeat the princes! The Lord will be on our side.’

The Magister smiles. ‘You see? It’s all happening as the scriptures said: Christ is turning the son against his father, and telling us to become as little children.’

‘Magister, they can’t fight with us.’

They won’t let me get a word in. ‘We’ve made our minds up and we’re not shifting. Let’s see, though. Stand firm, Magister, and let it be soon, we can’t stay here.’ Having said this, they close the doors behind them and dash down the stairs.

Magister Thomas senses the effect that the brief encounter has had on me. ‘Don’t worry,’ he reassures me, pressing my shoulders. ‘The Lord will defend his people, have faith! Chin up, now, it’s time to go.’

I go to call Ottilie and Elias. Johannes Denck is no longer with us: he left yesterday evening, heading for Eisenach in search of cannon, arms and ammunition, and he’s going to meet up with us on the road.

We leave via the passageway that leads straight into the church; Magister Thomas at the head, the rest of us behind him in silence. We slowly cross the nave, which is pierced with rays of sunlight. Elias opens the heavy door and we find ourselves, still in darkness, on the steps of the Cathedral. The eyes of the crowd are all turned towards the windows of our room. Thomas M�ntzer steps forward slightly, on to the Cathedral steps. No one notices him. His first shout fills the square, already spilling over with at least four thousand people, and is immediately submerged by a wave of startled voices:

‘People of M�hlhausen, listen, the last battle is at hand! Soon the Lord will deliver the godless into our hands, as he did Midianites and their king, vanquished by the sword of Gideon, the son of Jo’ash. Like the people of Succot, you too, doubting the power of the God of Israel, are refusing to lend your help to the forces of the elect, and are withholding your cannon and your weapons to in order defend your own privilege. Gideon defeated the tribe of Midian with three hundred men, of three thousand that he had gathered to him. It was the Lord who reduced their numbers, so that the people would not believe they had triumphed only thanks to their strength. Those who were afraid were sent back. In much the same way, today, the forces of the elect are being reduced by the defection of the citizens of M�hlhausen. I say that this is good: lest anyone forget what the Lord has done for his people, if need be I would be ready to move alone against the mercenaries of the princes. Nothing is impossible to those who have faith. But from those who do not have faith will be taken all that they have. So listen, people of M�hlhausen: the Lord has chosen his own, the elect; if anyone’s heart is not filled with the courage of faith, let him not obstruct the way of the plans of God: let him go, now, towards his wretched fate. Off with him! Let him go back to his shop, back to his bed. Let him go, and let him never show his face again.’

The people start yelling and shouting, pushing each other and surging forwards, and brawls are breaking out all over the place between those who consider themselves worthy and those who want to stay at home and who think Magister Thomas is a madman, shouting there at the top of his voice.

In the end, about three hundred are left, most of them people from outside the town, tramps who have come to the city to plunder the churches, poor people and some from St Nicholas, who wouldn’t abandon Thomas M�ntzer if the sun turned black. The Magister, who hasn’t opened his mouth again, is about to turn to face his little army when it splits in two to let through a group of soldiers dragging three cannon.

‘And where have these suddenly appeared out from?’ asks Elias contemptuously.

‘They’re no use to us,’ the guard says abruptly. ‘You can take them. Heinrich Pfeiffer says the Lord might need them.’

Less than two hours later the column of the chosen leaves the city in silence, by the northern gate. Two carts loaded with victuals, the cannon pulled by mules bringing up the rear. An insect leaving the chrysalis that has protected it for so long, and slowly starting to creep towards new life, the new age, unknown and rapacious, which the butterfly’s long wait has given it the strength to withstand.

Black, a long, silvery mane, its eyes two flaming coals and its nostrils dilated, foam at its mouth and its hoofs pawing the ground, the horse that will lead the sword of Gideon into battle. From the saddle hang bags full of messages from the insurgents, which the Magister has collected over many months of tireless travel: he will never give them up, they contain names, places and news that would give unalloyed delight to the guards of the princes.

I turn around, behind the cannons dragged by the mules, M�hlhausen obscured behind a blanket of dust. The walls are a vague outline, the towers pale like a print soaked in water, as my soul is heavy with all the anxiety I have ever felt. When I can see nothing more, I turn to look ahead, there’s the Magister again, proud, reining in his horse, staring at the horizon, the day of reckoning, the scourging of the godless.

He fills me with strength, the time has come, we’ve got to go.