July 31st, 1518 (Saturday)

  Thomas arrived early, though not by design. He hadn’t slept long the night before, and with the morning sun just beginning to hit the rooftops of Strasbourg, he found himself walking towards the river while most of the town was still sluggish in its routines.

  He carried his black notebook under one arm, and over his shoulder a linen satchel with papers and instruments he doubted he’d use. He did not expect to speak. But just in case, he’d prepared what he could. He had made mental notes of the inputs he could or would share, a lot of it based on his exposure to his patients, including Gretchen. A potential dietary origin… possible hallucinatory element… somatic mimicry… fatigue-induced hysteria? All guesses. Educated ones, perhaps, but still guesses. He was as much here to listen as to report. And already, watching the faces in the room, the furrowed brows and sweat-dampened collars, he knew no one felt particularly certain.

  The Rathaus stood in a patch of stony shade, its thick-set frame crowding the narrow street that ran alongside the river. The bell above the entry arch had not yet rung for the hour, but the front doors were already propped open.

  Inside, the hall had been arranged with care for the day’s crucial meeting. Benches were laid out in 2 columns on one side. On the other side, long tables formed a half-circle, each set with high-backed chairs. This was clearly meant for the more important guests of today’s meeting.

  Thomas paused at the threshold, adjusting his collar and composing himself.

  Inside, the hall was dim and close. The arched windows, high and thin, let in a moderate amount of light, and what breeze there might have been had already given up trying to move through the thick sandstone walls. By the time he reached the end of the corridor, sweat already clung to his back. He heard murmuring up ahead. Low, whispered voices drifted in from behind the closed chamber door.

  He wasn’t alone. Three other physicians were already gathered near the benches along the wall. Dr. Wenzel, in his early 50s, thin and dry-eyed as ever, nodded without warmth. Thomas returned the nod, grateful that no one expected more than that. The others were older still – men who had been city-licensed for decades and whose opinions were carved into them like old wood. Thomas greeted them all with the courtesy expected, then sat.

  He glanced around the room. Not just physicians. A few merchants moved about near the side entrance, whispering. The sharp scent of oiled parchment and beeswax filled the air as scribes set up along one edge of the long table. Near the head of the chamber, by the tall-backed chairs where the aldermen would sit, Thomas spotted the dark robes of two Dominican clergy. One he recognised as Prior Matthias, a man known as much for his sermons as for his disapproval of anything that smacked of heresy or undisciplined emotion.

  Thomas adjusted his seat, letting his notebook rest in his lap. He had made careful notations in the margins last night, just before sleep had finally arrived – Gretchen's symptoms, the patient from the handcart, the mention of Hessekorn Mill, the curious twitching patterns, the hallucinations. He had written it all plainly, leaving room for interpretation. He didn’t know what he expected to learn today. Answers, perhaps. Or at least a framework in which this growing unease might finally take shape.

  The growing number of clergymen joining in made him uncomfortable. It was something he expected. Indeed, it was the norm. However, it was not something he agreed with. He believed this should be treated as a medical issue first and foremost, not a matter of the supernatural or divine. But that was not how 16th century Strasbourg operated.

  When the councilmen began filing in, robes trailing and chairs scraping, Thomas straightened up. He recognised the Master of Sanitation, the Guild Chair for Apothecaries, two elders from the Weaver’s District, and lastly, the Mayor, Herr Muller. He counted at least twelve in total – a serious attendance. His hands paused on his notebook.

  Even the old physicians seemed subdued. He caught Dr. Wenzel glancing towards the clergy before pulling a handkerchief to his brow.

  A heavy wooden chair scraped behind him, and someone muttered about beginning before the hour passed. Thomas straightened again. He had written what he knew. What he didn't – and that was more – he hoped someone else might say first.

  The room had settled into a tense silence when a middle-aged clerk rose from his bench near the table. His robe was frayed at the cuffs, and his mouth puckered slightly before he spoke, as if even he found the words unpleasant. A folded parchment, longer than his own forearm, crackled as he unrolled it. He cleared his throat unnecessarily loud in the heat-drenched quiet.

  “By order of the council’s record, and as of sunrise on the thirty-first day of July,” he began, voice high and cracked but clear. “Seventy-three individuals have been officially recorded as afflicted by the uncontrollable plague of dance, within the bounds of the city of Strasbourg.”

  A few in the room shifted in their seats. The word plague still landed with an old weight, regardless of how new its usage might be in this context. A few of those in attendance crossed themselves. A city elder at the head of the table muttered something under his breath and reached for his goblet.

  The clerk continued. “Of the seventy-three, eleven are presently unable to speak or walk. Five have perished…” he paused a beat. “Of collapse, fever, starvation, or self-inflicted injury. The remaining show varying degrees of the condition. Some have recovered. Recordkeeping is ongoing and may not reflect the full scale of the phenomenon.”

  He gestured to the scribes behind him, who stepped forward and began handing out neat copies of the list of the afflicted, written in fine, sharp Gothic script. The pages were heavy with ink, with columns carefully ruled and labelled – name, rough age, residence by parish or street, and to the far right, a narrow column of notes – “convulsions persistent,” “refuses food,” “restrained by family,” “deceased (Kornmarkt).”

  Thomas took one of the copies with a nod, letting it settle across his lap. His eyes scanned quickly at first, then more slowly, line by line. He recognised the girl who’d whispered about music in her sleep, the miller’s apprentice whose arms had twitched “like ants crawling forward.” But others – Gretchen, the merchant’s wife from last week, Frau Koch – were not listed.

  His fingers reached instinctively for the side margin of his own notebook. With a graphite pencil, he made small, nearly invisible ticks beside the names he recognised, and small dots for the ones who were absent. Seven ticks. Four dots.

  He leaned slightly forward and spoke, softly but clearly. “Pardon, may I request a copy of this list, for study? I believe some of the names may overlap with my patients.”

  The clerk blinked at him, then nodded. “Yes, sir. Copies will be available after the meeting.”

  “Add me to that request,” said Dr. Wenzel, not looking up from his own list. “And mark it with the date. I want no confusion in records.”

  A few others murmured similar requests. The clerk bobbed a stiff nod and made a few marks on his ledger.

  Thomas glanced down again, his eyes resting on one note in the margin – “collapsed during midday procession, smiling.” The entry was for Anna Kleist, the name from the pamphlet.

  He thought about the number 73. Clearly, many more had already been affected. Based on the information he had, he would estimate that the number would likely be in 3 digits.

  Once the scrolls had been gathered back into the clerk’s arms, a hush settled over the chamber. The scrape of a boot heel on stone, the soft flutter of parchment, even the creak of an old man’s spine as he adjusted in his chair – all these subtle sounds became strangely amplified in the stillness. Every gaze moved to the centre of the semi-circle, where the mayor sat upright in his seat, his expression serious but composed.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  As though released from a shared cue, several of the senior physicians leant forward in their seats. They adjusted their collars, smoothed their robes, and clasped their fingers over their notes. The movement was subtle, almost ceremonial, but it was significant. It indicated that the time to observe had ended and the time to participate had arrived.

  Mayor Herr Muller cleared his throat. When he spoke, his tone was cautious and formal, shaped by years of civic ritual.

  “We are gathered not merely to share witness,” he began. “But to take measure of this affliction with all the reason and conscience our city can offer. The people look to us, to you, learned doctors, wise brothers of the Church, and honoured councillors, not only for explanation but for assurance. Seventy-three names now stand recorded. Maybe several others remain unrecorded. Some are neighbours. Others might be kin. We owe it to them to think clearly and act swiftly. Let us begin with what we know.”

  He gestured slightly towards the inner circle of chairs where the physicians sat.

  Dr. Walther was the first to rise. He moved with the confidence and efficiency of a man long accustomed to standing before learned assemblies. His name carried weight across the Empire – a physician who had studied in Basel, worked in Mainz, treated nobles in Rome itself, and finally returned home to Strasbourg only four years prior. His grey hair was combed neatly back, and his fingertips drummed lightly on the polished oak before he spoke.

  “We must begin,” he said in a voice rich and measured, “with the fundamentals.”

  He looked slowly around the room, making deliberate eye contact as he went.

  “The climate. This summer is unlike any in recent memory. The air sits heavy. The nights bring no coolness. Food supplies are meagre, and many – even those not yet afflicted – have been eating less than is proper. Under such conditions, the humours fall into imbalance. Chiefly, we see an excess of yellow bile. The choleric temperament rises with heat and poor nourishment. The result is overstimulation of the nerves and instability of the spirit.”

  He glanced at the clergy while mentioning the last part, as if that minor detail was mainly intended for them. Then he paused briefly, allowing the framework to settle into place.

  “Galen writes of such paroxysms in conditions of heat and bodily depletion. When the system is overwhelmed, it seeks discharge. And the limbs, failing any rational direction, discharge through motion.”

  The theory, though old, still held sway over the majority of the practising medical community. The humoral system – the belief that health depended on a balance of four bodily fluids, namely blood, phlegm, black bile, and yellow bile – was the cornerstone of medical understanding across Europe. Illness, by this view, came not from outside invasion but from internal discord. And treatment aimed to restore the lost balance, whether by purging, bloodletting, dietary adjustment, or thermal remedies.

  Walther’s explanation, rooted firmly in Galenic tradition, was received with respectful nods. He glanced across the chamber towards a friar seated opposite him – likely seeking theological alignment – but the man remained still, his expression unreadable.

  Before the silence could stretch, another voice emerged.

  “I would add,” came the voice of a stout physician clad in a faded blue robe, “that the condition favours a particular kind of body. Women, notably.” He raised a hand gently, stopping the murmurs he knew would follow in their tracks.

  “It is true. You can verify the observation from the list of the afflicted. There are unmistakable signs of hysteria.

  “The womb, when disordered, becomes a roaming organ. It may drift through the body, disrupting the vital organs and leading to spasms, laughter, tears, and yes, compulsive dancing. Avicenna wrote of this in his Canon. So did Hildegard of Bingen. The physical manifestations we see are but surface signs of internal disorder.”

  He leaned back then, folding his arms across his chest.

  “That some men are afflicted only strengthens the case for a spiritual component. In their case, I suspect an inward rotting of the faculties brought on by solitude, vice, or failed devotion.”

  The room absorbed his words in silence. A few heads bowed, others scratched pens against paper. Thomas remained motionless. He observed not only the words spoken, but the reactions to them. Some nodded out of deference, others hesitated, unconvinced but unwilling to object out loud. In the corner of his vision, he noticed one of the city scribes glancing towards the clergy seats. For his own part, the words of Dr. Walther seemed to be worth taking note of. Could this affliction really be due to the humoral system getting overwhelmed? Are these uncontrolled spasms related to its attempts to discharge?

  He thought about it, he thought about Gretchen. While not fully convinced, it did seem plausible. Maybe his advice to Gretchen and his other patients to rest and avoid strain was not optimal, perhaps even counterproductive. On the other hand, rest has been proven to be an effective method for rebalancing the humours, even by the tenets of humoral theory. But maybe in the event of overwhelming imbalance, maybe rest could prevent discharge.

  Then the monk two places down from Thomas adjusted his posture. He wore the plain, rust-coloured robes of the local Augustinian order, his head tilted slightly forward in thought. He folded his hands on the table and began to speak, his voice low but clear!

  “Brothers,” the monk began again, his voice even but charged with conviction. “We speak of heat and humours as though we forget that spirits travel more freely in the summer months, when the veil in the air is thin. Have we grown so proud that we discard what every peasant out there knows? Spirits do not die in books. They move, and they cling to the weak, the wounded, and those led astray.”

  He raised his eyes to the rest of the room, letting the weight of his words settle before he continued.

  “Have you heard of Aachen? Or Metz?” he said, louder now. “Entire towns dancing themselves to ruin. And we, we in Strasbourg, cannot have forgotten Saint Vitus. We know what it means when the music comes from nowhere.”

  He turned towards one of the seated elders of the Church. The man, gaunt and pale beneath a long dark cloak, gave a small, slow nod – not a full endorsement, but a signal of agreement nonetheless.

  “Temptation demons,” the monk continued, “enter where the soul is soft. They turn joy into addiction. For the weak-willed among us, that becomes a compulsion. What begins as a skip might end up as days, weeks, maybe months of rhythm. A whisper becomes a song. That the afflicted cannot stop is no mystery, they are being carried.”

  The air in the hall grew uneasy. A few in the back muttered prayers under their breath. One of the scribes made the sign of the cross. Somewhere behind Thomas, someone scoffed and muttered, “Old stories.”

  Then came another voice – older, cracked with age, but clear. A second cleric, this one with a curled white tonsure and bright eyes beneath a hood. “You speak truth,” he said, lifting his forefinger into the air. “The saints intercede. But so do the fallen. This city once held processions, real processions, of fasting and penance. Now we argue about humours and let dancers scream in the street. There was a girl on Rue des Tanneurs yesterday. She moved like a snake. Eyes rolled back. Was that bile? Was that choler?”

  A ripple passed through the room. Someone coughed. Someone else drummed fingers on their scroll. But before another reply could come, a third clergyman – younger, sterner, with a voice like scraped stone – stood without invitation.

  “I do not dismiss the soul,” he said curtly. “But let us not pretend that prayer alone has held off the Devil. He rejoices in ignorance. Let the physicians work. Let the Church advise in its holy wisdom. But let neither claim full authority.”

  A moment of silence followed. Then came a new voice, sharper, cleaner, and impatient. Dr. Lachmann – not yet thirty, clean-shaven, sharp-featured, and bearing the smug assurance of city appointment – raised his hand just high enough to make a point of not asking permission.

  “With all due respect to the saints and demons,” he began, “no one has danced themselves to death from a ghost.”

  A few low chuckles followed, but only from the physicians' side.

  “We are doctors. This is our place, not the pulpit’s. I’ve bled five patients. Three have improved. I don’t need a sermon to know when the blood is thick and the pulse is wild.”

  He paused, then leaned forward slightly, as if to offer a final verdict.

  “The body must be relieved of pressure. Corrupted juices need escape, else they find their own paths – through fever, through spasms, through dance. Through unceasing madness, if you wait too long. This is not divine. It is decay. Treatable decay.”

  The monk who had spoken first sat up straighter, as if preparing to respond. But he thought better of it. Perhaps he sensed that this was not the moment to respond.

  Lachmann continued. “Let’s not be blind. They’re twitching. Collapsing. Laughing in pain. That is the body in revolt. Not the Devil, not music, and certainly not Saint Vitus.”

  Just as he leaned back, satisfied, another voice entered the fray – quieter, but firm.

  “And if it’s both?” asked a soft-spoken physician who did not even really look up. “Are we so sure God does not use the body to signal the spirit? Are we so sure the flesh cannot carry more than illness?”

  That question lingered. No one answered it.

  Across the table, Thomas remained still. His face was stoic and his hands rested loosely on his lap. He kept observing. Beyond the arguments, alliances were forming based on opinion. Walther and the physician in the blue robe formed a visible axis of classical learning. Lachmann and two other city-funded healers leaned towards practical intervention, bloodletting, and observable change. The monk had drawn subtle nods from the more senior clergy, who had grown quiet but had left no doubt as to which side they were leaning.

  Thomas took none of this in with ink or quill. He was mapping them internally – their leanings, their tells, the way someone’s throat tightened before a rebuke, the way a hand gripped the edge of a chair when a theory landed too close to home.

  He also noticed what had not been said. No one had mentioned food, grain, transmission patterns, or the mills.

  He wrote one small note on a back page of his notebook with the side of his pencil:

  Too soon for consensus. Too many men prefer being right to being curious.

  Then he looked up as there was a break in the discourse. The next voice would come. That was for sure.