The Devil's Pawn Page 10

  She still wasn’t entirely sure why she had decided to stick with the doctor and Karl. She liked Johann, adored him, even, and since she’d read his palm, she worried about him. But there had also always been something about Johann that frightened her. Somewhat like fire—it warms and attracts but can also burn if you get too close. Greta had been thinking about leaving Karl and the doctor for months, and she guessed she still hadn’t done it because Johann had told her about her mother. Greta wanted to find out more—she had a hunch that he was keeping something from her. If she left now, she would never find out what happened to her parents and what had gone on in Nuremberg all those years ago.

  They paused to listen every time they heard a noise, and they took many detours, but they didn’t see the bishop’s soldiers again—not even when they reached the market town of Hallstadt early the next morning. At the inn, Faust bought three horses and plain pilgrims’ clothing for far too much money. Wearing a skirt the color of ashes and a simple woolen coat, Greta looked like a girl from the country. She buried the colorful juggler’s costume she had worn at Bamberg in a dunghill. The innkeeper watched them suspiciously, and Faust gave him another ducat as hush money. It was possible that the innkeeper had already heard of yesterday’s events at Altenburg Castle.

  They wolfed down a hasty meal before galloping off into the frosty November day. The sky hung low above the woods, the clouds heavy with rain. Faust kept his eyes on the road while Little Satan ran ahead of them, following the highway through forests and swamps. Behind him, Greta and Karl galloped on their horses, the rapid clattering of hooves the only sound on the empty road heading to the west.

  Meanwhile, Johann had told them more about their journey ahead. Many years ago, before the time with Greta, he and Karl had met a learned man with whom he had become close friends. The man and Faust hadn’t seen much of each other since then, but they wrote to one another regularly. It was a correspondence between two of the empire’s most intelligent men, but probably also the vainest.

  Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim was a few years younger than Johann and, unlike him, came from a good family. At thirty-two years old, Agrippa was already one of the most famous scholars of Europe, being a doctor of medicine, theology, and jurisprudence and possessing vast, self-taught knowledge in the fields of astrology, mechanics, optics, the Jewish kabbalah, and, most of all, magic. His early work De Occulta Philosophia was still considered the standard reference for any form of sorcery. Following his work as an agent at the court of England, he and his family had moved to a town called Metz near the French border. But Johann hadn’t yet let on why, exactly, he thought Agrippa would be able to help him.

  “You really think Agrippa knows something about your mysterious disease?” asked Karl once he and Greta had caught up to the doctor. It was still raining, and the wet pilgrim’s outfit hung on Greta as if she had fallen into a stream.

  “If not he, who else?” replied Johann vaguely. “Heinrich Agrippa is the greatest scholar of the empire—and knows it, unfortunately, and loves to hear it repeated.” He sighed. “The man is ambitious and loudmouthed and thinks very highly of himself.”

  “Those traits sound rather familiar to me,” said Greta with a smile.

  “I know. And perhaps that’s why we get on the best in writing, because no one can cut the other one off midsentence.” Johann turned to look at her. “Agrippa is like the lost library of Alexandria, a beacon of knowledge. Apart from that, we also need a safe place to stay for winter, outside of Rome’s reach and that of the bishop of Bamberg. Metz is a free imperial city near France. The burghers of Metz have never let anyone tell them what to do—no bishop, no emperor, and no pope. We should be able to hide there for a while.”

  Greta hoped Johann wouldn’t have another fit like the one at Altenburg Castle. They made good progress for the first few days, and the doctor was merely pained by a few headaches. Their way led them west along old imperial roads, some of which were the same ones laid by the Romans. Grass and weeds were growing between the worn-down flagstones, and occasionally they saw milestones with Latin inscriptions. The roads, passing through the heart of the German Empire, were busy with travelers and merchants. Smaller and larger villages lined up like pearls on a string, and there wasn’t much left of the huge forest that once covered the entire center of Europe. Vast clearings and smoldering piles made by charcoal burners lined the roadsides; during the last few centuries, people had spread here like flies.

  They gave the Episcopal city of Würzburg a wide berth so they wouldn’t run into soldiers or henchmen of the pope. They never stayed longer than one night in any place. If someone asked, they said they were pilgrims of Saint James on their way to Santiago de Compostela, a city in the faraway kingdom of Castile where the grave of the apostle Saint James was located.

  Beyond Würzburg they followed the Main River toward the Rhine flats, and eventually they came to Mainz, the same city in which a certain Johannes Gutenberg had started to print books nearly a hundred years earlier. Greta would have liked to stay for a while, but just like Bamberg, Mainz was an Episcopal town and it was likely that they were wanted here, too. Outside the city gates, a delegation of the bishop’s soldiers had cast suspicious glances at them, and so the very same day they boarded a raft heavily laden with cackling chickens, blocks of salt, and stinking barrels of herring, taking them across the wide, lazy Rhine.

  West of the river, the land became more sparsely occupied and rougher, and the few roads were so muddy that the three travelers were glad they’d left the wagon behind. They came to the Wasgau region, a seemingly endless hilly forest between the German lands and France. Derelict fortresses sat on the peaks of the hills like silent watchmen from a bygone era when the legendary emperor Barbarossa hunted these woods. The road led through shady vales, across narrow wooden bridges over roaring rivers and creeks; gnarled oak and beech trees spread their limbs in all directions. The trees were growing so closely together that hardly any sunlight reached the ground; it was forever twilight in these woods. Not many travelers were on the road in this no-man’s-land, and only rarely did they pass an almost-forgotten border stone where they had to pay a toll to wild-looking keepers.

  And it was here in the Wasgau that Johann suffered another fit.

  It was the end of November by now. The first snow was falling in watery gray flakes onto the bare trees. The travelers’ coats were permanently damp and cold, and Greta’s teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. Until then, Faust had only been shaking a little from time to time, but now it was growing more severe by the day. Greta and Karl looked after him, but no matter what they tried—a boiled brew of ivy with willow bark, dried Saint-John’s-wort, or wet bandages drenched with sulfur water—the shaking did not abate. Johann struggled to hold a spoon in the evenings; only in the mornings did his hands steady a little, sometimes for a few hours.

  They had just passed through a ravine, and the next village was still many miles off, when a group of men stepped out of the woods, blocking their way. Greta could tell at once that they were highway robbers, which were common in this mountainous region. They wore torn trousers and shirts, their beards long and straggly, their skin covered in scabs. They might have been farmers once upon a time, before poverty and hunger forced them into the woods. Now they weren’t much more than wild animals.

  “Your horses and your money,” growled the one at the front, a one-eyed, older man with yellow pus running out from under his eye patch. He was swinging a rusty dusack, the weapon of peasants and thieves, a sword suitable for harvesting as well as murdering. “Hurry up now! Then we’ll let you go.”

  Greta looked at Karl and Johann, who had halted their horses; riding around the men was out of the question. They all knew that in spite of the leader’s words, they wouldn’t leave this forest alive if they didn’t fight. It wasn’t the first time they’d come across bandits, but so far, they’d been protected by the doctor’s reputation as a sorcerer as well as by Little Satan; t
he sight of the dog was enough to send anyone in their right mind running. But evidently these men were so hungry and miserable that not even the huge wolfhound deterred them. Little Satan growled with raised hackles, sensing that his master was in danger. The peasants took a step back but continued to block the road with their scythes, knives, and pikes. Johann raised his hands and smiled at them.

  “We are but plain pilgrims,” he said. “We have nothing to give. God protects us and punishes those who lay a hand on innocent Christians.”

  “To hell with your nonsense, man,” replied the leader harshly. “Your God isn’t my God. One look at your face and your fine hands is enough to tell me you’re not one of us. We believe in the God of the poor—the pope uses your money and my money to build himself a golden outhouse! Luther is damned right: no more shoving money up the pope’s ass!” He stepped forward and reached for Johann’s reins. “So you might as well hand it over—it’s of much more use to us.”

  “Take your dirty fingers off him,” shouted Karl from his saddle now. He reached for the hunting dagger dangling from the side of his horse. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to? This man is the famous Doctor Faustus! If he wanted to he could turn you into a slimy toad on the spot!”

  “Doctor Faustus? Hmm . . .” The man seemed rattled for a moment. He frowned and rubbed his nose. “I’ve heard of him. A powerful magician, they say.” Then he grinned, exposing a row of black tooth stumps. “Ha! But I don’t see no magician—all I see is two mollycoddled moneybags and a wench.”

  “A wench that is going to send you straight to hell if you don’t let us pass.” Greta opened her coat. She was holding the hand cannon she had taken from the wagon along with her few belongings. Now she aimed the weapon at the gang of men. “Well, who would like their head blasted off first? You or one of your stinking comrades?”

  Again the men stepped back, deliberating like hungry wolves. They muttered and eyed their prey. Greta hoped the men would retreat. But then someone threw a stone, followed by more, and then a hailstorm of dirt and rocks descended upon the travelers. One of the stones hit Greta on the head and she lowered the cannon for a moment. That was all the robbers needed to pounce upon their victims.

  “The woman is mine!” shouted one of them.

  A hairy hand reached for Greta and dragged her off her horse; she dropped the weapon. Several men stabbed at the doctor and Karl with their pikes, while Karl flung his hunting dagger wildly to all sides, cutting open the side of a man’s throat. The peasant screamed, and blood spurted from the wound and onto the ground. Karl’s horse neighed in panic and reared up, Karl desperately clinging to the reins. Meanwhile, two of the peasants had lowered their pants and held Greta down. One of them tugged at her blouse while the other pushed up her skirt. She screamed and struggled as hard as she could, but she was held firmly.

  “Little Satan, attack!” called out Johann.

  Like a black flash the wolfhound hurled himself onto the two robbers, sinking his teeth into the bared manhood of one of them, causing the other one to run away screaming. But not even in view of the mortal danger did the others give up—on the contrary. They had worked themselves into a frenzy, probably not having eaten anything but acorns and bark for days. Angry and drooling like animals, they tore at Johann’s saddlebags. Some of the precious notebooks fell into the muck of the road, where naked feet trampled them into the dirt. The peasants rummaged through the bags in search of gold or something to eat. With a low growl, Little Satan pounced on his next victim.

  At that moment, Greta saw how Johann was struck by an invisible sword.

  It was as if an enormous blow wiped him off his horse. He landed on the side of the road, where he squirmed like a man possessed. Saliva ran from his mouth; he twitched uncontrollably, his limbs flying in all directions. The remaining peasants stopped what they were doing and stared at him like a ghost. Even Little Satan pricked up his ears and whimpered as he approached his master, who was making gasping sounds.

  “To . . . To . . . Tonio del Moravia . . . ,” Johann stuttered. “Damn . . . damned . . .”

  “By God, the devil has taken ahold of him!” shouted one of the peasants, pointing at the doctor. “Look!”

  Faust’s face was contorted into an awful grimace that looked scarcely human. His skin was taut, as if something was pressing against it from the inside, and his tongue darted out like a slimy frog.

  “It really is the unhappy Doctor Faustus!” exclaimed another robber. “God in heaven! Run before the devil takes one of us!”

  The men ran into the woods, leaving behind their pikes and dusacks. They carried one of their comrades with them, while three others remained on the road, dead or severely injured. The man whose private parts Little Satan had bitten off was lying on the ground groaning and tossing from side to side. Greta, bleeding from her forehead, ran over to Johann.

  “Uncle!” she said. “Jesus, Uncle, wake up!”

  She caught his hand and held it tightly. His body convulsed, then turned as stiff as a plank. Greta felt his hand throb and, despite herself, shot a glance at his palm. What she saw in his hand this time was so unspeakably evil, so horrific, that she started back as if she’d been bitten by a snake.

  “Tonio del Moravia,” whispered Faust. “The pact is sealed. He . . . he is coming for me.”

  His lips trembled too strongly now for Greta to understand any more.

  “Who is coming for you?” asked Greta. “Who?”

  But Johann no longer spoke.

  In her despair, Greta did the first thing she could think of: she knelt beside the doctor and prayed.

  She had believed in the power of prayer from early childhood. Praying had given her strength when she’d spent weeks locked in the catacombs of Nuremberg, not knowing if she’d ever see the light of day again. Prayers were like rays of sunshine connecting her to her childhood. She uttered the first prayer that came to her mind. In her shaking voice, the ancient words came tumbling out.

  “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures and leadeth me beside still waters . . .”

  Johann’s eyes closed then, his breathing steadied, and he fell into a deep sleep.

  When Johann woke up, he was lying beside a fire in the woods. It was the middle of the night and the stars sparkled above him. He felt cold and as exhausted as if he’d been riding for days, his limbs aching. Little by little, the memories returned, but the images were jarred and from another perspective, almost as if he hadn’t been there. Greta was sitting next to him, while Karl was busy sorting torn pages of books a few yards away from him; a ripped cover was lying on the ground in front of him.

  “The Figura,” said Johann weakly as he tried to sit up.

  “Is quite safe.” Greta gently pushed him back down on his bed of leaves and twigs. “The pages are dirty but complete,” she said with a tired smile. “Besides, you should be worrying about your own health, not that of your books. This fit was much worse than the one at Altenburg Castle.”

  “At least it made those scoundrels take to their heels. We survived. You—” Johann paused when a thought struck him. He cleared his throat. “You held my hand earlier. What were you doing?”

  “What I was doing?” Greta hesitated before continuing. “I . . . well, I prayed for you.”

  “You did what?”

  “I prayed for you. Is that really so strange?” Greta breathed deeply. “You did look as if you were possessed by the devil. It was the same psalm Uncle Valentin used to recite when I was a child. I . . . The words suddenly came to my mind. Believe it or not, afterward I felt better.”

  “You . . . you prayed for me.” Johann smiled faintly.

  Greta was his daughter, and he had never felt this truth more strongly than right at this moment. And she’d started remembering things from her childhood. How much longer could he keep the truth from her? But if he told her now, he would also have to tell her everything else—his terrible guilt, the de
ath of her mother, the pact with Tonio, and everything that had happened back in Nuremberg. And all the small and big lies since then.

  He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  “You mentioned a name during your fit,” said Greta into the silence. “I think it was . . . Tonio del Moravia or something like that. An odd name. I feel like I’ve heard it before. You said he was coming for you. You mentioned a pact.” She paused, trying to work out where she might have heard the name before. “Who is this Tonio? Should I know him?”

  Karl looked over to them, darting a questioning look at Johann. They fell silent for a while.

  “He is no one of consequence,” said Johann eventually. “Just an old acquaintance. I’m tired now. I want to sleep.”

  When he closed his eyes he heard the cawing of crows or ravens, and he wasn’t sure if it was a dream or reality.

  A few days later, they finally left the Wasgau region behind. The landscape became flatter as they approached the land of Lotharingia, or Lorraine, a beautiful area crossed by rivers and studded with deep-green ponds that were beginning to be covered by a thin layer of ice.

  Johann remembered hearing about this country for the first time as a child. The grandsons of the most famous emperor of all time, Charlemagne, had split France into three even parts. The eldest grandson, Lothar, had received the middle part, which used to reach all the way to the North Sea; all that remained of it now was this narrow strip of land behind the Wasgau, where cities, counties, and duchies were forever arguing. Of all the tiny dominions along the western border of the German Empire, the city of Metz was the most powerful, and a wide, well-maintained trading route led straight toward it.

  The free imperial city lay on the Moselle River, which had its source in the Vosges Mountains and wound its way in countless bends past steep vineyards toward Koblenz, on the Rhine. It was snowing so heavily when they arrived at Metz that the city walls were merely vague outlines. It was still afternoon, but dusk already crept across the city’s roofs. With the month of December, winter had arrived—earlier than in previous years. Johann was glad they had finally reached their winter quarters. He only hoped they’d traveled far enough to be safe from the papal henchmen.