The Devil's Pawn Read online

  Metz was one of the biggest cities of the empire. Much of its wealth came from money-lending businesses. A ring wall several miles long enclosed twenty thousand inhabitants. Through the snow Johann could make out many towers and the rooftops of monasteries and churches, and farther in the distance the spire of Metz Cathedral, its yellow limestone glowing in the last light of day. Like so many other cathedrals, it was unfinished—an eternal building site in God’s honor.

  The three travelers entered the city with a caravan of merchants via a stone bridge that ended in a bulky, narrow gate flanked by two watchtowers. Throngs of people pushed in both directions, and Johann heard the soft French tongue that always reminded him of Tonio del Moravia. Others spoke German, and some spoke Lingua Franca, the mixed language used by merchants from the distant czardom to Constantinople and the Red Sea. Johann overheard conversations about banking, the final harvest before winter, and a large parade that would be taking place soon and for which visitors from other cities were expected. People mentioned a dragon, some kind of terrible beast, but Johann couldn’t really figure out what the conversation was about.

  Despite the cold and the falling darkness, the lanes were still busy, vendors on the squares selling bleating lambs, cackling chickens, and even fish that they kept in large wooden tubs. Money changers sat below the arcades at the edges of the squares, exchanging gold, silver, and copper coins and foreign currencies from countries like Italy, Castile, or the deep south of France. Frozen mud and feces covered the cobblestones in the lanes, and Johann wondered what the stench would be like in summer. Even now, the stink mixed with the acrid smoke from cooking fires was almost unbearable.

  It didn’t take Johann long to find out from a money changer where Heinrich Agrippa lived. The scholar was well known in the city, and they found the way across the river to a wealthier quarter. It was quieter here, and the lanes were cleaner—and the air smelled much better.

  Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim resided in a three-story stone house with a garden by the riverside. Johann knew from their correspondence that his friend had accepted a position as municipal advocate at Metz this year, a quiet post that enabled him to spend more time with his small family. Johann had announced his visit in a letter several days earlier, and so it wasn’t long before the famous scholar came rushing down the wide, carpeted staircase to receive them in the vestibule, which was hung with expensive damask and furs. Evidently, the city of Metz paid well for the services of the renowned scholar.

  “Johann Georg Faustus, my worthy colleague and dear friend!” exclaimed Agrippa, spreading his arms. He still spoke with the broad accent of his hometown, Cologne. “So it is true! You traveled all this way just to see me.” He winked at Johann. “Or is there perhaps another reason?”

  Agrippa was shorter than Johann. Even though he was at home, he wore his beret and gown as if he were lecturing at the university. As he had before, Johann particularly noticed the alert eyes and the pointed nose, giving his friend the appearance of a cunning fox. In spite of his young age, Agrippa’s hair was turning gray. He gestured toward Little Satan, who looked as if he was about to pee against the elegant furniture. “Is that the same devilish beast you brought to Cologne all those years ago?”

  “Her successor,” said Johann, dragging the dog off the damask blanket. “His name is Little Satan.”

  “Very fitting indeed. What a beast. Why don’t you get a small, harmless poodle for a change?” Agrippa gave him a smirk. “Now don’t tell me you only came because you and your dog need a hiding place from the Bamberg prince-bishop.” He wagged his finger at Johann. “Your stay here in Metz will cost you dearly, Johann Faustus. I crave stimulating conversation, so prepare for late nights.”

  Johann smiled. “So news of our little adventure at Bamberg has made it this far?”

  “Little adventure?” Agrippa laughed out loud. “Ha! The whole empire is talking about the famous magus Doctor Faustus invoking the devil at Altenburg Castle in front of the collective German and foreign delegates.”

  “Well, to be precise, it was not the devil but the beast from John’s apocalypse.” Johann pointed at Karl and Greta, who were still standing in the door. “My two assistants kindly helped in the manufacture of a new laterna magica. You’ve already met Karl Wagner. He painted the image of the apocalypse. He is very talented.”

  “And the pretty young lady is . . . ?” asked Agrippa.

  “A distant relative,” replied Johann. “And a talented juggler and trickster who is going to get far in her field.”

  Agrippa nodded at the other two and grinned. “The laterna magica. I see. I remember highly entertaining demonstrations back in Cologne, when you visited for too short a time. But I don’t understand the purpose of your performance this time. You won’t be able to show your face in the empire for a considerable time.”

  “I realize that. There was no other way,” replied Johann with a shrug. “But that’s a long story.”

  “Oh, I love long stories.” Agrippa clapped his hands together. “This town is so drab that I’m practically withering with boredom. You must tell me about the events at Altenburg Castle, and also about that Luther, who is turning everything upside down at the moment. I am truly looking forward to our nights by the fire, Doctor Faustus.” He gave a wide smile. “And most of all I’m looking forward to your stories.”

  The following night, the two scholars sat together by the open fire in Agrippa’s study on the second floor. The wind howled outside, the logs in the fire crackled, and, like in Cologne, the room smelled of rotting apples, old man, and parchment—and of something else that Johann struggled to place. He watched as Agrippa picked up a hollow wooden stick about as long as a forearm with a small pot at one end. Agrippa took a few dried leaves from a case and crumbled them carefully into the little pot. He pressed them down and held a glowing piece of fatwood against them. Smoke started to rise up, and Agrippa sucked on the end of the stem.

  “I saw this pastime at a harbor down in Portugal,” he explained, puffing out plumes of smoke. “A seaman freshly returned from the New World had learned the so-called smoke-drinking from the natives there. I bought a small barrel of the weed from him and had one of these sticks whittled for me. It tastes a little odd at first, but it really helps me to think.”

  “Well, if you say so.” Johann waved the stinking smoke away from his face. “If it helps with thinking, I shan’t complain.”

  “Now tell me about this meeting at Altenburg Castle,” said Agrippa, taking a deep drag. “If I heard correctly, delegates from the entire empire had been invited. It was about that Luther monk, wasn’t it?”

  Johann nodded. He told his friend about the gathering and about Lahnstein’s order to accompany him to Rome. Agrippa smiled knowingly.

  “So that is why you had to escape. I can sympathize. So far, everyone who has handed himself in to the Roman church as a possible heretic has ended up regretting it. The Bohemian Jan Hus was burned at the Council of Constance, and I’m certain Luther would have fared similarly in Rome. By the way, I don’t think his writs are too bad. I had them sent to me right away. This trade with indulgences is truly criminal. Money for the forgiveness of sins—that is divine corruption.” He winked at Johann. “That sounds more like the realm of the worldly lords.”

  “Are you hinting at anything in particular?” asked Johann.

  “Well, it’s not exactly a secret that the German throne is going to cost a fortune. When Emperor Maximilian passes, the electors are going to choose a new king. And you don’t seriously believe they’re going to elect someone who won’t show their gratitude?” Agrippa laughed softly and rubbed his hands together. “The Fuggers will have to part with a considerable sum if they want to see their favorite—Charles, the grandson of Maximilian—on the throne. They hope he will dance to their tune, just like his grandfather. But if the French are willing to pay more . . . Who knows what happens then?” Agrippa shrugged.

  Abruptly, he leaned f
orward with his pipe. “Enough of the gossip, old friend. I can see that something bothers you. You didn’t come here because you needed winter quarters or because we’re so good at discussing politics, did you?”

  Johann gazed into the rising wafts of smoke before replying. “No, indeed. I came to you in the hope that you can help me. I”—he hesitated—“well, I am suffering from a malady for which I cannot find a cure. I’ve tried everything.” Haltingly, he described to Agrippa what had been happening to him in recent months; his friend listened in silence. When he had finished, Agrippa nodded.

  “Hmm, that sounds more than a little concerning,” he said pensively. “It could be the falling sickness or Saint Anthony’s fire. Could you have eaten bread made from flour that contained ergot? I have heard that victims squirmed for weeks after the consumption of such bread, twitching and dancing, even.”

  Johann knew about ergot. It was a fungus that grew on rye and had the power to make people suffer horrendous torment, causing hallucinations so bad that some thought they were in hell. Johann thought about the terrible nightmares that plagued him. He would have preferred a fungal poisoning, but he knew it wasn’t true.

  “My assistant also thought it might be Saint Anthony’s fire,” he replied. “But the symptoms don’t match entirely, and it’s been going on for too long.”

  “The fungus could be on your clothing,” Agrippa suggested. “Or it could be a spider bite. There are those who believe that the accursed Saint Vitus’s dance is caused by the bite of a spider called tarantula.”

  Johann shook his head. “No, I think it’s something else.” He lowered his voice. He hadn’t even told Greta and Karl what it was that he wanted from Agrippa. It was time to come clean.

  “I . . . I believe it has something to do with an evil spell,” he said reluctantly. “That’s why I’m here, Heinrich. Because you know more about sorcery than anyone else. You wrote the Occulta Philosophia—there is no better work on magic.”

  Agrippa smiled, visibly flattered. “I’m honored to receive such high praise from the most famous sorcerer in the empire. But you do realize that I always endeavor to find scientific explanations for magic?”

  “And yet there are some things between heaven and earth that can’t be explained,” said Johann vehemently, leaning forward. “Didn’t you once tell me yourself that I oughtn’t meddle with certain dark forces?”

  Agrippa chewed his pipe nervously. “I am not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh yes, you do! I am talking about Gilles de Rais. Back in Cologne you pretended not to know of him, but in your later letters you warned me about him. You wrote that you had gained new insights.”

  “You should be taking my warning seriously,” Agrippa replied coldly. “You are right, my friend. There are things so ancient and malevolent that they cannot be explained scientifically. Gilles de Rais is one of them. I urge you to look no further.”

  “But what if my disease is connected to Gilles de Rais?” persisted Johann. “What if I am certain that I can only defeat this disease by learning more about him?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.” Agrippa frowned and took another drag on his pipe. “How could your illness be connected to Gilles de Rais? The fellow was hanged at Nantes a long time ago. His black soul is cursed for all eternity. You are speaking in riddles, my friend.”

  Johann didn’t reply. The smoke from Agrippa’s pipe rose to the ceiling like a poisonous breath from hell. The wind howled and rattled at the shutters.

  “I think it’s about a pact,” he finally said. “A pact I once entered into. The time has come for me to fulfill my end of the bargain.” Johann gave his friend a dark look. “Heinrich, I’m more afraid than ever before in my life. The devil is coming for me—I can feel it. He is already tugging at my soul.”

  Downstairs in the sitting room, Little Satan was lying in the gap between the tiled stove and the wall, whimpering in his sleep. Greta was sitting at the table with Karl, playing cards in silence. Tarocchi was one of the most popular card games at the moment, having spread across Europe like a disease in the last few years—much to the dismay of the church. Agrippa’s wife, Elsbeth, a short, rotund woman with friendly eyes, had served them some cold meat and wine before putting her four-year-old son, Paul, to bed. But Greta felt no appetite and struggled to focus. When she mixed up the king of hearts with the queen for the third time, she put down the stained cards and stared out the window, where solitary snowflakes fluttered by in the darkness.

  “It’s the doctor, isn’t it?” asked Karl warmly before refilling their cups with wine.

  Greta nodded and took a sip. “The fit in the Wasgau . . . It’s getting worse.” She shivered despite the heat of the stove. “And there’s something else.”

  “You read his palm again,” said Karl in a low voice. “I saw it. You leaned over him when he had the fit.”

  “The . . . the dark pulsating was back. An aura so evil that I thought I was having a stroke.” She shook herself. “And his lines are fading, Karl. I mean—everyone has lines on their hands. Why are his vanishing?”

  “You prayed for him?” said Karl.

  “Yes, and then the shaking stopped. It was as if . . .” Greta paused, searching for the right words. She had the feeling that praying had not only helped Faust but also given her renewed strength. “It was as if the prayer was medicine. That’s what it was like. Medicine.”

  “I’m afraid prayers won’t help the doctor for much longer,” Karl said glumly. “He needs real medicine, and soon.”

  Greta gazed into the distance, seeing the doctor on the ground in her mind’s eye, twitching and drooling like a rabid dog. “That name he mentioned: Tonio . . . Tonio del Moravia.”

  A log cracked in the fire and she started with fright. Why did that name make her jumpy?

  “What is it with that name?” she asked Karl, who was visibly uncomfortable. “I can see it in your face! There is something both of you are keeping from me. And it has something to do with the events in Nuremberg, am I right? Damn it!” She swiped the cards off the table. “I want to know what happened back then!”

  Karl said nothing at first. “I promised the doctor . . . ,” he began. Then he sighed deeply and made a gesture as if he was throwing something away. “To hell with it! Why shouldn’t you find out? You have a right to know.”

  “To know what?”

  “Tonio del Moravia used to be the doctor’s master,” explained Karl. “Apparently he took Faust under his wing when he was still very young. Later on, the doctor found out how infernally evil Tonio was and ran away from him.” He lowered his voice. “Tonio sacrificed children for some sort of gruesome satanic rites. Lots of children.”

  “Even . . . even in Nuremberg?” asked Greta. In her mind’s eye she saw the knife shooting down and heard eerie chanting.

  My torn doll on the ground of a prison cell—a bitter juice running down my throat—I don’t want to swallow, but I must. The tall man with the dead eyes whispers in my ear. He says I must, or else he will drag me down into his realm.

  The memories came rushing over her and she felt nauseated.

  Karl nodded. “Even in Nuremberg. Tonio took you as his hostage because he wanted the doctor. The potion must have erased your memory. There . . . there was a sacrificial ritual during which the doctor lost his eye and his little finger. Those people in the underground crypt . . .” He hesitated. “They were trying to summon something.”

  “What?” asked Greta. “What were they trying to summon? Speak up!”

  A few moments passed, the only sound coming from the wind, howling outside like an animal, and the fire.

  “The . . . the devil.” Karl swallowed. “I believe they were trying to summon the devil.” He lifted a hand. “Not that I think they succeeded. In my opinion, the devil is much too abstract a being to invoke. But people can pray to him, just like they can pray to God.”

  “You said that Tonio took me as a hostage to get to the doctor,�
�� said Greta. “That means Johann must have known me beforehand—I must have meant something to him. What about my mother? My father?”

  Karl hesitated. “I think you should speak to him,” he said eventually. “And soon. He is the only one who can tell you what really happened.”

  The logs cracked, and Little Satan whined as if something terrible was chasing him in his dreams.

  “What sort of devilish pact is that supposed to be?” asked Heinrich Agrippa upstairs. He had just lit his pipe for the second time. “Not that I believe in such things. But I’m intrigued.”

  “When I was just a lad, I shook hands with a man,” said Johann. “He took me on as his apprentice and spoke of a pact that only he could release me from. His name was Tonio del Moravia.”

  Agrippa frowned. “Go on.”

  “Since that day, many things have happened in my life, both terrible and wonderful. I gained wisdom, glory, and wealth. I am the most famous magician and astrologer of the empire. Now, in hindsight, I realize how many obstacles suddenly evaporated right before my eyes. Random strangers would tip me off so I could escape from superstitious city guards at the last moment. Enemies and competitors died of mysterious diseases. Towns that had mistreated me fell victim to massive fires.” Johann shrugged. “They could all be coincidences. But I don’t really believe in coincidences any longer. I think it was the pact between me and Tonio—a pact that made this life possible. And now I must pay the price.”

  “And what does any of that have to do with Gilles de Rais?” Agrippa asked and took a long drag on his pipe.

  “Well, I . . . I believe Tonio del Moravia and Gilles de Rais are one and the same.” Johann paused. “I know, it sounds crazy. Gilles de Rais was hanged at Nantes eighty years ago, and yet I’m convinced by now that he is following me. I don’t know how he does it and what kind of magic he uses. Perhaps it has something to do with all those child murders. Gilles sacrificed hundreds of children in horrific ways, and Tonio did, too. Sometimes I think he is the devil himself.” Johann leaned forward and gave Agrippa an intent look. “I can no longer close my eyes to it, Heinrich! There is a pact between me and Tonio, between me and Gilles de Rais.” He hesitated. “And there is something else. The papal representative also spoke of Gilles de Rais. He said there was a secret that Gilles de Rais shared with me.”