The Devil's Pawn Page 12

  Agrippa’s face turned ashen. “Rome knows about your connection to that villain?”

  Johann nodded. “The pope appears to be under the impression that I am privy to certain knowledge. To some great secret. That’s the reason I was supposed to travel to Rome. But, by God, I haven’t the faintest idea what the secret’s supposed to be.” He gave Agrippa a pleading look. “So if there’s anything else you know, please tell me. I believe it is the only chance I’ve got to stop this terrible disease. Speak before it kills me and this unholy pact drags me straight to hell—me and everyone who’s dear to me!”

  Agrippa said nothing for a long while. The pipe went out, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “I am certain that if I tell you what I know, it will be your undoing, Doctor,” he said eventually. “I’m still struggling to believe what you’re telling me—perhaps I don’t want to believe it. Especially the church’s involvement—it would be just . . .” He shook his head. “Give me a little more time to think it over, my friend.” With a sigh he set down his pipe. “And now let us speak of something else. I loathe having to discuss such unfathomably malevolent things when I’m trying so hard to eliminate evil in scientific ways.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Johann.

  Agrippa rolled his eyes. “Barely a year I’ve been in Metz and already I am dying of boredom. Insignificant trials, neighbor disputes, speeches at some irrelevant receptions. I promised Elsbeth peace and quiet, but I’m so pleased that’s going to be over for a while.” He leaned forward. “It’s about a witch trial I am to be part of as a lawyer for the city. The suspect is a woman from Woippy, a village not far from here. Apparently the neighbors have an eye on her property and decided to accuse her of witchcraft. And the fool bishop of Metz has nothing better to do than lock her up without any sort of proof. During her first hearing alone, so many procedural mistakes were made that any student of jurisprudence would turn away in horror.”

  “That won’t help the poor woman,” said Johann, hoping Agrippa might soon return to his own case.

  “Presumably.” Agrippa nodded. “As you know—once you’ve been arrested by the Inquisition, you don’t walk free. When it’s blindingly obvious that anyone would confess anything if tortured long enough! That method is a shame, yes, a grave moral error of our time. At the time of Thomas Aquinas you would have been executed for saying witches and sorcerers existed—and now this.”

  “You don’t believe in witchcraft and yet you wrote the best work on the matter,” Johann remarked with a thin smile.

  “I merely wrote down everything that humanity has come up with on the subject. And I’m not denying that some sort of magic could exist. But not in such a ridiculous manner. Flying broomsticks, hail spells, and mouse plagues—give me a break!” Agrippa shook his head. “The city wants me to supervise the trial as a lawyer and sign off on the execution like a dumb lamb. But they have underestimated Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim.” He laughed grimly. “I’ve decided to get this woman out of jail, and by juridical means alone.”

  “Impossible,” said Johann.

  “Just as impossible as a French murderer still walking the face of the earth a hundred years on—with the knowledge of the church.” Agrippa tapped out the contents of his cold pipe. “I have a suggestion for you, Doctor. You help me to free this woman, and in return I will tell you what I know about Gilles de Rais. That is my final word. D’accord?”

  He held out his hand to Johann.

  “Agreed,” said Johann slowly. “Even though I doubt we’ll succeed.”

  When he clasped the hand of his friend, he thought back to the handshake with Tonio, when he was still a young boy with dreams and ideals, before he became the famous Doctor Johann Georg Faustus.

  The same man who was probably possessed by an incurable curse.

  On the following morning, about two hundred miles from Metz, a small troop of soldiers marched through the snowy German forest. It was led by half a dozen horsemen serving as the vanguard, and they were followed by foot soldiers armed with pikes and halberds and dressed in the yellow, red, and blue of the Swiss guard. In the center of the train, a carriage rattled along the boggy highway, pulled by four noble black horses, each of which was worth as much as a tavern. The doors and windows of the carriage were closed, and each hatch hung with black velvet.

  Inside, seated on soft cushions, was the papal representative Viktor von Lahnstein, praying to God to send him a sign. The bandage covering most of his face itched and chafed. The skin underneath—or rather, what remained of it—burned, but it was nothing compared to the fire of hatred burning inside him.

  An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, thought Lahnstein. He had always felt closer to the Old Testament than the New Testament, which lacked the necessary sharpness in several places. He believed in a God of retribution, not in a God of mercy. As the second-born son of a German knight, Lahnstein had always suffered under the fact that his father didn’t see the future heir in him, even though he was the more talented one. Lahnstein had taken revenge by carving out a career with the church. By the time his impoverished father had lain on his deathbed and his elder brother had brought the estate to the brink of ruin, he was already in Rome as a close confidant of the pope. He hadn’t shed a single tear for his father. Lahnstein owed everything to the church, and he would do anything to strengthen it.

  But right now that task seemed unbearably hard to him. God was testing him like never before.

  Every morning, Lahnstein had the bandage taken off to clean the wound. So far he had avoided looking in the mirror, but the horrified expressions on the faces of his servants told him more than a thousand words. Lahnstein’s fingers sought the spot on the bandage where his nose used to be. Now there was only a bony stump. That damned black hound from hell had turned his face into a bloody mess—Faust’s accursed hound from hell!

  Viktor von Lahnstein closed his eyes and visualized Doctor Faustus on a pyre in Rome. He could hear Faust’s screams and smell his burning flesh. The image eased his own pain a little, if only for a short while. Because Lahnstein knew very well that the pope hadn’t sent him out to drag the doctor onto a pyre. In fact, it was more likely he who was going to burn or rot miserably in the dungeons of Castel Sant’Angelo if he didn’t find the doctor. The Holy Father had made it very clear that he expected to see Faust in Rome before others took notice of him and the precious secret he suspected Faust of harboring.

  Lahnstein had no illusions. If he returned to Rome without Faust, he might as well garrote himself and climb into the fire. Especially since the Holy Father had told him what kind of secret Faust knew about—the kind of secret that would change the course of the world. He himself was an accessory, and accessories were discarded when they were no longer needed—or when they failed.

  Where the hell are you, Faustus?

  The rattling of the carriage was wearing Lahnstein down. For more than two weeks he’d been in the grip of a fever at Altenburg Castle, persecuted by strange dreams and visions, images of hell and a fiery-tailed Satan—probably aftereffects of the doctor’s diabolical performance at the great hall. Everyone had fallen for Faust’s charade—even the bishop! Everyone except Lahnstein.

  After many days of unconsciousness and pain, Lahnstein had departed abruptly. He had sent out messengers in all directions, and the Bamberg prince-bishop, realizing his error, assured Lahnstein of his uncompromising support. Georg Schenk von Limpurg craved revenge, too, considering that damnable magician had made a fool of him in front of the whole empire. At every inn Lahnstein and his troops passed, people talked about how the famous Doctor Johann Faustus had pulled one over on the assembled delegates of the empire.

  The carriage jerked, then stopped abruptly. Viktor von Lahnstein sat up and listened. He could hear voices and the neighing of a horse. What was going on out there? Was his well-armed papal delegation being attacked by highwaymen? Lahnstein nervously reached for the small dagger he always carried, knowing f
ull well that it wouldn’t be much use to him.

  Then someone knocked on the shutter.

  “Yes?” asked Lahnstein grudgingly.

  The window opened, and on the other side stood a man so large that he filled the entire frame.

  “Hagen!” exclaimed Lahnstein with relief. “I thought you’d never come back.”

  “Been on the road a lot,” grumbled the huge mercenary in his harsh Swiss accent. “Been asking around at taverns here and there, in the whole of Franconia and beyond. A few times I had to . . . jog people’s memory.” Hagen’s eyes gleamed coldly, and the papal representative felt a shiver run down his spine. He thought the giant was creepy, but Hagen was also the best soldier he’d ever seen, a killing machine as precise as one of those new clocks that adorned city halls throughout the empire.

  “And?” Lahnstein asked, struggling to curb his excitement. “Do you have good news for me?”

  “Oh yes.” Hagen grinned, which made his pockmarked face look as though a monstrous whale were trying to smile. “I found him. Or rather, I know he headed for France via the Wasgau. He and his two companions are dressed as plain pilgrims, but they have been recognized. No one forgets that black dog.”

  “Tell me about it,” muttered Lahnstein. “Alert my soldiers that we’re turning west. Five gold ducats for the man who brings me the doctor and his hound. And the two companions, too. I want them alive. Got it?”

  Lahnstein closed his eyes and uttered a prayer of thanks. It was such a pity that he had to deliver the doctor to Rome unscathed. But the secret was worth it. The pope had promised him ample reward and the post of a cardinal. And then there were also that young man and the girl who had helped Faust. Who was she? A juggler or perhaps even a witch? Whatever the case, he would find out.

  He had ways. And he had Hagen.

  Viktor von Lahnstein reclined into his cushions. For the first time in days he was all but pain-free.

  Revenge is a sweet medicine.

  Clattering and clanking, the carriage moved on.

  5

  JOHANN SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAYS STUDYING THE FILES of the Corbin case and working on a defense strategy with Agrippa. Sitting in the upstairs study, Agrippa smoked so much of this newfangled tobacco as they talked that Johann sometimes grew dizzy. He had come to terms with the fact that Agrippa would only tell him more about Gilles de Rais if he helped with this basically hopeless case.

  Josette Corbin was a simple peasant woman whose entire misfortune was owed to the fact that her neighbors liked her property. They had accused her of so-called maleficium—witchcraft intended to cause harm to others. According to various inhabitants of their village, Josette Corbin had conjured up a hailstorm, curdled milk, and summoned thousands of mice to lay waste to the fields. Additionally, a dead calf with two heads had been born in the vicinity. The local judge, Jean Leonard, had at first left the poor woman at the mercy of the superstitious peasants, who—without any official warrants—tortured her brutally. But Josette Corbin did not confess.

  Up until then Agrippa hadn’t managed to visit the accused at the Hôtel de la Bulette, a gloomy prison on the highest hill in Metz. The bishop and the cathedral chapter were irritated by the city’s involvement, and so Faust and Agrippa didn’t see the accused until she was dragged in chains into the hearing room at the Palais des Treize, the city hall of Metz, one week later. Josette Corbin was probably around thirty years old, but in her torn dress and with her skinny arms and legs covered in bruises, she seemed as frail as a child. They had cut off her long blonde hair, and her haggard face showed both fear and pride.

  Johann nodded approvingly. He didn’t know how clever this woman was, but she was definitely as stubborn as her cows or she wouldn’t have lasted this long.

  And yet you will confess sooner or later, he thought. No one can withstand the torture of the Inquisition.

  Karl and Greta stood among the many spectators staring at the accused from behind a barrier. Guards had been posted at the windows and doors, ushering back the curious onlookers with imperious gestures. Seated at a long table were the representatives of the prosecution as well as the defense, and in between sat the mayor and two councilmen. Johann knew that Josette Corbin had to confess to something in order to be convicted. The longer the trial dragged on, the more she would get tortured. It was just a question of time. Even now she could barely stand upright; two city guards had to occasionally steady her when she started to sway.

  The trial itself was a farce, conducted partly in French, partly in German and Latin. The Inquisition was represented by a Dominican named Savini who was notorious throughout the region. He was a bony fellow with long, clawlike fingers, which he kept extending toward the accused.

  “We have statements from eight upstanding men that this woman is a witch,” he declaimed. “Eight men who attest that Josette Corbin devastated the fields all around Woippy with hail and thunder and that she killed livestock. And still she lies! I propose we continue torture right this day.”

  Savini had uttered the last sentence in French, looking directly at the accused. Josette Corbin groaned and fell to her knees, praying quietly, but she didn’t confess.

  “Your Honor, I would like to point out to you that four of these so-called upstanding witnesses have already retracted their statements,” said Agrippa, waving a piece of paper at the mayor of Metz. “All of them are known to be right drunkards and braggarts in the village and cannot be considered credible. In addition, their statements were not—as is customary—taken by the cathedral chapter, but by the local judge.” Agrippa gestured toward a portly, older man with a red nose and a stained vest who was sitting at the right-hand side of the table. Johann could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath from where he was sitting. “Judge Jean Leonard clearly overstepped his competency.”

  “I granted the proceedings retroactively,” said Savini arrogantly. “Everything is perfectly aboveboard, my dear colleague.”

  The greater part of the trial that day was held in Latin, which enabled Johann to follow it well. His Latin was almost as good as his German, and even his rusty French was coming back to him. Once the prosecution had finished presenting their case, he raised his hand.

  Savini studied him from small, suspicious eyes.

  “It is not customary for anyone except the lawyer to speak for the accused,” he said.

  “As you’ve already been told, Doctor Lamberti is an old friend from the university in Cologne,” explained Agrippa coolly. “I obtained permission to employ him as my assistant yesterday.” He smiled. “As you can see, it is all aboveboard, my dear colleague.”

  Johann and Agrippa had agreed to keep Johann’s real identity a secret. Metz was a free imperial city far away from Bamberg or Nuremberg, but it was likely that the legendary Doctor Faustus didn’t enjoy the best reputation even here—especially not as a lawyer. Johann feared, however, that they wouldn’t be able to keep up this charade for long. He was simply too well known in the empire.

  Johann rapped his knuckles on the table and cleared his throat. “You spoke of maleficium witchcraft,” he said, addressing Savini. “Harmful spells that were cast over the village, according to you. Forgive me, but I spent my childhood in a wine-growing region. The grapes froze from time to time, hailstorms would damage the harvest every other year, but no one ever blamed it on witchcraft. If our livestock died then, it was either old or ate something it shouldn’t have.” He put on an expression of innocence. “Or was it witches all along and I didn’t know?”

  “Of course there are natural causes occasionally,” allowed Savini. “But not in this case.”

  “And how do you know for certain?” persisted Johann. “And another question: If this poor woman here truly is a witch, then why doesn’t she conjure meat upon her table or make roast pigeons fly in through her window? Why does she content herself with childish weather spells that simultaneously destroy the fruits of her own garden?”

  Murmurs and even laughter rose from the
audience. Johann glanced at Agrippa, who gave him a furtive wink. At least they were making Savini sweat.

  The unrest in the room grew louder, until the mayor brought down his gavel on the table. “Quiet!” he shouted. “Or I’ll have the room cleared.”

  Evidently, not everyone in the audience wished the accused woman harm, and now they jeered and stamped their feet.

  “Hey, Josette,” one called out. “Where are our roast pigeons? Or do they all fly to Judge Leonard, the old drunk?”

  The others laughed and clapped their hands.

  “Quiet, damn it!” repeated the mayor.

  Once order had been restored, Savini turned to Johann, his face flushed with anger.

  “You come from faraway and might find all this amusing. But believe me, for the people here it is anything but. Just this morning I heard that children went missing from around Metz. How much longer should we wait before passing this witch into the purging flames?”

  “How long have the children been missing?” asked Agrippa.

  Savini frowned. “They are children of travelers. I only learned of it today, so I assume it happened within the last few days.”

  “Then the accused can hardly have anything to do with it,” Agrippa said pointedly. “Josette Corbin has been in jail for much longer.”

  “She may have helpers.” The inquisitor’s gaze traveled across the audience. “Perhaps even in this room.”