The Devil's Pawn

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “You don’t have to tell me,” muttered Johann.

  The mercenary gazed at him blankly, and Johann wondered whether it had been a mistake to leave Little Satan with Greta down in the yard where he had more space to run about.

  “May I come in?” asked Viktor von Lahnstein. Hagen waited outside the door while the papal representative entered the chamber. Lahnstein saw the books on the table and nodded. “I see you’re making yourself at home.” His eyes fell on Figura Umana, and his expression hardened. “Look at that, the work of that godless Milanese inventor. Did you know that until a few years ago, Leonardo worked for the Holy Father in Rome? Pope Leo never liked him much, although admittedly he’s an ingenious artist—devilishly good, one might say.” Lahnstein shuddered with disgust. “The Holy Father must have sensed that at the bottom of his soul, Leonardo is a heretic. They say he dissected bodies, but no one could ever prove it.”

  Johann pushed the book beneath some of the others, hoping Lahnstein wouldn’t get the idea to leaf through it. “I’m sure you didn’t come to chat about Leonardo da Vinci,” he said.

  “Indeed I didn’t.” Lahnstein took a step forward and gazed out the window, his hands crossed behind his back. “You’re a smart man, Doctor, just like me. That is why we don’t need to play games. When I told the bishop to ask you here, I had my own agenda.” He spun around brusquely and looked Johann in the eye. “I want you to accompany me to Rome.”

  Johann groaned inwardly. His worst fears were coming true. But he merely smiled thinly. “Does the pope want a horoscope, too? One at a time—the bishop asked first.”

  “Don’t mock His Holiness,” snarled Lahnstein. “Pope Leo X is after something else.” He lowered his voice. “Something much bigger.”

  “I think you overestimate my abilities, Your Eminence. I’m a simple astrologer and doctor. Not much good as an Antichrist, I’m afraid—you’d be better off taking that Luther. So if you want to accuse me of heresy—”

  “Balderdash!” Lahnstein cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Heresy? Nonsense! The pope knows very well that you’re not much more than a fraud and a quack. But he also heard that there is something you know, something”—Lahnstein hesitated—“very particular. Something few people know. And it is a knowledge the pope is highly interested in. Consider it an invitation to a conversation among the like-minded.”

  Johann frowned. This encounter had taken a sudden and unexpected turn, and he didn’t know whether he liked it.

  “What sort of knowledge?” he asked after a while.

  Lahnstein looked back out the window. He said nothing for a long moment, and when he spoke, he spoke quietly as his eyes traveled across the dark forests beyond Bamberg. Night had fallen outside.

  “It is the knowledge of a man who was born a long time ago,” said Lahnstein. “A very powerful and profoundly evil man. His name is Gilles de Rais.”

  Johann shivered as if winter had just arrived.

  Gilles de Rais.

  Would this nightmare never end?

  “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Johann eventually.

  “Oh yes, you do.” Lahnstein turned back to him. He pointed his index finger straight at Johann, his beak-like nose making him look like a gigantic bird of prey in the dim light. “There is a secret that surrounds Gilles de Rais, and you know that secret, Doctor Faustus! We have it on good authority.” He gestured toward the window. “Whatever you’re doing out there, whatever swill you sell and how you fool the common people—Rome doesn’t care. Rome is only interested in true arcane knowledge—knowledge that you share with Gilles de Rais. And do you know why?” He lowered his face, his voice nothing but a whisper. “Because he told it to you himself.”

  “You know very well that the man you’re speaking of has been dead these eighty years. How should he be able to tell me anything?”

  “Is he really? Dead? I wouldn’t be so sure.” Lahnstein smiled thinly. “Why so modest all of a sudden, Doctor Faustus? I heard wizards like you could speak with the dead. Isn’t that what you claim in your shows?”

  The papal representative slowly walked to the door while the shadows of night spread through the chamber. “Compile your pretty horoscope, Doctor, just as the bishop wishes. And then travel to Rome with me. Pope Leo X can’t wait to make your acquaintance. Yours and that of your many secrets. He wants to talk to you about Gilles de Rais and his arcane knowledge before other powerful men do. You’re in demand, Johann Georg Faustus, and these are tumultuous times.”

  At the door, Lahnstein turned back to Johann once more.

  “Oh, and one more thing. I am going to inform the bishop that your work is taking up so much of your time that you don’t want to leave this lovely chamber. Your meals will be brought to you, and if you need anything else, your servants can see to it. You’re the bishop’s guest, after all. For your own safety, Hagen will keep watch outside your chamber. God bless you.”

  With these words, the papal representative left the room. Before the door slammed shut, Johann caught a glance of the Swiss mercenary, still eyeing him as blankly as if he were a bug.

  Then the bolt was pushed across and Johann was alone.

  The shaking came over him shortly after Lahnstein had left. It was much more severe than before—more severe than ever—and Johann had to sit down on the chair so he wouldn’t fall. His left arm jerked like a twitching snake, sweat ran down his forehead, and he forced himself to breathe calmly. Each passing moment felt like an eternity while thoughts flashed through his mind like lightning.

  Gilles de Rais. Gilles de Rais. Gilles de Rais.

  For the first time, Johann felt certain that his ailment was indeed a curse. How else was it possible that the mention of that unhappy name triggered a fit? First Tonio del Moravia, his former master, had entered his life again, and now Gilles de Rais!

  Who are you? And what does it have to do with me?

  To this day, Johann didn’t know how Gilles and Tonio were connected. They were two pieces of a mosaic that he still couldn’t see in its entirety. Gilles de Rais had been a powerful French knight, an extravagant marshal who had lived nearly a hundred years ago and become a slave to sorcery and Satanism. He used to catch children like hares and murder them—not one or two, but hundreds, all of them victims who served to invoke the devil during gruesome rituals. De Rais’s deeds were still told as ghost stories by the people of his region, even though he’d been hanged at Nantes many years ago. He was executed as the most godless heretic and cruelest murderer that had ever lived. Lahnstein’s question from earlier came to Johann’s mind.

  Is he really? Dead? I wouldn’t be so sure.

  The shaking was growing stronger. Johann reached for the books on the table as if they were his lifeline, but he couldn’t grasp them and they crashed to the floor. The books couldn’t help him now; not even they could tell him more about the insane knight with the eyes of an angel, which had once gazed at him from a basin filled with blood. That had been in Nuremberg, when Tonio had tried to sacrifice him for some kind of dark offering.

  Johann closed his eyes and felt cold sweat on his forehead. He heard loud crashing and breaking, and it took him a while to realize that he was lying on the wooden floorboards and that it had been his body crashing to the ground. He must have tried to brace himself against the table and had gone down—table, chair, books, and all. Johann opened his mouth, saliva dribbling from his lips like a rabid dog. The words came haltingly.

  “Gilles . . . Tonio . . . cursed . . . pact . . .”

  Johann thought of the bright young boy who’d shook the hand of a magician long ago. A boy who’d gained glory in the course of his life, and knowledge and wealth, but who now, many years on, had to pay for it.

  There was no escape.

  With this final thought, he blacked out.

  “What?” Karl gaped at Greta. “The doctor is going to die? How . . . how do you know?”

  Greta was trembling, trying with all
her might to compose herself. She had always known that this day would come—she couldn’t carry this terrible secret around with her forever.

  “I don’t mean to frighten you, Karl,” she said. “Maybe I’m mistaken. But I don’t think I am. I saw it clearly.”

  Karl gave a desperate laugh. “What do you mean, you saw it? In your dreams? I don’t believe in dreams—I am certain they are nothing but illusions.”

  “I saw it in the palm of his hand. Do you understand?”

  “Do you . . . do you mean you can read in someone’s hand if they’re going to die?” Karl turned pale. “I always thought that was nothing but hocus-pocus. You simply tell people what they want to hear. And besides—you haven’t read anyone’s palm in years.”

  Greta sighed. “And now you know why. Because it is just too awful sometimes.”

  She’d been carrying this dark secret around with her for a long time now. She had been young when Johann had introduced her to chiromancy, the art of reading palms. The long, forked Life line that ends above the thumb, the mysterious Fate line, the Heart line, the Mount of Venus, the so-called simian crease, and more. In the beginning she had enjoyed it, but one day three winters ago, something had happened.

  She had seen a person’s imminent death in their palm.

  It had felt like steady pulsations, and for the briefest moment the Life line had glowed; then something had covered the hand, something like the black wing of a bird. And Greta knew with certainty that this person would soon die.

  At first she had told herself that she’d only imagined it, that it was part of the melancholy that befell her from time to time. But then they spent the winter in Erfurt, in Thuringia. A young woman had asked to have her palm read, and Greta had obliged; the black wing had appeared once more. One week later, the woman had fallen ill with a fever and died.

  The black wings.

  “The doctor has become more and more sullen in recent months,” she said slowly. “You must have noticed that something is bothering him. And then there’s the strange shaking that he’s trying to hide from us.”

  Karl nodded. “Perhaps it’s the alcohol. He’s been drinking a lot lately, mostly in secret.”

  “Whatever it is—he won’t talk to us. So I went to his bed one night to look at his palm. He only ever takes off his gloves when he sleeps.” She looked at Karl closely. “You never told me why he’s missing the little finger on his right hand, and his left eye.”

  Karl didn’t reply, and Greta continued.

  “When I picked up his hand, I felt something. It was something dark, evil! And do you know what else was strange? His lines were barely recognizable, as if they had faded, as if . . . as if they were gradually disappearing. I have never seen anything like it before.” Greta pressed her lips together. “And then it happened. The Life line lit up in a dark purple, and then a black shadow—like the wing of a bird—swept across it. And I felt the same throbbing as with the others before. And they all died a short while later.” She closed her eyes. “I should never have done it, but now it’s too late.”

  “I . . . I think you’re mistaken,” Karl replied weakly.

  But Greta could tell that he was keeping something from her. Terrible things had happened back in Nuremberg—so terrible that her consciousness had suppressed most memories of that night. The few recollections that remained were blurred, as if she were looking through a dull lens. Sometimes, in her dreams, she saw herself lying naked on a stone altar. A choir of voices chanted a sinister litany; a knife flashed in the darkness.

  O Mephistopheles, O Satanas.

  “Karl, you have to tell me what happened back in Nuremberg,” urged Greta. “The doctor said someone gave me a potion that made me pass out. What kind of a potion? It’s almost like my whole childhood has been erased. Johann is keeping something from me, I’m certain. And so are you! Karl, please talk to me.” She squeezed his hands. “Who are my parents?”

  “It’s better if you don’t know,” replied Karl glumly. “Trust me. We oughtn’t speak about the time in Nuremberg.”

  “Yes, that is what the doctor and you are best at,” said Greta bitterly. “Not speaking about things. And even now you don’t want to see the truth: the doctor is in grave danger and I think he’s going to die. Something indescribably evil is reaching for him—I can feel it!”

  “And I say that nothing is proven,” Karl retorted. “I am a scientist, Greta—I don’t believe in witches, sorcery, and the devil’s handiwork, nor that one can foresee someone’s death in the palm of their hand. Not as long as—”

  He broke off when a shadow fell on them both. They looked up and saw a huge, armored mercenary with a sword on his back gazing down at them.

  “Are you the servants of Doctor Faustus?” asked the giant. He spoke with the harsh accent of the Swiss confederates.

  Greta nodded.

  “Then follow me, quickly. Your master needs you.” The huge man let out a growl that made him sound like a bear. “If it isn’t too late, damn it.”

  Greta hurried after Karl and the soldier through the corridors of Altenburg Castle.

  She feared the worst had already happened.

  They ran up the stairs to the tower room as fast as they could. When they arrived at the top, breathing hard, Greta saw to her surprise that the door was barred from the outside.

  “You locked the doctor in?” she asked the soldier as she struggled to catch her breath. “Why?”

  The giant man didn’t reply and unlocked the door. The room on the other side was dim, the only light coming from a few candles on a sideboard. Faust was lying on the floor among his books, some of them torn to shreds. He was twitching and squirming as if a hundred invisible devils were tugging at him. Saliva and vomit trickled from his mouth as he slurred incomprehensible sounds.

  “Jesus!” cried Greta, rushing to the doctor’s side. “What happened?”

  “How should I know? I found him like that.” The soldier gave a shrug as he eyed the doctor like a squashed beetle. “If you ask me, I’d say your master is possessed by the devil or some sort of demon. But one thing I know for certain: if he kicks the bucket now, my master, the papal representative, won’t be pleased at all. And he’ll take it out on all of us. So do something!”

  “He’ll choke on his vomit if we don’t help him soon.” Karl knelt down and held Faust while Greta cleaned out his mouth, muttering softly as if soothing a child. Johann was still shaking, his head jerking from side to side. But the twitching gradually eased, and his head came to rest.

  “At first I thought he was just putting it on when I heard the racket,” grumbled the big man. “But then it got worse. So I thought I better fetch help.”

  “What is all this about?” demanded Karl, pointing at the exit. “Who are you and why was the door locked?”

  “It’s . . . it’s all right,” said the doctor feebly. “I . . . I’m better now.” He was lying on his back, his face deathly white. The fit seemed to have passed. He looked at the mercenary. “Please leave us now, Hagen.”

  The giant hesitated for a moment, then he walked out and closed the door behind him, the bolt crashing shut loudly. Karl moved as if to protest, but Faust held him back. “Leave it. I . . . I can explain everything. Please help me sit up.”

  Together they lifted Faust like an old man and sat him on a stool. It was strange for Greta to see the doctor weakened like this. She had only ever known him strong and resilient in both body and mind. Nothing could stop him—whatever he wanted to achieve, he would achieve. And now he sat slumped on the stool like a puppet whose strings had been cut. At least his eyes looked a little livelier; his strength seemed to return.

  Greta shuddered. Faust truly had looked as if he were possessed by the devil. Could it be possible? She thought about the shaking she had observed in recent weeks, and also about the dark, evil something she’d seen in his hand. She decided not to mention her nightly palm reading—she was much too afraid there was indeed an evil force that h
ad grabbed hold of the doctor.

  It was freezing cold in the doctor’s chamber, and Greta thought once more she could smell sulfur, like earlier on with that strange French ambassador. She shivered as she looked to the window and the dark night beyond. A black shadow drifted past, like the wings of a gigantic, monstrous bird.

  Now you’re seeing ghosts.

  “What happened?” she asked gently while Karl took the doctor’s pulse and patted dry his forehead. “It wasn’t the first time, was it?”

  Johann moaned. “I should have known that you’d notice.” He tried to smile. “Can’t hide anything from a woman.”

  “I noticed, too,” said Karl. “The shaking, worse at nights. At first I thought it was the booze, but this . . .” He shook his head. “Hmm, it could be the falling sickness, or Saint Anthony’s fire, or—”

  “Don’t you think I haven’t tried to figure out what’s ailing me, damn it?” snarled Johann. “I read through dozens of books, but my symptoms don’t match anything I could find in the usual works.”

  “And how long has this been going on?” asked Greta.

  “About half a year.”

  Once more Greta got the feeling that he was keeping something from her.

  Johann closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “But that’s not the worst part.”

  “Not the worst part?” Karl gave a desperate chuckle. “I can’t imagine what might be worse than what we just witnessed.”

  “I am to be taken to the pope as a sorcerer,” said Faust. “That’s why the giant is standing outside the door, and that’s why the door is locked. It’s an order by Viktor von Lahnstein. As soon as I’ve completed the bishop’s horoscope, Lahnstein is going to escort me to Rome in chains.” He snorted. “I don’t know which I’d prefer: for this mysterious illness to kill me beforehand or to be drawn, quartered, and burned on the papal scaffold.”

  Karl groaned. “That explains it. The horoscope was just an excuse. I always feared this would happen one day. Doctor Faustus is known throughout the empire, so why not in Rome? Perhaps the Bamberg prince-bishop could—”