People began to mutter, and the mayor knocked his gavel on the table again. “Please don’t digress, Your Honor! We are dealing with the case of Corbin. So long as the accused doesn’t name any helpers, we will leave it at that. It is bad enough as it is.”
“As you wish, monsieur,” replied Savini with pinched lips. He seemed to realize that the mood was turning against him.
When Johann and Agrippa walked past the accused late in the afternoon, she cast them a hopeful glance. Josette Corbin probably hadn’t caught much of what the gentlemen had discussed at the table, but she must have sensed that these two men were her only hope of escaping the pyre.
“Not a bad move,” said Agrippa once they were back at his house with their books. He gave a chuckle. “Childish weather spells. How did you come up with that?” He lit a pipe and inhaled the smoke hungrily.
“I’m merely stalling,” said Johann soberly. “You said it yourself: once the Inquisition has sunk their teeth into someone, they don’t let go. I’m afraid we won’t be able to help this woman.” He lowered his voice. “And then there are those missing children Savini mentioned. Did you know about that?”
“I’ve heard of it, yes.” Agrippa shrugged indifferently. “But I don’t think they’ll have an impact on our trial. We’re talking two or three children of traveling folks—scissor sharpeners, peddlers, gypsies. My guess is they moved on, or they ran away from their parents in search of a better life. And Savini knows it, too—that is why he’s putting his money on the witness statements.”
Johann shuddered. Missing children always reminded him of Tonio and the tower near the Alps where he had found blood and a pile of children’s clothes. And of the horrific night near Nördlingen.
Small, whimpering bundles in the trees.
“I know what we’ll do—we change tack.” Agrippa’s loud voice brought Johann back to the present. The scholar rummaged between his books on the table until he found the one he wanted, picking it up gingerly with an expression of disgust. “The accursed Hexenhammer—the hammer of witches—by Heinrich Kramer, from which the Inquisition loves to quote. The author, a German Dominican, tried to present their bloody deeds in a scholarly light.” Agrippa grinned. “And therein lies our chance.”
“What do you mean?” asked Johann with a frown.
“Well, we should beat those white-robes at their own game. I am well aware that whoever denies sorcery runs in danger of being named a sorcerer. But we can prove that the Inquisition made procedural mistakes. This is a court trial, after all, and held according to the Roman laws. The judge is an old drunkard and Savini not nearly as clever as the two of us.” He nodded with determination. “We are going to drive them to where we want them with judicial finesse. You’ll see, my friend: this trial is going to make history. No one picks a quarrel with Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa and Doctor Faustus!”
They used the next few days of the trial to pick apart the reasons for Josette Corbin’s arrest. Whatever issue Savini raised, Johann and Agrippa had an answer. When the Dominican cited Bible passages in Latin, they produced the correct translations from the Hebrew. When Savini quoted the witness statements, they pointed out to the mayor that those statements had been unlawfully obtained. Savini was growing more insecure by the day, and Judge Leonard, too, struggled with the perpetual probing.
“So what you’re saying is that after the accused was arrested and taken to Metz, you handed her back to the peasants?” asked Agrippa. “On what legal basis?”
The judge groaned and rubbed his hands nervously; it was obvious he was longing for a drink. “On . . . the basis of . . . ,” he mumbled. “Of . . .”
“Of money? Were you perhaps offered money?” said Agrippa. “Money from the farmers who want Josette Corbin’s property for themselves?”
The spectators whistled and cheered, and several of the witnesses blushed. Not for the first time, the mayor had the room cleared.
Johann gave a little smile. He was glad Agrippa’s judicial games were distracting him from his own worries. His friend might not have given him a cure for his curse yet, but at least he allowed him to forget his disease for a while.
The weeks passed, and December turned to January. Ankle-deep snow in the lanes covered the worst of the city muck. The old emperor, Maximilian, had died during one of his many arduous journeys. People were saying that he put on his own burial gown beforehand and ordered his men to flog him once he was dead, cut off his hair, and break out his teeth as a sign of penitence. Everyone speculated about who the new emperor was going to be—Maximilian’s grandson Charles, who resided in Spain, or perhaps the French king Francis?
Johann didn’t hear much of the gossip, and he didn’t have time to visit the many churches and palaces of Metz, some of which dated back to Roman times. On most days, he saw Karl and Greta only for supper, and even then he was bent over books. He slurped the soup Agrippa’s wife, Elsbeth, had cooked while his thoughts were far away in the world of Thomas Aquinas, Albertus Magnus, and other theologians, forever on the search for a passage that might help them at the trial. Greta watched him thoughtfully.
“When you told us we’d be spending the winter here in Metz, you didn’t mention that you would live only on books and parchment,” she said one evening when she and Johann were alone at the table in the dining room. “Karl and I would like to know if you’ve learned anything about your disease yet.”
“Not yet.” Johann shook his head and chewed absentmindedly on a piece of bread. “But the strange thing is that ever since I started focusing on this case, the fits have stopped, apart from some weak trembling.”
“And yet they will return—you know that,” Greta said, squeezing his hand. “By the way, Karl told me what happened in Nuremberg.”
Johann straightened up. “What did he tell you?”
“Well, I know that there was a pact between you and this Tonio del Moravia, who used to be your master. Karl told me that Tonio tried to invoke the devil in Nuremberg and that you believe this pact is the reason for your illness.”
Johann sighed. His assistant had kept his word and told Greta neither that he was her father nor any precise details about what happened at Nuremberg. Still, Greta knew more than he wanted her to. He sensed that he couldn’t string her along for much longer.
Deep in thought, he used the bread to soak up the last of Elsbeth’s soup.
“It’s true,” he said eventually. “There are things you . . . things you should know. Soon. Let me see this trial through first, all right? And then we’ll have time to talk.” He rose abruptly. “And now excuse me. Agrippa and I must study some files.”
A few weeks later, Karl and Greta sat in a tavern near the Moselle over a jug of wine, gazing out through the dirty crown-glass windows. It was late afternoon and darkness was falling, even though it was already early February, the month of carnival. Josette Corbin still hadn’t confessed. The woman had been through ten days of trial and as many tortures now, and while she grew weaker each time, she still held up.
In the beginning, Karl and Greta had joined the doctor at court, but when proceedings began to drag on and turned into a series of legal battles, they stayed away and chose to explore the city instead. Karl had also been painting, while Greta practiced her juggling tricks and often felt bored to death.
Elsbeth, Agrippa’s wife, treated her very kindly, almost like a sister. But Greta had soon realized that she would never have a real connection with the plump, cheerful woman. Elsbeth had her child, and she cooked, did the washing, and looked after her forgetful husband, while Greta was a traveling juggler, destination unknown. Greta sometimes wondered whether the path Elsbeth had chosen—that so many women chose—wasn’t the better one.
The snow had given way to a cold dampness, a frosty fog that crept into the clothes and made one shiver as with a fever. From the tavern they could hear shouting and music outside, the monotonous thud of a drum, several bagpipes, and flutes playing a melancholy tune, followed by the footste
ps of a crowd marching past.
Slightly tipsy from the strong wine, Greta set down her cup and looked around the taproom. She and Karl were just about the only patrons. Everyone else was outside to watch the annual Graoully procession. The Graoully was a mythical creature that had allegedly inhabited Metz a long time ago. The burghers of Metz had fetched the huge wooden puppet from a storeroom in the cathedral, renewed some of the scales of the dragon, and polished its red glass eyes. Now people followed the beast through the lanes in their best clothes, laughing and singing to the beat of the musicians. The monstrous dragon puppet moved past the tavern window, and Greta involuntarily shrank back from the glass.
“I wonder for how much longer we must stay in this rotten city,” she muttered and refilled both their cups. For some time now they had seen Johann only briefly, for dinner. He hadn’t yet fulfilled his promise of telling Greta more about her past and her mother.
Karl shrugged. “I think we could be doing worse. Those windows in the cathedral are stunning—they practically glow. Elsbeth is an excellent cook, and the wine here is much better than in Bamberg.” He smiled, but then his expression turned serious. “But you’re right, of course. The doctor hasn’t come an inch closer to his goal of learning more about his mysterious illness. Agrippa is holding out on him.”
Greta drained her cup and wiped her mouth. “If only I hadn’t seen the throbbing in his hand again—I’d be long gone!” The words had slipped out because she had drunk too much, like so often in the last few weeks. She drank to forget her woes, but they always returned and continued to grow.
“And what about you?” she asked Karl. “The doctor doesn’t even look at you these days. And still you run after him like a pup.”
“You don’t understand.” Karl lowered his gaze. “I . . . I can’t help it. The doctor and I . . .”
Suddenly Greta understood, and she was filled with sympathy, regretting her harsh words.
“Dear God—you’re in love with him, aren’t you?” she said gently. “Of course! That is why you’re staying.” She smiled sadly, feeling much more sober now. “I should have noticed sooner. All those years . . . You poor thing.” She shook her head. “How awful it must be to love someone, unable to confess your love and without hope of ever being loved back.”
“It eats you up. It’s like the candlewick that forever flickers but never goes out.” Karl’s handsome face was fine boned and serious. Greta thought about how many girls Karl could have had—dozens had run after him. But the one person he pined for was unattainable.
He tried to smile. “And yet it’s not as bad as you might think. I’m with him, at least, and when his illness returns he’s going to need me. I will always be there for him.”
And I? thought Greta. Am I going to be there for him when his illness returns?
The procession with the dragon and its followers had gone; suddenly, it was very quiet.
“There is something else we need to discuss,” said Karl into the silence. “Something more important than my personal problems. I heard it at the market this morning. It’s about the missing children from the country—you remember? Savini mentioned them during the trial.” He swallowed. “Now children have also gone missing here in the city. In the beginning I thought it was coincidence, but I’m no longer certain.”
Greta gasped. “You don’t think—?”
Karl raised a hand. “I don’t think anything. I’m a scientist. I merely observe. We’ve been talking about Tonio del Moravia, and children go missing. Just like in Nuremberg, and also beforehand, when the doctor traveled the empire with his master. If nothing else, it is at least . . . strange, I would say. Tonio wasn’t vanquished back then, and I’m sure his followers still exist. They might have gone into hiding, but they’re still around, just like their master.”
“You’re scaring me.” Greta stood up slowly. “I’ve had too much to drink for ghost stories today.”
She walked to the door, and Karl followed once he’d paid the tavern keeper. It was icy cold outside, their breath coming out in small clouds. They could hear the music and the cheers of the crowd in the distance; the procession had probably arrived at the cathedral by now. Damp mist rose from the river and covered the alleyways like a shroud. The bell of the Saint Livier Church chimed nearby; the outline of several mills emerged in the haze of the river, their wheels creaking in the current.
An eerie feeling overcame Greta. Hastily she turned west toward the Pont des Morts, the bridge leading across the river to Agrippa’s quarter. She shuddered. Why did the people of Metz have to give their bridges such awful names?
Bridge of the dead.
She was about to cross the bridge when Greta saw something strange in the shadow of the stone arches beneath the far side of the bridge. It kind of looked as if an additional pillar jutted out from the bridge. Greta blinked, then froze.
The pillar was moving, like the probing leg of a monstrous spider.
Greta stayed on the first steps of the bridge as if paralyzed. She suddenly felt stone-cold sober.
“What is it?” asked Karl.
She pointed across to the other side of the river. Now it was clearly visible: a man had stepped out from the darkness beneath the bridge. He was dragging something that Greta had first thought was a sack, but then, to her horror, she recognized what it really was.
A lifeless child.
They hurried across the bridge together, Greta’s mind whirling. A memory rose to the surface. She had suppressed it for a long time, but it had been haunting her nightmares for years. It had happened back in Nuremberg. Someone whose face she couldn’t remember had lured her beneath a bridge, to where a child had lain.
A child whose throat had been ripped open as if by a wolf.
Only moments later, the city guards had caught her right there and locked her up. They found a magical talisman in her pocket that someone must have slipped her.
The man with no face.
Greta remembered it clearly for the first time.
If Faust doesn’t come to me, then I’ll just take you, my dear. And when you’ve come of age I will mate with you on Blocksberg Mountain.
The words flashed through her mind like lightning bolts, long-forgotten memories. Greta’s heart beat wildly. Deep down she knew that below the bridge walked the same creature as back in Nuremberg—the monster that had done terrible things to her, things she had kept buried deep within her. Things that were now reemerging, like maggots.
Kiss my scaly skin. Feel the closeness of the beast.
She and Karl were the only people on the bridge; everyone else seemed to be at that confounded procession. Steps beside the bridge led down to the slimy, algae-covered bank of the Moselle. The steps were icy and slippery, but Greta still took several at once.
The man—or whatever it was—wore a black coat with the collar up so that they couldn’t make out his face. He was bent over the child now, looking as if he was caressing it. Greta stopped and watched, fear of the monster rooting her to the spot. Old memories wafted around her like poisonous fog, buzzed around her like angry hornets. It was almost more than she could bear, and her knees grew weak as the scenes of the past swept over her.
Kiss my scaly skin . . . if Faust doesn’t come to me . . . on Blocksberg Mountain, on Blocksberg Mountain, on—
“Get away from the child, you monster!” yelled Greta.
Fury and hatred gave her renewed strength. She drew the dagger she always carried and leaped at the man with the coat, but the strange figure slipped away as fast as a snake and disappeared beneath the arches of the bridge. The lifeless child remained on the rocky shore.
Greta glanced at it and shrank back with shock.
The girl was about five years old; she stared into the fog above with empty, dead eyes. Her throat had been bitten through, her pale skin ripped as if attacked by a wolf. Fresh blood oozed onto the stones, bright red against the gray and black surroundings.
Bridge of the dead.
&
nbsp; “There he is!” called out Karl above her. “He’s running away!”
Greta hesitated only for a brief moment, then she turned from the bloodied child and raced back up the steps. The man had run up the stairs on the other side of the bridge and was heading toward the cathedral, which rose up into the dusk not far from them. Karl and Greta set off in pursuit. The music grew louder the closer they came to the square in front of the cathedral, where most of Metz appeared to have gathered. The fog had arrived here, too, and even though it wasn’t fully dark yet, torches had been lit to illuminate the gloomy scene in front of the church. Swaying in the center of the square was the tall dragon, held up with long poles by a handful of young men. Low murmuring lay over the crowd as the people strode toward the entrance of the cathedral with bowed heads. Inside, the beast was going to be sprinkled with holy water.
The man had almost reached the throng of people now. His black coat billowed behind him like the wings of a bat. All of a sudden he spun around, and Greta saw his face for the first time.
He was deathly pale as if he wore makeup, only his lips gleaming blood-red, and Greta thought the teeth behind those lips were pointed like the fangs of a wolf. The man wore a red cap with a rooster’s feather, which until then had been concealed by the tall collar. The most frightening part was his eyes. They were black holes—ancient, deep craters—and evil gleamed from within their depths like oil in a puddle.
He raised one hand and waved, his mouth twisting into a malicious smile.
Then he turned back around and disappeared in the crowd.
Who are you? wondered Greta. A man or something else? No matter what you are—I’m going to hunt you. You won’t drag me down again!
“After him!” she shouted to Karl. “He can’t get away!”
But Karl just stood there, gaping, and only started following her after a few long moments. They elbowed aside men and women who swore and elbowed them back; they pushed forward as fast as they could until they stood directly beneath the huge dragon puppet, whose red eyes glowered down at them. But it was all for nothing.
The Devil's Pawn Page 13
