The Devil's Pawn

by Oliver Pötzsch

  The man had vanished.

  “Damn, if you hadn’t frozen back there, we might have caught him!” gasped Greta. She made her way through the crowd and slumped down on one of the steps along the side of the cathedral. “What was the matter with you?”

  Karl was still deathly pale. He shook his head slowly. “That man,” he murmured. “I knew him, but . . . but that’s impossible.”

  “You knew him?” Greta grasped Karl’s trembling hands. “Then tell me! Who was it? Damn it, Karl, that monster killed a child, and most likely not just the one. Who or what is he?”

  Karl cleared his throat. “Didn’t you recognize him? It was the French delegate from Altenburg Castle. Louis Cifre.”

  Greta closed her eyes. She remembered the man well, even though she’d seen him only briefly at Bamberg. She could almost smell the sulfur she had smelled then. She hadn’t recognized him in the foggy twilight. To her it seemed that it was Louis Cifre and at the same time it wasn’t, like a fat larva that had just emerged from its cocoon, revealing its true face.

  Somewhere not far away they could hear the soft melody of a flute.

  It played an old children’s song.

  “That Savini is cleverer than I thought, but still not as clever as us.”

  Agrippa puffed another plume of smoke into the room, making Johann’s eyes water. It felt like they’d been sitting in Agrippa’s study for weeks, breathing in stuffy fumes. Elsbeth would occasionally bring up some cold meat or cheese, which they’d eat without much enthusiasm and wash down with a glass of thinned wine. Then they’d carry on working. At some point Little Satan would help himself to the leftover meat and chew loudly under the table. Then he liked to curl up by the fireplace, yelping softly in his sleep.

  The two scholars left the house only on trial days, and it wouldn’t be long until the next one. During the last one, Savini had pulled an unexpected card from his sleeve. He had declared triumphantly that Josette Corbin’s mother had been accused of witchcraft and that he had proof—an old document that had unexpectedly resurfaced. Therefore, according to Savini, witchcraft ran in the family, a kind of original sin that could only be extinguished by the flames. Following this revelation, Agrippa had asked for another adjournment of the trial, well aware that Josette Corbin was at the end of her strength. The hangman of Metz, who was also responsible for torture, was a master of his craft.

  “That document must be falsified,” said Johann, reaching for the jug of wine.

  The sound of music and crowds could be heard in the distance; it was growing dark outside. Agrippa had told Johann about the dragon procession, but they hadn’t spoken of it again. They had more important work to do.

  “Even if it is, that won’t help us,” Agrippa replied with a sigh. “The mayor wants to get the trial over and done with, and to that end he’ll accept any absurd piece of evidence.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  Johann gave a tired nod; he, too, was exhausted from this trial. He wasn’t sleeping much at night, leafing through theological books or combing Agrippa’s library for volumes on medicine. He still hadn’t learned anything new about his disease, but it hadn’t been bothering him much lately. Could he be healed? Perhaps he was so distracted by the trial that the healing had happened all by itself? Johann thought about the time back in Heidelberg, when he had constructed the very first laterna magica with his friend Valentin. Then, too, he had been driven by a single thought, by an unstoppable determination. Science, studying—the perpetual search for something new had pushed aside everything else.

  And in the end, the girl he loved the most had died.

  And it was my fault.

  “. . . might be more suitable to build a theological argumentation on . . .”

  Johann heard the voice of Agrippa, who, as usual, was thinking out loud. Johann listened for a moment, but then he remembered Greta. When had he seen her and Karl last? What if the curse had now transferred to her because she was his daughter? Just as Josette Corbin was accused of witchcraft because her mother had been tainted with the curse?

  “She is innocent,” he muttered. “Nothing but an innocent child . . .”

  “Beg your pardon?” Agrippa gave him an irritated look. “What did you say?” Then his expression brightened. “Of course, you’re right! Josette Corbin was baptized as a child, and so she can’t carry evil inside her even if her mother was accused of witchcraft. Otherwise baptism—the holy sacrament of the church—would be ineffective. Any child that is baptized is innocent. Ha!” He patted Johann on the shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you, old friend? Together we can—”

  The door crashed open. Little Satan growled but calmed down as soon as he saw who was entering. Karl and Greta were standing in the hallway, the young woman’s eyes flashing angrily. Both of them were breathing heavily as if they’d been running.

  “We have to talk,” said Greta between breaths. “I am sick and tired of this game.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Johann with surprise. Despite the raucous entrance, he suddenly felt very glad to see his daughter.

  “I want to know what’s really at the bottom of this accursed disease and our escape,” said Greta, entering the study, followed by Karl. With a trembling hand, she pointed at Johann. “Children are getting murdered out there by some kind of monster that you most likely lured to Metz. A monster that I saw back in Nuremberg and that followed us here. And you two sit here on your backsides poring over dusty old files!”

  “What are you talking about, girl?” asked Agrippa. “What murdered children?”

  “Children have been going missing,” explained Karl.

  Agrippa raised his hands. “But we already know that. Like I said—”

  “Listen to me, damn it!” said Greta, cutting him off. “While you two sit here congratulating each other on your cleverness, more and more children are vanishing out there. My guess is they’re all dead. As dead as the child we just found—and we saw her murderer.”

  As quickly as she could, Greta told the two scholars what she and Karl had witnessed. Johann listened in silence, his hands and feet turning cold as ice.

  “What exactly did the man look like?” he asked with trepidation.

  “Pale, almost like a woman with makeup,” said Karl. “He was skinny and wore a red cap with a rooster’s feather. His whole appearance was somewhat . . .” He searched for the right words. “Like a spider.”

  Johann groaned. “It’s Tonio. He followed us. When is this horror going to end?”

  “Enough of the secrecy!” Greta abruptly sat down on a stool next to Johann. With one sweeping movement she cleared the table of books and files and gave the doctor a serious look. “You’ve always been my teacher and my role model, Uncle. But if I am to trust you from here on in, then we must tell each other the truth. I haven’t been entirely honest with you, either. I . . .” She took his hand in hers and gave him a sad look. “I read your palm—you know I’m good at it. And I saw something terrible in it. It was in the Wasgau.”

  Johann had had a hunch but had never asked. He didn’t want to know.

  She inherited it from me. I should have known.

  “That is why I stayed with you—to protect you,” continued Greta. “And I will keep on doing so, but only if you’re honest with me. Can you do that for me? No more lies. Promise?”

  Johann nodded, still shaken by what Greta had just told him.

  She has foreseen my death. The pact is coming full circle, just like it did for Peter, the red-haired fiddler.

  “Tonio is at my heels,” he said quietly, more to himself. “Somehow I’ve always known.”

  “But how can that be?” asked Greta. “The man we saw under the bridge wasn’t that old. Tonio would have to be much, much older by now!”

  “Oh, he is,” said Johann with a sad smile. “Trust me, I know. He doesn’t look it. But I suspect Tonio is even older than you can begin to imagine.” He looked at her intently. “I believe that in truth he is t
he godforsaken Gilles de Rais, the most cruel and insane murderer there ever was—a man who lived during the first half of the last century. The devil on earth!”

  In the distance, the bells of the cathedral rang out, and then the dull thudding of a drum set in. The crowd was now moving from the cathedral toward the other side of the river, toward the quarter where Agrippa’s house stood.

  Johann turned to Agrippa. “I believe the time has come when you must tell me what you know about Gilles de Rais.”

  Agrippa set down his pipe, which had gone out. Johann noticed that his friend looked rather pale and thought that it probably wasn’t sleep deprivation.

  “The children, the dead girl,” muttered Agrippa. “Dear God, Faustus! If that is true, then you really did lure the monster to Metz.”

  “What monster?” asked Karl skeptically. “What exactly do you mean? Are we talking about a man or a ghost?”

  By now they were all sitting around the fire. The books lay scattered on the ground, tossed aside as if all the knowledge in the world couldn’t help them now. The huge dog slumbered among them.

  “When I advised you in my letters to steer clear of the subject of Gilles de Rais, I did it with the best of intentions. I was hoping to save your life—your soul, even,” started Agrippa. “But now it would seem we have wakened the beast. It has picked up your scent.” He hesitated before continuing. “I’ve been preoccupied with Gilles de Rais and his horrible deeds for a long time, for years. As you all know, the popular French marshal tried to invoke the devil in order to gain power and wealth. The great war that raged between England and France released something inside him that had been hidden until then. Gilles lived extravagantly. When he ran out of money, he tried to gain gold with the aid of the devil. But instead, the devil came for him. Never before and never thereafter was there a person as profoundly evil as Gilles de Rais.”

  “How do you know all that?” asked Karl. “That happened a hundred years ago.”

  “The documents from his trial survive to this day—that is how we know so much about his crimes. Gilles’s first victim was a peasant boy he strangled before cutting off the boy’s hands. Then he ripped out his heart and used the blood as ink to pen the words required to invoke the devil. Apparently, a former priest named Prelati helped him do it. From then on Gilles de Rais murdered hundreds of children with the aid of his henchmen. He tortured them, hanged them, slit them open, and violated them. He enjoyed it more and more. And in doing so he, well . . .” Agrippa faltered. The great scholar struggled to find the words. “I can’t prove it, but I fear that in doing so the marshal became the devil himself.”

  “You . . . you’re saying Gilles de Rais is the devil?” asked Karl with disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

  “He was, he is, and yet he isn’t,” replied Agrippa.

  Karl frowned. “You speak in riddles.”

  “Admittedly, it goes beyond our human intellect, and I’m not even sure if I fully grasp it or if it isn’t a silly ghost story after all. The devil appears in all kinds of shapes, in every culture and region on earth. He is one and yet he is many, and he is always that which we fear the most.”

  “A child-murdering monster,” whispered Greta. “Children are what we hold dearest.”

  Agrippa nodded. “It is possible that the devil used Gilles de Rais like a shell—like a costume one can put on. I’m guessing Satan needs a human form in order to walk on earth. He may be vulnerable in that state, but he can also lead people astray. He’s been doing so since ancient times—descriptions of him can be found in the oldest writings ever found, in the Jewish Talmud, in Persia, Babylon, and of course in the Bible. The Greeks called him Diabolos, the bringer of chaos. He seeks out people who are susceptible to him—magicians, sorcerers, demon conjurers . . .”

  “People like Gilles de Rais,” said Johann softly. “Like Tonio del Moravia.”

  “Like Tonio del Moravia.” Agrippa looked at his friend. “When Gilles de Rais died on the scaffold at Nantes, the devil probably needed a new shell. I’d been looking for information on Tonio del Moravia, and at last I found something. What I dug up in the old scriptures is as surprising as it is frightening. It would appear that Tonio was a juggler and magician who grew up in the area of Constantinople, in the time before the Ottomans conquered the city. At first he was just one of the many traveling quacks who had also read up on Babylonian sorcery—probably in an attempt to impress the common people. But then he must have begun to study the subject more seriously. It is possible that Tonio summoned the devil with some sort of old Babylonian rites, and Satan truly appeared. Tonio was tried in Constantinople and condemned to burn, but he managed to escape as if by magic. Ever since then his name pops up right across Europe, and always then when children are reported missing or killed. A malicious fellow and, well”—Agrippa sighed—“possibly the devil’s new coat. It seems as if Satan depends on the blood of innocent children in order to walk on earth. Only the devil knows how many different human shells he has already used to live among us. Tonio del Moravia is just one of many—there’ll be more after him.”

  “Hang on a moment.” Karl cast a skeptical glance around the small group. “I do believe in the devil—I even believe that he’s in every one of us. But it’s the person who brings evil into the world. Gilles de Rais was an evil person. And back in Nuremberg, it was the people who murdered those poor children for some kind of horrific ritual. I’ve never seen the one devil. And why should he walk the earth? He leads people astray using what they already carry within them, with their own needs and cravings and thoughts. The rest is nothing but fiction.”

  “These people never smell the old rat, even when he has them by the collar,” muttered Johann.

  Agrippa raised his hands. “Like I said—pure theory. I can’t prove anything. Sometimes I pray that I’m wrong.”

  There was noise outside the window now, shouts, marching footsteps, but no one paid it any attention.

  “Back in Nuremberg, Tonio spoke of a coat,” said Johann pensively. “He said I was that coat.” He closed his eyes and tried to remember the words. “And when the day arrives and the great beast awakens, give it a coat. Those were his words. You spoke of a shell. Am I . . . ?”

  “The devil’s new shell?” Agrippa rocked his head from side to side. “To be honest, I don’t know, my friend. You said yourself that your master taught you much. He would have had great hopes for you and must be feeling deeply disappointed now. But perhaps it’s something entirely different.”

  “If the doctor wasn’t supposed to serve as a shell,” asked Greta, “then what had they intended for him? What could be worse than giving one’s body to Satan?”

  Agrippa frowned. “Well, I think even worse would be if the devil had more than one body. So far he is just one single person. One who doesn’t age and is very powerful, but vulnerable nonetheless. Nothing that can truly throw the world into chaos.” Agrippa reached for the cold pipe and tapped gray ashes onto the table.

  “But what if the world no longer belonged to God but to the devil? What if the ritual back in Nuremberg was part of a greater plan? The plan to achieve the state that Saint John describes in his apocalypse. The state of the world that Tonio’s dark followers long for. What if he is still trying today to create this devilish empire?”

  Agrippa paused before continuing. “His followers await the eternal rule of evil—the devil in his true form. Let us all pray that they are mistaken, that I am mistaken. That the beast stays deep down below in hell and doesn’t return to earth, subduing us all as his slaves. The return of the beast is the return of chaos. It is the spirit of perpetual negation.”

  There was a shattering noise. Johann ducked instinctively and saw a stone flying through the broken window. Angry shouts could be heard from the street. Something warm ran down his cheek. He touched it and saw that it was blood.

  The return of the beast, echoed Agrippa’s voice through Johann’s mind. The eternal rule of evil.

>   Then the great nothing spread its black wings over him.

  “Watch out!” Greta dived under the table when two more stones were hurled through the window. She saw the doctor fall—was he hit? And what was going on outside?

  Hunched over, she scuffled to the window and cast a cautious glance outside. About twenty men and women were standing in front of the house, all of them dressed in plain, worn-out clothes. Some were holding cudgels, others torches, and others again were picking up more stones. It was clear from their staggering movements that most of them were drunk—they’d probably come straight from the Graoully procession. When they caught sight of Greta in the window, they started to shake their fists angrily and shout.

  “Send out the witch doctor!” demanded a broad-shouldered, bearded man swinging a heavy club. Greta recognized the landlord from the tavern she and Karl had been drinking at not long ago. “Give us the doctor or we’ll come and get him!”

  At first she thought they were talking about her uncle and that word must have gotten around about Agrippa’s new assistant. But then Agrippa stepped to the window beside her, and instantaneously the shouts grew louder and angrier.

  “Agrippa, black sorcerer!” cried the people. “You’re in cahoots with that witch!”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Agrippa harshly. He didn’t seem frightened in the least. “I am a lawyer employed by the city, not a sorcerer. How dare you, you rabble? Get away from here before I call the city guards!”

  In the twilight below, Greta thought she could make out some guards among the crowd. They didn’t intervene, however. On the contrary—they seemed to be part of the angry mob. Greta decided to keep quiet for now.

  “And as a lawyer you ensure that the witch doesn’t burn as she should but continues to wreak havoc and murder!” shouted the broad-shouldered leader. “What did she give you for your services? A love potion? A mandrake that fulfills your every wish? Spit it out, advocate of the devil!”

  More stones were flung and Agrippa ducked.