Much of what was discussed at the taverns Greta couldn’t understand, and she didn’t want to eavesdrop too conspicuously. Nor did she want to engage in any sort of flirtation. Johann had asked her to take Little Satan along, but she’d said no. She would have been the center of attention with the enormous black dog by her side, and she didn’t want that.
When the city gates closed, she felt like meandering along the river for a while. The setting sun painted red reflections on the current of the Loire. Greta dreamily gazed out at the mighty river, which was almost three hundred paces wide in this spot. Ships and smaller barges drifted past. Some of the young boatmen cast lascivious glances at her, and some even whistled, but Greta had only a thin smile for them. Most of those boys were younger than her and acted as if they were tough men. It was always the same—either men were still wet behind the ears or they were old and fat and overly proud of their well-filled purses. Most likely, the right man for her didn’t exist. Greta thought of Agrippa’s Elsbeth, his friendly, content wife and a mother. Would Greta ever have a family of her own? She felt a twinge of pain in her heart.
Perhaps I’m more like my father than I knew, and I will always be alone.
Greta was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice as the houses grew more sparse. The shouts of the port workers became quieter; the moorings ended. Not far past the city, the muddy riverbank turned into marshland with reeds and cattails as tall as a man. A few startled herons took off. Dusk spread over the water and turned its rich green color first to gray and then to black.
Greta was about to turn back when she spotted something moving in the reeds. She saw a flash of red and heard furtive footsteps. She gave a little jump but told herself to relax. It was likely just that John Reed following her. He probably thought his cheeky manners and a few compliments would suffice to seduce her among the reeds. The impertinent fellow wouldn’t be the first to get nothing but a bloody nose from her.
“Why don’t you come on out, you coward?” she called, bracing her hands on her hips. “I know it’s you, John Redhead. Didn’t my father tell you that I’m going to the nunnery? You’re wasting your time. But you’re welcome to join me for a rosary!”
There was more rustling in the reeds nearby, the brown seed heads of the cattails swaying gently in the wind.
Then Greta realized that there was no wind. The reeds swayed because someone was moving them. Maybe there was even more than one. She began to feel a little concerned, reaching for her knife and looking all around her.
“If you think you can frighten me, you’re mistaken!” she shouted into the darkness. “All you’ll get from me is a bloody nose.”
But all remained silent. In the distance, she could hear the noises of the port—soft laughter, shouts, and even a faint melody. Someone was playing the flute. Greta recognized the tune, surprised that someone would play an old children’s song.
Susie, dear Susie, what’s rustling in the straw?
Greta listened. Did the melody actually come from the port? The sound was so faint, played on a willow whistle like the type shepherds sometimes used. Suddenly she felt certain that the melody wasn’t coming from the port.
But from the reeds.
Susie, dear Susie what’s—
The melody broke off as abruptly as if the flute player had his throat cut. Greta kept her eyes peeled, listening. There! Another glimpse of something red among the rushes. It had to be a shock of hair, but it vanished in an instant. The reeds swayed again and a whirring sound arose, a swooshing and rushing as if a storm was swiftly approaching.
Greta suddenly wasn’t so sure whether it was John Reed lurking in the reeds or . . . something else.
She started to run. She ran back along the same narrow dirt track she had followed here, the first lights of the harbor only about fifty paces away, and yet the distance seemed to stretch forever. The cattails rushed and whispered beside her as if they were talking to her.
Greta . . . Greta . . . ssstay . . . ssstay with ussss . . .
As she continued to race along in panic, she realized the reeds were moving with her! Something or someone was running alongside her, very closely, concealed by the rushes.
Ssstay with usss . . .
And there was another sound she now heard.
Panting.
Greta ran as if the devil were after her. Reeds hit her face, then suddenly she felt gravel underneath her feet followed by the slippery timber of planks. She had reached the moorings. But she didn’t stop—she ran and ran and ran until she came to the first brightly illuminated tavern. Only then did she stop, doubling over and gasping for breath. Her heart was beating in her throat, almost drowning out the noise from inside the tavern. She turned around and looked at the reeds, which stood out as a black silhouette against the night sky. She thought she could still see some of the rushes move, like waving hands.
Farewell, Greta.
Greta shook herself. What was the matter with her? She wasn’t usually easily frightened. But what if—
A hand grasped her by the shoulder. Greta screamed.
“Can I help you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She spun around and saw the face of John Reed. The flickering lantern above the tavern door shone on his red hair, making it look like flames. He must have just come from the narrow alley next to the building.
Or he had been very close behind her.
Greta’s hands moved to the dagger at her side.
“Thanks, I’m fine,” she said, carefully glancing about. A merry group of men walked past, gawking at her. Now she was glad of it, because at least she wasn’t alone with the creepy Scotsman.
John’s face darkened. “Listen, lass, I don’t know what you think of me, but I’ll tell you one thing: I’m not one of those men who helps themselves to a woman like a cow or a sheep.” He gave a smirk. “And you’re not that pretty. Don’t flatter yourself, princess.” He saw the knife in her hand and frowned. “Christ, how suspicious can ye be? I should be glad you didn’t cut me down like a common thief.”
The door to the tavern opened and a young, slightly drunken man looked about searchingly. When he saw John with Greta, he grinned.
“Ah, that’s what’s been keeping you,” he said with a laugh. “We thought you must have fallen down the outhouse hole.” He winked at the two of them. “You two going to be much longer? Then I’ll just roll the dice for you, John.”
“No, the two of us are quite done,” said John brusquely, giving Greta a nod. “See you in the morning, princess. Better put that letter opener away before you hurt yourself.” Then he followed the other man back into the tavern.
Greta stood as if rooted to the spot. She felt terribly stupid. She’d immediately assumed that it had been John Reed hiding by the river, when all this time he had been playing dice at the tavern. Or had he gone outside a while ago and followed her? But then his friends would have come looking for him sooner. Greta sighed. She no longer knew what to believe.
As she slowly walked back to the inn where her father and Karl waited, she continuously had the feeling that she was being followed. But every time she spun around there was nothing. No man, nothing red.
Red.
Greta held her breath and stopped.
Just as she arrived at the inn and saw the outlines of Karl and her father sitting at a table behind the windows, she realized who else the red head might have belonged to.
Kiss my scaly hand . . . farewell, Greta.
And then she remembered how she knew the melody that she’d heard by the reeds.
“It was Tonio! I saw Tonio!”
Greta stared at the two men, her eyes flickering. Johann hadn’t seen his daughter this terrified in a long time—not since she’d been locked up in a jail below Nuremberg as a fourteen-year-old girl. With trembling hands she clutched a cup of wine.
Greta had stormed into the taproom moments after knocking on the window. Now she was sitting at their table, white-faced, her dress dre
nched in sweat despite the cold night. Johann gathered from her hasty words that someone had followed her. It seemed that his worst fears were coming true.
Tonio was reaching out for his daughter! The shock was so profound that it suppressed another fit.
“I told you it was too dangerous to walk about by yourself,” groused Johann, trying not to show how afraid he was. “And no one said you could hang about the harbor. Why didn’t you at least take the dog?”
“Don’t talk to me as if I’m a child,” she retorted. “You can’t order me around.”
Johann was about to reply but stopped himself. At least Greta was still defiant, despite the bad fright.
“I know it was a mistake to go into the wetlands,” she admitted. “But I couldn’t know—”
“What makes you think it was Tonio?” asked Karl.
“It was his red cap. The same cap he wore as a French delegate and later in Metz. Remember, Karl? At first I thought it was that John Reed following me, but then . . .” She shuddered.
“What is it?” asked Johann.
“I heard a song in the rushes, very softly,” she whispered. “Someone played it on a flute. It was a children’s song, and suddenly I remembered.”
“Remembered what?” asked Karl with growing frustration.
Greta just clutched the cup with the steaming spiced wine.
Johann thumped his fist on the table impatiently, causing a few people at the other tables to turn their heads. “Speak up! What did you remember?”
“Back in Nuremberg,” Greta said. “You know how someone lured me underneath the bridge near the Hospital of the Holy Ghost, to the dead child? Where the guards found me with the talisman in my pocket and arrested me. There was a man by the river . . . and he played a flute. He played the same song.” Greta looked up and locked eyes with Johann. “It was Tonio, both times. I had forgotten the encounter at Nuremberg. I wanted to forget. But I recognized him by the song. And he hummed it later, too, in the prison cell, when he made me drink the potion. He said that if Faust didn’t come, then . . .”
“Then he’d take you in my stead,” muttered Johann. “That goddamn pied piper.”
“And you’re completely certain that you didn’t imagine it all?” asked Karl. “I mean, the rushing in the reeds, whispering and whistling. It could have been the wind. The howling of the wind sometimes sounds just like a willow whistle. And our own fears do the rest.”
Johann shook his head. “No, I believe it truly was Tonio. That evil creature followed us. For some reason he wants to prevent us from visiting Leonardo da Vinci. But he won’t stop us. Not if we—” He went to squeeze Greta’s hand, when he realized that he couldn’t move his arm.
“What is it?” asked Greta, worried.
“The paralysis,” whispered Karl. “It’s progressing.”
Johann said nothing. He had sworn to Greta that he wouldn’t lie to her again—and yet he had done it. He had told her that sometimes a person whose death he’d foreseen didn’t end up dying. He had said it to lend courage to his daughter, to leave her with some hope. But it wasn’t the truth.
The lines of the palm always showed the future.
He would die.
The only glimmer of hope he had left was Leonardo da Vinci. If Agrippa was right and the great artist was grappling with the same disease, he might be able to help.
Maybe Leonardo also entered a pact with Tonio. Maybe he knows how we might beat the devil.
“We don’t have much time left,” said Johann with a glance at his left arm, hanging limply at his side like a dead piece of meat. “Let’s hope that John Reed has a fast boat. The game begins. Rien ne va plus.”
With one jerking move he swiped all the chess pieces off the table.
In the shadow of a wall stood a man, licking his lips. The dampness of the nocturnal fog had made his makeup run, revealing wrinkly skin, sunken features, and two maliciously gleaming eyes like glowing pieces of coal inside a skull. The man’s palate was dry; his tongue felt like a withered old root. Perhaps that was what it had been for years. Nothing but an old root. The man was waiting for news from his winged messengers. He looked up once more and finally spotted three black dots moving toward him in the sky.
“Azazel, Baphomet, Belial!” called out the master. “There you are! Why did you take so long?”
The birds cawed and landed on the outstretched arm of the master. Their beaks clattered as if they were speaking to him. The master closed his eyes and nodded.
“Very well,” he said after a while. “Everything is going to plan. Everything—what is it?” The birds flapped their wings restlessly and the master laughed. “Of course, you’re hungry. How thoughtless of me. We all need something to eat and to drink—hunger is chewing through my innards, too.”
Almost lovingly he set down the raven and the two crows, who instantly started bickering over a rotten fish. The master watched them with amusement.
“We need better meat. Much better. And younger.”
He pursed his lips and whistled a song.
Susie, dear Susie, what’s rustling in the straw?
“Let us go hunting.” Like a phantom he peeled from the shadows and started moving down the lane where the houses huddled closely. Lights still burned behind many of the widows. “Mmmh, I can smell them in their soft little beds. Can you smell them, too?”
The birds cawed, and the master chuckled with relish. “The sky is heavy with fresh grapes. How do they say? Vivre comme Dieu en France!”
7
THE GOBLET MADE OF THE FINEST VENETIAN GLASS WENT flying through the air and landed precisely on the breasts of the dainty, half-naked dancer, shattering into a thousand pieces. Red streaks ran down her skin, a mix of blood and wine. Shaking and crying, the woman cowered on the ground, shielding her head with her arms for fear of further attacks.
“That isn’t dancing, that is just wild leaping about! The monkeys in my menagerie can do better.”
Pope Leo X had risen from his throne and was looking around for other missiles. Thankfully, the servants had swiftly removed all other drinking vessels. The pontiff’s outbursts were legendary, but they always fizzled out as quickly as they arrived. The assembled Vatican court held its breath; servants, courtiers, and even the musicians had taken a few steps back, isolating the young woman on the floor as if she had a contagious disease. Even Leo’s jester was silent, which didn’t happen often. Next to the pope, the Spanish ambassador Don Arturo de Acuña cleared his throat. He seemed to be the only person brave enough to stand up to the most powerful ruler in Christendom.
“Holy Father, I beg you,” he said. “Please consider your heart.”
“Get that wench out of my sight before I feed her to my panthers,” growled Leo, already a little calmer. His throne with the silken baldachin was standing in one of the many courtyards of the Cortile del Belvedere, where the pope received important foreign guests like the Spanish ambassador, who was seated next to him, albeit a little lower.
Leo reached for a bowl with chilled candied fruit and leaned back into his cushions adorned with peacock feathers. His throne was surrounded by cages filled with screeching parrots, dozing lions and leopards, monkeys baring their teeth, one mangy bear, and one so-called giraffe, which looked like a spotted donkey with a ridiculously long neck.
Leo was enormously proud of his menagerie. Many of the animals were gifts of noblemen, cardinals, and prince-bishops—from rulers far and wide who wanted to demonstrate their devotion to the pope and incidentally secure their living. Leo adored each one of his animals. His favorite used to be the elephant Hanno, a gift from the Portuguese king Emanuel I. Sadly, the white giant died of constipation a few years ago, after the physicians administered a laxative enriched with gold. The rhinoceros that had been sent as a replacement had gone down with the ship on its way to Rome, much to the pope’s dismay.
He preferred animals to people, as the latter only ever tried to betray him or fawn and curry favor. This de Ac
uña was no exception. In an attempt to make the pope well disposed toward him, the Spanish ambassador had presented him with five precious parrots from the New World. The birds paid homage to him in five different languages—not a bad idea from the Spanish Habsburgs. But Leo knew the real reason for de Acuña’s visit.
“To be honest, I am glad we finally get some time to engage in a proper conversation,” said the ambassador in a honeyed voice. “As much as I love your shows. ¡Por Dios! They are like perfect works of art.”
“Well, art is long! And life is short and fleeting,” replied Leo. “If you have something to say—out with it.”
De Acuña lowered his gaze. “As always, you are right, venerable father.” He wore a tight, bodice-like tunic with a ruff on his neck, as was fashionable among the Spaniards. His decorative épée would at the most be useful for killing a rat. “Have you put any more thought into the matter of the imminent election of the German king?”
Leo smiled thinly. “Since when does the pope get a vote in that election?”
“Perhaps not a vote as such, but your word carries a lot of weight,” replied de Acuña cautiously. “The prince-bishops especially look to you for guidance.”
“You know my opinion,” said Leo curtly, watching as some Swiss guards finally dragged the bawling dancer away. De Acuña was right. Following Emperor Maximilian’s death back in January, it was time to choose a new king of the Germans. The king was elected by the seven electors—the most powerful men in the country—and three of those were bishops, allies of the pope. But Leo had indicated a long time ago that he favored the French king Francis I instead of Maximilian’s grandson Charles. With a Habsburg emperor on the throne who ruled Spain and the German lands as well as northern Italy, Rome would be in a dangerous position.
“Perhaps His Holiness would consider more gifts—” started de Acuña.
“More parrots?” Leo laughed out loud. “Let’s not fool ourselves, dear de Acuña. Young Charles needs all the money in the world right now if he wants to sway the election in his favor. And as far as I have heard, the Fuggers are divided over the question of advancing any more funds to the Habsburgs.”
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