The Devil's Pawn

by Oliver Pötzsch

  The pope nibbled on grapes and signaled for the musicians to play on, allowing him to close his eyes and think. There were things that were more important to him than the imperial election. Only that morning a messenger had arrived with a new letter from his representative, reporting that Viktor von Lahnstein was still looking for Johann Georg Faustus and that they were following a lead west. Leo still struggled to believe how that crafty doctor had managed to escape at Altenburg Castle—in front of half the empire! Faust had thumbed his nose at all of them. Since then, Lahnstein was in pursuit of the doctor, who seemed to have gone into hiding in France, of all places. Leo’s time was running out. And instead of the distraction he so direly needed, he was forced to listen to de Acuña’s greasy flattery.

  “Have you heard of the events at Bamberg?” asked Don de Acuña now. He tried to sound casual, but Leo heard the glee. “This Doctor Faustus everyone is talking about, he made a right fool of you. The beast from the apocalypse will soon rule in Rome.” He chuckled. “The nerve of it!”

  “This doctor will receive his just punishment,” hissed Leo. “Don’t you worry about that.”

  “Are you sure? I hear he has vanished without a trace—just like a real magician. And apparently that isn’t the only skill he has mastered,” added the Spaniard ominously.

  “What . . . what do you mean?” Leo’s head spun around; the music and the laughter of the others suddenly seemed far away.

  What do you know?

  Don de Acuña shrugged his shoulders innocently. “Faust is a magician, an astrologer, and an alchemist, too. Someone like that is difficult to catch. His skills are manifold.” He rose and bowed low. “Please excuse me. It’s been a long day.”

  Leo held out his fleshy fingers, and de Acuña kissed his ring. As the Spanish ambassador walked away past the silver lion cages and aviaries, the pope’s gaze followed him.

  What do you know? What do the Habsburgs know?

  Damn, it was high time for Lahnstein to find that doctor before someone else did. Time was running out. He needed the doctor here in Rome—now!

  Leo fell back into his cushions with a sigh. He craved diversion, and something better than that silly dance. The tune had sounded rather heathen—not to mention the way she had twisted her body. Though he had to admit that the girl had a pretty figure. Those small, firm breasts, almost like lemons.

  “Why do you throw a tantrum when such a cute little thing dances just for you?” said a voice behind him. “Is your formerly proud manhood waning? Are you angry because nothing stirred underneath the papal gown but hot air?”

  “How dare you!” Outraged, Leo turned around only to realize it was his jester, Luvio, who had sneaked up to him from behind and now waved his tambourine.

  The jester bowed low, making his absurdly large hunchback and the ridiculously garish costume stand out even more. “Always at your service, Your Holiness, with jest and foolishness.”

  Leo smiled for the first time that day. At least good old Luvio had recovered. He’d been worried the wart-covered ugly fool would die from that marsh fever that had brought half of Rome to a standstill over the winter. There had been hundreds of deaths, and Luvio had spent several weeks in the hospital. But his jester always bounced back.

  Just like me.

  The pope took a deep breath and listened to the music, a cheerful rondo played with flutes, harps, and violins, and much more familiar than those shrill tunes from earlier. The gentle notes soothed him. His fate was prescribed—he would enter history as the pope who led Rome back to its former glory. And neither Habsburg nor France could change that. Surely, he had been mistaken. Don de Acuña knew nothing. How could he?

  He leaned down to Luvio. “You’re right, my fool,” he said quietly. “I was overpowered by anger.”

  Luvio grinned. “Fools always speak the truth, Your Holiness. Just like whores.”

  “Make sure that little whore is brought to my bedchamber tonight. I will prove to you and her that a mighty storm still rages beneath my gown. You will hear her screams right through Castel Sant’Angelo.”

  The jester jingled his bells and bowed once more. “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

  The music ended with one last beat of the drum.

  Holding a well-used deck of cards, Greta sat on a chest at the rear of the boat and let the cards slide through her fingers. She only ever moved one card, and the rest seemed to follow as if by magic. Then Greta picked up the entire deck, bent it, and let it go so that the cards went flying through the air with a hissing sound. She cleverly caught the deck with her other hand.

  “Not bad. I used to be able to do that. I believe I was one of the first. I used to perform it for your mother. There weren’t many printed playing cards around then, but the church screamed bloody murder, calling it the devil’s game.”

  Greta looked up. Johann had come over soundlessly and now stood there smiling at her. She still struggled to view him as her father. To her, he was one of the smartest and most learned men in the world, famous and notorious, the hero of many tales both true and false. But her father? How much did they have in common? She feared it was more than she cared to admit.

  “I’ve been practicing this trick for a long time,” said Greta, putting the cards away. “I’m surprised you only noticed now.”

  They stood together in silence, gazing out at the river that rolled lazily through the landscape like a huge snake, past woods, gentle hills, villages, and distant castles. It was almost noon; they’d been traveling for a few hours since their departure from Orléans. The Loire Valley was as lovely as if God had put in a special effort during its creation, but Greta struggled to see its beauty. Her mind was still preoccupied with last night’s eerie encounter. Had it really been Tonio stalking her in the reeds? After she’d gone to bed she dreamed of a creature with eyes as deep as craters reaching out for her with its scaly hand. The face of the creature had changed all of a sudden, turning into that of her father, who dragged her into the abyss.

  Kiss my scaly hand, my dear. We are going to change the world.

  She had woken with a scream, drenched with sweat and the bitter taste of ash in her throat. At the same time she had felt strangely excited and aroused. What was this Tonio doing to her?

  Johann’s left arm still hung limply at his side. When he noticed Greta’s look, his smile died.

  “It hasn’t gotten worse, if that’s what you’re wondering. But not better, either. I entreated Reed to go faster—I even offered him more money—but he doesn’t want to. Reckons we have to spend the night at Blois anyhow, because he’s picking up more freight. Maybe we should have taken the horses.” Johann sighed. “Too late now.”

  They had sold the horses at Orléans because they couldn’t bring them aboard the Étoile de Mer, as Reed had named his boat ostentatiously. It was nothing more than a shallow, single-masted barge, ten paces long; it had seen better days. There were patched-up holes and the timber was worm-eaten, and the crew consisted of three somber-looking fellows who treated Karl, Johann, and Greta as if they were only more crates and cloth bales. They did respect Little Satan, though, and tried to avoid him—not an easy feat on a small boat. The young man John had played dice with the night before wasn’t part of the crew. These men seemed more like grim soldiers than boatmen.

  John wasn’t nearly as jovial as the day before, and he hadn’t looked at Greta once. Most of the time he stood at the prow with a long pole, checking for shallow patches. Greta was sorry about how she had treated John the previous night. She had acted like a stupid little girl.

  But none of that mattered. What mattered was what lay ahead.

  “What do you intend to do once we reach Amboise?” she asked her father. “It’s not going to be easy to meet Leonardo da Vinci in person. He is a famous, busy man.”

  Johann shrugged; the gesture came out looking rather helpless with the limp arm. “I am famous and busy, too. We’ll see who people are still talking about in a hundred years.” He smiled
thinly. “I just hope the great Leonardo will grant me an audience. I’ve been keeping an ear out. They say the French king is crazy about him. Francis I brought Leonardo from Rome to the Loire a few years ago and gave him the magnificent manor house where the king spent his own childhood. It is called Château du Cloux, even though it isn’t a real castle.”

  Johann gazed at the opposite bank. Greta wondered if he scanned the reedy edge for possible threats.

  “When the king resides at Amboise, he sees Leonardo almost every day,” continued Johann. “Francis treats Leonardo as if the artist were his father. You’re right, it won’t be easy to get an audience.” He clenched his teeth and held on to the railing with his right hand. “But I must try. This book Leonardo wrote . . .”

  “The Figura Umana?”

  Johann nodded. “It proves that Leonardo has studied the human body intensively, probably more than most scientists. He is a true genius. I browsed through it again last night. Believe me, if there’s anyone who can tell me what this accursed disease is about and whether there’s anything we can do against Tonio, it is Leonardo da Vinci. I should have sought him out much sooner.”

  Johann’s eyes turned to the sky, where clouds collided like huge dragons. “No birds,” he said with relief. “Maybe we managed to shake him.”

  Instead of explaining, her father gently touched Greta with his hand. “I’m going to sit down for a while. I’m tired. I think we should reach Blois in about two hours. Let’s hope Reed hurries up.”

  He gave her an encouraging smile and walked over to Karl.

  Greta’s eyes followed him. She thought her father had aged in the last few years, not so much on the outside, but inwardly. He looked as though something was consuming him from the inside, some sort of parasite that grew stronger as he grew weaker. Greta thought of the lines in Faust’s hand that faded more and more, and of the throbbing she had felt and the dark aura she had seen in his palm.

  Who are you really, Father? And what is your connection with Tonio?

  To take her mind off things, she walked past the many chests, bales, and crates to the front of the boat where John Reed was sitting. His strong arms held the pole he used to detect shoals. She watched him for a while before clearing her throat.

  “I want to apologize,” she said.

  He said nothing at first, staring into the water as if something extremely fascinating was floating by. Then, without looking up, he asked, “What for?”

  “For acting like a fool last night. You aren’t a common thief or one of those men who prey upon young girls in the night.”

  “Oh, now you’re doing me another injustice. I’m definitely a rascal.” John looked up and Greta saw the mischief in his grin. “I think it’s in my blood. The Scottish are a small, stubborn people, forever careful to keep our bigger neighbor at bay with wit and cunning. But I know just how you can make it up to me.” He put down the pole and stood up.

  Greta hesitated. “And how is that?”

  “First, don’t talk to me like I’m some sort of fop—I’m John, plain and simple, John. Got it?” He held out his hand and smiled, showing his white teeth again. “Second, you and I are going out for a cup of wine in Blois. I know a cozy little pub where they cook a stew almost as good as in the Scottish Highlands. Simple, soggy, and salty—no frills, unlike most grub you get in this land of frog eaters and oyster slurpers.”

  “All right,” replied Greta, laughing. “On one condition.” She gestured toward Johann, who was just throwing a piece of meat to Little Satan, who caught it and swallowed it with one big gulp. “The dog comes along. Little Satan will make sure no harm befalls me.”

  John’s eyebrows shot up. “The dog is called Little Satan?” He laughed out loud. “The devil watches over the nun. For heaven’s sake. Well, I’m sure we’ll both be very safe.”

  They arrived at Blois in the early evening. After one last bend in the river, the hills suddenly opened up, and Greta’s eyes beheld a city so beautiful that she thought she was dreaming. If Orléans had been stunning, then Blois was the definition of royal pomp. Sitting enthroned above the Loire was a large, three-winged castle with oriels and little towers, its rows of glass windows reflecting the sunlight. The castle was surrounded by gardens landscaped in terraces. The houses down by the river were tiled with slate, and several flights of wide steps led to a large church and more houses. Through the evening haze Greta could make out palatial buildings that probably belonged to noblemen or court officials. There seemed to be nothing ugly in this city—no poverty, no malice, and no dirt.

  Karl, too, appeared to be impressed.

  “Think about the holes we call castles and towns back home,” he muttered as the boat navigated toward the other vessels in the harbor. Many of them had hoisted the flag of the French king, depicting a fire-spitting salamander. “All those dirt-poor German knights in their drafty keeps. The nobility here truly knows how to live. Savoir-vivre—that’s what they say about the French.”

  “Not bad, huh?” John grinned. He was standing at the prow with a rope in his hand, ready to dock when the boat reached the moorings. “You’ll see more of those castles in the coming days. The valley is full of them. But Château de Blois certainly is one of the most beautiful. Blois was the main residence of the previous king, Louis XII. Francis I also comes to stay a lot, but I think he prefers Amboise. His wife, Claude, spent her childhood at Blois.”

  “Spare us your commentary,” said Johann abruptly. “All I want to know is how long we’re going to stay here.”

  “At least until midday tomorrow. I have business to take care of. You can attend early mass at Saint Nicolas Church and touch the relics of Saint Laudomar, considering you’re a pious pilgrim. The saint was said to be a grumpy hermit—just to your taste.” John winked at the doctor, who ignored the jest.

  Greta had told her father that she was going to a tavern with John that evening. Johann hadn’t been thrilled, but when she assured him that she would take the dog, he had given his consent—he knew he couldn’t stop her, anyway.

  “You’ll do it whether or not I say you can,” he’d answered. “But please be careful.”

  The crew tossed the ropes ashore, where a handful of laborers caught them and pulled the boat parallel against the dock. A plank was extended, and the ostensible pilgrim family went ashore. They left their few belongings on the boat, where the crew would also be staying. They were immediately assailed by enterprising locals trying to sell them a room at an inn, but John fobbed them all off.

  “You’re staying at the Hotel Tambour,” he said decisively. “It’s the best you’ll get if you don’t want to spend too much. Follow me.”

  A few royal soldiers hung about the port and unenthusiastically checked the newly arrived wares. The harbormaster sat at a table and noted down the freight. The unshaved man with his red-and-blue officer’s cap had nothing but a tired glance for the three travelers. Karl and Johann were walking ahead when Greta noticed a crowd of people down by the shore a little off to the side, close to the fishing vessels. She could hear loud wailing and crying, and then a woman screamed out. Greta stopped and listened.

  “What is going on there?” she asked.

  “Hmm, an accident, perhaps?” John squinted but couldn’t make out much in the evening light. He walked down to the group and returned a short while later with a sad expression on his face.

  “They fished a dead child out of the water,” he explained. “A little boy. Apparently he’s from a village up the river. It looks as though the poor lad got caught in a net and drowned. His mother just arrived.”

  Another scream rang out, and Greta shuddered. The woman cried and wailed, and now they could make out words between the sobs.

  “L’ogre!” she lamented. “Mon Dieu, l’ogre mange nos enfants! L’ogre!”

  Greta’s French was good enough by then to understand the gist of what the woman was saying.

  “‘The ogre eats our children’?” She turned to John. “What
is that supposed to mean?”

  John shrugged. “I’m a Scotsman, not French. Probably an expression for when the Loire claims a child. It happens from time to time—children play by the river, run about while their mothers do the washing . . .” He turned away and started to walk up toward the city gate. “Enough of the ghost stories. Blois is a royal residence, remember? Sadness is prohibited under penalty of death.”

  As they followed John, they heard the mother cry out once more, a high-pitched, shrill scream like from a dying animal.

  Not much later, Greta and John sat in a tavern with an earthen bowl between them, the brown, viscous contents of which John hungrily devoured. Under the table, Little Satan waited for the occasional spoonful. The meal had an unpronounceable name, but its main ingredients appeared to be tough ram, offal, pearl barley, and turnips, all simmered over the fire for several hours. Not even the many herbs—Greta thought she tasted a little mint—could overpower the dish’s musty smell.

  John had been so excited about this meal, but she struggled to like it. She stirred her spoon around the bowl, not feeling any appetite, and nibbled on some hard barley bread. She didn’t say much, which wasn’t John’s fault—the young merchant tried very hard to please her, and not entirely unsuccessfully. He was charming, talkative without being obtrusive, and, despite his crooked nose and the freckles, rather handsome. If Greta was entirely honest with herself, she had grown fond of the young swashbuckler, even if she’d never tell him that. John thought much too highly of himself as it was.

  The tavern was located amid a maze of small, steep lanes near a church on one of the hills Blois had been built upon. John had pointed out the carvings on the front of the house as they’d entered, including the figures of jugglers and musicians. The tavern was called Le Coq Rouge and appeared to be popular among the locals; there was much laughter and even music. But Greta couldn’t get in the mood, because every time the flute player started a new song, she was reminded of the song from the reeds the previous night.