The Devil's Pawn

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “The great Avicenna wrote that the blood runs first into one chamber and then into the other.”

  “What a shame we can’t observe the heart while it pumps blood,” said Johann. “It would be interesting to see how it works.” With his gloved right hand he pointed at the opened corpse. “The Greek physician Herophilos experimented on live humans—prisoners, mostly. That would be the only way to gain insight.”

  “I think there could be other ways,” replied Leonardo. “If it were possible to build a model made of glass, we could see inside. I prepared sketches to that effect a while ago.” He stretched his back, aching from being hunched over. “But you’re right. We’ll probably never find out what exactly drives the heart.”

  “Or man in general,” said Johann with a glum expression. “I have yet to discover a soul inside a heap of bloody meat.” He looked at Leonardo. “As much as it pleases me to conduct a dissection with you—I’d quite like to know the reason for our clandestine meeting.” He gave the old man a pleading look. “We haven’t got much time left—either of us.”

  Leonardo continued to gaze at the corpse.

  “When I was young, I, too, thought man was a machine,” he said eventually. “I searched for the general principle that ruled the universe, and also for the seat of the soul.”

  “I believe the soul doesn’t remain in the body after death,” said Johann. “It seeps out like air.”

  “Yes, but where does it fly to? To heaven or to hell? What about your soul, Doctor? And mine? Where do they go after death?” With the tip of his knife, Leonardo lifted a white band that had been concealed in the flesh. “Just look at the sinews! They always remind me of strings, like the ones puppets are suspended from. But who moves the strings—who is the puppet master wriggling us about?”

  “I . . . I think it is God,” remarked Karl hesitantly.

  “If we believe in the principle of God, then we must also believe in the devil, grappling with God for this world, right?” replied Leonardo with a bitter smile. He caressed his pendant on its thin silver chain with bloodstained fingers. Karl realized only now that it was a tiny globe. A strange thought struck him.

  The whole world hangs around Leonardo’s neck.

  “So you also believe that the . . . the devil sent us this disease?” asked Johann in a defeated voice.

  “Concerning yourself, you are the best person to answer that question. One thing is for certain: he who dances with the devil needs good shoes.” With three well-placed cuts Leonardo lifted the edge of the skin on the man’s face and pulled it off, turning the head into a red grimace that stared at them from eyes like milky marbles.

  “The devil is a good businessman,” he murmured and gazed at the grotesque face. “He always returns for his share. But by God, you can cheat him good.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Johann.

  “What you don’t feel, you’ll never catch by hunting.” Leonardo turned away without another word and washed his hands in a tub, the blood mixing with the water like small, deadly clouds.

  In the following days, Greta hurried to a long island in the Loire early every morning, closely followed by Little Satan.

  The Île d’Or, as the locals called it—the island of gold—lay between the two parts of the bridge connecting the banks of the Loire. Few houses had been built upon it, and one of the buildings was a hospice for lepers who were banished here to protect the other citizens of Amboise—and to spare the king the sight of them on his occasional visits. Behind the hospice lay nothing but swampy pasture; a few dirt paths wound their way through weeds, bushes, and islands of cattails.

  Greta left the bridge and was instantly surrounded by the monotonous buzzing of thousands of mosquitoes. She and the big black dog leaped across swampy puddles and made their way to the outermost tip of the island. There stood a small, solid, forgotten church. It was an old building that seemed as impregnable as a fortress. Greta’s heart beat wildly with anticipation and her knees grew weak. This was where they could be together undisturbed.

  This was their love nest.

  To Greta, the last few days had been the most wonderful in years. Her encounter with John outside the church of Saint Denis had changed everything, and they had been meeting here every day since. Something had developed between them, something Greta had thought impossible: true love.

  Greta’s love for John had hit her like a landslide. When she was with him, a thousand butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and when she was apart from him, she felt terribly empty and lonely. He was the air she needed to breathe, and he seemed to feel the same way about her. They lived together in their own world; everything else had receded. Tonio, the curse, worry about her father. All those thoughts were still with her, like dark shadows outside the window, but when Greta was with John, she was inside a warm, bright house and evil stayed outside.

  When she arrived at the small, ivy-covered church, Greta looked around but couldn’t see John anywhere. He had found the old building a few days before their reunion. It formed the perfect hideout for the two of them, also offering shelter from the area’s frequent April cloudbursts. Of course, Greta didn’t tell her father about where she was going and who she was meeting, and neither had she told Karl. She was afraid that they would advise her not to go.

  She entered the quiet church, with its plain stone altar and the cross carved from cherrywood. Sunlight streamed through the broken windows.

  Someone gave a cough very close to her, and Little Satan barked wildly.

  “My fair young lady,” said a familiar voice.

  Greta spun around with fright and looked into John’s smiling face. It wasn’t the first time he’d played this game with her. His ability to sneak up on her was uncanny. Not even the dog had noticed him at first.

  “Oh, John!” She rolled her eyes. “Didn’t I tell you not to frighten me so? Like a thief in the night.”

  “I am a thief, remember?” He winked at her and raised his arms apologetically. “But all right—I won’t do it again. Promise.”

  “Why is it that promises from your mouth never sound very convincing?” She laughed and fell into his arms as if they hadn’t seen each other in weeks, though they’d only been apart for one night.

  Greta unfolded the cloth she had used to wrap up a loaf of bread and some cheese. John helped himself hungrily. He had almost used up all his money. She sometimes wondered how he could still be so cheerful. He had lost his crew and his boat, but he seemed unafraid of the future.

  “What is the news from the big, wide world?” he asked between mouthfuls, wiping his lips. “What is the master painting? Any new inventions? How about some sort of flying machine that can take us away from here?”

  She gave a sad smile. “You know that Leonardo doesn’t really see me. To him, I’m just some young thing. He probably thinks I’m Johann’s maid.”

  Greta hadn’t explained the real reason for their visit to Amboise. She had told John that Johann simply wanted to see the famous Leonardo da Vinci—two great men meeting as equals. She hadn’t told John that she was his daughter, either. He assumed that she was some distant niece.

  “A maid? Ha!” John opened his eyes wide. “You’re a princess.” He bowed to her. “Your Highness, will you please allow me to whisk you away to someplace where we can start together afresh?”

  She laughed. “With pleasure!”

  “Then why don’t we? Your uncle can look after himself, and there’s always his handsome assistant. If he doesn’t want to give his permission, you just go without it. What’s stopping you?”

  “You . . . you don’t understand.” Greta didn’t fully understand it herself. She wanted to leave but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She had been traveling with Johann and Karl for so many years, and even after she learned that he’d lied to her for the longest time and that he was to blame for her mother’s death, she found that she couldn’t now abandon her father. She felt with certainty that if she left him now, she
would never see him again.

  Because he will probably die soon if Leonardo da Vinci doesn’t find a solution, she thought. And a solution doesn’t seem likely.

  “Then explain it to me,” demanded John. “Why don’t you?”

  “Another time.” She kissed him, and Little Satan watched with interest as they sank onto the stone floor of the church. Greta wondered for a moment whether it was a sin to make love beneath a cross, but then she pushed her thoughts aside and focused on John’s lips.

  Still, deep down she knew that soon she would have to tell John the real reason for their visit to Amboise.

  Her father had made a pact with the devil.

  During the following days, Leonardo da Vinci’s health worsened noticeably. He grew weaker and slept much. Now he spent hardly any time in his atelier, where a number of his paintings remained unfinished. Among the paintings in the room was also the one of the beautiful woman with the strangely wistful, knowing smile. Johann sometimes wondered if it wasn’t Leonardo himself smiling on that canvas, as if he was guarding a secret that no one else knew.

  Following the dissection in the shed, they had closed the body, carefully sewing it up, and placed it back in the coffin. No matter how much Johann had asked and urged, Leonardo hadn’t uttered another word about the devil or the disease, and Johann still puzzled over the old man’s hints.

  The devil is a good businessman. He always returns for his share.

  Evidently, Satan sometimes made deals with people. He allowed them to achieve extraordinary things—but at some point they had to pay the price. Just like Johann, and like Leonardo. And yet the old man seemed relaxed, at peace, toward the end of his life. Had it something to do with his final remark?

  But by God, you can cheat him good.

  What did Leonardo mean by that? Was there a way out after all? Years ago, at Nuremberg, Johann had cheated Tonio. Johann’s best friend, Valentin, had sacrificed himself for him and Greta. Had Leonardo managed to arrange something similar?

  And would Johann manage to do it again?

  His hopes waned by the day. The library doors remained locked and the walks in the garden gradually ceased. Johann wondered whether he had disappointed Leonardo. Why did the old man always speak in riddles? To test his wit? Leonardo’s comments during the dissection had been almost as mysterious as the word Seguaffit that Johann had found on the note in the library.

  Francesco Melzi took all this as a welcome sign that Johann had fallen out of favor with the master. One day at lunch he took the doctor aside.

  “I think you can see for yourself that the time for your departure has come,” Melzi whispered to Johann as Leonardo ate his soup with a trembling hand.

  The face of the great painter was gray and sunken, and his beard was dirty with the remains of the barley porridge from breakfast. The great Leonardo da Vinci had aged by years in the last few weeks. His pale blue eyes flickered tiredly, the light in them slowly dying out like embers in a stove. Little Satan lay under the table, looking like the black devil waiting for the soul that was promised to him.

  “The master needs rest now,” continued Melzi with a self-important expression. “He told me himself that he can’t bear your continuous badgering any longer.”

  Johann thought that was probably a lie but said nothing. It pained him to watch as Leonardo withered like a flower in fall. And he suspected that it was indeed time to say farewell.

  What are you trying to tell me, old man? Is it fear that prevents you from speaking? Who or what are you afraid of?

  “Pack your things,” ordered Melzi abruptly. “Battista will help you. I don’t want to see you here tomorrow.”

  “I want to speak with him one last time,” said Johann, glancing at Leonardo, but the artist just gazed listlessly into space. “You can’t deny me this one request.”

  “Very well. If you promise that you’re gone by the morning.” Melzi sighed. “You may visit him at his bedside later. But refrain from asking all those nosy questions—they agitate him. I will ask Battista to keep an eye on you.”

  That evening, Johann climbed the stairs to the bedroom of the great painter and inventor one last time. Breathing hard, he pulled himself up on the banister. The paralysis that had slowed down during the last few weeks had spread to Johann’s left leg. Climbing stairs was becoming difficult for him, and he moved like a very old man. Leonardo was his last chance. If this great man couldn’t help him, he saw no way out.

  What are you trying to tell me?

  Like the other rooms in the mansion, Leonardo’s bedroom was modestly furnished. There was a fireplace with a large desk in front of it, and on the other side of the room a four-poster bed adorned with carvings. In the bed, buried amid cushions, blankets, and furs, lay the great Leonardo. He seemed tiny in the huge bed, reminding Johann of a mummified chick. His eyes were closed; the rising and falling of his scrawny chest was accompanied by an ugly rattling sound.

  There will never be another like him, thought Johann. Not in a thousand years.

  The old footman Battista, with his bloodshot eyes, sat on a stool in the corner, leaning on his cane. Johann merely glanced at him. Why did the fellow always have to hang around the sick old man? And the cook, too?

  Johann cautiously approached the bed. Just as he reached its side, Leonardo opened his eyes as if he’d been expecting him.

  “Ah, Doctor Faustus,” he said with a tired smile. “It looks as though I will soon find out whether religion is preferable to philosophy after all. What a pity we can’t write letters from the other side. Or can we?” His voice sounded as brittle as a cracked bell.

  “We must leave first thing in the morning,” said Johann without responding to Leonardo’s strange question. “I just came to tell you that it has been a huge honor—”

  Leonardo shook his head impatiently. “Spare yourself the praises, I don’t have time for those. I heard the king himself will arrive soon to say goodbye, and I must finish my will.” He laughed and coughed at the same time. “I never knew that dying was this exhausting.”

  “Your enormous store of knowledge should belong to everyone.” Johann bowed. “To the whole world. And your paintings and notes, too.”

  “Francesco Melzi inherits my writs,” replied Leonardo. “I know you don’t like him very much. The feeling is mutual, by the way, but you’ll have noticed that by now.” He gave a dry laugh. “Don’t let it get you down. Francesco is a good man, just terribly jealous. He will ensure that my writings fall into the right hands. And don’t worry about me—I want a simple funeral, no spectacle fit for a king.”

  Johann cleared his throat. The moment had come—the very last opportunity to learn something after all.

  “You . . . you said a while ago that you were able to answer my question,” he began. “But you still haven’t. My disease is a curse, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed, a curse. And we both know what’s behind it.” Leonardo closed his eyes and nodded. His fingers were cramped around the tiny silver globe hanging from the chain around his neck. “You can’t cut out a curse like a wart. It stays. Trust me, I tried—I tried everything!” He coughed again, then suddenly broke out in a smile. “Ha! But I played a trick on him. Not even the devil is all-powerful. He can be outwitted. He doesn’t get everything he wants.”

  Leonardo signaled for Johann to come closer.

  “Do you remember our conversation in the garden?” whispered Leonardo. “When we spoke about war machines?”

  Johann thought. “You said some thoughts oughtn’t be written down or even spoken out loud. Is that what you mean?”

  Leonardo nodded. “Such thoughts must be taken into the grave. That is where they are safe. In the grave.” He coughed again. “Sometimes danger lurks on the side where we least expect it. The devil likes to play.”

  Suddenly the old man pulled Johann so close that his lips tickled Johann’s ear. “The night we were in the shed with the dead body. We gazed into the innermost—that was what I wante
d to show you. The greatest secrets lie at the innermost core. Do you understand? The innermost.”

  “I . . . I don’t know if I . . . ,” replied Johann. The dying man seemed to talk feverishly. Johann was going to say something else, but Leonardo pushed him away.

  “Some thoughts must be burned,” he said more loudly. “They must never come to light! I think there will be a big fire before I die, and I am going to warm my gout-ridden fingers on my many ideas one last time. I want to be alone now. Fare thee well, Doctor. And give my regards to your handsome assistant. What a shame I couldn’t have met him in my younger days.” He raised his trembling hand in farewell. “I consider you my brother in spirit. Walk the rest of your path with care.”

  He sank back into his pillows and closed his eyes. Battista shuffled toward Johann and gestured at the door.

  “Thank you. I can find my own way out,” muttered Johann.

  He gave one last nod in the direction of Leonardo da Vinci, the greatest genius the world had ever seen, and walked out into the hallway. The door creaked shut behind him.

  And with the closing door vanished the last glimmer of hope that Johann could still escape his fate.

  There was no way out.

  He was lost.

  When Greta hurried to the Île d’Or the following evening, the rushes and the swamp looked creepy to her, like hostile beings. The evening sun cast a red glow over the trees, and the shadows on the muddy ground were long. The magic she had always felt on the island had vanished. The bad news she’d received earlier awakened old fears, like a scab that was ripped off.

  This time John waited for her outside the church, his face wrought with worry.

  “Where have you been all day?” he asked, walking toward her. “I thought God-knows-what happened!”

  “Something has happened,” said Greta quietly. John hugged her, waiting for her to continue. But she took a few moments; she was too upset.

  They had left Château du Cloux very early that morning, at Melzi’s request. Leonardo da Vinci was on his deathbed; for all she knew, he might have already died. The news had hit Karl hard, since Leonardo was one of his idols. But her father was even worse. He had spent the whole day staring at the ceiling of an attic room at an inn below the castle. He murmured strange things while Karl sat watching over him. It was as if her father had given up, as if he waited for death in that bed—or for that which came after. His state probably wasn’t helped by the large amounts of theriac he consumed.