The Devil's Pawn

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “John?” shouted Greta. “Christ, John, where are you?”

  There was no reply.

  Karl’s hand moved to the hand cannon he was keeping under his blanket. He cursed under his breath when he remembered that he hadn’t loaded it. What good was an unloaded pistol?

  Well, at least potential attackers wouldn’t know that it isn’t loaded, he thought.

  He rose abruptly, clutching his weapon. “I’m going to take a look myself. I’ll be back soon.”

  “I don’t think we should all split up, God damn it,” said Johann. “We must stick together and . . .”

  But Karl had already disappeared among the trees. As soon as he left the clearing with the campfire, everything around him became pitch black. Again he heard furtive steps sneaking through the woods and another growl, and this time Karl thought he could make out Little Satan.

  “Satan,” he hissed. “Come here!”

  Karl thought saying this unholy name out loud in the dark of night sounded like a bad omen. He clutched the handle of the hand cannon tightly, holding it out in front of him like a protective amulet. He listened for a while longer. When nothing happened, he walked back to the clearing.

  And froze.

  “What the devil?” he gasped.

  Greta and the doctor had vanished.

  Their furs and blankets were still by the fire, and one of the books lay on Johann’s bed, the pages moving in the breeze. It looked as though the two of them had just left for a moment, but Karl knew they weren’t coming back.

  Someone or something had taken them.

  Just then Karl heard a noise behind him, a soft hissing as from a snake. A leather string was thrown around his neck and tightened, suffocating him.

  Then everything went black.

  Johann slowed his breathing.

  Panic welled up inside him in tall waves, each new surge making it harder to breathe. He thought he would suffocate, mostly due to the dirty rag someone had stuffed into his mouth. Another rag had been tied around his eyes and nose, so that Johann was gliding through a sea of darkness. But worst of all, he couldn’t move.

  This is what it’s going to be like, he thought. Very soon. As if I’m buried alive.

  He jerked back and forth wildly, like a fish on dry land. Someone hit him over the head. He was almost grateful for the blow, because it reminded him that he wasn’t wholly paralyzed but merely bound and gagged. He was tied belly down to the back of a horse, and the steady rocking and occasional snorting calmed him down. His breathing was becoming more regular. The rag over his nose didn’t let much air through, but enough to prevent him from passing out. How long had they been riding? Minutes, hours? He had lost any sense of time.

  The last thing he remembered was the sound of a branch snapping behind him. He had just risen to fetch Karl back from the forest when someone placed a strap around his neck and pulled tight with brutal force, and then he must have lost consciousness. Whoever was behind this abduction knew what they were doing. They didn’t want to kill him, just immobilize him. He had awoken on the back of the horse, tied up like a bale of cloth.

  He heard soft whimpering from beside him and breathed a sigh of relief. It sounded like Greta. They’d probably done the same thing to her. Johann thought frantically about who their abductors might be. The most likely candidate was Viktor von Lahnstein. Was he planning on taking him all the way to Rome like this? Or could it be Tonio and his henchmen? But somehow this attack didn’t feel like Tonio’s handiwork. It had been too rough and, at the same time, not malicious enough.

  Johann occasionally heard the muffled voices of men. They conversed in French, but Johann couldn’t make out much. He hung across the animal’s back like a sack of flour with his head down, the blood collecting in his legs, which grew increasingly numb. It felt like the paralysis was finally spreading through the rest of his body. Johann was overcome by profound fear. He felt like a dead lump of wood with eyes and a mouth, rigid and lifeless yet conscious.

  That’s how it’s going to be soon.

  He tried to think of something nice. Of his daughter, the most precious thing on earth to him, even if she had taken to that braggart of a Scotsman. Was John Reed still alive? Or had their kidnappers gotten rid of him, and Karl, too? To his horror, Johann realized that he wasn’t feeling grief at the thought.

  My heart is also turning numb. Or has it always been that way?

  After what felt like an eternity the sounds changed, the clatter of the hooves becoming brighter, as if the horses were walking on cobblestones now, then timber. Then they stopped. Someone shouted something, there was a creaking and rattling, and they moved on. A chilly wind tugged at Johann’s clothes. His back ached as if someone had hit him with a cudgel.

  Finally his horse stopped again. Men laughed as they dismounted, then someone grabbed him and dragged him off the saddle. He caught a brief glimpse through a slit in the rag covering his eyes and made out a dark courtyard lit by torches. The chilly breeze gave him the impression they were atop a hill. Someone cut the ropes around his feet, pulled him up, and gave him a slap on the back, as if encouraging an old mule to walk. Johann’s legs caved in, so the men carried him up many steps, cursing profusely in French. His hands were still tied and he couldn’t see.

  After a while they seemed to arrive at a chamber. It was cold and echoey. They sat Johann down on a stone bench, and then nothing happened for a while. He could tell by the groaning to his left and right that he wasn’t the only prisoner. He thought he could make out at least two other people and prayed that they were Greta and Karl.

  Finally a door opened somewhere and footsteps approached.

  “Retirez-lui le bandeau des yeux,” ordered a soft voice.

  Rough fingers removed his gag and ripped the cloth off his eyes. The light from the torches blinded his good eye like the sun so that Johann couldn’t make out much for a while. Men clad in polished armor walked away and a door slammed shut. Johann blinked and rubbed his eye. A figure as large as a bear blocked his field of vision. He lifted his head and blinked again to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. But it was no dream.

  Standing in front of Johann was the king of France.

  12

  THERE COULD BE NO DOUBT.

  Johann knew King Francis I from countless paintings. The young French ruler had an interesting face with a particularly large nose, which the ladies considered an expression of his manliness. His black beard was cropped short, according to the latest fashion, and his eyes looked somewhat sleepy underneath heavy lids. Francis was a giant of more than six feet, with a mighty chest and a muscular build. And then there was the royal garment he wore, made from the finest green silk, and the silver-plated cuirass displaying the fire-spitting salamander of the royal crest.

  “Welcome to Chinon Castle, my dear doctor,” said the king. His French was soft and melodious, like that of a bard. “I hope your journey here wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

  “The suspension of the carriage didn’t seem to be the latest model,” croaked Johann. He looked to his left and right on the stone ledge and saw Greta and Karl perched there as well. There was no sign of John Reed. Johann felt profound relief washing over him but tried not to show it. Greta and Karl also appeared to have recognized the man in front of them and stared at him with a mixture of surprise, fear, and respect. It wasn’t every day that they had an audience with one of the most powerful rulers in the world.

  “At least I traveled in good company,” said Johann now. “I despise going anywhere without my daughter and my assistant.”

  Francis smiled. “I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor, Doctor. Your French is excellent, by the way.”

  “I learned your language by reading the books of your wonderful poets,” said Johann. “Jean Molinet, François Villon . . .”

  “Je suis Françoys, dont il me poise,” recited Francis I with a nod. “Villon is one of my favorite poets, too. Né de Paris emprès Pontoise, et de la corde d’une tois
e,” he went on in a soft rhythm. “Villon was put in jail repeatedly and only narrowly escaped death a few times. Apparently, he was quite the swindler and charlatan, but also a genius. Does that sound familiar to you, Doctor?”

  Instead of replying, Johann tried to make out more of their surroundings. There were three narrow arrow slits but no windows and no furnishings. The three of them were tied up on a stone bench that jutted out from the wall. The king in front of them was illuminated by torches in rusty brackets. Astonishingly, there were no guards in the room. Francis interpreted Johann’s look correctly.

  “This conversation isn’t for everyone’s ears—there are too many eavesdroppers already.” He wrinkled his royal forehead. “That was also why I had to bring you here in such an uncomfortable manner. Please accept my apologies.”

  “Where is John?” asked Greta now. “What have you done to him?” Leaves and twigs were tangled in her hair, and her dirty face made her look like a charcoal burner, but she seemed unhurt and hadn’t lost her pride.

  “Who?” Francis looked at the young woman with irritation, unaccustomed to being addressed this disrespectfully. “If you are speaking of the large dog, we have taken him into custody. He resides in the royal kennels. Truly an exceptionally—”

  “Not the dog, the third man in our group,” said Greta, her eyes flashing at the king. “Where is he? Where is John?”

  “Oh, you mean Jean!” The king laughed as if Greta had told a funny joke. “I have been told that the handsome lad has his eye on you—and vice versa, as I see now.” He gave a wave. “Don’t worry, he is fine. You shall see him again soon. But first I want to speak with the doctor. I want to talk about a friend we have in common.” He turned back to Johann. “I believe you know who I mean.”

  “Leonardo da Vinci,” said Johann quietly.

  Francis’s expression darkened. “He died in my arms three days ago. Leonardo was like a father to me, and more. Someone like him will never come again.”

  “I will miss him, too,” replied Johann, slumping. The news of Leonardo’s death pained him, even if he’d known that this moment would come. Now one of the greatest men of mankind had become history.

  And one or two secrets have gone with him, I’d say, thought Johann.

  “You might be pleased to hear that Leonardo mentioned your name toward the end. And that of your fetching assistant, too.” He winked at Karl. “It appears he liked him a great deal, and now I can see why. Do you know what he said just before he died?”

  The king leaned closer to Johann. “He said that Doctor Faustus knows the secret. Strange, isn’t it? Those were his final words. Doctor Faustus knows the secret.” From one moment to the next, Francis seemed anything but sleepy, eyeing Johann closely. “I wonder what kind of secret that is, Doctor. Can you tell me? My scholars sifted through Leonardo’s writings, page by page, but they found nothing.”

  Johann froze.

  “What kind of secret?” repeated Francis.

  “Toward the end people often speak in riddles,” replied Johann awkwardly.

  “And yet they always tell the truth.” Francis’s face was very close to his now, and Johann could smell the strong perfume of which one vial probably cost more than a good horse. “What secret do you share with Leonardo, Doctor Faustus? I am not daft. My men have been watching you ever since Lahnstein and his bloodhound started nipping at your heels.”

  “You . . . you know about the papal representative?” Johann’s thoughts raced. Did the king also know about their search for Gilles de Rais? What sort of game was being played here?

  “Of course.” Francis straightened up with a smile. “Rome and France might be allies in the fight against the powerful Habsburg empire right now, but that can change very quickly. In Italy, everyone plays by their own rules. And just like the pope has his spies, I have mine. That is how I know that fat Leo has been interested in you for a long time. He wanted to have you taken to Rome, am I not right? You managed to slip through his fingers at Bamberg. I wondered for a long time why you fled to France thereafter. Why not England, Spain, the Netherlands?”

  The king squared his shoulders.

  “But when you went to Amboise, it became clear. What reason might the famous Doctor Faustus have to visit the equally famous inventor Leonardo da Vinci? I believe it was to learn the secret that the pope assumed you already knew. But you didn’t! Or at least not the whole secret—there were a few last questions, weren’t there? And so you asked Leonardo. And now that he is dead, you are the only person in the world who possesses the knowledge of the secret.”

  “And . . . and what is that secret supposed to be?” asked Johann. He had a hunch that he would finally learn why Lahnstein wanted to take him to Rome—and why he was now in this castle in front of the French king.

  “Well, what do you think?” The king grinned. “Don’t play the fool, Doctor. It is the secret the whole world is burning to know, first and foremost the pope, that greedy pig, who is looking for you. Now you’ll just tell me instead. The fate of the world might depend on it.”

  Francis leaned down once more and breathed into his ear: “It is the secret of the lapis philosophorum.”

  Hundreds of miles away, Pope Leo X climbed down narrow stairs into his inner sanctum, directly beneath his chambers in Castel Sant’Angelo. This room was better hidden and protected than the papal coffers. To get to the secret chamber, he had to go behind one of the tapestries and locate a particular stone in the wall that didn’t look any different from the stones surrounding it. When it was pushed, part of the wall slid to the side, revealing a staircase that led to an iron door that was barred with three locks. The locksmith who had made them was no longer alive, and neither was the builder of the secret chamber. Aside from Leo, there was only one other person who knew of the room.

  Leo pulled out his keys and opened the locks one by one. Then he pushed against the heavy door, which creaked open. The stench of sulfur and quicksilver hit his nose. To Leo it was a pleasant smell, more tantalizing than any perfume. He entered the small, square room; its walls were lined with tables and shelves full of crucibles, retorts, and vials. In the center of the room, a stone table stained by various corrosive substances held a still made of glass, and next to it glowed the remains of a fire. Between mummified salamanders and dried seahorses that were rotting away in an old mortar lay numerous books bound in yellowed leather. Leo had read them all and knew large sections by heart.

  Grind the dried bezoar of a goat and mix it with the poison of an adder . . . Vaporize some quicksilver until a cloud rises to the sky . . . Mix a quart of mouse blood with wine from burgundy and the urine of a unicorn.

  Years before he ascended the papal throne, Leo had discovered his passion for alchemy. He was an intelligent man, a scholar, no charlatan, and therefore he approached the subject in a serious and scientific manner. He had learned to discern lies from the truth just as he could skim the dross off iron. Alchemy was much too important a field to leave to lunatics and sorcerers. Great men had studied the subject—Democritus, Avicenna, Albertus Magnus, Nicolas Flamel, Roger Bacon. They all had tried their hands at transmutation, the complex craft of turning one element into another. This wasn’t about heretical black magic, but about white magic—or that which was nowadays called science. There even were highly venerable men of the church who practiced alchemy. No one had fully achieved transmutation yet, although minor milestones had been accomplished here and there. But no one had recognized the bigger picture yet, because everyone was only mucking out their own stables.

  Leo stepped beside the glowing embers in the fireplace. An iron pan was suspended above it, and inside the pan was a reddish powder. Leo picked up a pair of bellows and pumped air into the embers until beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He breathed heavily, the quicksilver fumes making him dizzy and sharpening his senses at the same time. Everything seemed so easy, the solution was probably right before his eyes. But why couldn’t he see it? Why?

  The
re was one person who did know it. Someone who was dead and yet alive.

  In old documents deep down in the Vatican archives, the pope had stumbled across Gilles de Rais, a French marshal who had lived the high life a hundred years ago until he ran out of money. The marshal had turned to alchemy in his despair, and the documents showed Leo that Gilles had indeed solved the mystery toward the end.

  Albeit using the aid of rather cruel methods.

  With the future of the church at stake, however, Leo couldn’t afford to be squeamish.

  He continued to pump air into the embers, which were now bright red. The pope was panting, his fat body quivering as if from convulsions of lust. It was an urge, a kind of flagellation that sometimes overcame him at night, and he would go downstairs to pore over books, stir, pump, weigh, grind, burn, and cook until the concoction foamed and bubbled. Sometimes the other one was down here with him, he whose wisdom was so much greater than Leo’s and who knew how to hide it well. It had been he who had brought the notes about the dark marshal to Leo’s attention. Leo was certain that God spoke through the mouth of the other one. He had told the pope about Gilles de Rais and that Doctor Faustus, the famous sorcerer and necromancer, had summoned the Frenchman’s soul.

  And that was when Gilles de Rais had revealed his secret to the doctor!

  Leo pumped faster, and the red powder in the iron pan dissolved, turning sticky at first and then liquid. Fumes rose into the air and then the other one was with him, placing his hand on Leo’s shoulder, whispering in his ear.

  Do you know Faust, the doctor, my servant? Bring him to me.

  Leo had questioned so many alchemists, on the rack, in chains; he’d had their limbs crushed and torn in his quest to learn the truth. But they had all been charlatans—the doctor was his last hope. And the other one had told him that Faust held the answer.