The Devil's Pawn

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Lahnstein said nothing for a long while. Outside, beyond the thick walls of Castel Sant’Angelo, the masses of the eager crowd could be heard. People couldn’t wait for the fireworks to begin.

  “I always trusted him,” muttered Lahnstein eventually, more to himself. “All those years I thought it was just about the philosopher’s stone. Not an entirely ludicrous idea, after all. It might have been possible. But lately, he . . . changed. And I believe I know who is responsible.” He shook his head. “How could I have been so stupid!”

  “Who are you talking about?” asked Johann.

  Lahnstein stood up.

  “It is not too late. The fireworks haven’t started. We might still be able to stop him. Someone has to stop him before this madness drags us all down. Let’s go up to the rooftop terrace.” Lahnstein turned to the huge mercenary. “Prepare to do the unimaginable in order to save the world.”

  Without another word he stormed to the door. Hagen shouldered his longsword and followed.

  The door was pushed shut. Johann heard a key turn twice in the lock.

  Then he was alone with his pain and his sense of foreboding.

  Meanwhile, Karl was sitting by the window, staring out into the dusk settling over Rome. Small lights flared up in the hills. Downstairs, in the taproom, a fiddle struck up a tune while a whore laughed loudly as she led a customer into the backyard. There was still no sign of Faust, and Karl was convinced that the doctor wouldn’t return.

  Perhaps not ever again.

  Three hours had passed since they’d separated. Had the doctor been attacked, or murdered, even? Karl had decided to force such thoughts aside for now. Instead he frantically tried to figure out what he could do. He had come to believe that Greta’s son was in danger. The list of alchemy ingredients was rather unambiguous, and Lahnstein was certainly after revenge on Faust. So was that his plan? To conduct some sort of gruesome ritual with the blood of the doctor’s grandchild? Is that why the boy was being raised at Castel Sant’Angelo?

  Just a few days ago, Karl had been ready to say goodbye to Johann for good. Now the doctor was missing—maybe dead—and Karl felt fear and grief consuming him from the inside. He needed to do something. If he couldn’t help the doctor, then at least he’d have to warn Greta.

  He cast one last glance through the window onto the dark street below, then he put on his coat and hurried down the steps and outside.

  Rome received him with noise and laughter, the lanes full of cheerful people heading for Castel Sant’Angelo or searching for a good spot in the hills from which to watch the fireworks. Some citizens carried wine amphoras to keep themselves warm during the cold night. Pope Leo X was well known for his fireworks, and tonight’s display was supposed to be the greatest Rome had ever seen.

  Karl made his way through the excited crowd along the Tiber until he finally stood outside the hospital. He was out of breath and his heart thumped wildly, but he forced himself to appear calm as he asked the gatekeeper if he could speak with Sister Greta. It was urgent, a family emergency.

  “It is evening vespers,” said the gatekeeper, waving at the tall campanile rising up behind the hospital. “The nuns are praying in Santo Spirito Church. You’ll just have to wait.”

  Without paying any heed to the stunned gatekeeper, Karl rushed past him and toward the hospital church. He could hear the monotonous chorale of female voices from inside. Karl opened the church door and was hit by the smell of incense. Wafts of smoke drifted through the high-ceilinged building, which was dimly illuminated by a few candelabras. He guessed there were about two dozen sisters singing and praying.

  After searching cautiously for a while, Karl finally spotted Greta in a rear pew on the right-hand side. She sat with her eyes closed and her hands folded in prayer. Karl made the sign of the cross and sat down next to her.

  “Greta, we need to talk,” he whispered. “It’s vitally important.”

  Greta opened her eyes with surprise and turned to look at him. “How dare you disturb me during mass?” she hissed.

  “Your son is in grave danger.”

  “That’s what my father said, and I didn’t believe him,” she replied through clenched teeth.

  “But it’s the truth, Greta. I swear it by all the saints and the Mother Mary. By the Holy Spirit who gave this church its name.”

  Karl had spoken loudly enough for some of the nuns to turn their heads. Greta squeezed Karl’s hand and nodded at him to leave the church with her. Several indignant pairs of eyes followed them.

  “So, what is it you want to tell me?” asked Greta when they stood in the dark lane. “And don’t even bother talking to me about some sort of ridiculous devil ceremony like your lord and master, whom, despite everything, you still idolize.”

  “What your father told you is the truth, Greta. I saw with my own eyes how Hagen collected the ingredients and murdered the alchemist as an unwanted witness. And I also know The Sworn Book of Honorius, from which the ritual is taken—a ritual that demands the blood of a child. Whether it is hocus-pocus or not doesn’t matter to the poor boy—he is going to be sacrificed either way.”

  He grabbed Greta by the shoulders and shook her as if trying to wake her.

  “Your father went missing today. I believe Lahnstein abducted him or perhaps even killed him because we got too close to the truth. Think, Greta! Your son . . .” He paused as a merry group walked past them. “Your son is Johann’s grandchild,” he continued in a whisper. “And Lahnstein has a score to settle with Johann. What if Lahnstein really is going to sacrifice your son for an invocation?”

  “That . . . that’s nonsense,” replied Greta, but her resistance was visibly crumbling. “Why should Lahnstein invoke the devil? He is the personal representative of the pope.”

  “Maybe he is more than that.” Karl sighed. “Maybe the devil is very close to the pope. Greta, I don’t know! But I have a strong feeling that Sebastian is in danger. Just go to the castle and see for yourself. I’m not asking for more than that.”

  “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t,” replied Greta. “I lost my key ring. Yesterday it was still around my neck. It must have ripped off at work, but I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “So that’s where he got it,” Karl murmured.

  Greta gaped at him, and Karl knew he’d said the wrong thing.

  “He stole my keys?” Greta slapped her hand against her forehead. “Of course! When I dropped the bowl of pills. He orchestrated everything, as always. That means . . .” She started with fright as she finished her line of thought. “He hasn’t been abducted or murdered. He hoodwinked us both. Most likely, he’s on his way into Castel Sant’Angelo to steal his grandson. It is his revenge, not Lahnstein’s! Because he can’t have me, he kidnaps Sebastian so that he can teach my son the same way Tonio used to teach my father. He wants to become Sebastian’s master!”

  Karl wanted to protest, but suddenly his mouth was very dry. Could Greta be right? He’d had a feeling that Johann was keeping something from him. Had the doctor used him once more?

  Karl no longer knew what to believe. Just like one of the many Roman statues, he stood outside the church, mute, incapable of making a decision. It was Greta who grabbed him and pulled him along.

  “We must go stop my father—now!”

  Johann listened to the hurried steps of Lahnstein and Hagen fading away. Then he counted to ten in his mind, seeking the tranquility he required to think.

  The situation had changed. The papal delegate didn’t, in fact, know about the summoning. Until then, Lahnstein had assumed that the pope was desperately trying to produce gold. But now Lahnstein knew that was not the case. What was it the delegate had said about the pope?

  But lately, he changed. And I believe I know who is responsible.

  And Johann thought he knew, too.

  He closed his eyes and focused entirely on his insides. He subdued his shaking and made his body as limp as if his bones were made of cartilage. It was an exercise he had
learned during his time as a juggler. Back then, with Peter Nachtigall, Salome, and the other jugglers, they had occasionally performed escape tricks. Salome had taught him how free himself from a tangle of ropes in no time. All it took was a little deftness and inner calm—a serenity that Johann had lacked earlier, in the chest filled with toxic fumes. But now things were different. He twisted and turned his wrists until he felt the ropes gradually loosening. After a while his right arm was free, then his left, and then he hastily untied his feet. Eventually, he stood up, swaying.

  Hagen’s blows had left their marks; blood was running from his nose, and with every breath his lungs burned from the toxic fumes. Johann grew dizzy and held on to the statue of Hermes to keep from falling. Once he had overcome his urge to vomit, he squatted down and inspected his leather satchel.

  In his shock of hearing about the planned invocation of the devil, Lahnstein must have forgotten all about the bag. There was less broken than Johann had feared. Several jars and vials were still intact, and thankfully the small bottle of spirits of salt was among them. Johann rummaged through the satchel and, at its bottom, found the most important thing: Greta’s key ring.

  He walked to the door and, with unsteady hands, tried one key after the other in the lock.

  The fifth key worked.

  He exhaled with relief, only now noticing the cold sweat on his forehead. There was a good chance Greta sometimes prayed in this small chapel. Now her belief gave him another chance to avert disaster. He was about to leave the room when he turned around once more to fetch the bag. Some vials were broken, but the rest might still come in useful.

  Walking hunched over, he found himself in a dark courtyard. Night had fallen, and Johann heard the occasional cracking and hissing in the distance—the first signs of the impending fireworks. The cheers of the crowds were muted by the castle’s walls.

  Johann shuddered. Carefully he looked around but saw no guards. From the courtyard, some stairs led to a terrace. He shouldered his bag and headed that way. Through arrow slits in the wall he caught glimpses of Rome, clusters of lights that became more dense the closer they were to Castel Sant’Angelo and Saint Peter.

  Johann was about to rush on when he spotted two guards patrolling the round walk, heading straight toward him. This was the wrong way. He ducked, hurried back down the stairs, and decided on a door opposite the chapel. Once again Greta’s keys helped him.

  The room on the other side was plain, with a tiled stove and a handful of chests. Johann guessed it was servants’ quarters. A second exit led him to corridors and more stairs, and he made sure to keep going up, not down. He was hoping to find the terrace Lahnstein had spoken of.

  Once more he used Greta’s keys to open a door, and twice more guards walked toward him, but each time Johann managed to hide behind a curtain or a door. The soldiers were in high spirits and not particularly alert; they, too, were looking forward to the fireworks.

  Johann soon found that Castel Sant’Angelo was a veritable maze. It looked as though, since the days of the Romans, each ruler had added some new walls, stairs, or corridors and barricaded some old ones. The castle was like an anthill with thousands of tunnels. Johann passed through richly decorated deserted halls, and also a high, barred room that was filled with stacked-up iron chests hung with padlocks—probably the papal treasury. Strangely, there were no guards here, either. The higher he climbed, the more forlorn the countless chambers and hallways, erected just for one single person: the pope, God’s representative on earth and therewith one of the most powerful men on earth.

  After striking several dead ends, Johann finally came to one last steep staircase. A cold breeze was blowing down the steps, and the cries and cheers from outside were clearly audible now.

  The upper terrace, thought Johann.

  Strangely, there were no guards at the foot of the stairs. Johann’s wonder subsided when he realized what that meant.

  Clearly, only very few were supposed to know about what was going on up there.

  As silently as he could, Johann started up the steps. Now he could make out individual voices coming from the rooftop. Shortly before the top of the stairs, a guards’ chamber opened to the left, but it was empty. When Johann reached the top, a heavy iron door stood ajar, and he peered through the crack. He beheld a scene that was so strange and bizarre that for a brief moment he forgot everything else.

  The fireworks were about to begin.

  But the show was completely different from what Johann had imagined.

  26

  VIKTOR VON LAHNSTEIN WAS SHAKING.

  It wasn’t so much because of the biting cold on the rooftop, more than sixty feet above the city. The sky was clear and starry, and the wind tugged at his robe. No, Lahnstein was shaking because he now realized what a horrific nightmare he had helped to create.

  Hell on earth.

  As soon as Lahnstein had left Faustus, he had hurried to the upper terrace. He’d intended to send the guards downstairs in order to prevent possible witnesses, but he didn’t have to. The pope—or perhaps someone else—had already ensured that there was no one to disturb the ceremony.

  A ceremony that left no room for doubt about its purpose.

  Directly behind Lahnstein was a smaller platform upon which, allegedly, once upon a time had stood an angel, and which doubled as the roof of a small chapel. In front of him, a large pentagram had been painted upon the floor with rust-red paint. At the star’s five points stood flaming firepots, and beside each one lay an item that Lahnstein couldn’t make out in the dark of night. But even so, he knew what they were.

  Mandragora, bezoar, amber, Salamandra salamandra, dens pistris.

  They were the alchemy ingredients required to summon the devil.

  Around the entire pentagram, a tall wooden scaffold had been erected, reminiscent of a multiple-sided gallows on a giant execution site. The framework was filled with dozens of thin tubes of glued cloth with strings protruding from their bottoms—a tangle of fuses that all came together in one thicker string. And this string led to the precise middle of the pentagram, where, beneath a baldachin, stood a throne adorned with gold leaf.

  And on the throne sat the pope, the fuse clasped in his fat, ring-studded hand.

  The Holy Father had his eyes closed, a blissful smile on his lips. He appeared to listen to the shouts and cheers of the people moving far below him like ants, waiting for the fireworks. Two huge black cats were lying at the pope’s feet, dozing. They were the same panthers Lahnstein had seen a few days ago. Evidently, they no longer left Leo’s side.

  “Do you hear that?” said Leo without opening his eyes. He must have heard Lahnstein and Hagen approach. “The crowds are cheering for me—they are cheering for God. Because we gave them back their faith!”

  Lahnstein couldn’t help but wonder who the pope meant by we. Was he speaking in the majestic plural?

  “Faith requires powerful symbols,” continued Leo. “Magnificent churches, gilded altars, expensive ceremonies. Otherwise it withers like a flower without water. Just think of ancient Rome! Urbs Aeterna!” The pope opened his eyes and pointed toward the dark outlines of the hills in the night. “Why has this city survived for so long? Because the Romans knew how to create a cult. They revered their emperors as deities, built their temples and mausoleums, venerated the victors and sacrificed the losers. They held costly games, chariot races, gladiator fights. And all to serve just one goal: to consolidate faith.” Leo sighed as one of the panthers opened its large, tooth-studded mouth and let off a growl as if the pope’s deliberations had disturbed his slumber.

  “We must create another eternal Rome, and this time for the glory of Christendom!” exclaimed Leo, patting the big cat’s head. “Yes, I was on the right track, building those many new churches and chapels, erecting monuments and palaces. Saint Peter’s was going to be my crowning achievement and outshine all other churches. And then this German monk comes along, preaching against indulgences.” Leo’s voice rose.
“Pity Luther didn’t follow my invitation to Rome. I would have hosted fireworks in his honor and, for the final spectacle, burned him for the benefit of everyone.”

  Lahnstein listened in silence. He couldn’t tear his eyes off this pope from the famous Medici dynasty, the man he had served for so many years. Leo had always been a little eccentric, preferring his animals over people, but intelligent, learned, and ambitious—and now he had clearly lost his mind.

  The representative took a few steps forward, looking around. He had expected to find someone else up here as well, someone he’d been suspecting to be more than he pretended to be for a while now. But evidently the pope was alone.

  Lahnstein cleared his throat.

  “Holy Father, what are you doing?” he asked in a husky voice.

  “Gold is tricky business,” said Leo. “Each burns for gold, all turns on gold, isn’t that right, Viktor? What haven’t I tried? I tortured several dozen quacks in search of the philosopher’s stone. I pored over old writings, even over the notes of a mass murderer. I chased after the famous Doctor Faustus, but nothing yielded success. Because I never delved deep enough—because I didn’t dare touch the unspeakable. Only he who challenges his enemy can emerge victorious.”

  “You want to invoke the devil,” said Lahnstein matter-of-factly.

  “Nonsense! I’m going to banish him, you see?” Leo’s fleshy lips quivered. “I will summon him and then banish him—vanquish him!” With a sweeping gesture he pointed at the strange construction around him. “He will be trapped inside this pentagram, forced to serve me. And he will ensure that the church receives all the funding that she needs. Satan himself is going to be my philosopher’s stone!” Leo held up the fuse. “The moment I light this fuse and the ritual commences, I will step out of the spell zone. All those thousands of people down there are going to witness how the devil serves the church, how I am going to subjugate him, for the good of Christendom! Satan is going to be my slave!”