The Devil's Pawn

by Oliver Pötzsch

  A book in his hands, his legs wrapped up in a thick woolen blanket, Karl sat leaning against a chest in the back of the wagon while Faust and Greta watched the world go by in silence. Little Satan was jogging alongside the carriage, as he did so often. Greta loved these moments of peace, when nothing seemed to exist but the present. But she knew these times couldn’t last forever. She had often toyed with the idea of leaving their little group. She was good enough to join another troupe of jugglers, and she hoped she might one day find the right man for her and leave behind the gloomy past that connected her to Faust. But her friendship with Karl kept her put.

  And an insight she hadn’t shared with anyone yet—not even with Karl.

  The black wings.

  Greta shivered. They hadn’t spent this many nights in their wagon for a long time. Over the last several years, the doctor had preferred expensive inns and the chambers of castles and abbeys. Greta felt certain that Bamberg’s Altenburg Castle would suit Faust’s extravagant tastes. Prince-Bishop Georg Schenk von Limpurg was one of the most powerful men in the empire, his influence extending far beyond the walls of Bamberg. As far as Greta knew, he was answerable only to the pope. Not even the emperor could order him around. Greta suddenly thought that such a high-profile meeting wasn’t without danger.

  “Have you been to Bamberg before, Uncle?” she asked.

  Her voice startled Faust. Evidently, he had been deep in thought.

  “Oh yes, and so have you,” he replied with a smile. “But that was a few years ago now. I guess that’s why you don’t remember. It’s a beautiful town, with a large cathedral and excellent smoked beer. But sadly, we won’t see much of Bamberg itself, as the bishop resides at Altenburg Castle, which lies some way outside of town.”

  “I think a little peace and quiet will do us good,” said Greta. “You especially.”

  She gave him an inscrutable look, and Faust frowned. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  Greta looked away. As much as the matter tormented her, she couldn’t bring herself to open up to Faust. He was a man of reason—he was bound to shrug off her fears as nonsense.

  And what if he doesn’t?

  That thought was even worse. The possibility alone that she might be right made her quiver.

  “Karl and I are going to use the winter months to change a few of the backdrops,” she said instead and flicked the reins, spurring the horse into a trot.

  “I need Karl to help me with the horoscope,” he said with a shrug. “A horoscope for a bishop has to be about as thick as the Bible. I hear the coming year is going to be a decisive one for the people in power. Something like that requires solid, irrevocable horoscopes.”

  From conversations they’d overheard at taverns along the way, they gathered that the prince-bishop had played an important role during the Augsburg diet, which had only just come to an end. Apparently, the main reason for Emperor Maximilian to call every elector, prince, and representative of the free imperial cities to said diet was the securing of his grandson Charles as his successor. Maximilian sensed that his life was coming to an end; for years he had been traveling the country with a coffin in tow. But contrary to his expectations, all anyone had talked about in Augsburg had been that Augustinian monk Martin Luther. In the course of just one year, the little monk from Wittenberg in Saxony had become so influential that bishops, princes, and even the emperor himself were forced to take him seriously. These were strange times indeed.

  “Jugglers are always needed,” said Greta. “No matter the times—people want to be amused.”

  “The bishop doesn’t like buffoons, so you can forget your usual tricks. We’ll have to play it careful.” Faust shook his head. “No dancing on the rope, no juggling, and no knife throwing. Most of all, no flirting with any guards or servants—understood?”

  Greta rolled her eyes. Since the incident in Bretten, Faust was even sterner with her. But how could he know that she’d never slept with a man? She had tried a few times; there had been plenty of opportunities. But every time it came close, she had shied back as if from a wall of fire. She hadn’t yet sufficiently trusted any man—only Karl, and he was out of the question. Sometimes she wondered whether she was a normal woman. Women bore children and started families, while she crisscrossed the German lands at the side of an aging magician and his sodomite assistant. This way of life would soon have to come to an end.

  “I think I am quite old enough to decide with whom I flirt,” she said sharply. “You’re not my father—you can’t order me.”

  Greta expected Faust to launch into another tirade, but—strangely—he remained silent.

  “Your . . . your mother would have agreed with me,” he said haltingly after a while. “I’m sure of it.”

  “You . . . you knew my mother?” Greta froze, her heart skipping a beat. She stared at Faust with wide eyes. “Is . . . is it true? Tell me! Why do I only find out about this now?”

  The doctor had never told her anything about her family. As far as she knew, she was an orphan who had grown up with a distant relative named Valentin. Following a series of events she never fully understood, she had ended up under arrest in Nuremberg as a young girl. People claimed she was a witch, and they had locked her up in a prison below the city hall. Her uncle Valentin and Faust had freed her back then. She had no memory whatsoever about how exactly they’d escaped from the underground passages, but whenever she thought of it, she broke out in a sweat. It was as if an evil beast she mustn’t wake slumbered in the depths of her consciousness. Uncle Valentin had died in the course of her liberation, and ever since then she had been with Faust, who claimed to be a friend of her uncle’s. No one had ever mentioned her parents.

  “What do you know of my mother?” she pressed him now. “Why have you never told me that you knew her? In all these years!” She shook her head in disbelief. Dozens of questions raced through her mind.

  “Well, I . . . I didn’t really know her,” said Faust, looking straight ahead. “I only saw her once or twice, when your uncle Valentin was a young lad. We . . . we studied together in Heidelberg, as you know. And she turned up one day to visit him. That’s all.”

  “What did she look like?”

  Faust swallowed hard. “She . . . she looked like you. Exactly like you.”

  “And what was her name?” asked Greta.

  “Margarethe. Uncle Valentin named you after her. Apparently she was the daughter of a prefect and died of a fever when you were just a babe, and so did your father. That’s all I know.”

  “But—”

  “Get a move on, you bloody old nag!”

  Faust snatched the reins from her hands and flicked them angrily.

  “We’d better try to get as far as we can before the rain starts again,” he grumbled. “And now quit badgering me with your questions. I must focus on the task ahead. It’s not every day I cast a horoscope for a prince-bishop.”

  Around noon on the tenth day, they finally arrived at Bamberg. The city was built on seven hills, which was why it was also called the German Rome. In its center stood the cathedral with its four towers, and beneath that flowed the lazy blue ribbon of the Regnitz River. A line of merchants’ carts stood outside the city gate, noisily waiting to be let in. It was market day. Before they reached the city wall, Johann steered their carriage to the left and followed a smaller road around the town, where Altenburg Castle sat enthroned on one of the seven hills. For many years the castle had been the seat of the Bamberg prince-bishops, whose realm included large cities like Bayreuth and Rothenburg.

  Johann cursed himself for telling Greta about her mother. It had just slipped out, and for a moment he’d been tempted to tell her more. But, like so often, he had changed his mind for fear of the consequences. After all, he was to blame for the death of Greta’s mother—and how could he have explained that he was her father? That would have raised too many other questions, including questions leading to Tonio del Moravia, and to the black core of his own soul.
And so he had lied, as he had so many times before in his life. Greta had made a few other attempts to get more out of him during the remainder of their journey; she’d even asked Karl about her origins. But Johann had threatened Karl a long time ago, vowing to kick him out if he told Greta the truth. So far, Karl had kept his word, perhaps not least because he didn’t want to upset Greta with the truth.

  The road wound its way up the wooded hill in tight serpentines. Soon, between the dripping branches of the forest they could make out the castle, a bulky construction with several smaller keeps and one massive donjon. A drawbridge led to a heavily guarded outer ward. Johann told the men his name and they opened the gate. The wagon, squeaking and creaking, rattled into the cobbled courtyard.

  When he saw the hive of activity in front of them, Johann froze. All his worries about Greta were forced into the background, at least temporarily.

  What on earth?

  Even from his box seat it was plain to see that something very big was going on at Altenburg Castle. The courtyard was full of vehicles, all of them magnificent carriages with shiny horses, velvet upholstery, and elaborately engraved compartments. Some of the servants shot disparaging glances at the colorful jugglers’ wagon. In the background, dandified heralds with trumpets seemed to be expecting important guests. The air was full of whinnying and babbling voices.

  Johann climbed down, stretched his legs, and looked around. The yard was encircled by several buildings, the most notable being the tall donjon, the castle’s hulking inner tower. Not far from it stood the palas—the imposing great hall and living quarters—where the bishop resided. Johann could see servants at work behind the crown-glass windows; evidently, the castle was preparing for a large banquet.

  Johann noticed that the first onlookers had begun to whisper. With his black-and-blue star cape and the huge black dog at his side, he was easily recognized; peddlers throughout the empire sold printed images of him along with some hair-raising stories. From the corner of his eye he saw one of the servants rush to the entrance of the palas.

  Karl and Greta also looked around with awe. No sooner had they unhitched the horse and handed it to one of the stable boys than the sound of marching steps approached. A delegation of soldiers wearing the typical colorful, slit jerkins and carrying pikes and halberds was heading straight for them. Then they opened their ranks, and the Bamberg prince-bishop stepped forward.

  Johann recognized him from a copperplate print he’d seen in a book about the lords of the empire not long ago. The bishop was rather short, and his chubby face and portly stomach made him look jovial, almost grandfatherly. This impression was underlined by the warm coat and plain cap, but the many gold rings on his fingers and the thick gold chain around his neck gave away his high rank.

  “The honorable Doctor Johann Georg Faustus, if I’m not mistaken,” he declared with a friendly smile. Limpurg’s eyes were reddened, as if he spent a lot of time reading in poor light—a typical ailment of scholars. “I am so pleased that you found your way to us, Doctor.”

  “And it looks as though I’m not the only one,” replied Johann. He knelt down and kissed the fleshy, perfumed hand of the bishop. “I gathered from your invitation that you’d like me to compile your horoscope? I did not realize that various other powerful gentlemen were planning on making use of my services.”

  The bishop chuckled softly, and it sounded like the ringing of small bells. “It is indeed possible that I’m not the only one requiring a good horoscope these days.” His expression turned serious. “Especially now, in these turbulent times.”

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Johann, still kneeling.

  “Well, my dear doctor, if you had been at the Imperial Diet in Augsburg, you would know what I’m speaking of.” Limpurg sighed. “That little monk from Wittenberg caused serious upheaval among most of the noble lords, when there were more important matters to discuss. For example, the succession of our venerable emperor, who is lying on his sickbed in Innsbruck and must soon enter the kingdom of heaven.” The bishop shook his head. “Therefore I deemed it necessary to call another meeting of the high-ranking representatives here in Bamberg—for the well-being of the empire. We need to discuss how we are going to react to Luther’s theses.” He closed his eyes for a moment, batting his astonishingly long eyelashes. “What we need is unity, not division! There are those who consider Luther’s theses to be as dangerous as blackpowder.”

  Johann said nothing. Now he understood the meaning of all these carriages, horses, and self-important heralds and servants. The bishop was sounding the attack on the little Augustinian monk, and what he needed was a nice horoscope that supported his honorable intentions. What on earth had Johann gotten himself into!

  “Don’t you think it commendable to question the excessive nature of today’s trade with indulgences?” suggested Johann, trying to gain some time. “Luther isn’t the only one who believes that the vending of divine grace has taken on rather unheavenly proportions. If I understand his theses correctly, he believes that one cannot buy God’s grace; it is bestowed upon us.”

  “A heretic thought paving a speedy way to the pyre,” a voice said from farther back. “Sadly, Luther declined the invitation of the Holy Father to visit him in Rome and elaborate this thought. He will rue the day.”

  Johann looked up to see the source of the foreign, slightly nasal voice. A man stepped out from among the soldiers. He was wearing a snow-white robe in the manner of Dominican monks, with a wide leather belt from which dangled an ostentatiously large rosary. He seemed to be around Johann’s age, although his formerly black hair was mostly gray and cut into a tonsure. His bushy eyebrows were raised as if he was deeply alarmed about something. But his most notable feature was his nose, sticking out from the beardless face like a mighty beak.

  “Ah! May I introduce you to a very special guest, my dear doctor?” said the bishop. He only seemed to notice now that Johann was still on his knees and waved impatiently for him to get up. Then he gestured at the clergyman beside him. “This is Viktor von Lahnstein, papal representative. He was at Augsburg with Cardinal Cajetan, trying to convince Luther to abandon his heretical theses.”

  Lahnstein nodded gravely. “For three days the cardinal tried, imploring Luther like a stubborn mule. In the end, the conceited monk evaded further discussions by running away. Luther appears to believe he can hide behind the Saxon elector Friedrich, but he won’t succeed. Rome’s arm reaches far—very far!” Johann felt as though Lahnstein was looking at him especially hard during those last words.

  “His Reverence came straight from Augsburg with me,” Limpurg explained. “The meeting at Altenburg Castle was his idea.” He smirked. “And it was also he who suggested I ask you for a horoscope.”

  Johann’s expression froze. His eyes turned to Viktor von Lahnstein, who smiled ominously. If calling him to Altenburg Castle had been Lahnstein’s idea, Johann had to expect the worst. Someone might have reported him as a sorcerer in Rome, and now he was in danger of landing on the pyre, just like that Luther. What was it Lahnstein just said?

  Rome’s arm reaches far—very far.

  Johann involuntarily looked around for Karl and Greta but couldn’t see them anywhere.

  “Oh, if you’re looking for your retinue, the assistant and the girl, they have already been taken to their chambers,” said Limpurg, guessing the meaning of his searching glance. “For you, Doctor, we have prepared a very special room.” With a smile he pointed upward, to the top of the donjon. “The tower room of Altenburg. You’ll be entirely undisturbed up there, and it offers the best view of the stars—and I assume you’re going to need those for the horoscope. I wish you all the best for your work, Doctor Faustus.”

  With the unpleasant feeling of having walked straight into a trap, Johann allowed two soldiers to walk him to the tower. And with every step he took, he thought he could feel the eyes of the papal representative on his back.

  With his head held high and slow, measured steps, K
arl Wagner strode through the rooms and halls of Altenburg Castle and studied the delegates whispering to each other in the window bays and by the many fireplaces. They all wore warm, precious fur coats over beautifully dyed clothes made of fustian. There were a few handsome young men among them. Karl had also donned his best clothes, a tight-fitting black tunic and a slightly stained but still reasonably good coat, giving him the air of a young, ambitious cleric.

  I could almost be one of them. A delegate from some small bishopric, a talented theologian who could make it all the way to cardinal in Rome.

  He wondered how his life would have passed if he had completed his studies at Leipzig. Perhaps he would be a doctor or an advocate by now, working in an elevated position as adviser for a baron or count. Karl knew that he was intelligent and educated, blessed with more knowledge than most men in this room. But he also knew where this knowledge had come from. No university on earth could have taught him as much as the nearly ten years he’d spent with Doctor Johann Georg Faustus. But still, the sight of all these elegant, beautifully dressed men who laughed together, drank wine from paper-thin Venetian glasses, and debated politics filled him with longing. These men led a life not granted to Karl. He was an outcast, twice over: first as assistant to a magician and astrologer, and second as a clandestine sodomite.

  Karl loved men. He knew it was a deadly sin, but he couldn’t change it. Years ago, the doctor had saved him from execution at the very last moment, and since then Karl had traveled the empire with Johann. He had tried to subdue his affliction, but unsuccessfully. He’d been discovered more than once and narrowly escaped arrest, leaving the doctor furious each time because Karl had put all their lives in danger.

  Occasionally Karl wondered whether Faust even knew why he stayed despite the temper tantrums, despite Faust’s frequently condescending ways, and despite their differing opinions in scientific matters. Sometimes the doctor treated Karl as if he was still the same naive young student from Leipzig he had been ten years ago. But Karl hadn’t even told Greta the real reason; his shame ran too deeply.