Because I love someone who will never return my love.
Karl missed Greta acutely just then, thinking she must have stayed in her room. They had grown very close in recent years, almost like brother and sister. Greta had become Karl’s closest confidante, even if he couldn’t reveal all his secrets to her. It pained him that he wasn’t permitted to tell Greta more about the incidents back in Nuremberg, but the doctor had made his wishes very clear. Still, perhaps it was for the best. Whatever had happened in the underground passages of that city had been so profoundly evil that Greta’s consciousness had good reason to suppress the memories.
The bishop’s servants had assigned them two drafty, damp rooms in an adjoining building where the footmen of the delegates were housed. Karl hadn’t tarried long before leaving that hole to mingle with the higher-ranking guests. No one had stopped him at the door to the palas—possibly thanks to his pompous demeanor.
“Apparently there’s even a delegate from England,” said a corpulent gentleman in a fur coat to another man. “And also a representative from the house of Fugger, probably to gauge the mood among the German princes.” He sighed. “Ever since that Luther printed his confounded ‘Sermon on Indulgences and God’s Grace’ in German, even the peasants want to have their say in it. I heard that someone reads it out to them, and then those donkeys debate the matter in the stable as if they were lords!”
“I’m sure young King Henry is interested in more important matters than German leaflets,” replied the other man. He was skinny and old and he leaned on a cane, warming his gouty back by the chimney. He chuckled softly and glanced about the room. “They are sharing out the bear’s skin before the beast is killed. And those French frog eaters—” He noticed Karl in an alcove nearby and broke off. Karl quickly averted his gaze and walked away.
He crossed two further grand rooms decorated with several paintings. They were impressive if slightly lugubrious images of the Madonna and the savior, portraits of influential clergymen, paintings of former popes and also one of the current pope, Leo X, whose burly stature reminded Karl more of an innkeeper or a butcher. Portraits were very fashionable these days, partly because of the growing number of wealthy, confident burghers, but also because of the church, which liked to invest its riches in frescoes and paintings, not only in Rome.
Karl, too, was a passionate artist, even if he couldn’t afford the expensive oil paints that had been used for the works in front of him.
Beneath the artworks sat the delegates, snacking on sweet pastries and candied fruit plucked from glass bowls. Karl could tell by the robes that among them were at least two bishops, several abbots of various orders, and a handful of imperial delegates who looked more nervous than anyone else. This truly was a meeting of the most powerful men in the empire!
Karl had learned by now that the official meeting wouldn’t commence for a few days yet, when the last delegates from faraway lands arrived. He tried to estimate how many barrels of expensive French wine the men would have drained by then, and how many honey-glazed pigs would have made it to their stomachs. This Bamberg prince-bishop must have been incredibly rich—he probably made a profit from dealing in indulgences.
“A fitting sight, n’est-ce pas?” said a voice from right behind him. “Each day to this small folk is a feast of fun.”
Startled, Karl spun around. A gaunt man stood in front of him, wearing plain, dark clothes and holding himself slightly hunched over, with an apparent crooked back. The only color in his appearance was his red cap and the rooster’s feather attached to it. His face was deathly pale, as if he had rubbed chalk on it, and he spoke with the soft rhythm of the Western countries. The man was gesturing at the feasting delegates reaching out for more candied fruit.
“Voilà! The common people give the little money they own to shorten their time in purgatory, and the high and mighty use said money to stuff their faces. This way, everyone wins, everyone is happy. What a show—one could almost turn it into a play!” The stranger smiled, and Karl didn’t know if he was jesting or serious. He decided to say nothing.
“How rude of me. May I introduce myself?” The man gave a small bow. “Louis Cifre, one of the French delegates.” He eyed Karl curiously. “And you are . . . ?”
“Um, Karl Wagner, assistant to Doctor Johann Georg Faustus. He’s one of the bishop’s advisers, employed to write up a horoscope for him.” Karl had considered lying to the man and making up some random name and position, but he’d judged it too dangerous among all these high-ranking nobles.
“Ah, that’s how I know the learned man.” The French delegate raised an eyebrow. “I have heard much about Doctor Faustus. He is a clever man, c’est vrai. The bishop can consider himself lucky to have him at his side. It is not easy to tell friend from foe in these times. A prophet can only be of use.”
“How do you mean?” asked Karl, reaching for one of the wineglasses lackeys were proffering on silver trays.
“Now, I’m sure you’re aware that we’re all here to figure out what to do next with this Luther and his theses. But that is only half the truth, mon ami.” The man lowered his voice. “In truth, we’re here because a powerful man is dying.”
“You’re talking about Emperor Maximilian,” said Karl.
The man nodded, and as if by magic he now also held a glass of wine in his hand. “The physicians are saying His Imperial Highness has only months left—weeks, perhaps. A growth in his intestines—nasty business, they say. Not even prayers will help.” He sighed deeply. “Maximilian himself wants to be sure his grandson Charles follows him onto the throne, but that is not what the German electors want—and it’s they who choose the new king. Charles—Carlos—is a Spaniard, not a German. His mother is Joanna of Aragon, known as ‘Joanna the Mad,’ and his father, Philip the Handsome, was the king of Castile himself until his early death. The pope isn’t the only one fearing an imbalance of power in Europe if Charles ascends the throne. The new German king would rule an empire that reaches from Castile all the way to the North Sea, and in the west even unto the distant lands beyond the sea. Compris?”
Karl sipped his red wine and tried to appear as serene as possible. He’d only understood about half of what the delegate had told him, but he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Politics appeared to be almost as complicated as painting.
“A rather intricate affair indeed,” he said.
“C’est vrai.” The delegate shook his head slowly and continued. “Well, Elector Friedrich the Wise of Saxony wouldn’t make a bad German king at all.” He gave a malicious smile. “Not to mention my lord and ruler.”
“Your—?” Karl choked on his wine and coughed. “The . . . the French king as German emperor? Are you serious?”
Louis Cifre shrugged. “Why not? Francis is young and ambitious, and the German electors like him. And the German Empire is as brittle as an old clay jug because of all the constant disturbances—especially now with this Luther.” Cifre took a sip of his wine, and small red droplets rolled off his lips. Karl noticed that the man had astonishingly pointy white teeth.
“It’s not like Francis is the only European ruler who has expressed an interest,” Cifre went on. “The English king Henry might put up his hand, too. Like I said—exciting times ahead! And one would do well to consider on whose side one stands.” He raised his glass and winked at Karl. “Whose side are you on, Master Wagner?”
Karl’s head was spinning with all the names and political stratagems. What could he say that wouldn’t embarrass himself or offend his conversational partner? “I stand on the side of my master, Doctor Faustus,” he declared eventually. “If you’re on the side of a prophet, you’re always right, are you not?”
“Well said!” Monsieur Cifre laughed and clinked his glass against Karl’s. “How is the doctor doing, by the way? I haven’t seen him yet. Is he well?”
“He is.”
“So this is where you’re loafing about!” Karl winced at the sound of Greta’s ringing voice. �
��I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Didn’t we say we’d meet by the wagon to take a look at the torn backdrops?”
Greta was wearing a red dress with green slits that perfectly suited a juggler lass, but—so Karl thought—it looked garish in these halls, especially since her bodice was laced rather sloppily. Several older gentlemen had turned to gape at Greta and her feminine shape beneath the dress. Karl was embarrassed by Greta’s flippant demeanor.
“Er . . . a maidservant of the doctor,” he said quietly to the French delegate, hoping Greta wouldn’t hear. But Greta had ears like a fox.
“Maidservant? Are you in your right mind?” Greta stormed up to him, noticing the man next to Karl only at the last moment. The man grinned, baring his sharp white teeth.
“A pretty maidservant indeed. And with a quick tongue.”
Greta wrinkled her nose as she eyed Monsieur Cifre. Then she pulled Karl by his arm. “You’ll excuse us. The maidservant has something important to discuss with this noble lord.”
She dragged Karl along until they came to a quiet bay window that overlooked the forest all the way down to Bamberg.
“Are you crazy?” snarled Karl. “That was the French delegate! Your behavior could cost us our heads.”
“I didn’t like him. He smelled weird,” replied Greta. “Didn’t you notice? If it was perfume like those frog eaters use, he’d better leave it off. I like yours much better.”
In fact, Karl had noticed the strange smell, almost like sulfur, but he hadn’t thought anything of it. He had been much too enraptured discussing high politics with the French delegate.
“Monsieur Cifre is a very interesting conversationalist,” he said bitterly. “I would have liked to speak with him for longer.”
“Karl, what are you doing?” Greta looked at him sharply. “You and I—we don’t belong here! To me it looked more like the fellow was trying to sound you out.”
“Sound me out?” Karl laughed. “And why should he do that? We talked about politics. And yes, he wanted to hear about the doctor, too, but who doesn’t? Doctor Faustus is renowned right across the empire, after all.” He gave her an angry look. “You might not like it here, but I love it. For once we don’t have to travel the lands like dishonorable jugglers. For once—”
“Karl, stop it.” Greta sighed. “Do you think I don’t see how you’re growing further and further apart from us? I understand. You are no juggler, no minstrel—at the bottom of your heart, you’re a scientist. You should go back to your old university, become a magister—a doctor, even . . .”
“You forget that I was forced to leave Leipzig as a wanted sodomite,” Karl replied coldly.
“Then don’t go to Leipzig. Although it’s been so long, I doubt you’d have anything to worry about.”
Karl crossed his arms on his chest and gazed out at the city below. Dusk was spreading over the houses; the first lights had already been lit. “Sounds almost like you want me to leave you,” he muttered.
He couldn’t tell Greta the real reason he was staying, why he couldn’t get away from the doctor.
Because I love him. Even if he’ll never return my love.
“And speaking of our little troupe,” he said, turning back to Greta. “I could say the same thing about you. You’re young and beautiful, Greta, no longer a timid little girl like when you first joined us. And you’re a talented juggler and trickster.”
“Do you think I’ve never thought about leaving?” replied Greta softly. “I even came close to doing it a few times. This winter would be a good time, I’ve been thinking. Especially since the doctor is becoming grumpier and more withdrawn by the day. He doesn’t want to tell me anything, neither about my parents nor about himself. But then—” She broke off.
“Then what?” asked Karl.
Greta swallowed. “It’s . . .” She hesitated. Then she dropped onto a cushioned stool and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook, and when she straightened back up, Karl saw by her reddened eyes that she’d been crying.
“I wanted to tell you some other time,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment. But there is no right moment for something like this.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Karl anxiously. “What are you trying to tell me? Speak up!”
Greta took his hand and held it tightly.
“Karl, I’m so sorry. But I know for certain that the doctor is going to die very soon.”
Johann paced back and forth in the tower room of the donjon, restless like a beast of prey in its cage. He paused and looked out through the small, barred window at Altenburg Castle in the evening light, and Bamberg beyond, and then forests and fields as far as the eye could see. In the distance, a ridgeline disappeared into the haze. The view was spectacular, but Johann felt like a prisoner nonetheless.
The soldiers had been forced to carry his luggage up the many stairs, complaining loudly about the doctor’s heavy gear. His crates were filled with various apparatuses, including the strange stargazing tube Johann had taken from Tonio all those years ago, which allowed him to see the heavens closely, as with divine eye glasses. And, of course, there were the countless books he loved so dearly.
Johann remembered exploring the Maulbronn library like an exotic garden as a child, each volume a priceless treasure. Later on he’d invested much of his fortune in books, which protected him to some extent against theft. Not many gallows’ birds knew that—for example—the illustrated Schedelsche Weltchronik was worth more than three good horses. And, thankfully, neither thieves nor soldiers knew anything about the false bottoms in his chests, which were filled with gold and silver coins of various currencies. They were Johann’s insurance in case he was ever wanted as a heretic and sorcerer and needed to disappear.
He walked over to one of the chests and opened it. Then he carefully lifted out something wrapped in oiled cloth. It was a book and his dearest and most precious possession.
Johann gently folded back the cloth and ran his fingers over the cover, as if he was about to open a treasure chest. The volume was leather bound and about as thick as a hand, with pages made from the finest goat vellum. The drawings inside showed many different perspectives of the inside of the human body, limbs, and organs. The illustrations were so perfectly done that Johann always thought he was looking at real muscles, sinews, and innards. He could practically smell the blood.
The Italian title of the book was De Figura Umana, which Johann translated as “About the human form.” It was written and drawn by the great painter and inventor Leonardo da Vinci, whose work Johann had been admiring for many years. He had first heard about Leonardo back in Venice as a young juggler. Johann had bought the book two years ago for a horrendous amount of money from the bishop of Speyer, who in turn had received it as a gift from the Duke of Milan.
Basically, it was just a collection of loose pages, and some bookbinder had done a rather rough-and-ready job of sewing them together. The pages were all different sizes. Johann guessed da Vinci hadn’t allowed his drawings into print because the dissection of corpses was forbidden, bar a few exceptions. The artist must have conducted a large number of dissections himself, or he never would have been able to draw with so much detail. He described many diseases, including the white and the black plagues, the falling sickness, Saint Anthony’s fire, cataract, and the extremely painful stone sickness that only the best physicians could treat. The text, like many of da Vinci’s other works, was written in mirror writing, making deciphering it rather arduous. Johann had hoped to find a clue about his own mysterious disease in this book, but, so far, in vain.
On cue, his left hand started to tremble. Johann set the book aside and reached into the crate with the theriac. Alcohol was the only way to get the shaking somewhat under control. He pulled the cork out of a bottle and took a long sip, and the shaking eased. He only hoped Karl and Greta hadn’t noticed how fast the theriac was vanishing.
Absentmindedly he gazed down into the courtyard, where another
carriage was just arriving. He heard whinnying and the clatter of hooves, and the loud voice of a herald announcing some delegate or another. With a sigh, Johann set the book down on the table and started to unpack.
In the course of their journey, Johann had made peace with the idea of the bishop’s invitation—at least their stay would give him ample time to research his strange illness. But the brief conversation with the papal representative earlier had changed everything. Lahnstein himself had advised the bishop to invite Johann. There could be only one explanation: Rome had taken notice of the famous Doctor Faustus. He had to expect the worst.
Johann was just opening another chest of books when he heard footsteps coming up the tower. As soon as he’d closed the lid, someone knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” asked Johann.
Instead of a reply, the heavy, reinforced door creaked open. Standing outside were Viktor von Lahnstein and the biggest man Johann had ever seen. He was so tall that he had to double over in the narrow corridor. The giant wore a blue, yellow, and red jerkin and matching trousers, as well as a scratched cuirass with shoulder plates and a helmet with a comb that hid about half of his bearded, pockmarked face. On his back he carried a two-handed sword so long and heavy that Johann doubted he could lift it, let alone fight with it. Lahnstein noticed Johann’s puzzled look and smiled.
“Impressive, isn’t he? Hagen is a Swiss mercenary and a member of the new palace guard the current pope’s predecessor, Julius II, introduced. Each one of those Swiss mercenaries is an experienced soldier and loyal unto death to the Holy Father. His Holiness has lent me Hagen as my personal bodyguard. The journey through the empire isn’t without dangers.”
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