The Devil's Pawn

by Oliver Pötzsch

  As Leo gazed at the bubbling liquid in the pan, he thought of the last letter from his personal representative, which had arrived three days ago. Faust had been staying with Leonardo da Vinci. And now he was on his way to Tiffauges. Leo was sure that Faust would invoke the dark marshal at the castle once more in the hope of learning more secrets. The other one had been right—the doctor was indeed the person who would serve him and the whole world.

  But first he had to get Faust here, to Rome.

  Leo dreaded to imagine what would happen if the French king or that young Habsburg prince found out about this. The scales of destiny would suddenly tilt to the other side. This couldn’t happen, ever. The continuity of the Christian world was at stake: monuments had to be built and new churches erected to demonstrate God’s glory to the rabble. Now especially, in these uncertain times when so many renounced the true faith.

  It cannot happen.

  With each word, Leo pumped another gust of air into the fire, the whispering in his ear as hot as the orange embers.

  Bring me Faust. The doctor. My servant.

  With one last gasp the Holy Father collapsed in front of the fireplace.

  In the acrid fumes above him rose a creature that was larger, older, and more malevolent than anything men had ever imagined in their worst nightmares.

  “The lapis philosophorum—the philosopher’s stone?”

  Johann now understood what the French king wanted from him. It cost him a considerable effort not to break out in hysterical laughter.

  “You . . . you believe I can produce gold?”

  “The philosopher’s stone, the red lion, the elixir of life, panacea—call it what you will.” King Francis I didn’t bat an eyelid. “Since the days of the great Hermes Trismegistus the alchemists have been searching for the substance that can turn base metals into gold. If there can be a divine soul substance that suffuses everything and that can take an endless number of shapes, then such a transmutation must also be possible. Isn’t that what you’ve been claiming in your lectures again and again?”

  Johann groaned inwardly. The philosopher’s stone was part of alchemy just like horoscopes were part of astrology, and it was true that he’d been telling people for years that he knew its secret. But that was a lie. He didn’t rule out the possibility that such a substance existed, even if Avicenna and other great scholars had voiced their doubts. But he hadn’t identified the substance, and knew of no one who had.

  He remembered what Agrippa had told him, that Gilles de Rais had also dabbled in alchemy. That was why Viktor von Lahnstein had mentioned his name back at Altenburg Castle. Someone had told the pope of Johann’s connection to the dead French marshal, and now Leo thought Johann had learned the secret of the lapis philosophorum from Gilles de Rais. It was absurd! Admittedly, Johann had done everything in his power to feed his reputation as a mysterious alchemist. It seemed that now he was paying the price for his foolishness.

  “So that is why they wanted to take the doctor to Rome?” asked Karl incredulously. “Because the pope believes he can make gold?”

  King Francis nodded. “Leo is in dire straits financially. His court devours horrendous amounts of money—a hundred thousand ducats a year, which is more than twice as much as his predecessors spent. Leo wants to expand the Roman church with any pomp and circumstance he can think of. The construction of the enormous Saint Peter’s Basilica is just the beginning. He is convinced that people need huge Christian monuments to solidify their belief. And just when things were starting to become difficult for him, this little German monk comes along and pees on his parade.” The king gave a chuckle. “At first the Holy Father didn’t take Luther seriously, but now he’s running short of money, and his trade with indulgences is dwindling. If things carry on this way, Leo will get buried in a pauper’s gown.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought you were in any danger of sharing this fate,” said Johann mockingly.

  “You are right. Generally speaking, I can’t complain. But right now I need more money than you can imagine.” Francis paused for effect. “Almost one million guilders, to be precise.”

  “One million guilders?” Karl’s jaw dropped with astonishment. “But . . . but . . . I mean . . . why?”

  “I think I know why,” said Greta, her gaze fixed on the king. Her French was good enough by now to follow the conversation. “It was all over town, back in Orléans. His Majesty may be the king of France, but he’s not king of the world yet. For that he needs the German kingship—and, of course, the title of emperor.”

  Francis smirked and looked at Johann. “Your daughter, isn’t she? A clever child indeed. I’ve always said that women would go far in politics if only they were allowed to participate. My Claude, for example—”

  “You want to buy the German throne?” asked Johann, cutting him off but too confused to notice the impudence. Then he nodded thoughtfully. “Of course . . . the old German emperor Maximilian is dead, and a new king must be elected. It is between you and the Habsburg Charles. But you need the votes of the seven German electors.”

  “Four would suffice. The elector of Brandenburg is the greediest. I promised him a French princess, but apparently he is too ugly for her. She eloped into the arms of the Duke of Savoy.” Francis sighed and played with the rings on his finger. “Young and ambitious Charles from the house of Habsburg doesn’t have much money to buy votes, either, but he does have the powerful Fuggers, the dynasty of merchants who financed his grandfather. And the Fuggers want Charles as their puppet so that their old notes of debt to the Habsburgs don’t expire, and so they give him the money. Even if old Jakob Fugger and Charles share a profound dislike of one another.”

  Johann wondered whether the Habsburgs also believed in the fairy tale that he could turn something worthless into gold. It looked as though he had become a pawn in the hands of the powerful, a victim of his own bragging and of a pope obsessed by a ludicrous idea—an idea the French king shared. It was utter nonsense and yet logical, a consequence of his countless claims and tricks over the years.

  Doctor Johann Georg Faustus, the greatest magician and alchemist on earth.

  Johann cleared his throat.

  “Your Majesty. I am sorry to spoil your plans, but I’m not the one you take me for. I am not a bad astrologer—if you need a horoscope, I’m your man. And I know a fair bit about medicine and alchemy. But the philosopher’s stone—”

  “Taisez-vous!” hissed Francis. He gave an impatient wave. “My spies overheard several conversations in the papal chambers, so there’s no need to tell lies. You are no simple charlatan but the great Doctor Johann Georg Faustus. Your deeds are known even here in France.”

  “But they’re just stories, tales—lies and exaggerations.”

  “And why, then, did you visit Leonardo da Vinci? What reason could there be for the most famous sorcerer of the empire to seek out the most famous inventor of our time if it isn’t to learn about a secret?” Francis’s eyes were narrow slits now. “Doctor Faustus knows the secret—those were Leonardo’s last words. Are you telling me he was lying? Don’t play me for a fool, Doctor. I am no dumb peasant but the king of France!”

  Johann said nothing. He didn’t want to tell the king the real reason for his journey. Evidently Francis hadn’t noticed yet that his left side was paralyzed. He probably ascribed Johann’s crouched posture and the pain in his face to the fetters and the long ride. And Johann had no idea what Leonardo da Vinci had meant with his last words.

  What damned secret was he supposed to know?

  “Chinon Castle has a long history, by the way,” said King Francis, changing the subject. “It used to belong to the king of England, who had many possessions in France. You could say that this castle is the starting point of the long, unhappy war between our two countries. The famous Richard the Lionheart came and went here, and it was here that Jeanne d’Arc met Charles VII, dauphin of France. The maiden persuaded him to take up the fight against the Englishmen once more. Chin
on is considered impregnable.” Francis spread his arms. “This truly is a formidable place steeped in history. But it is also a sinister place. Here in Coudray Tower the Knights Templar were incarcerated with their grand master Jacques de Molay before they were taken to Paris for their execution. Did you know that? I hope it won’t come to that for you, Doctor. I will give you time in this dungeon to think about what Leonardo might have meant about the secret. Oh, and before I forget . . .” Francis smiled. “For one of you there is a little surprise waiting behind this door.” He walked to the door and knocked three times. “Mettez-les au cachot!”

  The door opened and several guards stepped into the room. Now that Johann’s eye had adjusted to the light, he could make out their uniforms. They were green like the robe of the king. The uniformed guard at the front was of athletic build though not particularly tall, and he avoided Johann’s gaze. But Johann recognized him anyway.

  The man’s hair was bright red.

  “John!”

  Greta jumped up despite her tied ankles, tripped, and fell hard on her knee. She realized immediately what John’s appearance meant but didn’t want to accept it. She felt like she was falling into an endlessly deep hole, and as if she suddenly stood naked before the whole world. Maybe there was some sort of convincing explanation—there had to be an explanation!

  When she scrambled back to her feet, John was standing in front of her. He looked at her with sad eyes.

  “Tell me this isn’t true!” shouted Greta. “You . . . you . . .”

  “I know—Jean can be very charming when he wants to,” said the king from behind John Reed, smirking. “One of the reasons I made him the leader of my household guard at Amboise, in spite of his youth. Quite apart from that, he is a capable combatant who would fight to the death for his king. Like everyone else here.” He gestured at the heavily armed men in the room. “All of them Scotsmen like Jean. The Scottish have always been our close friends, and they hate the English as much as we do.”

  Greta stared at John. It was as if she’d been slapped in the face. Everything she had felt for him, for the only man she’d ever really loved, suddenly crumbled to dust.

  Before her stood a traitor.

  At first she was overwhelmed by grief, but then an even more powerful emotion took over: anger. Anger and hatred. How could she have been so blind?

  “I’m sorry, Greta,” muttered John. “Believe me, I didn’t want this to happen. But my assignment—”

  “I spit on your assignment,” snapped Greta. “So that’s what I was to you—an assignment! How could I have been so dumb? I feel like whipping myself for my stupidity!”

  Beside her, Karl sighed quietly. “Your father was right after all. We never should have trusted him.”

  “That is my first and foremost rule,” said the king, giving Greta an almost pitying look. “I never trust anyone, and I fare quite well with that rule. Take it as a lesson, girl. Life is often nothing but deception and trickery—something you ought to know as a juggler.” He gave a little laugh. “You see, Jean told me about you. When my spies alerted me that the legendary Doctor Faustus resides in France, I immediately sent my best man after you.”

  Greta now recognized some of the soldiers behind John. They were the crew from the Étoile de Mer, staring at her sternly. It was as if a veil had been pulled from in front of her eyes. Everything made sense now. The coincidental meeting at the port of Orléans, their rendezvous in the gardens of Blois, John’s strange disappearance at Amboise, and the way he watched her in church. That he stayed close to her without a boat and a crew.

  “That night at Orléans when someone followed me in the reeds—that was you, wasn’t it?” she asked John. “I thought it was someone else, someone with a red cap, but it was your red hair all along.” Greta recalled her escape through the wetland and the eerie song that had probably been a product of her fears. She had been convinced that Tonio was after her.

  John nodded. His face was stony, with no trace of triumph. “I wanted to find out where you were going,” he said quietly. “But then you spotted me and I was forced to run. I made it back to the tavern just in time. My men covered for me. Believe me, Greta, I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  “Enough,” said the king. “Take them to the dungeon.” He turned to Johann once more. “Think, Doctor. I promise you one thing: the German throne weighs more than any life. Including yours. The grand master Jacques de Molay was mistaken to believe that he was irreplaceable. He burned for a long time, and then there was nothing left of him but ashes in the wind. Don’t make the same mistake.”

  He snapped his fingers, and the soldiers grabbed the three prisoners, dragging them off the bench. They did not resist, like cattle on the way to slaughter.

  On the sheer cliff below the castle, a figure pulled himself slowly but steadily upward. He inched forward like a monstrous spider, using a small hole for his hand here and a narrow ledge there. Tied to his muscular back was a leather scabbard holding a mighty sword.

  Hagen paused for a moment on the wall and took a deep breath. He avoided looking down. It was the middle of the night, and clouds had moved in front of the pale moon. How many feet had he climbed? One hundred, two hundred? His eyes darted to the left, where more figures clad in black were clinging to the rock face. There were about a dozen of them, handpicked by Hagen for this mission. Miraculously, not one of them had fallen—yet.

  When Viktor von Lahnstein had given him the order to break into Chinon Castle a few hours ago, Hagen had thought at first that it was a bad joke. The castle was situated on a long elevation consisting of three rocky outcrops connected by bridges. On the side where the Vienne River lazily flowed toward the Loire, the walls of the fortress rose steeply and impregnably behind the town. The north side looked a little better, with vineyards that gradually gave way to an increasingly steep slope. But even here there was still the problem of a tall wall with numerous towers filled with watchmen, making sure there was no attack from that side. The whole affair was complete madness, but Lahnstein had insisted. And so, after some deliberation, they had decided on the north side.

  Hagen clenched his teeth and climbed on. The stones were wet and slippery. He tried his best to keep three of his four limbs attached to the wall at all times, just as he had done on many other walls before. But this one was particularly difficult to scale. As he reached up with his right hand, his legs slipped out from under him.

  Damn!

  Hanging on the rock with just one hand, Hagen dangled above the abyss. He forced himself to remain calm as he searched for a crack or some small ledge that might serve as a foothold. During his many years on the battlefields of Europe he had learned that rushing things often led to death. Hagen came from a poor peasant family near Bern that fell victim to a troop of mercenaries from Burgundy. His father and mother had been hanged from the rafters, while his sister had been allowed to stay alive a little longer as several men raped her before their leader slit her throat. The mercenaries had taken the small but strong boy with them and taught him to fight. At twelve years old, Hagen had at last grown bigger than the leader of their troop. He had rammed his sword into the filthy pig’s stomach and looked him in the eye as he whispered the name of his sister. Since then, Hagen had only worked for himself, a mercenary of death and the best at his game. He was always loyal to whoever paid him the most.

  Even if that sometimes led to suicide missions like this one.

  Cold sweat stood on his forehead when he finally discovered a gap that fitted his fingers. In an almost superhuman effort, Hagen heaved his more than two hundred pounds upward until his toes found a narrow ledge to stand on. He paused to catch his breath. He only hoped that the goddamned Doctor Faustus was worth all this. Or, rather, the secret he harbored.

  The secret of how to make gold.

  Hagen’s size, his beastly strength, and his taciturn way led people to believe that he was as dumb as an ox. But that was not at all the case. If he were dumb, he never
would have made it into the uppermost ranks of the Swiss guard, serving the pope as a personal bodyguard. If he were dumb, he would be dead by now or inside the dungeons of Castel Sant’Angelo, which was much worse. Hagen was clever, his mind sharpened by the many political intrigues during which he had assisted the high and mighty. That was why he had grasped very quickly why the doctor was so valuable. And why he mustn’t land in the hands of the enemies.

  Hagen had warned Lahnstein that it was a mistake to observe the doctor for this long—they should have struck a long time ago. But Lahnstein had wanted to wait and see what the doctor intended to do at Tiffauges Castle. And now those damned frog eaters had snatched him away.

  A harsh Swiss curse on his lips, Hagen climbed on. He was high enough now that he could make out individual soldiers in the watchtowers. They laughed and warmed their hands over braziers, unaware of the almost invisible shapes crawling up the wall like lizards.

  Two more times Hagen almost fell but found a hold in the last moment. Then he finally reached the battlements and pulled himself over the top, soundlessly jumping into the courtyard on the other side. A large building towered in front of him—the palas of the main castle, he guessed—and to his left, the track led across a bridge. To his right, another bridge led to the third rocky outcrop that held several squat towers.

  Where are you, little doctor?

  Meanwhile, the other Swiss mercenaries had also jumped over the battlements. All of them were experienced warriors, armed with long knives and crossbows; only Hagen had brought his German longsword, despite the additional weight. Most of them knew each other from wars; they were hardened soldiers who spoke the same language and who could communicate by gestures alone if need be. The Swiss guard was considered an elite troop, and these men were the best of the best. Hagen signaled to the men, and together they moved along the battlements to the west.

  Hagen grinned when he saw that the moon was completely covered by clouds now. The heavens were on their side. At least Lahnstein had done his homework and, for a few coins down in the village, had found that the dungeons were situated inside Coudray Tower, which was immediately beyond the second bridge. In the light of the torches, Hagen could make out several heavily armed guards and an external staircase that led to the tower’s second story and a door. The door was additionally secured by a small walled balcony from which the guards could stymie any advance without exposing themselves. Hagen counted five or six men downstairs, while his own group was twice as strong. If they were swift and silent, and nothing unexpected happened, they would eliminate the enemy before anyone could sound the alarm.