“‘Victory is ours,’ what a joke. Let’s see if they’re still so cocky when the flames lick at them tonight,” growled Hagen, walking down the narrow corridor ahead of Greta. He stopped outside the last door.
“Just until the next stroke of the bell,” he said. “Not a moment more. I don’t feel like listening to that racket for much longer.”
He opened the door with a large key, and Greta entered the cell. A single torch in a bracket on the wall cast some dim light into an unfurnished room with a stone floor strewn with very little straw. A foul-smelling bucket was the only item in the room. Greta was reminded of the similar cell she had been locked in as a young girl in Nuremberg. Johann had saved her back then, but there would be no rescue for the man who sat leaning against the wall in this chamber, not even if he were permitted to leave this cell.
He was his own prisoner.
Behind her, the door banged shut.
“Karl,” said Greta softly. “Can you hear me?”
When she had asked Lahnstein permission to visit Karl, he had been unsure at first but eventually granted it. “Maybe you will get him to speak,” he’d said. “Although I doubt it. I believe only his body is still on this earth, while his spirit has left him.”
When Greta saw her old friend, she couldn’t help but agree with Lahnstein. The Karl Wagner in front of her was nothing but a shell. He stared straight ahead like a dead fish, saliva running from the corner of his mouth, and his limbs seemed strangely lifeless and limp, as if his bones had dissolved.
Greta had hoped that Karl had only put on an act for the soldiers—which was why she had asked to enter the cell on her own. But now she saw that Karl truly wasn’t in his right mind. Lahnstein had explained to her that it was probably due to the poisonous drink he’d consumed. The poison had rendered him insane, and his spirit had traveled to another world.
Greta doubted it was a nice world.
“I . . . I’m so sorry, Karl,” she tried again. “I . . . you . . . we should never have come to Tiffauges. My father has brought us nothing but unhappiness. It was . . . it was our damned love that made us weak, wasn’t it? Now look what your love brought you.”
Karl didn’t respond, still staring straight ahead. Greta noticed then that he was missing all his fingernails. They had pulled them out one by one, but still he hadn’t uttered a word. Now she understood why his limbs seemed so lifeless—most likely, they were broken in several places or pulled out of their joints. Crazy or not—Karl would never survive a journey to Rome.
“Karl!” Greta knelt down in front of him and took his bloodied hands in hers. “Where are you, my friend? Wherever you’ve gone, I am here with you, do you hear me? But . . . but I can’t help you. I have to save my child—you understand, don’t you? I’m going to Rome, Karl. I will ask Lahnstein to take you to a hospital not far from here so that you can be looked after. He’s not a bad man, deep down. He . . . he will listen to me, I’m sure.” She nodded with determination as the words gushed out of her. “You’re no longer of use to him, unlike me.”
Tears streamed down Greta’s face, the first ones since the previous night, but she didn’t notice. She held Karl’s hands tightly. His face was still beautiful, but now it reminded her of a prettily painted ceramic doll.
“I will write to you, Karl. I won’t abandon you. But now I must go, to Rome, for my child’s sake. We were on the wrong side all along, Karl. I realize that now. I’m returning to God, and God will help you, too, I’m sure of it.”
Greta took off her necklace with the amulet. The little alabaster angel had opened her eyes, even if it hadn’t managed to protect her. But maybe it would protect Karl—maybe it could stop evil growing in him like it had in her father.
“Here, Karl, take this,” she said softly and placed the angel around his neck. “Let it be your guardian angel from now on. If you ever wake up again, this pendant will remind you of me. Of me and of God, who is always there for us, especially during our hours of need.” Gently, she stroked his cheek. “I . . . I must go now. My old friend, I love you. I will always love you.”
She suppressed a sob, not wishing for Karl to remember her thus. But then she recalled that it was just a puppet sitting in front of her who wouldn’t remember anything.
Or was he?
As Greta stood up, she thought she could see the briefest flash in Karl’s eyes, as if the fog lifted for a tiny moment. But on second glance there was nothing but emptiness. His head flopped to one side, and a strand of saliva hanging from his mouth reached almost to the ground.
“Farewell, Karl.”
She bent down and kissed his hot forehead. Then she knocked against the door and Hagen opened it.
When she climbed up the stairs, Greta breathed in the cool, fresh breeze that greeted her. It tasted of new beginnings.
And with each step she left a little more of her old life behind.
18
AMBOISE
19 JUNE, AD 1519
UNDER A MOONLESS NIGHT, A LONESOME HORSEMAN arrived at the gates of Amboise. His horse was as pitch black as his coat, so the guards didn’t notice more than a shadow. He was riding along the wall, through the watery meadows by the river where the fireflies glowed like will-o’-the-wisps. The smell of rot and sulfur wafted over from the muddy banks. Above the river burned the watch fires of Amboise Castle, rising above the edge of town like a giantess made of stone. The horse took a sharp turn onto the narrow road leading to Cloux behind the castle.
About a quarter of a mile before his destination, Johann dismounted and tied the dripping horse to a tree so that it could graze. Despite the darkness, he had ridden the last few hours at a gallop. His coat stuck to his back, and every muscle in his body ached. But it was a welcome pain, reminding him that his paralysis had indeed vanished.
It had taken Johann eight days and nights to get here from Tiffauges; he had ridden like the devil. He no longer wore the bloodstained robe of the dead priest but a jerkin, trousers, and a black coat with a hood that turned him almost invisible when he rode through the woods. The horse had been a stroke of luck, as its saddlebag had been filled with wine, food, and even a few gold and silver coins—probably loot belonging to a Swiss mercenary. In a dodgy tavern where the landlord didn’t care how the strange fellow in the dirty robe had come by his money, Johann had bought his new clothes. He had considered buying a hand cannon also but decided on a set of throwing knives instead. In his youth, knives had always been the weapon he handled best, and throwing knives were more likely to hit their targets at short distances than those awkward guns.
Johann was about a hundred paces away from Château du Cloux now and still saw no lights. The building stood in complete darkness. Perhaps no one resided there now that Leonardo was dead? Hunched over, he crept along the wall. He knew from his walks in the garden that there was a derelict patch that was overgrown with ivy. A pear tree had stretched its branches across the wall there. Cloux wasn’t a castle like Tiffauges but an elegant manor house, not designed to keep out intruders. After all, it sat just beneath the royal castle, and that alone afforded some protection.
After searching for some time, Johann finally found the crumbling patch. He tested the tree branches for sturdiness and then started to climb up. It felt so good to use all his muscles again. He had been puzzling for days why the disease had gone and whether it was only temporary. He hoped fervently that it had nothing to do with John Reed’s death—that Tonio hadn’t accepted him as a sacrifice. But deep down inside, Johann knew that was the case.
He pulled himself up another branch and reached the top of the wall. He gazed into the courtyard and saw that all was silent and deserted, and he could still see no lights. Nearly two months had passed since Leonardo’s death; maybe the great artist’s friend and helper, Francesco Melzi, had already departed. But what about the two servants? Johann’s hand went to his hip, where from a leather belt hung five knives, their sheaths freshly oiled so that the blades slipped out easily. Also
hanging from his belt was a satchel holding a lantern and a tinderbox; that was all he had brought for this excursion. He took one more deep breath before jumping onto the shed roof below him. From there he lowered himself into the deserted yard.
Johann looked around searchingly. Where should he start? Until then, his goal had been Cloux. He had returned here because he hoped to find something that was of importance to Tonio. Something that Leonardo had hidden well. Now his plan seemed to him like the proverbial hunt for the needle in the haystack. What had he been thinking? La Meffraye and Henriet had searched for months without finding anything. What could it be? One of Leonardo’s inventions, perhaps? Or the philosopher’s stone after all? Father Jerome had said that Tonio had tried before to get that something off Leonardo.
What could Leonardo possibly have owned that was of interest to the devil?
The garden spread before him, a black plane in the darkness with trees protruding from it like monsters. Johann decided to try his luck in the manor house first. The main entrance was locked, but the lock was simple enough for Johann to pick with a knife. Inside, he lit his lantern and looked around. Many pieces of furniture had been removed; lighter colored patches on the floor showed where chests and cupboards used to sit. Other pieces of furniture were covered with sheets. Even though Leonardo da Vinci hadn’t been dead for long, Johann felt like he was the first visitor in many years.
With his lantern raised, Johann entered Leonardo’s atelier. He saw an empty easel, dried-up dishes of paint in the shelves, brushes, and a dead mouse floating in a bucket of murky cleaning water. Johann remembered what the room had looked like when Leonardo was still alive—the many colors, a cage with chirping birds, the painting of the beautiful woman that had been Leonardo’s favorite piece—her mysterious smile, as if she knew exactly which secret the master had taken to the grave with him. The library next door that Johann would have loved to browse had been cleared out. Only a few scraps of paper lay strewn on the floor; dust and spiderwebs now filled the shelves.
Johann’s steps echoed as he walked over to the dining room where he had often sat with Leonardo and Karl, and from there to the kitchen, where it still smelled of old fat and smoked meat. The house was empty and dead. What was he thinking when he’d expected to find a clue here? There was nothing. He decided to cast a glance belowground, even though his hopes were dashed. Stairs led down into a storage cellar with a broken barrel and empty crates. Here, too, nothing but scraps of paper lay scattered on the ground.
Scraps of paper.
Johann paused.
What were scraps of paper doing in the cellar, where he would have expected to find only foodstuffs? He bent down and picked up several scraps. They were parts of Leonardo’s notes and sketches; some pieces contained only one scribbled word. They probably came from books from the library, ripped pages or small notes. When the shelves had been emptied they must have fallen out.
And perhaps then someone carried the boxes of books down here?
In the light of his lantern, Johann continued to search the floor, his heart beating faster. On the right-hand wall that was built from rust-red bricks he made an interesting discovery: one of the scraps was stuck under the wall.
When Johann felt the wall, he could make out joints that formed a high rectangle.
A door.
It wasn’t hard to find the opening mechanism. It was behind one of the bricks, which he easily pushed in. The door swung open, and on the other side, secret stairs led into the depths, just like at Tiffauges. Johann briefly wondered if the same architect had built both doors, but soon abandoned the thought. The door at Tiffauges was designed to lock people up, while this one was part of a secret passage—and Johann thought he knew where it led.
To the castle.
It made sense. Leonardo and the king had been close friends, and Francis often visited the genius he admired so much. But since the king didn’t want to bring half his court each time, it was much easier to use a secret passageway. Obviously, the documents had been removed from Cloux via this tunnel. Johann remembered the king’s words when he had questioned Faust at Chinon.
My scholars sifted through Leonardo’s writings, page by page, but they found nothing.
In the passage, too, scraps littered the ground. Johann even found some intact pages, one of them containing an anatomical sketch, the opened torso of a man. The lungs had been removed, making visible the heart, stomach, and intestines. Johann thought about the dissection he had performed with Leonardo and Karl. The precision with which Leonardo had drawn his sketch was truly astounding.
The corridor was supported by ceiling beams every few yards and clad with bricks. As far as Johann could tell, it led in the direction of the castle. He walked faster, the lantern flickering and casting long shadows on the walls. Eventually he came to an iron gate secured by numerous locks.
Johann cursed under his breath. He saw at once that these locks weren’t as easy to pick as the one at the entrance. Had he really thought he could simply march into the royal castle? And what did he want at the castle, anyway? Leonardo’s documents had surely been taken away a long time ago. Angry and disappointed, he shook the gate. He was about to turn back when he heard a noise in the passageway behind him. At first he thought it was just the echo of the noise he had produced himself. But then he heard it again, low and creeping. It was a shuffling and scraping, as if a huge snake was slithering across the floor.
Someone was walking down the corridor directly toward him.
Johann couldn’t detect any light. Whoever or whatever was approaching wasn’t carrying a lantern—meaning that Johann was clearly visible, while the other could hide in the darkness. If that other was armed with a crossbow or a hand cannon, they had a decisive advantage.
Johann hesitated, then put out his lantern. Everything around him went black. But at least Johann couldn’t be seen. The shuffling stopped for a moment, then started again, faster and louder now. The person was getting very close. Johann involuntarily held his breath. Someone cleared his throat and spat on the ground.
“Nice trick, Doctor,” said a low, hoarse voice. “Now we’re both as blind as newborn kittens. But still you won’t get past me. How do you say at chess? Remis, isn’t it?”
Johann took a few moments to place the voice. He had heard it just a few times, mostly in muttered words of submission, of humble obedience.
Very well, monsignore. As you wish, monsignore. Dinner is served, would the gentlemen be so kind as to follow me . . .
Now he also remembered the name that the man standing in the darkness before him had used in Leonardo’s house. And he remembered the sound of the walking stick when the old butler used to hobble through the rooms of Château du Cloux. It was the same scraping Johann had heard just now.
“Battista!” called out Johann. “Or should I call you Henriet? And how is your friend the cook, dear Madame La Meffraye?”
“I see you’re as clever as they say, Doctor. Then I’m sure you have met our Prelati at Tiffauges, or Father Jerome, as he goes by.”
“Indeed I have. His corpse is rotting in one of the secret chambers where you used to torture innocent children. His black soul has gone to your lord, where it will hopefully burn for a very long time.”
Henriet said nothing. Evidently, this was news to him.
“First Poitou, now Prelati,” Johann went on. He strained his eyes but couldn’t make out more than the hint of an outline. “Your numbers are dwindling. And I will not rest until the last one of you is dead.”
“You’ll never succeed, because we are constantly joined by new followers. But I must admit that it saddens me to hear our Prelati is no longer with us. We were a close-knit fellowship, like a family.”
“Gilles de Rais, Poitou, the priest Prelati, La Meffraye, and you, Henriet,” counted Johann. “How many children have you murdered together? A hundred? Two hundred? A thousand? You’ve been at it for over a hundred years, after all.”
“Ever
y single child is worth it if it buys you eternal life and a place by the master’s side,” said the voice from the darkness. “The beast will return to earth soon, Faustus! Homo Deus est! We are preparing for its arrival, and then the air will be filled with the cries, wails, and screams of those who aren’t among its disciples.”
“You’ve tried before, remember?” said Johann. “In Nuremberg. You failed then and you will fail again now.”
“We weren’t ready then. This time, we are. The master’s plan is—I can’t help but say—divine. You will understand once he explains it to you. It’s not too late, Faustus. Join us.” The scraping sound resumed, coming closer, and Johann reached for the knives at his side.
“Did Leonardo tell you what he kept from us so stubbornly?” asked Henriet. “Do you know where the recipe is hidden?”
Johann listened up. Henriet had given away more than he realized. Clearly, the secret wasn’t an item but some kind of recipe. Could Tonio del Moravia also be after the lapis philosophorum, the philosopher’s stone? When Tonio was still called Gilles de Rais, he had frantically tried to produce gold. Was he still searching for a way, and had Leonardo found one? But why would Tonio want to know? He was immortal, at least as long as he quenched his thirst for the blood of children.
What did he need gold for?
Johann decided to string Henriet along for as long as he could.
“I believe you have been looking in the wrong places.”
“We turned over every brick in this house and studied every page of his documents. I went so far as to teach myself to read Leonardo’s mirror writing. The recipe wasn’t anywhere. We searched his dead body, his shroud, all his rings—we even looked inside his mouth. Nothing. And now his body lies cold and stiff at Notre-Dame-en-Grève, even more stubbornly silent than when he was alive. Despite everything the master did for him!” Henriet growled like a dog. “But maybe La Meffraye will still find it. She had another idea, but I don’t believe it. It is jinxed!”
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