“You drew a map of Rome,” said Johann. “Bring it here.”
Frowning, Karl fished a paper scroll from under his bed and unfolded it on the table. The map had become blotched with wine stains and candle wax but was still legible. Johann pointed at a spot near Castel Sant’Angelo.
“The Passetto di Borgo, the papal escape route,” he explained. “It’s a corridor that runs aboveground. If an enemy storms the Vatican palaces, the pope can escape to Castel Sant’Angelo via this passage. And the castle has never been conquered.”
“And you want to get in through there?” asked Karl, surprised. “The passage will be guarded just like the rest of the castle.”
“But not nearly as heavily as the main entrance, which is supposed to withstand any attack. I took a look at the tunnel this morning.” With his finger, Johann traced the line on the map that led from the Vatican to the fortress. The corridor was about half a mile long—far too long to keep every single yard under surveillance. “Parts of the corridor are completely out in the open,” explained Johann, “protected by a wall. If we get across the wall undetected, we aren’t quite inside the castle yet but a good deal closer.”
“And then?”
“Let that be my concern. Remember how we got into the underground passages of Nuremberg?” Johann winked at Karl. “Back then I had one or two tricks up my sleeve. We still have a day and a half. I am going to make a few purchases that will help us.”
Karl gave him a doubtful look. “The way you talk, you make it sound like child’s play.”
“I am Doctor Faustus—never forget,” said Johann, but then his expression darkened. “But this situation is far too serious to be considered child’s play. We mustn’t waste a minute.” He rolled up the map. His hand instinctively went to his trouser pocket, where he was keeping the tiny silver globe these days. Maybe he would soon need it.
“This is about the life of a child—my grandson. And who knows. Maybe it’s about much more.”
25
TO MAKE ALL THE PREPARATIONS JOHANN WANTED TO IN such a short amount of time, he and Karl went to the remotest parts of Rome, to lugubrious dives, dodgy vendors selling their goods at deserted catacombs, goldsmiths, and dyers. The ingredients Johann required were difficult to come by. For the legendary aqua regia, for example, they’d had to visit a silversmith who used the components for the alloying of his knives. After these nonstop errands Johann’s savings were completely used up, but the large leather satchel at his side was bulging.
“Aqua regia will help us break through locks,” he explained as they strolled across the Campo Vaccino, the so-called cow meadow, in the city’s center. It was a field of rubble surrounded by ruins. “If you mix spirits of salt and nitric acid, you end up with a liquid that can eat its way through the thickest metal.”
“And through human flesh,” said Karl sternly, eyeing the satchel on Johann’s shoulder. “And many other utensils in your sack are equally dangerous. You’re carrying a highly explosive witch’s kitchen on your back.”
“That’s why we’ll only mix the various substances when we need them. Don’t fret! Remember the flaming arrows I used to make? In the beginning, the Chinese only used blackpowder as a source of enjoyment. But now we know how deadly the powder can be.” Johann grinned. “And anyway, these items are mostly supposed to confuse our enemies—just like back in the Nuremberg underground passages, remember?”
Back then, Johann had filled the corridors with colored smoke. What he wasn’t telling Karl was that this time he’d use the ingredients for another purpose. Johann had tossed the idea back and forth for a long time, and eventually he reached the conclusion that it might come in rather useful.
As useful and as destructive as little else in this world, he thought.
It was the afternoon before the great fireworks that launched the celebration of Milan once again being part of the pope’s realm. The feast was supposed to last for three days, with music, food, and games, just like in the old times. Crowds had already started to gather around Castel Sant’Angelo, hoping to secure a good spot for the fireworks. The spectacle wouldn’t commence until well after sunset, so that the darkness would show off the rockets and firecrackers.
The fireworks had turned out to be a stroke of luck for Johann, as sulfur, saltpeter, and other rare substances had been more readily available than usual—albeit at criminal prices. Johann was glad he hadn’t touched his savings in the last couple of years, instead opting for cheap inns. Despite the staggering task ahead of them, he couldn’t suppress the thrill of anticipation. The time of waiting was finally coming to an end. What had begun many years ago, when he’d first met the magician Tonio del Moravia, was coming full circle.
You won’t get my grandchild, Tonio. No door will hinder me.
Suddenly he stopped. Rising in front of them was Palatine Hill, one of Rome’s seven hills.
“Damn it—we forgot something!”
“What?” asked Karl. “We have ground charcoal of alder buckthorn, sulfur from Sicily, saltpeter, even nitric and sulfuric acid. Not to mention all those other ingredients I’ve never heard of before.”
“We’re missing a simple picklock!” Johann slapped his hand against his forehead. “I have the clerk’s keys, but there are bound to be other locks. And there won’t be enough aqua regia for all of them.” He patted Karl’s shoulder. “You go ahead to the inn and prepare our clothing. Remember, everything must be as dark as the night. I saw a blacksmith up on Palatine Hill who looked like he might produce a picklock without asking too many questions. I’ll take a quick detour.”
“Do you want me to take the bag for you?”
“And blow yourself up with a wrong movement?” Johann smirked. “The bag stays with me. That’s where it’s safest. You go find us some rope and hooks so that we’re prepared for all eventualities at the Passetto di Borgo.”
In truth, Johann didn’t want him to take the satchel because he didn’t want Karl to ask any more questions about the ingredients.
“I’ll be an hour at the most. That’ll give us plenty of time.”
Johann turned away with one last nod and headed toward the southern end of Campo Vaccino. To the east, the Colosseum jutted into the sky, and directly in front of him stood the Mons Palatinus. With its dilapidated imperial palaces and fortifications, the hill formed the last part of the overgrown grazing lands in the center of the city. The Palatine wasn’t a good area; it was considered disabitato, abandoned, a place where no honorable citizens lived. Only ruins were left here, and large parts of those had been carried away as building material for the new churches that were springing up everywhere. Lime burners had dug deep pits in between their poor hovels, which looked strangely out of place among the remnants of lordly buildings. Only a few rugged figures moved between the shacks, along with large numbers of stray dogs who barked angrily at Johann.
Johann’s eye was caught by a statue standing a little farther on. Evidently, it showed a great Germanic warrior. Johann blinked—for a brief moment he thought the statue had moved, but it was probably just the sun, which hung low on the horizon, blinding him. Despite the sunshine it was miserably cold and, as usual, a damp breeze blew from the north, carrying with it the stink of the Tiber.
Johann continued up the hill, past beggars and vagabonds who eyed him suspiciously. He clutched his satchel tightly. Perhaps it had been a mistake to visit this area by himself. On the other hand, if someone were to rob him, he would simply hurl the aqua regia at them. The screams of a person losing his face certainly would deter anyone else. Once more Johann considered whether he should really go ahead with his plan. He remembered something Leonardo da Vinci had said to him in his garden.
How can we ensure that our ideas don’t turn out to be our undoing?
Johann touched the silver pendant he now carried on a chain around his neck—it felt as heavy as the entire world.
An idea that held the power to destroy the world.
There was a
cracking sound behind him, followed by the clattering of stone.
A strong hand clutched his neck while a second hand pressed a wet sponge to his mouth. Johann breathed in a pungent, aromatic smell.
A sleeping sponge.
Physicians occasionally used such sponges to sedate patients before surgery. The sponges were saturated with poppy juice and extracts of various plants from the nightshade family. They didn’t achieve a complete sedation, but they numbed the mind. This was no weapon of plain thieves and scoundrels.
Johann flailed his arms and kicked his feet, but he could already feel his knees growing weak. His legs gave way as if they were made of straw. He wanted to shout for help but couldn’t with the sponge over his mouth and nose.
Then he lost consciousness.
When he came to, his hands and feet were bound, and he’d been gagged. All around him it was black. He could feel solid timber: his legs were pushed up against his chest and he had no room to move. He appeared to be stuck inside some kind of chest. The chest moved and rattled as if it was sitting atop a cart.
Johann desperately tried to focus. He had been abducted. But why and by whom? His head ached as if someone had thumped him with a hammer. This was partly due to the sleeping sponge, but also because of the acrid smells filling the chest.
It was the smells of sulfur, saltpeter, nitric acid, and various other highly toxic substances.
Now Johann felt the leather satchel at his feet. His abductor must have chucked it into the chest with him. With so many poisonous fumes in such a cramped space, he’d be dead soon, from either suffocation or explosion.
Johann wriggled like a fish out of water. Again he tried to call for help, but all he managed was muted croaking. The fumes caused tears to run down his face, and his lungs burned like fire. He needed to get out of there as fast as possible. But the more he struggled, the harder he breathed and the more the fumes affected him. And so he forced himself to calm down, even though his heart was racing.
All of a sudden the cart stopped. He heard muffled voices, then the cart rattled on. The chest was jolted from side to side and Johann hit his head repeatedly, but he barely noticed the pain by then. The acrid fumes were killing him slowly but steadily, breath by breath. He suspected that the tiny flame of a candle would suffice to blow up the chest.
Farewell, Greta. Farewell, grandson I never met.
Again he passed out.
The next time he awoke, he was blinded by glaring light. Was this heaven?
But he felt much too miserable to be in heaven; more likely, he had landed in hell. The chest’s lid opened, and someone yanked him out and removed the gag. Johann vomited, then gasped for air. The stink of sulfur and saltpeter still surrounded him, and his skin felt like it was on fire. Only after several long moments did he begin to take in his surroundings.
He was lying on cold, smooth parquet, the dark timber adorned with precious inlays. Johann made out the shapes of several marbles that looked like pills, as well as crossed keys.
The keys of Saint Peter—the symbol of the pope.
Slowly he looked up and beheld two pairs of boots. One pair was dirty and as big as two buckets. The other pair was made of soft, freshly blackened leather and adorned with silver spurs.
“The oh-so-famous Doctor Faustus,” sounded a familiar voice. “Nearly drowned in his own vomit. How pathetic! And yet I struggle to feel sorry for a necromancer.”
Johann groaned and turned on his back.
Standing in front of him were Hagen and Viktor von Lahnstein. The papal representative, in his white Dominican gown, glared down at Johann with folded arms. Red flaps of skin hung in the place his nose used to be, and above it, two cold eyes gleamed like those of a beast of prey. Johann blinked repeatedly. Perhaps he had landed in hell after all.
“Welcome to Castel Sant’Angelo, Doctor,” said Lahnstein. “And so we meet again. I want to ask God in all humility to look away for one moment. I have waited years for this.”
With his pointed boots, he kicked the prisoner hard between the legs.
The pain was so intense that Johann passed out once more.
A short while later, Johann was sitting on a chair in the corner of the chamber with his head on his chest.
The room was entirely lined with dark parquet, and at its center stood an antique statue of Hermes. In front of it was a small altar with a cross and one single kneeler for praying. Perhaps this was a private chapel, illuminated by torches in the early hours of the evening.
Johann’s clothes were stained all over, and a stinging rash had formed on his skin. His crotch was throbbing with pain, and he felt sick as a dog. To his relief he could still sense the tiny silver globe underneath the fabric of his shirt.
Lahnstein sat in front of him with crossed legs, while Hagen guarded the door in silence. Overly cautious, thought Johann. He was far too weak to stand up—and besides, he was tied to the back and legs of the chair with ropes.
“You look terrible, Doctor,” remarked Lahnstein, gazing at Johann with obvious disgust. “Like a heretic on his third day of torture.”
“That is exactly how I feel,” said Johann. The toxic fumes appeared to have affected his airways. Each word was agony.
Lahnstein gestured at the leather satchel lying on the floor beside Hermes. He wrinkled his nonexistent nose in disgust; the room stank of sulfur and other pungent acids. “What kind of witchcraft is in that bag? Tell me, what sort of devilish invocation had you planned this time?”
“Fireworks,” gasped Johann.
Lahnstein leaned forward. “I beg your pardon?”
“Fire . . . fireworks in honor of the pope. Isn’t that what they do today?” Johann attempted to smile. “Three cheers for Leo, victor over France.”
Lahnstein didn’t give in to Johann’s provocation, waving dismissively. “Whatever it was that you were planning, it nearly cost you your life. It would have been a fitting end for a quack and necromancer like yourself. And yet I am pleased you’re alive.” He scrutinized Johann coldly. “Did you really think we didn’t know where you’ve been hiding? Hagen has been watching you and your assistant for a while now. Truly an extraordinarily shabby hole you picked out. The wine must be ghastly.”
“Better than . . . to drink from the pope’s dog dish.”
“Is that all you have left? Insults?” Lahnstein smiled, which, on his monstrous face, looked like a bulldog baring its teeth. “You have fallen a long way, Doctor.”
“What . . . what are you planning to do with my grandson?”
Lahnstein raised an eyebrow. “How interesting of you to ask. I was about to ask you something very similar.”
He shuffled closer with his stool until he was just a hand’s breadth away from Johann’s face. Johann could smell a sharp-smelling perfume that reminded him of the pine forests of France. He guessed the representative used it to cover up the foul stench of the poorly healed scab.
“Mandragora, bezoar, amber, Salamandra salamandra, sulfur, dens pistris,” listed Lahnstein quietly, as if he feared they might be overheard. “Do you know this recipe?”
Johann hesitated. Those were precisely the ingredients Hagen had killed the alchemist for. Why was Lahnstein asking? Did he know that Karl had seen Hagen?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Johann said eventually.
“You are the most famous alchemist of the empire and you’re trying to tell me you don’t know what those ingredients are used for? Are you trying to play me for a fool?” Lahnstein signaled to Hagen, whereupon the giant stepped forward and landed two well-aimed punches in Johann’s belly, causing him to cry out in pain. When Johann vomited this time, only green bile came out.
“We need neither rack nor glowing pincers, Doctor,” said Lahnstein. “Hagen developed other methods on the battlefields that make stubborn prisoners talk. I will ask you again.” He held the list of ingredients in front of Johann’s nose. “Mandragora, bezoar, amber, Salamandra salamandra . . . What is it abou
t? Is this a recipe to produce the philosopher’s stone? Speak up!”
Johann groaned, kept his head down, and thought hard. So far he had believed that Hagen had fetched all those ingredients for Lahnstein, but now it would appear that the papal representative didn’t know anything about it. Or was this a trap? Johann decided to take a huge gamble.
“If I tell you, will you give me your word that no harm will come to my grandson?”
Another wave from Lahnstein brought another punch. “I don’t care about your grandson, damn it!” snarled Lahnstein. “God alone will decide whether the brat lives or dies. I only want to know what this recipe is about. I questioned every alchemist in Rome, and no one was able to tell me. Spit it out, Doctor! Now. It is important! Does it serve to make gold or not?”
For the first time, Johann noticed a fearful twitch in Lahnstein’s eyes.
“It . . . is not for the production of gold,” he said.
“But?” persisted Lahnstein.
“The formula is from The Sworn Book of Honorius, an old book of sorcery of which only very few copies survive. The recipe serves . . .” Johann paused. “The recipe serves as an invocation. Those ingredients combined with the right spells summon the devil.”
“Summon the . . . the devil? Is it true? I knew it, damn it! I knew it all along!” Lahnstein looked at Hagen. “Not a word of what is being said here can ever get out, understood? It would be the end of all of us!”
Hagen nodded in silence and leaned on his longsword.
“And you really believe such a ritual can summon the devil?” Lahnstein asked Johann in a whisper. “Or is it yet more heretic nonsense that the likes of you use to frighten the common people?”
Johann looked at him from red eyes, his skin covered in rashes, his voice as hoarse as a spirit from the underworld. “If you had asked me earlier, I’d have said that it is nonsense, nothing but hocus-pocus and a show for the stage. But now . . .” He coughed blood. “Yes, I believe the devil truly can be summoned with this ritual. Trust me—I’ve seen him myself. And he is worse than anything you can imagine. Because deep down the devil is a man, too. If we don’t stop him, he is going to destroy the world as we know it. And he will laugh as if it were the funniest joke.”
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