On its edge sat two crows and an old raven.
It was the same raven Greta had followed through the woods. The room was filled by a strange flickering and glowing whose origin she couldn’t make out. Greta squinted and saw another item at the grotto’s back wall.
It was a throne made of stone. But upon the throne sat no king, no emperor, and no pope.
On the throne sat a fool.
Greta froze. Viktor von Lahnstein had permitted her to watch some of Pope Leo’s spectacles. There had been music, jugglers, dancers, and a court jester. The jester was an ugly, hunchbacked fellow, playing pranks in front of the Holy Father’s chair and jingling his bells. Greta never took much notice of him.
Now he was sitting here, bouncing her son on his knee.
“Look who’s come to visit,” said the fool in a nasal voice. “Uh-oh, it’s your mother—now we’re both in deep trouble.”
The jester smiled a wolfish grin at Greta. The heat inside the cave had made his makeup run like streaks of blood. He was clad in a tight multicolored garment that spanned across the hump on his back. On his head sat a fool’s cap with bells that jingled cheerfully.
Sebastian shrieked happily and tried to catch the bells.
“The poor boy was hungry,” said the fool in the concerned tone of a nursemaid. “So I gave him something to drink. A very special juice. Now the child is satisfied.”
In the dull light Greta thought she could see some red spots around her son’s lips.
Red like blood.
“You monster!” she screamed.
She was about to storm up to the fool when he underwent a strange change. He bared his teeth like a wolf and hissed at her, and in the demonic half light it looked as if his body was growing. The shadow against the wall showed a huge horned creature.
“Stay!”
The voice was so deep, loud, and powerful that Greta staggered backward as if she’d run against a wall. Sebastian started to cry again.
“You frightened him,” said the fool, rocking the child in his lap, looking like the harmless jester again. “Nasty mummy! Hasn’t been looking after poor little Sebastian, only ever thinking of the stern old fellow up in heaven. Tsk, tsk, tsk.” The fool shook his head and gave Greta a disapproving look. “He barely recognizes his own mother.”
“Of course he recognizes me,” said Greta weakly, but the eyes of her son told a different story. Sebastian had only glanced at her before turning back to the funny man in whose lap he was sitting.
“Bumpty bump again,” Sebastian called out. “Again!”
“What did you do to him?” screamed Greta. “You . . . you bewitched him!”
“Oh, I didn’t need to,” said the fool. “A little fun and song was all it took. And, by the way, he was calling for Martha before, not you. He liked good old Martha very much.”
A pain shot through Greta’s heart as if Hagen had thrust his sword straight through her. Tears streamed down her face, and she was overwhelmed by feelings of guilt. Greta knew that had been the jester’s intention but couldn’t stop it. “I don’t know what you’ve done to him or what you’re doing to me, but . . . but he is my son. I am his mother—”
“What sort of a mother gives her child to a nursemaid and hides inside a nunnery?” The fool chuckled, and the birds on the fountain cawed excitedly, flapping their wings. “An unnatural mother! Kraa! Kraa!” he went, imitating the call of the raven, and his birds joined in. “Kraa! Kraa!”
Greta was crying, her whole body shaking while her son snuggled up to the chest of the villain. She was beginning to feel nauseated from the stink of sulfur, her head thumping. What was going on here?
“Quit the games, Tonio!” sounded Johann’s voice from behind her. His hand grasped Greta’s shoulder. “Don’t listen to him,” he whispered to her. “That’s what the devil does, tugging and gnawing at that which you hold dearest.”
“Bah, you spoilsport!” The fool thumbed his nose at Johann, who was standing behind Greta alongside Karl. Then his pale, painted face began to beam. “How wonderful to see you again, little Faustus! Though we briefly met not long ago. Do you remember?”
“Oh yes, I remember, Tonio del Moravia.” Faust nodded. “I remember every single damned moment with you in my life.”
Every single damned moment.
Johann’s thoughts returned to the procession on All Saints’ Day a few weeks back. He had seen Tonio then, but his mind had been too preoccupied with his search for Viktor von Lahnstein and Greta to notice. He supposed there had been many people like him in the last few years.
The jester at the court. He is always near, hears all, sees all. No one takes him seriously, and yet he always speaks the truth.
“You walked right past me but you were wearing a mask,” said Johann. “And that hump on your back.”
“Not bad, for a cheap prop, huh?” The fool Tonio wiggled his head until the little bells jingled. “People love misshapen creatures because it makes them feel superior.” He pulled a face, making him truly look like a silly fool. “People are so easily deceived.”
“How long has this game been going on for?” asked Johann. “Over two years, isn’t that right? You slowly stole the pope’s trust.”
“Leo loved jesters. It wasn’t difficult to get a spot at court.” Tonio shrugged. “I can be highly entertaining when I want to, as you know. In addition, dear Leo was extremely quick-tempered—a true Medici. No one dared tell him the truth. No one but his fool.” Tonio grinned. “I believe I can say that we almost became something like friends. In the end, I was his most important adviser.”
“It was you who put the idea in the pope’s head that I knew how to make gold,” said Johann.
“It was supposed to be a joke, but Leo was so obsessed by the philosopher’s stone. He tortured one alchemist after the other and sifted through old documents in the Vatican library. That’s where he came across Gilles de Rais and his invocations. All right, I admit I ensured that he found the documents. Gilles always was one of my favorite shells. Forever hungry, never satisfied.”
Tonio weighed the child in his arms and stroked his rosy cheeks. Sebastian looked tired; his eyes kept falling shut.
“I thought it might be a good way to bring you to Rome,” he continued eventually, looking into Johann’s face. “I even traveled to Knittlingen and Bamberg in person to find you. It wasn’t easy to justify my absence to Leo. You see, I still haven’t given up on you, my little Faustus.” Tonio cooed like a dove. “I sent you my curse as a friendly reminder. Later, at Tiffauges, you were just about to return to me voluntarily, but sadly, your daughter and her beloved spoiled the show. Stabbing him to death in your frenzy was a lovely climax, I thought.” He laughed. “But now you’re finally here. Here with me in my realm. How do you like it?”
Tonio made a sweeping gesture and continued. “I love this place even more than Castel Sant’Angelo. It is ancient! Long before the times of Romulus and Remus, sacrifices were being offered up in this cave. Human sacrifices. The fountain stems from those times, and was later used by the Romans. Later again, baptisms were held here. Oh, if only the Christians had known what the fountain used to hold. Not water—oh no.” Sebastian briefly opened his eyes and started to whimper, and Tonio rocked him soothingly. “Hush, hush. Are you hungry again, my darling? Now hush like a good boy while I’m talking to your grandfather.”
Johann noticed that the stink of sulfur was growing more intense, and he was beginning to feel dizzy. The fumes were probably rising up from cracks in the earth, and his companions also seemed affected by them. Greta was hanging on to Karl, trembling all over, her face ashen as if she was seeing ghosts.
Or the devil, thought Johann.
“The . . . the French delegate at Bamberg was you, right?” asked Karl now, leaning against the cave’s wall, heat and sulfur taking their toll on him, too. “And Greta and I saw you at Metz, below the bridge.”
“Hell, I was hungry, and so I became careless.” Tonio shrug
ged. “After Faust’s escape from Bamberg, I had to change tack. I was forced to accept the fact that my darling wasn’t coming to Rome anytime soon. I would have loved to have him by my side! But I found a way to make Agrippa lure you to France. There was . . . another task awaiting.” The master eyed his former apprentice with curiosity. “You know what I’m speaking of?”
“I do,” replied Johann reluctantly. The silver globe was hidden underneath his shirt. Johann would hold back the pawn for as long as he could.
The fumes made him see shadows where there could be none, and his head ached from the stink. Little Sebastian was fast asleep in Tonio’s lap, the boy’s cheeks looking healthy and red—too red. Johann guessed they didn’t have much time before the fumes killed them all.
“Did you get what I sent you to Leonardo’s for?” growled Tonio, sounding like a large panther.
Johann blinked a few times and tried to focus. “We’ll talk about that in a moment. But first there is something I’d like to know.”
“Oho!” Tonio spread his arms and smiled. “There is something the clever Doctor Faustus doesn’t know? Be my guest.”
“You can be so many things—a powerful wizard, an alchemist, even a French marshal. Why in God’s name did you become the pope’s fool?” Johann shook his head. “All right, you had Leo’s attention, were able to weave intrigues and put ideas in his head. Was it about war? Is that what your goal was? To sow discord at the court of one of the world’s most powerful men?”
“Think, clever Faustus.” Tonio tilted his head. “You are so bright. Why do you think I encouraged the pope to invoke the devil when the devil was already in Rome?”
Johann had asked himself the same question over and over. He still hadn’t come up with an answer. Tonio was a master of lies and deception, but he always pursued a particular goal. Something Agrippa once said came to Johann’s mind.
The devil appears in all kinds of shapes.
Despite the fumes, Johann tried to arrange his thoughts. In order to walk on earth, the devil needed a shell. That much Agrippa had found out. Gilles de Rais had been one such shell, and later Tonio del Moravia, the sorcerer, and several years ago he, Johann, was supposed to serve as a shell. Back then, in Nuremberg, Tonio’s disciples had attempted to bring the true devil to earth. And one detail had been very important.
Johann had to come of his own free will. That was the ancient rule.
And suddenly he understood Tonio’s plan.
It was a joke, and it was so good that surely even God in heaven had to acknowledge its ingenuity. Johann struggled not to laugh out loud. The fumes made the terrible suddenly seem funny. It was hilarious!
The devil as pope.
“You wanted to become pope,” Johann exclaimed. “That was what the ritual was for. If Leo had managed to summon the devil, you would have been able to slip into his shell. Just like you have done with all the other shells!”
“The devil as God’s representative.” Tonio clapped his hands as Sebastian slept deeply in his lap. “Bravo, bravissimo! And wouldn’t it have been the most beautiful coat for someone like me? Say it, little Faustus. This Martin Luther already called the pope the devil. But what if the pope truly were the devil? Oh, I would have built an empire of terror, of decadence, of gluttony and pomposity. We were well on our way, Leo and me—the coffers were empty, the court was turning into a Circus Maximus, the screams of tortured men echoed through Castel Sant’Angelo. But then you came and once again ruined everything. Bad boy! Bad, bad boy!”
Again Tonio seemed to expand, and his shadow against the wall grew horns, a tail, and long claws that reached for Johann. Johann felt a hot breath of air, as hot as if it came straight from hell.
It’s just the fumes, he thought. Just the fumes. How much longer before I lose consciousness?
He looked for the cracks the fumes were coming from but couldn’t spot any. The glowing at the back of the cave was becoming stronger. It was so hot in here. Johann had heard that in ancient times, heathen priests used such fumes to obtain states of ecstasy, making them see things that weren’t there and causing them to speak in riddles. Staggering a little, Johann looked behind him. To his horror, he saw that Karl and Greta had already lost consciousness. He wouldn’t last much longer. He had to bring this to an end. His hand moved to the pendant on his neck.
“Tonio, I—” he began.
“You always ruin everything,” snarled Tonio. “You never do as you’re told.” Then his expression changed just as abruptly again, and Tonio looked almost benevolent and kind. “But that’s just the way we are. We love chaos.”
“We?” asked Johann, his strength fading fast.
“Yes, we, little Faustus. Us two.” Tonio reached out his hand to him as if he wanted to stroke Johann’s head.
“Or have you still not understood who you really are, my son?”
A wagon rattles across the cobblestones of the small town of Knittlingen, the horse lame and the wheels squeaking. In a cage beneath the canopy at the front sit an old raven and two crows, staring maliciously from small red eyes at the children of Knittlingen who run around the wagon, laughing. The magician! The magician is in town! None of the boys and girls know that the birds inside the cage used to be children just like them a long, long time ago.
Sitting upon the box seat, his face concealed beneath a floppy hat with a red feather, sits a man who has seen much: the human sacrifices of the Sumerians, Babylon’s arrogance and downfall, the pyramids of Egypt erected with the blood of thousands of slaves; he has watched Rome burn, seen the hordes of horsemen from the East and the demise of Constantinople. He has drunk blood from the skulls of the vanquished, has bitten through throats with his teeth, has raped, murdered, and laughed as he was doing so; he has loved a virgin and at her side liberated the city of Orléans from the English, and then watched her burn at the stake. He was the beginning and he would be the end.
Just then his name is Tonio del Moravia, and he likes it well. But he has borne many different names before: Imhotep, Circe, Judas, Simon Magus, Gilles de Rais.
Name is but sound and smoke.
A pretty young farmer’s wife is standing in the window, her breasts full and her cheeks rosy. He smiles at her and doffs his hat. He likes them young, because they smell so fresh, full of life—like freshly butchered lambs, steam still rising from their innards. He takes the girls into the hay, and they come willingly because they can sense the beast in him. Sometimes he lets them go afterward, and other times he slits them open and drinks their blood.
This young farmer’s wench will be the next.
They are as easily plucked as sweet, ripe pears. But this one is different, he can tell. A hunger gleams in her eyes, a mischief that he likes. “Take me with you,” she says when they lie side by side in the hay. “Anywhere, just away from this world that ends beyond the next brook, beyond the next fence!” He laughs and makes an egg appear for her, and from the egg hatches a warm chick. She pleases him, because he loves adventures and new beginnings. Stagnation is the business of the old man up top.
Because everything that exists deserves to perish.
In a clearing in the woods he finds a cave for them both. He etches his mark into the stone and takes her from behind like an animal. He enjoys it, more than usual. On a whim he lets her live—more than that, he woos her. “I will return,” he breathes into her ear, and she smiles. “Take me with you,” she whispers. “My dark prince, my wizard.”
But he disappears like smoke in the wind. He travels, sowing perdition here, watching a war arise there; he whispers, hisses, slaughters, and kills, always along the new post roads that cross the empire like veins.
Much blood flows in those veins.
When the man passes through Knittlingen again a year later, the farmer’s wife has born a child. “Take me with you,” she says again. “Me and the child!” But he shakes his head. “Then tell me, at least, what the future holds in store for my son.”
He picks up the
boy’s little hand and sees something astonishing.
The boy is strong, very strong. Born on the day of the prophet.
Name him Faustus, he says. Because he is lucky indeed.
Again the years go by. When he comes to Knittlingen next, he meets the boy who is called Faustus as he had demanded. The boy is a bright fellow with the inquisitive eyes of his mother. The man reads in the boy’s hand and finds a puzzle. Even the devil can be amazed.
And the hope grows.
Never before had he fathered a child—it isn’t possible—he is not a mortal! But this boy, he senses, is different from all other people. He is never satisfied; he is restless, a renewer, a chaos bringer, a wrecker, a destroyer. He is someone who changes the world.
My son.
And I am his master.
When Johann opened his eyes, he thought the world was ablaze.
Where am I? Is this hell?
It was so hot! Fire licked above him. But then he saw that it was only shadows dancing across the cave ceiling. He was still inside the Lupercal beneath Palatine Hill. But where were the others? Karl, Greta, his grandson? He tried to sit up but was overwhelmed by nausea, and so he sank back down on the ground.
“So you have finally come!”
The voice booming through the cave was deep and familiar. It was the voice of Tonio, and yet it was different.
Much older.
“I have been waiting for you for so long,” continued the voice. “I have been holding my hand out to you, I have begged, pleaded, and sent you my most special kiss as a greeting. But you never came. Like a stubborn child you kept running away from me for all those years. But now you’re finally here. With me.”
Johann groaned. He remembered what Tonio had just revealed to him. Strangely, this knowledge didn’t fill him with terror, almost as if he had always suspected it.
I am the son of the devil.
Tonio had raised him, had been his mentor. Everything Johann knew—black magic, alchemy, reading the stars, chiromancy, yes, even the gift of foreseeing a person’s death—he had inherited from Tonio. Tonio del Moravia had been the man from the west who had visited his mother a long time ago and left her with child. Johann’s stepfather, Jörg Gerlach, had told him about this stranger just before Johann had left his hometown of Knittlingen at sixteen. What was it his stepfather had said?
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