Book of the Night

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “Are you some kind of magician?” Lukas said without thinking.

  Senno shook his head with amusement. “Oh God, no! Though there are men who might in fact look at me as a magician. There is much that I know that will always be hidden from ordinary mortals, and among that are surely things you would consider magic.”

  “Such as white magic?” Lukas asked. He bit his tongue, as the words had slipped out before he’d given it any thought.

  “White magic?” Senno now looked at him with great interest. “Are you talking about white witches? What do you know about that?”

  “Oh, nothing. I heard about it once, that’s all.”

  “Then it’s best to keep your knowledge to yourself,” the astrologer replied darkly. “There are people who would torture and burn you just for saying those words.”

  Lukas decided to put all his bets on one card. “You mean people like Waldemar von Schönborn, Wallenstein’s father confessor? You . . . are not going to turn me over to him, are you?”

  “Should I?” Senno looked at him for a long while, thinking. “And how do you know Schönborn?”

  “Well, uh . . . lots of stories go around in the camp. Schönborn is said to make short shrift of heretics and Protestants, a true supporter of the faith—”

  “If you continue like that, lad, you’re risking your neck,” Senno interrupted in a threatening voice. “First there was your nonsense about white witches, and now you’re even gossiping about the grand inquisitor of the pope. It’s lucky for you that Waldemar von Schönborn hasn’t arrived at the camp yet. He has his eyes and ears everywhere.” He gave Lukas a bump on the nose. “And now leave quickly before I change my mind.”

  Lukas hurried away, but even while he was running, he thought he could feel the astrologer’s gaze like prickling needles in his back. From now on he’d better be on guard. But he’d learned that Schönborn was, in fact, Wallenstein’s father confessor and that he hadn’t arrived in the camp yet.

  Lukas could feel, however, that the day was not far off when they would meet.

  Deep in thought, he mounted his horse again and rode back to the camp of the Black Musketeers.

  XV

  In the following days, they rushed toward Nürnberg at a brisk pace, covering up to thirty miles a day. It seemed as if the weather had conspired against them. Now, of all times, the sun burned down mercilessly, and the brooks at the side of the road had dried up or were polluted. Lukas’s tongue dried out from thirst until it felt like a piece of leather. But Zoltan showed them no mercy, either. No one in the regiment received more than a pouch of foul-tasting water a day, not even the commander.

  On the night after his mission to Wallenstein’s camp, Lukas told his friends of his conversation with Senno, and also that he had listened in on Wallenstein and his officers. Jerome, especially, was horrified to hear that.

  “Mon dieu, spying on the supreme commander could have cost you your life, do you realize that?” he said, shaking his head. “And then this conversation with Senno! Can you be sure he’s not going to tell Waldemar von Schönborn about you?”

  “You idiot,” Giovanni replied. “Thanks to Lukas, we know that Schönborn isn’t even in the camp. And even if he were . . . Senno only knows Lukas’s first name. For him, Lukas was probably nothing more than a curious servant boy.”

  “I wouldn’t trust one bit this would-be magician and astrologer,” Paulus said, furrowing his brow. “A few of the men here have told me about him, and it wasn’t good. He’s looking only for his own advantage, and takes every opportunity to endear himself to Wallenstein. Lukas should be more careful in the future.”

  Hour after hour, every day, the four friends struggled along the dusty road with the army, hemmed in on all sides by wagons, marching soldiers, and horses.

  After a forced march of almost a week, they were crushed to learn that all their efforts had been in vain. Before them lay the proud city of Nürnberg, one of the greatest cities in the Reich, but even from a distance, it was evident that the Swedes had arrived some time ago and had set up mighty fortifications around it. High mud walls surrounded the city in a zigzag pattern, as well as moats, freshly built trenches, and palisades armed with spikes. Behind the city battlements, the helmets of the defenders sparkled in the hot light of the midday sun.

  “Damn!” Giovanni cursed. “Now we’re facing a long siege, and with this heat! We’ll wither up like fish on dry land.”

  But Wallenstein had no pity for his soldiers. On the contrary, he drove them even harder. The very day of their arrival, his besieging forces set up camp a few miles away. Only a few of the soldiers had picks and shovels, and others had to make do with shards of pottery and their bare hands. In front of the trenches the Swedes had built more than ten miles of fences and walls of brushwood. Lukas had never seen such extensive fortifications, built in just a few days by hand.

  During their hot, arduous work, the four friends kept bumping into Kaspar and the other servants, who stared at them angrily and cursed under their breath as they passed by, but Jerome was probably right—they were too cowardly to stage a nighttime attack.

  “I knew those guys just had loud mouths,” said Paulus as they excavated a new trench with six-foot-high walls. But Lukas was not so sure of that.

  Zoltan had decided to continue using Lukas as a messenger in the far-flung encampment, but this time on foot, as the horses were needed elsewhere. None of the errands were to Wallenstein’s headquarters, however, which lay far to the south, and so Lukas made no progress at all in his search for Schönborn.

  In the second week, Lukas again encountered the court astrologer Senno, who was trotting along the freshly dug fortifications on his handsome white horse. When the astrologer noticed Lukas amid all the commotion, he raised his hand in a friendly gesture and beckoned for him to come closer.

  “Ah, the lad who’s the servant to the Musketeers,” he exclaimed cheerfully. “The stars told me we would meet a second time. It appears you have been allowed to leave your regiment again.” He smiled. “Or did I catch you spying once more?”

  Lukas shook his head. “No, no, sir! I only deliver messages—that’s all.”

  “Very well, then I want you to take a message for me. Come on, that’s an order!”

  He directed Lukas to mount his horse behind him, and they rode a short way until they were close to the highest hill in the camp. Before them was a single round tent that stood out from the others, looking like a temple from the Orient with its shimmering blue and black colors.

  “My home,” Senno said, jumping down from the horse. “Come in, it will be easier for us to talk there.”

  Lukas followed, hesitantly. When Senno pushed aside the tent flap, Lukas stepped in, and what he saw took his breath away. On the walls hung silken flags covered with strange characters, patterns, and animal symbols. Spheres of many sizes hanging on thin, almost invisible threads circled the room near the ceiling, and a table in the middle of the tent was covered with scrolls and colorfully executed documents with zodiacal signs and endless columns of numbers. Among all of these were odd-looking measuring instruments of copper and silver.

  Senno noticed Lukas’s astonishment and smiled. “It may sound strange to you, almost like magic, but I need all of that for my astrological predictions. This is the only way I’m able to produce the horoscopes the way Wallenstein needs them. Please take a seat.”

  He pointed to a stool in front of the table, and he himself took a seat on the other side. Only now did Lukas notice a half-empty bowl of meat and bread, which exuded an irresistible aroma.

  “Help yourself,” said Senno. “You must be hungry.”

  In fact, for the last three days, Lukas had received only a tiny daily ration of bread and a few wormy apples. He’d hardly been able to sleep due to the gnawing hunger. He pounced on the offering, and silence fell over the room for the next few minutes.

  When Lukas had finally finished, Senno pushed the dish to the side with an impatien
t gesture in order to have a closer look at his guest, examining him with his deep, black eyes.

  “What is the message you want me to deliver?” Lukas asked nervously after a while.

  Senno waved him off. “Never mind. I only wanted to have a quiet conversation with you—above all, about this here.” He pointed at Lukas’s talisman still hanging on a cord around his neck. Lukas had completely forgotten the pentagram. Sometimes it had a hot feel to it, but he attributed that to the summer heat. His dreams of the big black wolf had not recurred, and the more they receded into the past, the more unreal they seemed to Lukas.

  “I noticed this amulet of yours the last time,” Senno persisted. “Where did you get it?”

  “A friend of my deceased mother gave it to me a long time ago,” Lukas lied. “It’s supposed to protect me from evil. I know that’s nonsense, but I just thought it looked nice, so I kept it.”

  “May I have a look at it?”

  Lukas handed the talisman to Senno, who examined it closely, and finally gave it back.

  “There’s a lot of nonsense going around regarding magic,” Senno said. “Every charlatan nowadays makes amulets, but this pentagram, in fact, shows all the signs of having genuine magic powers.” He studied Lukas suspiciously, and again Lukas thought he could feel the magician’s fingers reaching into his inmost self. “Would you like to tell me more?” the astrologer continued. “At our first meeting you spoke of white magic . . . and now this talisman around your neck . . .”

  “Perhaps you could first tell me more about who these white magicians are,” Lukas suggested.

  “Ah, then a deal.” Senno sighed. “Very well.” After a short pause, he began. “When you asked me if I was a magician, I . . . well, let’s say I fibbed a bit. I know some things about magic—that’s part of my job—and I have learned a few things, as well. But it’s nothing compared to what the white magicians can do.”

  “Who are these white magicians?” Lukas asked excitedly. He felt he was finally on the trail of his mother’s secret. “Do they really exist?”

  “Once, long ago, even before the Romans conquered these lands, there were some people who possessed knowledge that reached far back to the dawn of civilization,” Senno said in a soft voice. “These people were called druids, and they had knowledge of what we would today call magic.” He smiled slightly. “You shouldn’t think of that as blazing balls of fire or magic spells that change kings into toads. They were actually small things. The druids knew how to make dried-up wells flow again, to cure diseases that were otherwise incurable, and to speak with one another in a way that others could not hear.”

  Lukas was startled. Those were all abilities people attributed to his mother, or ones he had observed himself.

  “When the Romans conquered these lands, they pursued the druids mercilessly and killed them wherever they found them,” Senno continued. “They knew that with the disappearance of the druids, the power of the native, indigenous peoples would die. Only a few druids survived. They hid in remote mountain valleys and impenetrable forests, and there were some among them who swore eternal vengeance. Others continued to believe in the good and refused to let themselves be torn apart by hatred. Because of this dispute, they finally went their separate ways, and since then, their beliefs and practices have been called black magic and . . .”

  “White.” Lukas nodded. “I understand. And this talisman is imbued with white magic?”

  “So it is. A mighty protective sign.” Senno leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “I am open to these matters, but unfortunately the Church sees things differently, so you must be careful.”

  “Do you mean I must beware of Schönborn?” Lukas asked.

  Senno looked at him with piercing eyes. “So it is, even though for reasons other than you perhaps suspect.”

  The astrologer’s last words were enigmatic, but Lukas had no chance to ask, as now Senno approached him so closely that their faces nearly touched. Lukas smelled some sweet, exotic perfume that made him somewhat dizzy.

  “I sense you are hiding a deep secret inside you, Lukas,” Senno murmured. “It is there, clearly, before me, but I can’t grasp it. Don’t you really want to tell me more, lad? Perhaps I can help you.”

  Lukas hesitated. Could he trust Senno? Many considered the astrologer a dubious character who would leave nothing untried that might work to his advantage. And how did he know Senno didn’t work for Schönborn? Lukas thought about it for a while and decided to respond with a question.

  “If what I’m holding here is white magic,” he said, stroking the amulet, “then what is black magic?”

  Clearly disappointed, Senno fell back in his chair. “There are many types,” the astrologer replied. “Black magic can be used to conjure up illnesses, to make a woman sterile, or to set fire to a house many miles away. With other spells you can make silver bullets that never miss, or make yourself invulnerable.”

  “Invulnerable?” Lukas echoed. “In other words, you could not die in battle?”

  Senno shrugged. “Probably just a legend, but there’s a story circulating among the troops now about a potion that offers protection from bullets and sword blows. Frozen is what men call it. A frozen man has sold his soul to the devil, so he cannot be killed.”

  Lukas shivered. “A horrible idea,” he said. “Then I’d rather be dead.”

  Senno laughed. “Don’t say that. Most people would give anything to save their wretched life. But each of us is just a tiny dot in the universe,” he said as he rose. “Well, it’s a shame you won’t stick to our deal and tell me more, but unlike an inquisitor, I don’t have the rack at my disposal.” He winked. “Not that I would use it with you.” He motioned toward the door. “Perhaps you’ll think it over. My tent is always open to you. But for now I must continue my work on the horoscope for the upcoming battle, because you can be sure of this, Lukas, this battle will come, and woe to those who stand on the side of the loser.”

  XVI

  Two weeks would pass before Lukas saw his first great battle.

  The Swedes remained holed up in their fortifications for the time being, but Wallenstein’s spies sent reports of terrible conditions in the city. Weakened by hunger and disease, Nürnberg’s beleaguered residents were dying by the thousands, and often the many dead had to be stacked up like firewood because there was no room left for the graves.

  At the end of August, the Swedes finally tried to break out. For an entire day, they attacked Wallenstein’s position in the west, but were soon repelled. Lukas knew that the real battle was yet to come. Until then, he had only been hauling munitions with the other servants, and caring for the horses, but the time was coming when he would have to fight and kill to save his own life.

  The horror began early on the morning of September 3.

  Wallenstein expected the main attack once again on the flat west side of the fortification, where the bulk of his own troops were already in position. The regiment of the Black Musketeers stood guard at the remote northern section. Here, a long, partially deforested ridge led up to the top, where a ruin of an ancient fortified tower stood. Morning fog still lay peacefully over the valley, and no one expected a major attack here, at the steepest part of the encampment.

  “I’ll tell you this—as soon as the battle begins, I’ll throw away this battered dice box and charge into the fray,” vowed Paulus, who was standing with his other friends at the top of the leading wall, his arms propped on his drum. Zoltan had ordered the servants to beat the drums furiously to provide the necessary atmosphere—a job that Paulus did grudgingly. “I’m born to be a fighter and not a musician,” he grumbled.

  “A truer word was never spoken,” Jerome replied. “Your drumming is so off beat that it gives me hiccups every time. If you keep drumming like that when we’re in battle, you’ll make our whole company fall flat on our asses.”

  It was supposed to be a joke, but none of the boys laughed. The situation was too tense, and the fear of dying in the
coming battle or being crippled by gunfire was too great. Lukas could feel his heart pounding. This was no longer a nice exhibition fight or fake skirmish in a marketplace; this was war, and none of them could say whether he’d live to see the evening.

  “Look over at the next trench,” said Giovanni, nodding slightly to the west where further fortifications were concealed in the forest. “Kaspar and his friends are beating the drums. I don’t know, from the way they’re staring at us, who our greatest enemy is—the Swedes over there or the soldiers in our own camp.”

  Lukas bit his lip.

  Perhaps the situation would remain relatively calm in their section, but if the turmoil of the upcoming battle got out of hand, would Kaspar really dare to exploit the situation in order to get rid of them?

  Early that morning, they’d all made their confession to a priest for what might be the last time. Many of the common soldiers also made the sign of the cross or spoke a brief prayer. Others murmured as they rubbed talismans that hung around their necks or on their wide-brimmed hats. Lukas, too, reached for the amulet that Red Sara had given him. He wondered if Senno had been telling the truth about the power of the pentagram. Lukas hadn’t told his friends much about his last conversation with the astrologer. All the stories he’d heard about so-called white witches, good magic, and evil magic seemed bizarre in retrospect. He was afraid of looking foolish in front of the others.

  A thundering cannon shot made him jump. He could see that on the other side of the hill, long rows of Swedish musketeers and pikemen were moving toward them. They’d been concealed in the morning fog until then, but now they stormed up the mountain. There were so many that the end of the line was out of sight—a black, surging crowd moving toward the first fortifications.

  This is the main army! Lukas realized. We are being attacked by the main army!