‘Go back,’ she said, and ushered him back inside the Castle. They approached a large round tower on the great north wall and an assortment of pungent odours, predominantly sulphur, assaulted Lukas’s nostrils. He could hear strange clattering and shouting, and behind one window were intermittent flashes and sparks.
‘Powder Tower,’ said Otka. She mimicked the long hair and beards of the natural philosophers and pretended to pour material from one container to another. ‘They take dirt,’ she pretended to scoop up earth. ‘Then, PRRRRKKKHHH, is gold!’ She shook her head. ‘Is nonsense.’
Lukas had heard about alchemists. Everyone with a little learning knew about them. In some parts of the continent they burned you at the stake for dabbling in alchemy, but it seemed Emperor Rudolph encouraged it.
‘Can we see?’ he asked Otka.
She beckoned him to go in. Her stepfather worked there, she said.
‘Does your mother work in the Castle too?’ asked Lukas.
Otka shook her head and pointed to the sky. ‘Heaven,’ she said.
They walked up a steep spiral staircase into the stifling heat of the laboratories. Lukas was immediately reminded of Daliborka Tower and wondered how anyone could bear to work in such a place. Most of the first floor was taken up by a large circular room, with one or two smaller rooms off it. There were bubbling flasks and cauldrons and bizarre many-tentacled receptacles that resembled strange glass sea creatures. The smell of burning coal, woodsmoke and chemicals was suffocating. Lukas covered his face with the sleeve of his shirt and tried not to cough. Men, most with spectacles and beards, bustled and mithered over their experiments, like mother hens with chicks. Thin slits let in a little natural light to supplement the candles and fires, but most of the walls were taken up with shelves stuffed dangerously full of glass and earthenware jars. Each one had a label on it – strange words Lukas half recognised: Phosphor, Brimstone, Amalgama, Vitriol . . .
Close to the implements were open books. Lukas peered cautiously at the nearest one. The instructions were handwritten and although they were in plain language, rather than code, they made no sense to him at all:
The greater the quantity of the Eagle opposed to the Lion the shorter the combat; torment the Lion until he is weary and desires death . . .
Accompanying the text were extraordinary illustrations – in beautiful greens, reds and blues. One showed the torso of a naked woman with the wings, neck and head of a swan, emerging from a cauldron of boiling red liquid.
‘Father,’ shouted Otka, and waved excitedly. The alchemists at work in the laboratory looked up disapprovingly. A dark-haired burly man, with several days’ stubble, rushed over. He was stripped to the waist, his body covered with soot and grime. ‘Otka, my love,’ he said gently, ‘you shouldn’t shout, disturbing the gentlemen like that. A wave would do.’ She looked crestfallen and he squeezed her hand to show he had forgiven her.
‘Now, who’s this?’ he said, smiling warmly at Lukas.
‘Apprentice to Doktor Declercq,’ said Otka.
Lukas bowed. As he was about to speak there was a commotion across the laboratory. Two assistants were carrying the body of an elderly alchemist from one of the smaller rooms. ‘Get him outside,’ said one of them, ‘away from these fumes.’ As they passed, Lukas noticed the elderly man’s face had an unusual pink flush about it.
‘That’s Doktor Benisek,’ said Otka’s stepfather. ‘He asked me to fetch him some zincum a couple of hours ago and not to bother him.’
‘Does this happen a lot in the Powder Tower?’ asked Lukas.
Otka’s stepfather shook his head. ‘Once or twice every few years. Who knows what it is. I’m sure some of them summon the Evil One to help with their experiments. Maybe that’s why he wanted to be left alone.’
This talk of the Devil frightened Otka, and Lukas too. She tugged at his sleeve. ‘We go!’
They emerged into the cool fresh air outside the tower. Doktor Benisek’s lifeless body lay on the cobbled floor, surrounded by a small group of assistants. Lukas decided not to ask his uncle if he could work with the alchemists.
Otka tugged at his sleeve. ‘More,’ she said. They walked past dense buildings that blocked the sun, and two more churches.
‘How many churches does a palace need?’ muttered Lukas. God had taken his father, for no good reason that he could see. He was sick of being told that God moved in mysterious ways. But he still feared the Devil. The flames of hell seemed more real to him than the pastel blue and pink visions of heaven he saw in church paintings.
Otka was looking at him. She could see he was lost in thought. She quite liked this funny boy from the west. She showed him the vineyards out past the East Gate, then took him past the stairway leading to the dungeon. There was something she wanted to show him. Lukas caught a whiff of Daliborka Tower and his stomach turned over. He did not need reminding there was a dark side to the fairytale world of the palace. They arrived at a long narrow street on the edge of the northern wall. Here were the tiniest houses he had ever seen.
‘Golden Lane,’ she said with a flourish.
The doors were so small only a child could pass through them without stooping. Each house was slightly different from the others in its arrangement of windows and doors. ‘Who lives here?’ said Lukas.
‘Me,’ she said proudly. ‘And Father, and Emperor’s servants, and . . .’ She made that booming explosion noise.
‘Alchemists?’ said Lukas, guessing she did not know the right word.
She nodded and tapped her head. She thought they were mad. They both laughed and Lukas turned his face to the warm spring sunshine.
His reverie was broken by an impatient presence, eager to pass them as they blocked the archway into the lane. A man squeezed past. He was dapper in his black velvet robe and starched white ruff, and with a smattering of grey in his neatly trimmed hair and beard.
‘Doktor Krohl,’ said Otka with a wave and a grin as he hared past them. He turned impatiently. ‘Lukas,’ she announced proudly, pointing to him. ‘Doktor Declercq’s apprentice!’
The man gave them a brusque nod as he placed a key in one of the tiny doors.
Otka shrugged. ‘Grumpy Doktor Krohl,’ she said, giggling.
On the way back there was a great commotion in the street leading up to the palace. A party of travellers had just arrived with their great wooden caskets and cases. Lukas and Otka watched from a distance. The newcomers looked austere, with dark complexions and long, solemn faces. The men sported beards of medium length at the chin but shaved on the cheeks. Even their clothes were dark. Black was obviously the fashion where they came from, despite the high cost of the dye to colour the fabric. Their tunics and dresses were richly embroidered with silver thread.
Lukas felt uneasy. They looked like the Spanish officials who ruled over his country. Then a snippet of conversation, snatched by the wind, reached his ears. His gut tightened a little. He had travelled halfway across Europe to be free of such men.
.
Chapter Eight
While Otka prepared his midday meal, Lukas had a look around his uncle’s apartment to take his mind off the new arrivals. Anselmus’s living room was full of books. Many were magnificently bound in gold-embossed red or white leather, some with delicate floral motifs painted on the spines. Books like these cost more than an ordinary man would earn in half a lifetime. Most concerned medicine, but there were travel books too, discourses on natural philosophy and works from the ancient world.
By the window was a large table, spread out with books and papers and a bulky parchment register. A bleached human skull, a selection of feather quills and an ivory inkpot lay among the clutter. Lukas took a peek at what his uncle had been writing. It was an inventory of some sort, with neat, descriptive entries under the heading ‘Purchases on behalf of His Imperial Highness’:
.
Mining compass, wood inlaid with bone ivory . . . Acquired January 9, 1598. 100 crowns.
Scourged Ch
rist standing by a column – linden wood, painted, fine detail . . . Acquired March 18, 1598. 175 crowns.
Armour from Japan, iron, cord, leather, black lacquer . . . April 12, 1598. 300 crowns.
.
The sun came out. The room was flooded with light and Lukas noticed a small oil painting nestling among the books on the far wall. It was his father, Thomas Declercq. The artist had caught his strong features and that unbending integrity – his mother called it stubbornness – that had seen him burned at the stake, refusing to recant his heretical beliefs.
To look on his father again, a year after his death, was like seeing a ghost. Lukas fought back his tears as a distant memory of home stirred in his mind – his father sitting for the portrait painter a few years before. ‘Your uncle is doing very well in Prague,’ he had said to Lukas. ‘Anselmus can even afford to pay for my painting!’ It was rare for ordinary people like them to have their portraits painted. Thomas Declercq’s printing workshop kept them fed and clothed, but there was nothing left over for luxuries of that kind.
Thomas had been burned for publishing pamphlets that dared to question whether the purchase of holy relics and prayers to the saints were good for the soul. Thomas had come to believe these well-established rituals were flawed, and that only someone’s faith – what was really in their heart – would save a man or woman from perpetual hellfire.
Lukas sensed the anxiety in his mother’s voice when she warned Thomas that this philosophy would be the death of him – as it had been for so many other ‘heretics’. Thomas reassured her he would be careful and publish his pamphlets anonymously.
Betrayal swiftly followed. Thomas Declercq was tortured on the rack and condemned as a disciple of Satan. The Sunday following his death the Bishop of Ghent himself had preached a stern sermon on the dangers of heresy and a warning that a single spark of hellfire caused greater suffering than a thousand years of torture. Enraged by spiteful schoolyard taunts, Lukas had declared he found it hard to believe in any God, after what the church had done to his father. From that day on, his days in Ghent were numbered.
Otka returned with a bowl of soup and some bread. She could see Lukas was upset and put a maternal arm around his shoulder. She looked over at the painting and nodded. She knew who was portrayed there.
After a pause she said, ‘Eminence. He come back at night. After,’ she mimed spooning up his soup, ‘you read.’ She gave him a book with herbs and flowers painted on the spine.
‘No,’ said Lukas with a laugh, ‘I sleep!’ He wasn’t sure he wanted his uncle’s chambermaid telling him what to do.
She tried to look stern. ‘No, you read. Eminence very angry if no!’ She shook her fist.
So when he finished his soup he picked up the book Tacuinum Sanitatis – The Tables of Health. The crisply printed pages had hand-coloured illustrations of medicinal plants. Lukas was fascinated by the lists of herbs and the maladies they were reputed to cure, but eventually his eyelids drooped.
There was a commotion at the door and Lukas awoke from a deep sleep. Judging by the light against the wall it was already late afternoon. Anselmus had returned.
‘Lukas, dear boy,’ he said, ‘has Otka ensured you attended to your studies?’
‘Most conscientiously,’ said Lukas.
He was struck by his uncle’s outfit: a blue silk robe trimmed with velvet and a magnificent fur-lined cloak. Whatever his uncle did here, he was handsomely paid for it.
Anselmus turned to Otka. ‘Now, my child. Supper, if you please. We shall eat in half an hour.’
She gave a little curtsy and left.
Lukas still had the new arrivals at the Castle on his mind. He wondered if they would persecute him if they knew about his father. ‘Uncle, I saw a party of Spanish gentlemen arrive at the Castle today. Do you know why they’re here?’ he asked.
Anselmus gave a little shrug. He didn’t seem particularly interested. ‘People come and go all the time,’ he said, ‘and from all over the Empire. They may leave tomorrow or stay a year.’
He shuffled off to the kitchen and began to bring plates and cutlery in. Lukas had expected Otka to do this.
‘Lukas,’ he said, ‘you may open a bottle of wine.’
All three of them sat around the large oak dining table, tucking into a venison stew. Lukas was surprised when Otka joined them. Anselmus could see it in his face. ‘She cooked it. Why should she not enjoy it?’ he said when she went into the kitchen to fetch a bowl of vegetables.
While they ate, Anselmus talked to Lukas about one of his great theories – that precious stones and crystals could cure sickness. ‘Sapphire is the most reliable cure for ague,’ he said, ‘and cornelian mitigates the heat of the mind.’
Lukas nodded, but behind his look of earnest interest he did not have the first idea what his uncle was talking about. Otka was lost in her own world and hummed softly between mouthfuls.
Anselmus said, ‘I am due to see the Emperor tomorrow, for his weekly examination. He also has a collection of precious gems he wishes me to inspect.’ He paused, then added, ‘Would you like to come with me?’
Lukas nearly choked on his stew. Aside from his brush with Prague’s Grand Inquisitor in Daliborka Tower, he had never been in the presence of anyone more important than a town magistrate.
‘What would I have to do, Uncle?’
‘Keep your mouth shut. Stay absolutely still. Do only the things I ask you to do. Can you manage that?’
Lukas gave a big grin. ‘And what will I have to wear?’
‘We will find a suitable robe for you. I will ask Otka to cut one of mine down to size.’
Lukas couldn’t believe what was happening to him. Only yesterday he had faced torture in the Castle dungeon. Tomorrow he was going to meet the Emperor.
.
Chapter Nine
Anselmus and Lukas arrived at the door to the Emperor’s quarters ten minutes early. Lukas liked the feel of his new silk gown. It was much smoother than scratchy wool. And he was fascinated by the way the colour shimmered in the light. He was also very nervous. So was Anselmus. He was muttering to himself, running over what he was going to say. Lukas was under strict instructions not to talk. So he looked around the gloomy Castle portal and at the mysterious crests and coats of arms that had been painted on the walls.
The Castle clock struck eleven. Anselmus snapped out of his muttering trance. Confidently advancing towards the great iron and wooden door, he banged its ornate silver-plated knocker with great authority. The sound echoed through the stone corridors.
There was a scuffle of feet behind the door and the rattle of several locks and bolts. A tall, imposing figure ushered them into the vestibule, then a larger room beyond.
‘His Majesty will summon you shortly,’ said the courtier.
Lukas looked around. The Emperor’s quarters were grander than Anselmus’s but the clutter was much the same. Every horizontal surface was covered with piles of books or ornaments or strange objects. Despite the carpets, tapestries and fires that burned in two fireplaces, the room had a dismal chill.
There were several paintings stacked around the room and hung on the wall. Most had a disturbing eroticism about them – depictions of naked women, with flushed, lascivious faces. Rosy cheeks and rosy bottoms. One great canvas that immediately caught his eye showed the Last Judgement. On the left of the picture, scores of naked men and women rose up to the blue skies of heaven. On the right side, hordes of equally naked people were being corralled by demons with pitchforks and driven into burning pits. That wasn’t all they were doing to them either. Lukas blushed. Above it all, surrounded by a halo of sunlight, a beatific Jesus gazed down with benign indifference.
Lukas noticed a small gold timepiece resting on top of a pile of open books by a large windowsill. It would be easy to slip it into his robe. The temptation was huge, but Lukas resisted. That was the sort of thing Etienne would do.
A courtier appeared, and Anselmus and Lukas were ushered into an
other, larger room. This one was even more chaotic. Among the books and ornaments stood an impassive figure.
‘Your Excellency,’ said Anselmus in German, ‘may I introduce to you my apprentice, Master Lukas Declercq.’
Lukas shot to attention and, as instructed, bowed low and long. When he stood upright again, the Emperor was holding his gaze and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of his head.
On his travels to Prague, Lukas had seen Rudolph’s likeness every day on coins. Now here he was, in the same room as the most famous man in the Empire.
Lukas was mesmerised. Draped over his shoulders Rudolph had a great fur and velvet cloak. Beneath he wore a finely embroidered tunic of a rich brown hue. His breeches were fashioned from the same material. Fine white silk stockings and buckled suede shoes completed his outfit.
His beard and hair were cropped short, in the Roman style. He had a great thrusting jaw and fleshy lips, which gave him the look of an obstinate bulldog. But what struck Lukas most were his eyes. There was a great sadness there, he thought.
Lukas was taller, he noticed, but the Emperor still presented a fine figure and strode with vigour towards an elaborate cabinet with many small drawers, each intricately decorated with mother-of-pearl motifs.
‘We have gemstones, just arrived from Asia Minor,’ the Emperor said to Anselmus. ‘Can you tell us of their worth? And we should like to know if these stones have healing properties.’
Anselmus examined the gems. ‘They are of exemplary quality, Your Excellency,’ he said, ‘especially the lapis lazuli. You might have noticed the rare intensity of the blue, comparable with the jewellery from the Pharaoh’s tomb which I acquired for the Cabinet last year. There are gold flecks in the rock, as one would expect, but no trace of calcite veins. Such material would have a marvellous restorative effect, Your Excellency. Lapis lazuli is especially renowned for its capacity to cure melancholy.’
The Emperor listened intently. ‘And how should these stones be made use of?’ he asked.
The Cabinet of Curiosities Page 5