And now...his son had grown cantankerous and fat, gorging himself on cakes and ale, ordering outrageous repasts from the palace kitchens, one after another, each more sumptuous: game, hams, ducks, pies, cheeses, and fancy Viennese pastries, laden with butter and heavy cream. At night, he whored and gambled, came home staggering drunk, and brutally attacked his servants. He had disgraced himself in the streets and taverns of Prague and now Vienna.
How the boy had disappointed him! He was now twenty and Rudolf could make no more excuses for his outrageous behavior. His appearance, fleshy and swollen-eyed, disgusted his father. What had happened to the sea-green eyes, the color of Venetian glass, he had inherited from his mother? Submerged now in his swollen face, like raisins stuck deep in risen dough.
Had the boy no shame?
The minister dared to touch the king on the sleeve. Rudolf’s eyes focused on the light pressure of his hand.
“Your Majesty,” Rumpf said in a quiet but urgent tone. “We must do something immediately or your son will be assassinated or worse.”
“What do you propose, Minister Rumpf?”
The minister clenched his teeth and closed his eyes.
“The asylum.”
“Never! Not that nightmare we witnessed! Mention this to me again and I will have you dismissed.”
The minister sighed. “Then, if he cannot be confined to an asylum, Your Majesty, you will likely see your own son murdered by one of your subjects. Or perhaps your brother Matthias will use him as an excuse to seize the crown. No Viennese citizen would oppose Matthias if your son continues his present conduct.”
Rudolf’s back stiffened at the words.
“May the plague take Matthias and send my brother’s soul to hell!”
“You must not let him have an advantage. Show your supreme strength and banish your son before Matthias plays his hand.”
The king looked at his minister. He swallowed hard.
“Suggest a solution! I cannot condemn my son to that place we saw!”
Rudolf thought of the bald women, the screaming heads of the wild men, begging to be freed.
“Yet the bastard shall not cost me my throne, I swear it! Perhaps the astrological prognostication was right, and it will be a member of my own family who will bring me to my death.”
The king worked his ruby ring around his finger, thinking of the prophecy.
“Tell me, good Rumpf, tell me! What do you propose?” the king said. “But I will not commit my son to the hellhole we visited.”
“I have tried to have him enstated in Transylvania as you hoped, but they will not accept him, my lord,” said Minister Rumpf. “We would have to go to battle with the Wallachians again to gain him the post.”
“No,” said Rudolf. “That would give us another vulnerable front to Suleiman’s Ottoman army.”
The minister reminded the king of the other alternative they had already tried, interning Don Julius in a monastery.
“My lord, you well know that eighteen months with the monks in the Alps did nothing to extinguish his disease.”
“That was my mother’s idea,” grumbled Rudolf. “She always insists he is lacking in religious discipline.”
“Yes, well, you know how I feel about the clergy,” whispered Rumpf. “They only seem to complicate matters. However, I do have one more idea that might appeal to Your Majesty, and I have taken the liberty to investigate the possibilities. There is a township in southern Bohemia, less than two days’ ride from Vienna. It is a place called Cesky Krumlov, on that same Vltava that flows through Prague. Petr Vok and the Rozmberk clan have fallen on hard times financing the Bohemian resistance to the Turks. I think we could persuade them to sell you the castle, and we could keep Don Julius under guard there.”
“A prisoner?”
“Under guard only until his humors improve. He will be ensconced in a beautiful castle that rises on a hill above the village. The Rozmberks have furnished it lavishly. It rivals your hrad itself. They keep wild bears in the moat to remind the people that they are of the royal Orsino blood of Italy.”
“A Bohemian family related to the Orsino? Impossible!” sneered the king.
Rumpf nodded, knowing the Bohemian lords and especially the Protestant Rozmberk clan were thorns in the king’s side. Rudolf could not even raise taxes without the consent of the Bohemian estates.
“Certainly, it is highly disputed, but my point is that they have spared no expense or luxury in the castle. Surely your son would find solace and his wits in such a situation.”
A smile spread across the king’s face. He pulled his ear, contemplating his son as master of his own castle and Bohemian estate.
“The matter is settled! Negotiate a good price with Petr Vok and acquire the castle and the township, too, while you are at it. My son will become Lord of Krumlov. The matter is settled.
“Now I must ready myself for Prague. Dwarf, fetch my valet.”
“Then I have your permission to send Don Julius to Cesky Krumlov?”
“I have just said so. He is a nuisance and a menace. But I must insist that a priest accompany him, to appease my mother—she and my uncle Felipe would never let me hear the end of it were he not administered by a Jesuit.”
The king stopped, his hand in the air.
“And, Rumpf. I know that it will be difficult to persuade Giuglio to go willingly, let alone cooperate once he is confined to the castle. Yet he must improve his conduct or I shall take even sterner consequences—I will cut off his allowance and send him back to the monastery in Austria and let the bloody monks deal with him again!”
Rudolf tightened his lips, remembering that the monks had no success at all with his belligerent son. No one spoke and the hall resounded with the ticking of over a dozen clocks.
Then the thought came to him.
“Ah!” he said, looking at one of his favorite timepieces, a colossal silver piece with a figure of Bacchus playing the bagpipes. Upon the hour, the figure would come alive and a miniature wooden pipe organ would play music. This was one he had forbidden Giuglio to even touch, let alone dismantle.
“One carrot for my donkey of a son that is sure to snap his head around. Tell him, should he acquiesce to a more moderate life, I will reward him. Yes, tell him I will loan him the Coded Book of Wonder. Tell him I will loan it to him to decode, but only if he shows proper conduct as reported by a priest or responsible caretaker.”
“I shall see to it.”
“I have not let him touch it since he was a young boy, before he began this bestial conduct.”
“It sounds like a perfect occupation—translating a mysterious text. A worthy and dignified use of his intelligence and education.”
“By God’s holy name, yes!” said the king, smiling broadly. “If I could renew his interest, the Coded Book would keep him occupied for years! Even my most brilliant mathematicians and language experts have failed in deciphering it. I should like to see his mind engaged in something other than debauchery. I have invested a small fortune in tutors and books. Now Don Julius spills his seed in the gutters of Prague and Vienna for the drunks’ amusement!”
“A strict regimen will cure him of that,” said Minister Rumpf, trying to animate the king before he slumped into one of his dark spells of melancholy. “The Jesuits will see to his discipline.”
Rudolf thought about this and wrinkled his brow.
“Ah, yes. The Jesuits. I remember their cold touch when I was a boy in Spain. Rumpf, I want a doctor to treat him as well. Consult my physician, Jan Jesenius, and see if Doctor Mingonius can arrange to treat the boy in Krumlov for a few months. Mingonius could have some luck with him—an engaging sort who would not put up with my son’s threats and wheedling. Yes, I shall give Giuglio the Coded Book as a reward after successful treatment for his malicious humors.”
Minister Rumpf nodded. Doctor Mingonius had an excellent reputation at court, second only to the Polish Herr Doctor Jesenius. The only drawback was that he was a devoted h
usband and father and would surely balk at having to leave his family in Prague while he attended Don Julius.
“I will see that Doctor Mingonius makes arrangements to treat Don Julius. In the meantime, I have already sent Jakub Horcicky to make inquiries about hiring a staff and readying the Krumlov castle for Don Julius. He should be there by tomorrow at the latest, inspecting the castle to determine the appropriate apartments to confine Don Julius. We will have to estimate the expenses, along with that of the purchase price, to the royal treasury. He will prepare a report.”
“Horcicky? My botanist?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, our imperial chemist. The doctor was born in Krumlov and raised within the walls of the Jesuit monastery there. He can oversee the preparations and secure a reliable staff. He speaks their dialect and has connections through the Jesuit order.”
The king pinched his lip. “See that Horcicky does not spend too much time away from the botanical gardens. There is no other man who can coax my orchids into bloom. If he could only distill a potion to cure my son of his madness.
“And see who the barber-surgeon was who saved the life of the servant,” said the king, rising from his throne. “He shielded my son’s life by preventing a death on the streets of Vienna. Reward him!”
Wolfgang Rumpf was never able to find the barber-surgeon who had intervened to save the life of Don Julius’s servant.
That barber-surgeon was Zigmund Pichler, Marketa’s father, and he had saddled his horse and departed for his home in Cesky Krumlov that very day.
The disgusting encounter with Don Julius had left him even more eager than usual to escape the streets of Vienna, where violence thrived and debauchery rang in the laughter of the drunks and whores. Despite his continuing visits over the years, he had never been comfortable in the foreign city. He had been brought up a strict Catholic by his mother; his much older sister, Ludmilla, was the abbess of the Convent of St. Clare, known as the Poor Clares for their vows of poverty. A yearning for knowledge had attracted him to Vienna, for he longed to better his skills and cure more patients, but he had no stomach for the ribald comportment of the city and his animosity was reciprocated. The Viennese dismissed his German as unintelligible through the thick accent of his native Czech, and they laughed rudely at his prudish, parochial behavior.
He might have protested that he was the owner of the Cesky Krumlov bathhouse and he could hardly be considered prudish—he simply knew what behavior was appropriate for the bathhouse and what behavior for the streets. But he never mentioned the bathhouse to anyone, especially not strangers.
This visit had been more difficult than most. He had been forced to try new accommodations, and this rooming house, though near the guild, was far rougher, less civilized than the one he had stayed at so many times before.
Pichler crossed himself when he heard a curse at breakfast, and the other boarders had snickered at his innocence. They mocked his antiquated clothes, his sack trousers and worn jacket, clear signs of a rural Czech rube.
Still Pichler had endured their teasing, just to study with his mentor, Master Weiss, at the barber-surgeon guild. For it was Weiss’s unparalleled erudition he sought—with a burning hunger to learn.
Each day of his stay, Pichler approached the bright, creamcolored guildhouse as his elder sister might approach the altar of God. He felt the thrill in the quickening of his heartbeat and the cold shiver that worked its way up his sweating back.
Master Weiss traveled the world, collecting secrets from other barber-surgeons. He had most recently been to London where he heard the lectures of the distinguished William Clowes, chirurgeon to the Queen. Clowes’s book, A Proved Practice, graced the polished table of the guild.
Master Weiss invited Pichler to study the book. It was the New Testament to the barber-surgeon profession. The master also unrolled scrolls that sketched the anatomy of the human body and the veins that had been identified. That knowledge was precious indeed. The English Parliament had passed a law that the barber-surgeon guild was to receive four bodies—handpicked and delivered by the beadles of the gallows—every year, so that the science of medicine could advance. Family members were known to pursue the cart carrying off their loved one for dissection. Still, Henry VIII had decreed that science must prevail, and his daughter Elizabeth I, who reigned now, did not protest the law.
The thirst for knowledge had grown so acute that members of the guild squabbled over the corpses and were even driven to robbing graves. Paupers and whores were rarely missed when they disappeared from the overcrowded cemeteries, where no mourner would ever visit the departed.
Pichler copied the charts of the veins as best he could onto scrolls of parchment and thought how they would delight Marketa, who took an almost uncanny interest in the course and conduits of life’s blood.
But the morning after the debacle of Don Julius, Pan Pichler heard news that sent him packing immediately for home.
“It seems you are going to have a royal visitor in Cesky Krumlov,” said Master Weiss.
Pichler took a few seconds to sort through this statement, the German tongue confounding his comprehension.
“A visitor?”
“The mad bastard son of Rudolf II is to become the new master of Cesky Krumlov and reside in the palace.”
“But the Rozmberks have lived there for centuries!”
“They need the emperor’s gold,” said Herr Weiss. “And so you are to inherit the king’s bastard son. I am sorry to have to give you such sore news, for he is no prize. He is Prague’s most sordid sot, and they will sing at full lung in the Old Town Square when the news comes they are rid of him. I hope the guards keep the wretched bastard under tight control, for the women—and the men—of Cesky Krumlov are not safe from his lunatic humors.”
Herr Weiss dropped his voice and bent close to Pichler’s ear.
“I hear last night he rutted with whores in the streets, just to cause mirth and let his infamy be announced throughout Vienna.”
Pichler realized that the man Master Weiss was describing was the same young barbarian who had attacked and almost killed his own servant—indeed, would have killed him had not Pichler intervened to save the man’s life.
“That fiend is to come to Cesky Krumlov! How can it be? I shall alert the ministers, and we shall howl a protest that even the deaf shall hear!”
Weiss smiled sadly at his protégé. “You may howl like dogs at the moon, but the moonlight will not change its color.” He leaned even closer and whispered, “Our emperor is strange in the head himself. Although everyone knows that, I could be beheaded for saying it. Still, our Rudolf is more melancholy than choleric. His son, however, harbors the most choleric bile and should be legally obliged to bleedings to rid him of his murderous humor and protect the citizens.”
“I must ride home,” muttered Pichler, carefully closing the precious Clowes book and fastening the latch. “I must warn our town at once.”
“I suppose you must. It’s a pity you cannot indulge your mind in more knowledge, for there is much I wanted to show you. A cauterizing procedure that could save many lives. The effects of housing surgery tools safely, far from malodorous airs and away from the hair of barbery that can give off evil humors of its own.”
“I only use my surgery tools for surgery,” said Pichler. “I keep them in an oak chest that my daughter organizes for me. My barber’s razors and scissors are kept out on a separate tray. The two never mix, any more than milk with meat for a Jew.”
“You have good intuition, for it is said that hair has a power all its own, both good and evil. If I were you, I would burn or bury the sweepings so that your daughter will not touch them by accident.”
“Thank you for your advice,” said Pichler, gathering up his knapsack and notebooks. “I will try to return next summer, if I can save enough for the journey.”
“No, come sooner. In late February, the royal surgeon Jan Jesenius will perform the first public dissection of a corpse. Over a thousand o
bservers are expected to attend from all over the world. Save your crowns for that journey, my friend.”
“Here in Vienna?” asked Pichler in astonishment.
“No, by King Rudolf’s orders, it shall be performed in Prague.”
CHAPTER 7
DROWNED FLEAS
The bathhouse on the banks of the Vltava River stood in the shadow of Rozmberk Castle, like a mushroom growing on the root of a host tree. Gazing up at the castle with its high windows and colorful tower, a tall man in clothes cut of Italian silk and fine wool slowed his pace as he approached Barber’s Bridge. Jakub Horcicky de Tenepec, court physician, imperial chemist, and director of the royal gardens, dropped his gaze from the castle walls to the pale yellow bathhouse just below.
It was just as he recalled it from his youth. A place that Jesuits considered a den of iniquity, where the villagers bathed communally, without modesty.
Jakub smiled, remembering the Jesuits’ admonishments. Now in his service to the king, he found himself again in his old hometown, gazing at the same blasphemous bathhouse.
He had been sent by Minister Rumpf to inspect Rozmberk Castle to ensure suitable lodging—and containment—of Don Julius. When it was ascertained that a secure confinement could be arranged, along with all the luxuries, staff, and fine dining befitting a son of the king, Jakub had finished his task.
It had been a long, hard journey from Prague; the thick mud of the road had hidden a boulder that shattered the axle of the coach. Jakub was forced to spend two days in Cesky Budejovice, sleeping in a filthy inn, eating rancid food, and enduring the service of a surly innkeeper and his mouse-faced wife. The inn owners were stingy with their guests, offering only gristly meat and watered-down beer. But worst of all they had bed pallets with dirty straw. Jakub suspected the straw hadn’t been changed in several seasons, and he scratched at the fleabites on his ankles until they drew blood.
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