The road wound its way up the wooded hill in tight serpentines. Soon, between the dripping branches of the forest they could make out the castle, a bulky construction with several smaller keeps and one massive donjon. A drawbridge led to a heavily guarded outer ward. Johann told the men his name and they opened the gate. The wagon, squeaking and creaking, rattled into the cobbled courtyard.
When he saw the hive of activity in front of them, Johann froze. All his worries about Greta were forced into the background, at least temporarily.
What on earth?
Even from his box seat it was plain to see that something very big was going on at Altenburg Castle. The courtyard was full of vehicles, all of them magnificent carriages with shiny horses, velvet upholstery, and elaborately engraved compartments. Some of the servants shot disparaging glances at the colorful jugglers’ wagon. In the background, dandified heralds with trumpets seemed to be expecting important guests. The air was full of whinnying and babbling voices.
Johann climbed down, stretched his legs, and looked around. The yard was encircled by several buildings, the most notable being the tall donjon, the castle’s hulking inner tower. Not far from it stood the palas—the imposing great hall and living quarters—where the bishop resided. Johann could see servants at work behind the crown-glass windows; evidently, the castle was preparing for a large banquet.
Johann noticed that the first onlookers had begun to whisper. With his black-and-blue star cape and the huge black dog at his side, he was easily recognized; peddlers throughout the empire sold printed images of him along with some hair-raising stories. From the corner of his eye he saw one of the servants rush to the entrance of the palas.
Karl and Greta also looked around with awe. No sooner had they unhitched the horse and handed it to one of the stable boys than the sound of marching steps approached. A delegation of soldiers wearing the typical colorful, slit jerkins and carrying pikes and halberds was heading straight for them. Then they opened their ranks, and the Bamberg prince-bishop stepped forward.
Johann recognized him from a copperplate print he’d seen in a book about the lords of the empire not long ago. The bishop was rather short, and his chubby face and portly stomach made him look jovial, almost grandfatherly. This impression was underlined by the warm coat and plain cap, but the many gold rings on his fingers and the thick gold chain around his neck gave away his high rank.
“The honorable Doctor Johann Georg Faustus, if I’m not mistaken,” he declared with a friendly smile. Limpurg’s eyes were reddened, as if he spent a lot of time reading in poor light—a typical ailment of scholars. “I am so pleased that you found your way to us, Doctor.”
“And it looks as though I’m not the only one,” replied Johann. He knelt down and kissed the fleshy, perfumed hand of the bishop. “I gathered from your invitation that you’d like me to compile your horoscope? I did not realize that various other powerful gentlemen were planning on making use of my services.”
The bishop chuckled softly, and it sounded like the ringing of small bells. “It is indeed possible that I’m not the only one requiring a good horoscope these days.” His expression turned serious. “Especially now, in these turbulent times.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Johann, still kneeling.
“Well, my dear doctor, if you had been at the Imperial Diet in Augsburg, you would know what I’m speaking of.” Limpurg sighed. “That little monk from Wittenberg caused serious upheaval among most of the noble lords, when there were more important matters to discuss. For example, the succession of our venerable emperor, who is lying on his sickbed in Innsbruck and must soon enter the kingdom of heaven.” The bishop shook his head. “Therefore I deemed it necessary to call another meeting of the high-ranking representatives here in Bamberg—for the well-being of the empire. We need to discuss how we are going to react to Luther’s theses.” He closed his eyes for a moment, batting his astonishingly long eyelashes. “What we need is unity, not division! There are those who consider Luther’s theses to be as dangerous as blackpowder.”
Johann said nothing. Now he understood the meaning of all these carriages, horses, and self-important heralds and servants. The bishop was sounding the attack on the little Augustinian monk, and what he needed was a nice horoscope that supported his honorable intentions. What on earth had Johann gotten himself into!
“Don’t you think it commendable to question the excessive nature of today’s trade with indulgences?” suggested Johann, trying to gain some time. “Luther isn’t the only one who believes that the vending of divine grace has taken on rather unheavenly proportions. If I understand his theses correctly, he believes that one cannot buy God’s grace; it is bestowed upon us.”
“A heretic thought paving a speedy way to the pyre,” a voice said from farther back. “Sadly, Luther declined the invitation of the Holy Father to visit him in Rome and elaborate this thought. He will rue the day.”
Johann looked up to see the source of the foreign, slightly nasal voice. A man stepped out from among the soldiers. He was wearing a snow-white
