A shadow he likes to walk all over, thought Lahnstein.
Whenever he was annoyed, the wound in his face burned like fire. Things had never been easy with the Medici pope, not even when Leo had first ascended the throne eight years ago. Yes, he was extremely clever and learned, but at the same time he could be as naive as a child. Those ridiculous theater plays and shows he hosted all the time—Leo loved to surround himself with fools, jugglers, and crazy folks. And he was seriously running out of money; the gifts to his favorites alone cost the Vatican eight thousand ducats a month. The fact that the curia pocketed plentiful bribery to appoint cardinals didn’t make a difference. If something didn’t change soon, then it was only a matter of time before they wouldn’t be able to buy candles for the papal palace. The curia already whispered about bankruptcy. A few years ago there had been an attempt on Leo’s life. It was prevented in the last moment, and the perpetrator was tortured and executed. But the church’s difficulties were still growing. That accursed Luther with his inflammatory speeches. The entire German Empire was on the brink of apostatizing.
Lahnstein shifted nervously on his red-silk upholstered seat. He kept glancing at the closed door. When, a few years ago, Leo had become obsessed by the idea of finding an alchemist who knew how to make gold, Lahnstein had first thought it one of the pope’s many harebrained ideas. But then the thought had begun to tempt him, too. Hadn’t other great men tried their hand at it and nearly succeeded? Albertus Magnus, Avicenna, and even that heretic Roger Bacon. The question wasn’t whether it was possible to make gold. The scriptures definitely stated that it was. Only no alchemist had worked out how to do it yet.
Faust could have been that alchemist, especially since he truly appeared to be in league with the devil, as events at Tiffauges two years ago had shown. They had lost track of him back then, and instead Lahnstein had received the strange order to bring Faust’s daughter to Rome. Ever since then, Leo had become more and more absorbed by mysterious books and odd experiments that were supposed to help him find the philosopher’s stone.
God moves in mysterious ways, Lahnstein thought. He knew he was completely and utterly at Leo’s mercy—too tightly had he interwoven his own career with that of the pope’s.
If Leo went down, then so would he.
A gentle bell rang out somewhere, and finally the Swiss guards opened the portal to the reception room. To Lahnstein’s astonishment, warm steam came pouring out through the doors. When the fog had lifted a little, he beheld a hall whose ceiling was even higher than the one in the waiting room. Tied up with gold-threaded bands, two panthers were lying in a corner, cleaning themselves like little cats. They were the pope’s latest toys and as expensive as everything else his heart desired. The animals had also been part of the procession on All Saints’ Day.
In the center of the hall was a huge gilded tub surrounded by antique statues. Sitting in it, amid a sea of bubbles, was the pope. His fat upper body rose out of the foam like a white mountain, and his cheeks were red with heat. His loud laughter echoed out into the corridors.
“Ha, delicious! Too delicious! You must tell me more of those amusing, filthy stories later.”
The tub must have been brought to the hall recently. Puddles had formed on the expensive cherrywood parquet, and Lahnstein walked around them as he approached Leo amid several low bows. Behind the tub, half-hidden by the steam, stood another figure. When Lahnstein saw why he had been made to wait for over an hour, he felt sick with rage. No high-ranking cardinal was standing behind the basin, and no foreign dignitary, just the damned jester. The fool jingled his rattle, jutted out his backside, and made a disgusting noise before walking away with one last grimace. Leo wiped tears of laughter from his face and turned toward his personal representative.
“Do you know the joke about Luther riding on a pregnant cow?” he asked Lahnstein.
“I can’t say that I do.”
“I’m afraid it would be wasted on you.” Leo waved with a sigh. “You have no sense of humor, Viktor. That’s a character flaw.”
Lahnstein bowed, relieved he didn’t have to listen to a vulgar joke. “I beg your forgiveness, Holy Father.”
“Never mind. That’s what I have my jester for.” Leo shrugged. “You must excuse me for holding my audiences in the tub, but my fistulas prick like the fork of the devil. It’s getting worse.” He groaned and lowered himself up to his neck in the water. “Have you heard about Milan?”
Lahnstein nodded. The pope had entered an allegiance with the German emperor a while back, after having previously colluded with France several times. Thanks to the support of a thousand Swiss mercenaries, the city of Milan was very close to falling into the hands of Charles V.
“In return, Charles is going to give me Parma and Piacenza, and maybe even Ferrara. Florence falls under his protection, and the church’s territory is growing considerably.” Leo smiled. “The alliance with the German emperor is the best thing that could have happened to the church. I want to hold a three-day celebration in Rome, with fireworks atop Castel Sant’Angelo. Will you take care of that, Viktor?”
“Of course, Your Excellency,” said Lahnstein, quickly calculating in his head what a spectacle like that would cost the church. And the Swiss mercenaries standing outside Milan hadn’t even been paid yet. Lahnstein’s look turned to the two panthers that seemed to size him up like possible prey before closing their eyes again.
“But you haven’t come to discuss politics with me, have you?”
