He stepped inside and froze.
A bearded man wearing a black cape was lying in his own blood, his arms stretched out to the sides as if he was crucified. All around him was utter chaos: broken glass, shards of clay, torn scrolls of parchment. This room evidently was an alchemist laboratory, as Karl could tell by the many glass flasks, mortars, and stills that were lined up on the tables and shelves. Once upon a time this room was probably one of the heating rooms for the thermal baths. The walls were black with soot, and a fire flickered in an ancient wall stove.
But that wasn’t the only fire.
In oily puddles on the ground, dancing bluish flames were spreading fast, reaching some of the tables and parchment scrolls. Clearly, Hagen wanted to destroy any evidence of his deed. Now the man’s cape was catching on fire. Black smoke began to fill the room, making Karl cough.
He quickly stumbled into the room and leaned over the lifeless body. He saw immediately that there was nothing he could do for the stranger. Hagen had slit the man’s abdomen from the bottom to the top as if gutting a fish. Puzzled eyes stared at the ceiling of the room. The man was older; broken eye glasses were lying next to him on the ground, and his right hand was clutching a scrap of paper.
Without thinking much about it, Karl wrested the piece of paper from the dead man’s fingers. Karl’s eyes were watering, and the seam of his own coat was beginning to smolder. It was as hot as inside hell itself! Coughing hard, Karl stormed out into the corridor, which had also filled with smoke, and hurried up the stairs. Behind him one of the larger still flasks exploded with a bang.
When he turned around one last time, he saw a column of fire shooting out of the ground, followed by thick black plumes. It was as if the devil was reaching for him from hell.
Nearly blind and with a smoking coat Karl raced toward the hills of Rome, where solitary lights burned in the darkness like red eyes. His hands clutched the piece of paper as tightly as the dead man had.
Not even half an hour later, Johann and Karl stood together by the dim light of a candle and gazed at the scrap of paper. Karl had run so fast that his heart was still beating heavily, and there was a taste of iron in his mouth. He’d kept looking back the entire time, fearing Hagen might have spotted him. But there hadn’t been anyone—only his fears spurring him on. The doctor beside him held his fists clenched and his lips pressed together as he tried to decipher the words on the paper, which was partly burned. Blood spatters told of the terrible crime down in the old Roman thermal bath.
“Mandragora,” murmured Johann.
Karl nodded. “I heard that word mentioned.”
“Mandragora is the Italian word for mandrake,” said Johann. “Specifically, it is the root of the mandrake. Infernal stuff, that.”
Karl remembered mandrake from lectures at the university. The root often looked like a little man and was therefore associated with witchcraft. It was also highly poisonous and used for abortions. Possession of such roots was punishable by death.
“The stranger was also talking about something called a bezoar,” said Karl.
“I’ve used that before. It’s a solidified mass from the stomach of goats and looks like a smooth egg. Bezoar allegedly helps against poisoning, but it’s also used in other areas.” Johann pointed at the smudged letters with growing agitation, his fingers shaking. “Mandragora, bezoar, amber, Salamandra salamandra, sulfur, dens pistris.”
“Alchemy ingredients,” said Karl. “The room below the bath was definitely an alchemist’s laboratory. I’m guessing the fellow was conducting some experiments that weren’t exactly lawful. There’s always someone willing to pay good money for those things. Just like hangmen’s ropes or the blood of decapitated people, which is supposed to cure the falling sickness. Perhaps we should have tried it on you back then.”
“Salamandra salamandra, sulfur, dens pistris,” repeated Johann. “Salamandra . . . Damn it, I know this recipe.” He gazed into the distance. “Back at the tower, a long time ago.”
“You mean the tower where we once spent a winter?” asked Karl.
“And where I spent a winter as Tonio’s apprentice. I read about invocations, some of which Tonio practiced back then. I . . . I remember a pentagram on the floor. Painted with the blood of children.” He shook his head as if trying to rid himself of the memory. “In The Sworn Book of Honorius is a ritual that requires these ingredients.”
“And what ritual is that?” asked Karl warily.
The doctor gave him a grave look and paused for a few heartbeats. “It is one of the most powerful rituals—the ritual to summon the devil.”
Karl thought he heard the cawing of a raven outside. A door slammed shut in the distance, a gust of wind swept through the room, and the flame of the candle flickered wildly. Then all was silent.
“Are . . . are you saying that . . . ,” stammered Karl.
Johann nodded. “Hagen collected those ingredients for Lahnstein because the dog wants to invoke the devil. This paper is proof.” He held the scrap to his eye and squinted. “Unfortunately the bottom part has burned away, or we could see the rest of the list. But even so, I’m fairly certain that I know what’s next. I remember it well.”
“Which is?” asked Karl, although he had a hunch. He, too, had leafed through The Sworn Book of Honorius back at the tower before quickly closing the book again in horror.
“First there follow a few uninteresting ingredients. Ground gold, certain herbs that must be picked under a full moon, the ashes of a cross. But there is one ingredient that is crucial for the success of the ritual. A peculiar juice.”
Karl closed his eyes. He remembered what had been written at the bottom of the page in The
