Johann’s eye was caught by a statue standing a little farther on. Evidently, it showed a great Germanic warrior. Johann blinked—for a brief moment he thought the statue had moved, but it was probably just the sun, which hung low on the horizon, blinding him. Despite the sunshine it was miserably cold and, as usual, a damp breeze blew from the north, carrying with it the stink of the Tiber.
Johann continued up the hill, past beggars and vagabonds who eyed him suspiciously. He clutched his satchel tightly. Perhaps it had been a mistake to visit this area by himself. On the other hand, if someone were to rob him, he would simply hurl the aqua regia at them. The screams of a person losing his face certainly would deter anyone else. Once more Johann considered whether he should really go ahead with his plan. He remembered something Leonardo da Vinci had said to him in his garden.
How can we ensure that our ideas don’t turn out to be our undoing?
Johann touched the silver pendant he now carried on a chain around his neck—it felt as heavy as the entire world.
An idea that held the power to destroy the world.
There was a cracking sound behind him, followed by the clattering of stone.
A strong hand clutched his neck while a second hand pressed a wet sponge to his mouth. Johann breathed in a pungent, aromatic smell.
A sleeping sponge.
Physicians occasionally used such sponges to sedate patients before surgery. The sponges were saturated with poppy juice and extracts of various plants from the nightshade family. They didn’t achieve a complete sedation, but they numbed the mind. This was no weapon of plain thieves and scoundrels.
Johann flailed his arms and kicked his feet, but he could already feel his knees growing weak. His legs gave way as if they were made of straw. He wanted to shout for help but couldn’t with the sponge over his mouth and nose.
Then he lost consciousness.
When he came to, his hands and feet were bound, and he’d been gagged. All around him it was black. He could feel solid timber: his legs were pushed up against his chest and he had no room to move. He appeared to be stuck inside some kind of chest. The chest moved and rattled as if it was sitting atop a cart.
Johann desperately tried to focus. He had been abducted. But why and by whom? His head ached as if someone had thumped him with a hammer. This was partly due to the sleeping sponge, but also because of the acrid smells filling the chest.
It was the smells of sulfur, saltpeter, nitric acid, and various other highly toxic substances.
Now Johann felt the leather satchel at his feet. His abductor must have chucked it into the chest with him. With so many poisonous fumes in such a cramped space, he’d be dead soon, from either suffocation or explosion.
Johann wriggled like a fish out of water. Again he tried to call for help, but all he managed was muted croaking. The fumes caused tears to run down his face, and his lungs burned like fire. He needed to get out of there as fast as possible. But the more he struggled, the harder he breathed and the more the fumes affected him. And so he forced himself to calm down, even though his heart was racing.
All of a sudden the cart stopped. He heard muffled voices, then the cart rattled on. The chest was jolted from side to side and Johann hit his head repeatedly, but he barely noticed the pain by then. The acrid fumes were killing him slowly but steadily, breath by breath. He suspected that the tiny flame of a candle would suffice to blow up the chest.
Farewell, Greta. Farewell, grandson I never met.
Again he passed out.
The next time he awoke, he was blinded by glaring light. Was this heaven?
But he felt much too miserable to be in heaven; more likely, he had landed in hell. The chest’s lid opened, and someone yanked him out and removed the gag. Johann vomited, then gasped for air. The stink of sulfur and saltpeter still surrounded him, and his skin felt like it was on fire. Only after several long moments did he begin to take in his surroundings.
He was lying on cold, smooth parquet, the dark timber adorned with precious inlays. Johann made out the shapes of several marbles that looked like pills, as well as crossed keys.
The keys of Saint Peter—the symbol of the pope.
Slowly he looked up and beheld two pairs of boots. One pair was dirty and as big as two buckets. The other pair was made of soft, freshly blackened leather and adorned with silver spurs.
“The oh-so-famous Doctor Faustus,” sounded a familiar voice. “Nearly drowned in his own vomit. How pathetic! And yet I struggle to feel sorry for a necromancer.”
Johann groaned and turned on his back.
Standing in front of him were Hagen and Viktor von Lahnstein. The papal representative, in his white Dominican gown, glared down at Johann with folded arms. Red flaps of skin hung in the place his nose used to be, and above it, two cold eyes gleamed like those of a beast of prey. Johann blinked repeatedly. Perhaps he had landed in hell after all.
“Welcome to Castel Sant’Angelo, Doctor,” said Lahnstein. “And so we meet again. I want to ask God in all humility to look away for one moment. I have waited years for this.”
With his pointed boots, he kicked the prisoner hard between the legs.
The pain was so intense that Johann passed out once more.
A short while later, Johann was sitting on a chair in the corner of the chamber with his head on his chest.
The room was entirely lined with dark parquet, and at its center stood an antique statue of Hermes. In front of it was a small altar with a cross and one single kneeler for praying.
