After striking several dead ends, Johann finally came to one last steep staircase. A cold breeze was blowing down the steps, and the cries and cheers from outside were clearly audible now.
The upper terrace, thought Johann.
Strangely, there were no guards at the foot of the stairs. Johann’s wonder subsided when he realized what that meant.
Clearly, only very few were supposed to know about what was going on up there.
As silently as he could, Johann started up the steps. Now he could make out individual voices coming from the rooftop. Shortly before the top of the stairs, a guards’ chamber opened to the left, but it was empty. When Johann reached the top, a heavy iron door stood ajar, and he peered through the crack. He beheld a scene that was so strange and bizarre that for a brief moment he forgot everything else.
The fireworks were about to begin.
But the show was completely different from what Johann had imagined.
26
VIKTOR VON LAHNSTEIN WAS SHAKING.
It wasn’t so much because of the biting cold on the rooftop, more than sixty feet above the city. The sky was clear and starry, and the wind tugged at his robe. No, Lahnstein was shaking because he now realized what a horrific nightmare he had helped to create.
Hell on earth.
As soon as Lahnstein had left Faustus, he had hurried to the upper terrace. He’d intended to send the guards downstairs in order to prevent possible witnesses, but he didn’t have to. The pope—or perhaps someone else—had already ensured that there was no one to disturb the ceremony.
A ceremony that left no room for doubt about its purpose.
Directly behind Lahnstein was a smaller platform upon which, allegedly, once upon a time had stood an angel, and which doubled as the roof of a small chapel. In front of him, a large pentagram had been painted upon the floor with rust-red paint. At the star’s five points stood flaming firepots, and beside each one lay an item that Lahnstein couldn’t make out in the dark of night. But even so, he knew what they were.
Mandragora, bezoar, amber, Salamandra salamandra, dens pistris.
They were the alchemy ingredients required to summon the devil.
Around the entire pentagram, a tall wooden scaffold had been erected, reminiscent of a multiple-sided gallows on a giant execution site. The framework was filled with dozens of thin tubes of glued cloth with strings protruding from their bottoms—a tangle of fuses that all came together in one thicker string. And this string led to the precise middle of the pentagram, where, beneath a baldachin, stood a throne adorned with gold leaf.
And on the throne sat the pope, the fuse clasped in his fat, ring-studded hand.
The Holy Father had his eyes closed, a blissful smile on his lips. He appeared to listen to the shouts and cheers of the people moving far below him like ants, waiting for the fireworks. Two huge black cats were lying at the pope’s feet, dozing. They were the same panthers Lahnstein had seen a few days ago. Evidently, they no longer left Leo’s side.
“Do you hear that?” said Leo without opening his eyes. He must have heard Lahnstein and Hagen approach. “The crowds are cheering for me—they are cheering for God. Because we gave them back their faith!”
Lahnstein couldn’t help but wonder who the pope meant by we. Was he speaking in the majestic plural?
“Faith requires powerful symbols,” continued Leo. “Magnificent churches, gilded altars, expensive ceremonies. Otherwise it withers like a flower without water. Just think of ancient Rome! Urbs Aeterna!” The pope opened his eyes and pointed toward the dark outlines of the hills in the night. “Why has this city survived for so long? Because the Romans knew how to create a cult. They revered their emperors as deities, built their temples and mausoleums, venerated the victors and sacrificed the losers. They held costly games, chariot races, gladiator fights. And all to serve just one goal: to consolidate faith.” Leo sighed as one of the panthers opened its large, tooth-studded mouth and let off a growl as if the pope’s deliberations had disturbed his slumber.
“We must create another eternal Rome, and this time for the glory of Christendom!” exclaimed Leo, patting the big cat’s head. “Yes, I was on the right track, building those many new churches and chapels, erecting monuments and palaces. Saint Peter’s was going to be my crowning achievement and outshine all other churches. And then this German monk comes along, preaching against indulgences.” Leo’s voice rose. “Pity Luther didn’t follow my invitation to Rome. I would have hosted fireworks in his honor and, for the final spectacle, burned him for the benefit of everyone.”
Lahnstein listened in silence. He couldn’t tear his eyes off this pope from the famous Medici dynasty, the man he had served for so many years. Leo had always been a little eccentric, preferring his animals over people, but intelligent, learned, and ambitious—and now he had clearly lost his mind.
The representative took a few steps forward, looking around. He had expected to find someone else up here as well, someone he’d been suspecting to be more than he pretended to be for a while now. But evidently the pope was alone.
Lahnstein cleared his throat.
“Holy Father, what are you doing?” he asked in a husky voice.
“Gold is tricky business,” said Leo. “Each burns for gold, all turns on gold, isn’t that right, Viktor? What haven’t I tried? I tortured several dozen quacks in search of the philosopher’s stone. I pored over old writings, even over the notes of a mass murderer. I chased after the famous Doctor Faustus, but nothing yielded success. Because I never delved deep enough—because I didn’t dare touch the unspeakable. Only he who challenges his enemy can emerge victorious.”
“You want to invoke the devil,” said Lahnstein matter-of-factly.
“Nonsense! I’m going to banish him, you see?” Leo’s fleshy lips quivered. “I
