“I’m sure young King Henry is interested in more important matters than German leaflets,” replied the other man. He was skinny and old and he leaned on a cane, warming his gouty back by the chimney. He chuckled softly and glanced about the room. “They are sharing out the bear’s skin before the beast is killed. And those French frog eaters—” He noticed Karl in an alcove nearby and broke off. Karl quickly averted his gaze and walked away.
He crossed two further grand rooms decorated with several paintings. They were impressive if slightly lugubrious images of the Madonna and the savior, portraits of influential clergymen, paintings of former popes and also one of the current pope, Leo X, whose burly stature reminded Karl more of an innkeeper or a butcher. Portraits were very fashionable these days, partly because of the growing number of wealthy, confident burghers, but also because of the church, which liked to invest its riches in frescoes and paintings, not only in Rome.
Karl, too, was a passionate artist, even if he couldn’t afford the expensive oil paints that had been used for the works in front of him.
Beneath the artworks sat the delegates, snacking on sweet pastries and candied fruit plucked from glass bowls. Karl could tell by the robes that among them were at least two bishops, several abbots of various orders, and a handful of imperial delegates who looked more nervous than anyone else. This truly was a meeting of the most powerful men in the empire!
Karl had learned by now that the official meeting wouldn’t commence for a few days yet, when the last delegates from faraway lands arrived. He tried to estimate how many barrels of expensive French wine the men would have drained by then, and how many honey-glazed pigs would have made it to their stomachs. This Bamberg prince-bishop must have been incredibly rich—he probably made a profit from dealing in indulgences.
“A fitting sight, n’est-ce pas?” said a voice from right behind him. “Each day to this small folk is a feast of fun.”
Startled, Karl spun around. A gaunt man stood in front of him, wearing plain, dark clothes and holding himself slightly hunched over, with an apparent crooked back. The only color in his appearance was his red cap and the rooster’s feather attached to it. His face was deathly pale, as if he had rubbed chalk on it, and he spoke with the soft rhythm of the Western countries. The man was gesturing at the feasting delegates reaching out for more candied fruit.
“Voilà! The common people give the little money they own to shorten their time in purgatory, and the high and mighty use said money to stuff their faces. This way, everyone wins, everyone is happy. What a show—one could almost turn it into a play!” The stranger smiled, and Karl didn’t know if he was jesting or serious. He decided to say nothing.
“How rude of me. May I introduce myself?” The man gave a small bow. “Louis Cifre, one of the French delegates.” He eyed Karl curiously. “And you are . . . ?”
“Um, Karl Wagner, assistant to Doctor Johann Georg Faustus. He’s one of the bishop’s advisers, employed to write up a horoscope for him.” Karl had considered lying to the man and making up some random name and position, but he’d judged it too dangerous among all these high-ranking nobles.
“Ah, that’s how I know the learned man.” The French delegate raised an eyebrow. “I have heard much about Doctor Faustus. He is a clever man, c’est vrai. The bishop can consider himself lucky to have him at his side. It is not easy to tell friend from foe in these times. A prophet can only be of use.”
“How do you mean?” asked Karl, reaching for one of the wineglasses lackeys were proffering on silver trays.
“Now, I’m sure you’re aware that we’re all here to figure out what to do next with this Luther and his theses. But that is only half the truth, mon ami.” The man lowered his voice. “In truth, we’re here because a powerful man is dying.”
“You’re talking about Emperor Maximilian,” said Karl.
The man nodded, and as if by magic he now also held a glass of wine in his hand. “The physicians are saying His Imperial Highness has only months left—weeks, perhaps. A growth in his intestines—nasty business, they say. Not even prayers will help.” He sighed deeply. “Maximilian himself wants to be sure his grandson Charles follows him onto the throne, but that is not what the German electors want—and it’s they who choose the new king. Charles—Carlos—is a Spaniard, not a German. His mother is Joanna of Aragon, known as ‘Joanna the Mad,’ and his father, Philip the Handsome, was the king of Castile himself until his early death. The pope isn’t the only one fearing an imbalance of power in Europe if Charles ascends the throne. The new German king would rule an empire that reaches from Castile all the way to the North Sea, and in the west even unto the distant lands beyond the sea. Compris?”
Karl sipped his red wine and tried to appear as serene as possible. He’d only understood about half of what the delegate had told him, but he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Politics appeared to be almost as complicated as painting.
“A rather intricate affair indeed,” he said.
“C’est vrai.” The delegate shook his head slowly and continued. “Well, Elector Friedrich the Wise of Saxony wouldn’t make a bad German king at all.” He gave
