The soldiers had been forced to carry his luggage up the many stairs, complaining loudly about the doctor’s heavy gear. His crates were filled with various apparatuses, including the strange stargazing tube Johann had taken from Tonio all those years ago, which allowed him to see the heavens closely, as with divine eye glasses. And, of course, there were the countless books he loved so dearly.
Johann remembered exploring the Maulbronn library like an exotic garden as a child, each volume a priceless treasure. Later on he’d invested much of his fortune in books, which protected him to some extent against theft. Not many gallows’ birds knew that—for example—the illustrated Schedelsche Weltchronik was worth more than three good horses. And, thankfully, neither thieves nor soldiers knew anything about the false bottoms in his chests, which were filled with gold and silver coins of various currencies. They were Johann’s insurance in case he was ever wanted as a heretic and sorcerer and needed to disappear.
He walked over to one of the chests and opened it. Then he carefully lifted out something wrapped in oiled cloth. It was a book and his dearest and most precious possession.
Johann gently folded back the cloth and ran his fingers over the cover, as if he was about to open a treasure chest. The volume was leather bound and about as thick as a hand, with pages made from the finest goat vellum. The drawings inside showed many different perspectives of the inside of the human body, limbs, and organs. The illustrations were so perfectly done that Johann always thought he was looking at real muscles, sinews, and innards. He could practically smell the blood.
The Italian title of the book was De Figura Umana, which Johann translated as “About the human form.” It was written and drawn by the great painter and inventor Leonardo da Vinci, whose work Johann had been admiring for many years. He had first heard about Leonardo back in Venice as a young juggler. Johann had bought the book two years ago for a horrendous amount of money from the bishop of Speyer, who in turn had received it as a gift from the Duke of Milan.
Basically, it was just a collection of loose pages, and some bookbinder had done a rather rough-and-ready job of sewing them together. The pages were all different sizes. Johann guessed da Vinci hadn’t allowed his drawings into print because the dissection of corpses was forbidden, bar a few exceptions. The artist must have conducted a large number of dissections himself, or he never would have been able to draw with so much detail. He described many diseases, including the white and the black plagues, the falling sickness, Saint Anthony’s fire, cataract, and the extremely painful stone sickness that only the best physicians could treat. The text, like many of da Vinci’s other works, was written in mirror writing, making deciphering it rather arduous. Johann had hoped to find a clue about his own mysterious disease in this book, but, so far, in vain.
On cue, his left hand started to tremble. Johann set the book aside and reached into the crate with the theriac. Alcohol was the only way to get the shaking somewhat under control. He pulled the cork out of a bottle and took a long sip, and the shaking eased. He only hoped Karl and Greta hadn’t noticed how fast the theriac was vanishing.
Absentmindedly he gazed down into the courtyard, where another carriage was just arriving. He heard whinnying and the clatter of hooves, and the loud voice of a herald announcing some delegate or another. With a sigh, Johann set the book down on the table and started to unpack.
In the course of their journey, Johann had made peace with the idea of the bishop’s invitation—at least their stay would give him ample time to research his strange illness. But the brief conversation with the papal representative earlier had changed everything. Lahnstein himself had advised the bishop to invite Johann. There could be only one explanation: Rome had taken notice of the famous Doctor Faustus. He had to expect the worst.
Johann was just opening another chest of books when he heard footsteps coming up the tower. As soon as he’d closed the lid, someone knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” asked Johann.
Instead of a reply, the heavy, reinforced door creaked open. Standing outside were Viktor von Lahnstein and the biggest man Johann had ever seen. He was so tall that he had to double over in the narrow corridor. The giant wore a blue, yellow, and red jerkin and matching trousers, as well as a scratched cuirass with shoulder plates and a helmet with a comb that hid about half of his bearded, pockmarked face. On his back he carried a two-handed sword so long and heavy that Johann doubted he could lift it, let alone fight with it. Lahnstein noticed Johann’s puzzled look and smiled.
“Impressive, isn’t he? Hagen is a Swiss mercenary and a member of the new palace guard the current pope’s predecessor, Julius II, introduced. Each one of those Swiss mercenaries is an experienced soldier and loyal unto death to the Holy Father. His Holiness has lent me Hagen as my personal bodyguard. The journey through the empire isn’t without dangers.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” muttered Johann.
The mercenary gazed at him blankly, and Johann wondered whether it had been a mistake to leave Little Satan with Greta down in the yard where he had more space to run about.
“May I come in?” asked Viktor von Lahnstein. Hagen waited outside the door while the papal representative entered the chamber. Lahnstein saw the books on the table and nodded. “I see you’re making yourself
