In pursuit of his goals, Leo had resorted to measures that brought sweat to his forehead at night and robbed him of his sleep. He had done things so unspeakably cruel that he hoped God would look the other way and condone them tacitly.
It’s all for the benefit of the church! For the church’s benefit and my own, of course. But is there even a difference?
The pope wrinkled his nose in preparation for the foul smell and entered the dungeon, gathering up his red robe so it wouldn’t drag across the ashes and blood on the stone floor. The stench in the chamber nearly knocked him off his feet; it was the fetid reek of blood, feces, and vomit.
The stench of fear—of fear and of the truth.
Leo’s eyes turned to the rack in the center of the room. Lying on top was a seemingly lifeless, scrawny man clad in nothing but a torn loincloth. His arms and legs were covered in burn marks from the previous interrogations, and his bearded face was twisted in a grimace of pain. Images of the suffering of Christ came to Leo’s mind, but he quickly forced the thought aside.
“So?” he asked the beefy, bullnecked man with the bloodstained apron standing next to the rack with a poker in his hand. “Did you get anything out of him?” Leo tried to suppress his excitement.
“Unfortunately not, Holy Father,” the jailer said, shaking his head.
Leo knew the jailer from other tortures; he came from the Marches, where he’d served the infamous Cesare Borgia. The man was considered one of the best in his field and was as silent as the grave, but it would appear that even he was at his wit’s end.
“He only jabbers and doesn’t make any sense,” the torturer explained with a shrug. “To be honest, I don’t believe he ever knew anything of value. He’s a fraud, just like all the others.”
“A fraud, you say? Nothing but a filthy fraud?”
The pope strained to hide his disappointment. He took a step closer and studied the prisoner’s bruised face, covered with festering wounds. The man’s teeth had been pulled out, one by one, just like the nails on his fingers and toes. He no longer bore any resemblance to the imperious, loudmouthed fellow who until recently had advertised his skills on the squares of Rome. With trembling lips he started to garble something, a thin rivulet of bloody saliva running from a corner of his mouth.
“For . . . forgive me, Father,” he struggled to say. “Forgive me . . .”
Leo turned away with disgust. He would have liked to kick the pathetic creature, but that would have been inappropriate for the most powerful man in the Christian world. He should have known that this attempt would be nothing but a dead end, just like so many others before. But the sources had been promising, and he’d wanted to make sure. He had to follow any possible lead.
Leo breathed deeply, trying to ignore the stench. Well, at least there was hope. Only a few days ago a new path had opened, and it was a particularly promising one. Despite the defeat just now, Leo felt deep in his heart that he was very close to his goal. It was as if God had spoken to him in his dreams. Yes, soon he would learn the secret—he had it on very good authority, after all. And now that this last path had turned out to be an error, there was no other option left. Leo could only hope that no one else would beat him to finding the man he so desperately sought.
The man who was probably the only person on earth to know the well-guarded secret.
Only a little longer, the pope thought wistfully. The Lord is testing my patience.
“Get that away from here,” ordered Leo, gesturing at the quivering bundle on the rack. “And make sure no one ever finds him.”
“Mercy!” screamed the prisoner, yanking at his chains. He tried to sit up and cried out with pain. “Mercy! I . . . I know it! By God, I swear I know it! Please—”
“You had your chance,” muttered Leo as he walked away. At the same time, he thought that he couldn’t afford to take any risks, not even the smallest. This was too important—to him, to the Holy Mother church, to the entire world. As he passed the guards, he beckoned to one of them.
Leo gave a small nod in the direction of the burly jailer, who was just placing the poker back into one of the braziers.
“His service is finished,” he said quietly to the soldier. “For good. Take care of it and you shall be handsomely rewarded. Throw his body into the Tiber together with the other one, understood? Sewn into a sack with stones. It must be as if he never existed.”
The guard nodded silently, and Leo placed a shiny gold coin into his hand. Then the father climbed the many stairs, panting and sweating, to where bright lights, the beguiling scent of violets, and God’s grace awaited him.
Oh yes, there was much left to do.
Act I
The Beast’s Breath
1
BRETTEN, IN THE KRAICHGAU
20 OCTOBER, AD 1518
THE FLAMING ARROW SHOT INTO THE EVENING SKY, WHIStling as it released its orange-yellow load. Accompanied by the cries of the audience, it dragged a tail of fire across the clouds, like the handwriting of an angry god. Up high, way above the roofs of the town and the spire of the church, the arrow exploded with a deafening crack, glittering sparks raining down like falling stars. The citizens of Bretten moaned with fright and pleasant horror.
Greta watched the faces of the spectators from her hiding place behind the stage. She estimated that a few hundred people had gathered around the well on the Bretten market square. Gaping in disbelief at
