“See here the four plagues that will befall the empire next year if we don’t rise up to fight them,” intoned Johann. Standing in a cloud of sulfur smoke with his star-spangled cape, his long black hair streaked with gray and his arms spread wide, he looked like a true wizard. The performance achieved the desired effect: the guests gasped and moaned, and the prince-bishop and Viktor von Lahnstein couldn’t take their eyes off the image hovering on the tapestry. Karl grinned to himself. The apparatus was really quite simple. Bundled light streaming through a tube, making images appear larger than life against a wall. But, as always, someone had to come up with the idea first.
“War, pestilence, famine, and death!” shouted Johann. “That is what’s in store for us if we don’t gain control of the unrest in the empire. But we oughtn’t requite blood with blood and war with war. The stars promise unity if it is achieved peacefully.” He raised an admonishing finger. “If we all come together under the protective roof of the holy Roman church. ‘Unity and not separation’ must be our motto!”
The bishop nodded enthusiastically, and Karl swallowed back another grin. The doctor had his audience hooked now.
“Our enemy is not the peasants, but one man who stirs them up with his heretical speeches. He calls himself a Christian and a monk—when in truth he is nothing but a pig wallowing in the troughs of the church.”
The doctor signaled to Karl, who inserted a new glass plate. The four riders were replaced by the monk Luther, wearing the robe of the Augustinians, but he was adorned with a pig’s snout and a pig’s tail, his face twisted into a grimace of hatred and greed.
The effect was powerful. The guests—most of them passionate opponents of Luther—cried out with hatred, clapped, and cheered. Karl was proud of his drawing, which he had made using a cheap printed leaflet from the Augsburg imperial diet. The picture had turned out rather well, especially the pig’s snout.
Johann raised his hand. “This Luther stirred up the peasants, even if he says he didn’t. I foresee great unrest in matters of faith for the coming year. Only if we put aside that argument will we be able to vanquish the four horsemen of the apocalypse. And the stars tell us who will lead our way.” He paused for effect. “See for yourself!”
The image changed again, and a portrait of Pope Leo X appeared. The chubby, peasant-like face, the bags under the eyes, the red velvet skull cap, the ermine-collared coat—Karl had made a good likeness of the pope, even if he hadn’t had much time and the image was almost too realistic. He glanced over to Lahnstein, who shifted restlessly in his chair. It seemed the papal representative wasn’t sure what to make of all this gushing praise. He probably suspected some sort of ruse.
And damned right you are, thought Karl. You’re in for the shock of your life.
“Beneath the strong hand of our Holy Father we will succeed in uniting the church once more and defeat the apocalyptic riders!” exclaimed Johann loudly. “The stars don’t lie, and that is why they show you the truth—the whole truth.” He paused again before continuing. “Even the truth about who is going to rule in Rome if we don’t succeed in unifying the church. Lo and behold the fearsome creature awaiting us all!”
With another sweeping gesture, the doctor again tossed a load of powder into the glowing embers. But this time, there was a deafening explosion, followed by thick smoke. On cue, Karl changed the image again, and this time a terrible beast appeared—so terrible that every member of the audience screamed out with horror.
It was a huge dragon with a fiery tail, its horned head looking straight at the crowd. The monster took up the entire curtain, its tooth-studded mouth wide open, its eyes glowing, smoke seeping from its nostrils. Karl gazed at his work with pride. He thought his painting was on par with Dürer’s horsemen, if not better. At least, it was just as terrifying. Another explosion followed, and this time a large ball of fire rose from the brazier. To the audience it looked as if the dragon was spitting fire.
“And I saw a beast rise up out of the sea, and it had seven heads and ten horns, and upon its horns ten crowns, and upon its heads the name of blasphemy,” shouted Johann against the noise. “The apocalypse of John. Yes, be afraid, because the end is nigh.”
Only then did Greta emerge from behind the curtain. She still held Little Satan’s leash in her left hand, while with her right she swung a small throwing knife which she now—sheltered by the smoke and unrest—hurled with one swift movement toward the chandelier. The knife sliced through one of the ropes holding the chandelier to the ceiling. The metal construct, weighing several tons, gave a jerk before swooshing to the ground and burying some screaming delegates. At the same moment, the hall turned pitch black except for the stage, where the flames of the brazier continued to flicker as wafts of sulfur and biting smoke spread through the room.
“Behold and fear the apocalypse! The beast is nigh . . . ,” shouted Johann with outstretched arms, truly looking like a sorcerer. The rest of his speech was drowned out by the screams of the guests, who all sprang to their feet and rushed to the exit. Chairs crashed to the ground, and someone prayed loudly to Archangel Michael; meanwhile, the fire from the brazier had caught the curtain, which in moments was in full flame. From
