“Well, if you say so.” Johann waved the stinking smoke away from his face. “If it helps with thinking, I shan’t complain.”
“Now tell me about this meeting at Altenburg Castle,” said Agrippa, taking a deep drag. “If I heard correctly, delegates from the entire empire had been invited. It was about that Luther monk, wasn’t it?”
Johann nodded. He told his friend about the gathering and about Lahnstein’s order to accompany him to Rome. Agrippa smiled knowingly.
“So that is why you had to escape. I can sympathize. So far, everyone who has handed himself in to the Roman church as a possible heretic has ended up regretting it. The Bohemian Jan Hus was burned at the Council of Constance, and I’m certain Luther would have fared similarly in Rome. By the way, I don’t think his writs are too bad. I had them sent to me right away. This trade with indulgences is truly criminal. Money for the forgiveness of sins—that is divine corruption.” He winked at Johann. “That sounds more like the realm of the worldly lords.”
“Are you hinting at anything in particular?” asked Johann.
“Well, it’s not exactly a secret that the German throne is going to cost a fortune. When Emperor Maximilian passes, the electors are going to choose a new king. And you don’t seriously believe they’re going to elect someone who won’t show their gratitude?” Agrippa laughed softly and rubbed his hands together. “The Fuggers will have to part with a considerable sum if they want to see their favorite—Charles, the grandson of Maximilian—on the throne. They hope he will dance to their tune, just like his grandfather. But if the French are willing to pay more . . . Who knows what happens then?” Agrippa shrugged.
Abruptly, he leaned forward with his pipe. “Enough of the gossip, old friend. I can see that something bothers you. You didn’t come here because you needed winter quarters or because we’re so good at discussing politics, did you?”
Johann gazed into the rising wafts of smoke before replying. “No, indeed. I came to you in the hope that you can help me. I”—he hesitated—“well, I am suffering from a malady for which I cannot find a cure. I’ve tried everything.” Haltingly, he described to Agrippa what had been happening to him in recent months; his friend listened in silence. When he had finished, Agrippa nodded.
“Hmm, that sounds more than a little concerning,” he said pensively. “It could be the falling sickness or Saint Anthony’s fire. Could you have eaten bread made from flour that contained ergot? I have heard that victims squirmed for weeks after the consumption of such bread, twitching and dancing, even.”
Johann knew about ergot. It was a fungus that grew on rye and had the power to make people suffer horrendous torment, causing hallucinations so bad that some thought they were in hell. Johann thought about the terrible nightmares that plagued him. He would have preferred a fungal poisoning, but he knew it wasn’t true.
“My assistant also thought it might be Saint Anthony’s fire,” he replied. “But the symptoms don’t match entirely, and it’s been going on for too long.”
“The fungus could be on your clothing,” Agrippa suggested. “Or it could be a spider bite. There are those who believe that the accursed Saint Vitus’s dance is caused by the bite of a spider called tarantula.”
Johann shook his head. “No, I think it’s something else.” He lowered his voice. He hadn’t even told Greta and Karl what it was that he wanted from Agrippa. It was time to come clean.
“I . . . I believe it has something to do with an evil spell,” he said reluctantly. “That’s why I’m here, Heinrich. Because you know more about sorcery than anyone else. You wrote the Occulta Philosophia—there is no better work on magic.”
Agrippa smiled, visibly flattered. “I’m honored to receive such high praise from the most famous sorcerer in the empire. But you do realize that I always endeavor to find scientific explanations for magic?”
“And yet there are some things between heaven and earth that can’t be explained,” said Johann vehemently, leaning forward. “Didn’t you once tell me yourself that I oughtn’t meddle with certain dark forces?”
Agrippa chewed his pipe nervously. “I am not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh yes, you do! I am talking about Gilles de Rais. Back in Cologne you pretended not to know of him, but in your later letters you warned me about him. You wrote that you had gained new insights.”
“You should be taking my warning seriously,” Agrippa replied coldly. “You are right, my friend. There are things so ancient and malevolent that they cannot be explained scientifically. Gilles de Rais is one of them. I urge you to look no further.”
“But what if my disease is connected to Gilles de Rais?” persisted Johann. “What if I am certain that I can only defeat this disease by learning more about him?”
“I’m not sure I follow.” Agrippa frowned and took another drag on his pipe. “How could your illness be connected to Gilles de Rais? The fellow was hanged at Nantes a long time ago. His black soul is cursed for all eternity. You are speaking in riddles, my friend.”
Johann didn’t reply. The smoke from Agrippa’s pipe rose to the ceiling like a poisonous breath from hell. The wind howled and rattled at the shutters.
“I think it’s about a pact,” he finally said. “A pact I once entered into. The time has come for me to fulfill my end of the bargain.” Johann gave his friend a dark look. “Heinrich, I’m more afraid than ever before in my life. The devil is coming for me—I can feel it. He is already tugging at my soul.”
Downstairs in the sitting room, Little Satan was lying in the gap between the tiled stove and the wall, whimpering in his sleep. Greta was sitting at the table with Karl, playing cards in silence. Tarocchi was one of the most popular card games at the moment, having spread
