Agrippa’s face turned ashen. “Rome knows about your connection to that villain?”
Johann nodded. “The pope appears to be under the impression that I am privy to certain knowledge. To some great secret. That’s the reason I was supposed to travel to Rome. But, by God, I haven’t the faintest idea what the secret’s supposed to be.” He gave Agrippa a pleading look. “So if there’s anything else you know, please tell me. I believe it is the only chance I’ve got to stop this terrible disease. Speak before it kills me and this unholy pact drags me straight to hell—me and everyone who’s dear to me!”
Agrippa said nothing for a long while. The pipe went out, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“I am certain that if I tell you what I know, it will be your undoing, Doctor,” he said eventually. “I’m still struggling to believe what you’re telling me—perhaps I don’t want to believe it. Especially the church’s involvement—it would be just . . .” He shook his head. “Give me a little more time to think it over, my friend.” With a sigh he set down his pipe. “And now let us speak of something else. I loathe having to discuss such unfathomably malevolent things when I’m trying so hard to eliminate evil in scientific ways.”
“What do you mean?” asked Johann.
Agrippa rolled his eyes. “Barely a year I’ve been in Metz and already I am dying of boredom. Insignificant trials, neighbor disputes, speeches at some irrelevant receptions. I promised Elsbeth peace and quiet, but I’m so pleased that’s going to be over for a while.” He leaned forward. “It’s about a witch trial I am to be part of as a lawyer for the city. The suspect is a woman from Woippy, a village not far from here. Apparently the neighbors have an eye on her property and decided to accuse her of witchcraft. And the fool bishop of Metz has nothing better to do than lock her up without any sort of proof. During her first hearing alone, so many procedural mistakes were made that any student of jurisprudence would turn away in horror.”
“That won’t help the poor woman,” said Johann, hoping Agrippa might soon return to his own case.
“Presumably.” Agrippa nodded. “As you know—once you’ve been arrested by the Inquisition, you don’t walk free. When it’s blindingly obvious that anyone would confess anything if tortured long enough! That method is a shame, yes, a grave moral error of our time. At the time of Thomas Aquinas you would have been executed for saying witches and sorcerers existed—and now this.”
“You don’t believe in witchcraft and yet you wrote the best work on the matter,” Johann remarked with a thin smile.
“I merely wrote down everything that humanity has come up with on the subject. And I’m not denying that some sort of magic could exist. But not in such a ridiculous manner. Flying broomsticks, hail spells, and mouse plagues—give me a break!” Agrippa shook his head. “The city wants me to supervise the trial as a lawyer and sign off on the execution like a dumb lamb. But they have underestimated Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim.” He laughed grimly. “I’ve decided to get this woman out of jail, and by juridical means alone.”
“Impossible,” said Johann.
“Just as impossible as a French murderer still walking the face of the earth a hundred years on—with the knowledge of the church.” Agrippa tapped out the contents of his cold pipe. “I have a suggestion for you, Doctor. You help me to free this woman, and in return I will tell you what I know about Gilles de Rais. That is my final word. D’accord?”
He held out his hand to Johann.
“Agreed,” said Johann slowly. “Even though I doubt we’ll succeed.”
When he clasped the hand of his friend, he thought back to the handshake with Tonio, when he was still a young boy with dreams and ideals, before he became the famous Doctor Johann Georg Faustus.
The same man who was probably possessed by an incurable curse.
On the following morning, about two hundred miles from Metz, a small troop of soldiers marched through the snowy German forest. It was led by half a dozen horsemen serving as the vanguard, and they were followed by foot soldiers armed with pikes and halberds and dressed in the yellow, red, and blue of the Swiss guard. In the center of the train, a carriage rattled along the boggy highway, pulled by four noble black horses, each of which was worth as much as a tavern. The doors and windows of the carriage were closed, and each hatch hung with black velvet.
Inside, seated on soft cushions, was the papal representative Viktor von Lahnstein, praying to God to send him a sign. The bandage covering most of his face itched and chafed. The skin underneath—or rather, what remained of it—burned, but it was nothing compared to the fire of hatred burning inside him.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, thought Lahnstein. He had always felt closer to the Old Testament than the New Testament, which lacked the necessary sharpness in several places. He believed in a God of retribution, not in a God of mercy. As the second-born son of a German knight, Lahnstein had always suffered under the fact that his father didn’t
