But right now that task seemed unbearably hard to him. God was testing him like never before.
Every morning, Lahnstein had the bandage taken off to clean the wound. So far he had avoided looking in the mirror, but the horrified expressions on the faces of his servants told him more than a thousand words. Lahnstein’s fingers sought the spot on the bandage where his nose used to be. Now there was only a bony stump. That damned black hound from hell had turned his face into a bloody mess—Faust’s accursed hound from hell!
Viktor von Lahnstein closed his eyes and visualized Doctor Faustus on a pyre in Rome. He could hear Faust’s screams and smell his burning flesh. The image eased his own pain a little, if only for a short while. Because Lahnstein knew very well that the pope hadn’t sent him out to drag the doctor onto a pyre. In fact, it was more likely he who was going to burn or rot miserably in the dungeons of Castel Sant’Angelo if he didn’t find the doctor. The Holy Father had made it very clear that he expected to see Faust in Rome before others took notice of him and the precious secret he suspected Faust of harboring.
Lahnstein had no illusions. If he returned to Rome without Faust, he might as well garrote himself and climb into the fire. Especially since the Holy Father had told him what kind of secret Faust knew about—the kind of secret that would change the course of the world. He himself was an accessory, and accessories were discarded when they were no longer needed—or when they failed.
Where the hell are you, Faustus?
The rattling of the carriage was wearing Lahnstein down. For more than two weeks he’d been in the grip of a fever at Altenburg Castle, persecuted by strange dreams and visions, images of hell and a fiery-tailed Satan—probably aftereffects of the doctor’s diabolical performance at the great hall. Everyone had fallen for Faust’s charade—even the bishop! Everyone except Lahnstein.
After many days of unconsciousness and pain, Lahnstein had departed abruptly. He had sent out messengers in all directions, and the Bamberg prince-bishop, realizing his error, assured Lahnstein of his uncompromising support. Georg Schenk von Limpurg craved revenge, too, considering that damnable magician had made a fool of him in front of the whole empire. At every inn Lahnstein and his troops passed, people talked about how the famous Doctor Johann Faustus had pulled one over on the assembled delegates of the empire.
The carriage jerked, then stopped abruptly. Viktor von Lahnstein sat up and listened. He could hear voices and the neighing of a horse. What was going on out there? Was his well-armed papal delegation being attacked by highwaymen? Lahnstein nervously reached for the small dagger he always carried, knowing full well that it wouldn’t be much use to him.
Then someone knocked on the shutter.
“Yes?” asked Lahnstein grudgingly.
The window opened, and on the other side stood a man so large that he filled the entire frame.
“Hagen!” exclaimed Lahnstein with relief. “I thought you’d never come back.”
“Been on the road a lot,” grumbled the huge mercenary in his harsh Swiss accent. “Been asking around at taverns here and there, in the whole of Franconia and beyond. A few times I had to . . . jog people’s memory.” Hagen’s eyes gleamed coldly, and the papal representative felt a shiver run down his spine. He thought the giant was creepy, but Hagen was also the best soldier he’d ever seen, a killing machine as precise as one of those new clocks that adorned city halls throughout the empire.
“And?” Lahnstein asked, struggling to curb his excitement. “Do you have good news for me?”
“Oh yes.” Hagen grinned, which made his pockmarked face look as though a monstrous whale were trying to smile. “I found him. Or rather, I know he headed for France via the Wasgau. He and his two companions are dressed as plain pilgrims, but they have been recognized. No one forgets that black dog.”
“Tell me about it,” muttered Lahnstein. “Alert my soldiers that we’re turning west. Five gold ducats for the man who brings me the doctor and his hound. And the two companions, too. I want them alive. Got it?”
Lahnstein closed his eyes and uttered a prayer of thanks. It was such a pity that he had to deliver the doctor to Rome unscathed. But the secret was worth it. The pope had promised him ample reward and the post of a cardinal. And then there were also that young man and the girl who had helped Faust. Who was she? A juggler or perhaps even a witch? Whatever the case, he would find out.
He had ways. And he had Hagen.
Viktor von Lahnstein reclined into his cushions. For the first time in days he was all but pain-free.
Revenge is a sweet medicine.
Clattering and clanking, the carriage moved on.
5
JOHANN SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAYS STUDYING THE FILES of the Corbin case and working on a defense strategy with Agrippa. Sitting in the upstairs study, Agrippa smoked so much of this newfangled tobacco as they talked that Johann sometimes grew dizzy. He had come to terms with the fact that Agrippa would only tell him more about Gilles de Rais if he helped with this basically hopeless case.
Josette Corbin was a simple peasant woman whose entire misfortune was owed to the fact that her neighbors liked her property. They had accused her of so-called maleficium—witchcraft intended to cause harm to others.
