Up until then Agrippa hadn’t managed to visit the accused at the Hôtel de la Bulette, a gloomy prison on the highest hill in Metz. The bishop and the cathedral chapter were irritated by the city’s involvement, and so Faust and Agrippa didn’t see the accused until she was dragged in chains into the hearing room at the Palais des Treize, the city hall of Metz, one week later. Josette Corbin was probably around thirty years old, but in her torn dress and with her skinny arms and legs covered in bruises, she seemed as frail as a child. They had cut off her long blonde hair, and her haggard face showed both fear and pride.
Johann nodded approvingly. He didn’t know how clever this woman was, but she was definitely as stubborn as her cows or she wouldn’t have lasted this long.
And yet you will confess sooner or later, he thought. No one can withstand the torture of the Inquisition.
Karl and Greta stood among the many spectators staring at the accused from behind a barrier. Guards had been posted at the windows and doors, ushering back the curious onlookers with imperious gestures. Seated at a long table were the representatives of the prosecution as well as the defense, and in between sat the mayor and two councilmen. Johann knew that Josette Corbin had to confess to something in order to be convicted. The longer the trial dragged on, the more she would get tortured. It was just a question of time. Even now she could barely stand upright; two city guards had to occasionally steady her when she started to sway.
The trial itself was a farce, conducted partly in French, partly in German and Latin. The Inquisition was represented by a Dominican named Savini who was notorious throughout the region. He was a bony fellow with long, clawlike fingers, which he kept extending toward the accused.
“We have statements from eight upstanding men that this woman is a witch,” he declaimed. “Eight men who attest that Josette Corbin devastated the fields all around Woippy with hail and thunder and that she killed livestock. And still she lies! I propose we continue torture right this day.”
Savini had uttered the last sentence in French, looking directly at the accused. Josette Corbin groaned and fell to her knees, praying quietly, but she didn’t confess.
“Your Honor, I would like to point out to you that four of these so-called upstanding witnesses have already retracted their statements,” said Agrippa, waving a piece of paper at the mayor of Metz. “All of them are known to be right drunkards and braggarts in the village and cannot be considered credible. In addition, their statements were not—as is customary—taken by the cathedral chapter, but by the local judge.” Agrippa gestured toward a portly, older man with a red nose and a stained vest who was sitting at the right-hand side of the table. Johann could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath from where he was sitting. “Judge Jean Leonard clearly overstepped his competency.”
“I granted the proceedings retroactively,” said Savini arrogantly. “Everything is perfectly aboveboard, my dear colleague.”
The greater part of the trial that day was held in Latin, which enabled Johann to follow it well. His Latin was almost as good as his German, and even his rusty French was coming back to him. Once the prosecution had finished presenting their case, he raised his hand.
Savini studied him from small, suspicious eyes.
“It is not customary for anyone except the lawyer to speak for the accused,” he said.
“As you’ve already been told, Doctor Lamberti is an old friend from the university in Cologne,” explained Agrippa coolly. “I obtained permission to employ him as my assistant yesterday.” He smiled. “As you can see, it is all aboveboard, my dear colleague.”
Johann and Agrippa had agreed to keep Johann’s real identity a secret. Metz was a free imperial city far away from Bamberg or Nuremberg, but it was likely that the legendary Doctor Faustus didn’t enjoy the best reputation even here—especially not as a lawyer. Johann feared, however, that they wouldn’t be able to keep up this charade for long. He was simply too well known in the empire.
Johann rapped his knuckles on the table and cleared his throat. “You spoke of maleficium witchcraft,” he said, addressing Savini. “Harmful spells that were cast over the village, according to you. Forgive me, but I spent my childhood in a wine-growing region. The grapes froze from time to time, hailstorms would damage the harvest every other year, but no one ever blamed it on witchcraft. If our livestock died then, it was either old or ate something it shouldn’t have.” He put on an expression of innocence. “Or was it witches all along and I didn’t know?”
“Of course there are natural causes occasionally,” allowed Savini. “But not in this case.”
“And how do you know for certain?” persisted Johann. “And another question: If this poor woman here truly is a witch, then why doesn’t she conjure meat upon her table or make roast pigeons fly in through her window? Why does she content herself with childish weather spells that simultaneously destroy the fruits of her own garden?”
Murmurs and even laughter rose from the audience. Johann glanced at Agrippa, who gave him a furtive wink. At least they were making Savini sweat.
The unrest in the room grew louder, until the mayor brought down his gavel on the table. “Quiet!” he shouted. “Or I’ll have the room cleared.”
Evidently, not everyone in the audience wished the accused woman harm, and now they jeered and stamped their feet.
“Hey, Josette,”
