The man had almost reached the throng of people now. His black coat billowed behind him like the wings of a bat. All of a sudden he spun around, and Greta saw his face for the first time.
He was deathly pale as if he wore makeup, only his lips gleaming blood-red, and Greta thought the teeth behind those lips were pointed like the fangs of a wolf. The man wore a red cap with a rooster’s feather, which until then had been concealed by the tall collar. The most frightening part was his eyes. They were black holes—ancient, deep craters—and evil gleamed from within their depths like oil in a puddle.
He raised one hand and waved, his mouth twisting into a malicious smile.
Then he turned back around and disappeared in the crowd.
Who are you? wondered Greta. A man or something else? No matter what you are—I’m going to hunt you. You won’t drag me down again!
“After him!” she shouted to Karl. “He can’t get away!”
But Karl just stood there, gaping, and only started following her after a few long moments. They elbowed aside men and women who swore and elbowed them back; they pushed forward as fast as they could until they stood directly beneath the huge dragon puppet, whose red eyes glowered down at them. But it was all for nothing.
The man had vanished.
“Damn, if you hadn’t frozen back there, we might have caught him!” gasped Greta. She made her way through the crowd and slumped down on one of the steps along the side of the cathedral. “What was the matter with you?”
Karl was still deathly pale. He shook his head slowly. “That man,” he murmured. “I knew him, but . . . but that’s impossible.”
“You knew him?” Greta grasped Karl’s trembling hands. “Then tell me! Who was it? Damn it, Karl, that monster killed a child, and most likely not just the one. Who or what is he?”
Karl cleared his throat. “Didn’t you recognize him? It was the French delegate from Altenburg Castle. Louis Cifre.”
Greta closed her eyes. She remembered the man well, even though she’d seen him only briefly at Bamberg. She could almost smell the sulfur she had smelled then. She hadn’t recognized him in the foggy twilight. To her it seemed that it was Louis Cifre and at the same time it wasn’t, like a fat larva that had just emerged from its cocoon, revealing its true face.
Somewhere not far away they could hear the soft melody of a flute.
It played an old children’s song.
“That Savini is cleverer than I thought, but still not as clever as us.”
Agrippa puffed another plume of smoke into the room, making Johann’s eyes water. It felt like they’d been sitting in Agrippa’s study for weeks, breathing in stuffy fumes. Elsbeth would occasionally bring up some cold meat or cheese, which they’d eat without much enthusiasm and wash down with a glass of thinned wine. Then they’d carry on working. At some point Little Satan would help himself to the leftover meat and chew loudly under the table. Then he liked to curl up by the fireplace, yelping softly in his sleep.
The two scholars left the house only on trial days, and it wouldn’t be long until the next one. During the last one, Savini had pulled an unexpected card from his sleeve. He had declared triumphantly that Josette Corbin’s mother had been accused of witchcraft and that he had proof—an old document that had unexpectedly resurfaced. Therefore, according to Savini, witchcraft ran in the family, a kind of original sin that could only be extinguished by the flames. Following this revelation, Agrippa had asked for another adjournment of the trial, well aware that Josette Corbin was at the end of her strength. The hangman of Metz, who was also responsible for torture, was a master of his craft.
“That document must be falsified,” said Johann, reaching for the jug of wine.
The sound of music and crowds could be heard in the distance; it was growing dark outside. Agrippa had told Johann about the dragon procession, but they hadn’t spoken of it again. They had more important work to do.
“Even if it is, that won’t help us,” Agrippa replied with a sigh. “The mayor wants to get the trial over and done with, and to that end he’ll accept any absurd piece of evidence.”
“You’re probably right.”
Johann gave a tired nod; he, too, was exhausted from this trial. He wasn’t sleeping much at night, leafing through theological books or combing Agrippa’s library for volumes on medicine. He still hadn’t learned anything new about his disease, but it hadn’t been bothering him much lately. Could he be healed? Perhaps he was so distracted by the trial that the healing had happened all by itself? Johann thought about the time back in Heidelberg, when he had constructed the very first laterna magica with his friend Valentin. Then, too, he had been driven by a single thought, by an unstoppable determination. Science, studying—the perpetual search for something new had pushed aside everything else.
And in the end, the girl he loved the most had died.
And it was my fault.
“. . . might be more suitable to build a theological argumentation on . . .”
Johann heard the voice of Agrippa, who, as usual, was thinking out loud. Johann
