No wonder I had nightmares, thought Johann.
“What about the trial?” he asked. “Why—?”
But then Elsbeth came in, carrying a tray with steaming-hot spiced wine and a bowl of soup. She set it down on a small table beside the bed and gave Johann an encouraging smile.
“Ah, you come at just the right time, Elsbeth,” said Agrippa. “Our patient has just awoken and must be hungry. Tell me, has our son returned from his friend’s house?”
Johann thought he could hear concern in Agrippa’s voice.
Elsbeth nodded. “Over an hour ago. It is past noon already.”
“That’s good. Now leave us again for now—I’ll be down soon.”
Elsbeth closed the door softly, and the men sat in silence for a while.
“How are you feeling?” asked Agrippa again.
“I feel like I was caught in a landslide,” said Johann, stretching. “And I’m exhausted, as if I’ve been battling a fever. But aside from that, I feel fine.” His face darkened. “The things you told me before I passed out . . . about Gilles de Rais and Tonio.”
“I hoped you’d forget,” Agrippa said with a sigh. “Listen, it was pure speculation. Silly theories of a scholar who spends too much time in his study. I got carried away by a flood of thoughts. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
Agrippa winked at him, and yet Johann couldn’t shake the feeling that his friend was keeping something from him.
“Of course,” he murmured. After a while he asked, “Why didn’t the trial take place? It would hardly have been because the lawyer’s assistant fell ill.”
“No, indeed.” Agrippa hesitated. “It was because, well . . . strange things happened.”
“What sort of strange things?”
“Well . . . where do I start?” Heinrich Agrippa rose and began to pace the room. “I was about to leave for the Palais des Treize the next morning when a delegation of guards arrived and asked me to follow them to the house of Judge Leonard. The judge lay dead in his bed—apoplexy, it would appear. Much more surprising, however, was the letter on his nightstand, which he evidently wrote just before he died. In his letter Leonard admits to accepting bribes and says there is no truth to the accusations against Corbin. The neighbors lied and he supported them.”
Johann sat up abruptly. “He admitted to his lies and died shortly thereafter?”
“Yes—strange, isn’t it?” Agrippa shrugged. “The city scrapped the trial and released Josette Corbin. She withstood severe injuries during torture, but she’ll probably recover. They now suspect a bunch of gypsies to be responsible for the murder of the girl and the missing children, but they’ve already left town.” He sighed. “We won, old friend. Even though it wasn’t the way I would have liked to win.”
“And the judge really died of natural causes?”
“As the physician who examined him, I couldn’t detect anything to the contrary. Apoplexy is not unusual for a prolific drunk.”
Agrippa held Johann’s gaze, but for a brief moment the scholar’s eyes flickered.
“There is something else I need to tell you,” Agrippa said quickly. “I came across it yesterday and thought it might be of use to you.”
“Go on,” said Johann without taking his eyes off Agrippa.
“There is a man who complains of symptoms similar to yours,” continued Agrippa, sitting back down on the stool beside the bed. “I saw it while browsing through some old letters yesterday. I should have remembered sooner, but there was the trial and—”
“Who is this man?” asked Johann impatiently, his head still hurting as if someone had struck him with a hammer.
“Leonardo da Vinci.”
“Leonardo . . .” Johann’s jaw dropped. He straightened up. “You . . . you and Leonardo da Vinci write to one another? And you never told me?”
“I correspond with many great men of Europe,” Agrippa said evasively. “With kings, scholars, bishops.” He laughed. “With you, too. And occasionally with Leonardo da Vinci. He truly is a genius, an expert in many fields, a bright light, even if he’s no longer the youngest. Sadly, painting is a talent I wasn’t endowed with. Perhaps I should—”
“What did da Vinci write about the disease?”
“Not much,” replied Agrippa with a shrug. “He writes of a trembling in his hand that he can’t get under control. And from time to time he is plagued by fits very similar to yours. Paralysis, grimacing. Leonardo, too, was at a loss, but in his last letter he hinted that he might know what lies at the bottom of his ailment.”
“Last I heard, he worked in Rome for the pope,” Johann said thoughtfully, his heart beating faster. “But that was quite a while ago. I don’t know where he is now.”
“You’re right.” Agrippa cleared his throat. “He hasn’t been in Rome for two years. Apparently, the French king made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Francis I gave Leonardo a castle where he might enjoy the autumn of his life. He is rather old and—”
“Where is that castle?” asked Johann.
“Ha! I knew you would want to know.” Agrippa chuckled. “It’s in the Loire Valley, west of Orléans. The town is called Amboise. An exceptionally picturesque area the king likes to visit often. There are magnificent castles and good wine and—”
“Do you have horses?” asked Johann, cutting him off again.
He felt his strength returning. Strength, and also hope. He should have thought of Leonardo much sooner. He was the best observer of the human body, of that wonderful apparatus called man. And now he was plagued by a condition similar to Johann’s. Could it be possible that the famous inventor was also possessed by a curse? Whatever the case, Leonardo would have made observations—observations that might help Johann.
All is not lost yet.
Agrippa eyed Johann with curiosity. “You intend to travel to the Loire Valley?”
“Why not? I must use any chance I get—any! Even if I have to climb down into the depths of hell.” Johann was about to get up when Agrippa
