With one jerking move he swiped all the chess pieces off the table.
In the shadow of a wall stood a man, licking his lips. The dampness of the nocturnal fog had made his makeup run, revealing wrinkly skin, sunken features, and two maliciously gleaming eyes like glowing pieces of coal inside a skull. The man’s palate was dry; his tongue felt like a withered old root. Perhaps that was what it had been for years. Nothing but an old root. The man was waiting for news from his winged messengers. He looked up once more and finally spotted three black dots moving toward him in the sky.
“Azazel, Baphomet, Belial!” called out the master. “There you are! Why did you take so long?”
The birds cawed and landed on the outstretched arm of the master. Their beaks clattered as if they were speaking to him. The master closed his eyes and nodded.
“Very well,” he said after a while. “Everything is going to plan. Everything—what is it?” The birds flapped their wings restlessly and the master laughed. “Of course, you’re hungry. How thoughtless of me. We all need something to eat and to drink—hunger is chewing through my innards, too.”
Almost lovingly he set down the raven and the two crows, who instantly started bickering over a rotten fish. The master watched them with amusement.
“We need better meat. Much better. And younger.”
He pursed his lips and whistled a song.
Susie, dear Susie, what’s rustling in the straw?
“Let us go hunting.” Like a phantom he peeled from the shadows and started moving down the lane where the houses huddled closely. Lights still burned behind many of the widows. “Mmmh, I can smell them in their soft little beds. Can you smell them, too?”
The birds cawed, and the master chuckled with relish. “The sky is heavy with fresh grapes. How do they say? Vivre comme Dieu en France!”
7
THE GOBLET MADE OF THE FINEST VENETIAN GLASS WENT flying through the air and landed precisely on the breasts of the dainty, half-naked dancer, shattering into a thousand pieces. Red streaks ran down her skin, a mix of blood and wine. Shaking and crying, the woman cowered on the ground, shielding her head with her arms for fear of further attacks.
“That isn’t dancing, that is just wild leaping about! The monkeys in my menagerie can do better.”
Pope Leo X had risen from his throne and was looking around for other missiles. Thankfully, the servants had swiftly removed all other drinking vessels. The pontiff’s outbursts were legendary, but they always fizzled out as quickly as they arrived. The assembled Vatican court held its breath; servants, courtiers, and even the musicians had taken a few steps back, isolating the young woman on the floor as if she had a contagious disease. Even Leo’s jester was silent, which didn’t happen often. Next to the pope, the Spanish ambassador Don Arturo de Acuña cleared his throat. He seemed to be the only person brave enough to stand up to the most powerful ruler in Christendom.
“Holy Father, I beg you,” he said. “Please consider your heart.”
“Get that wench out of my sight before I feed her to my panthers,” growled Leo, already a little calmer. His throne with the silken baldachin was standing in one of the many courtyards of the Cortile del Belvedere, where the pope received important foreign guests like the Spanish ambassador, who was seated next to him, albeit a little lower.
Leo reached for a bowl with chilled candied fruit and leaned back into his cushions adorned with peacock feathers. His throne was surrounded by cages filled with screeching parrots, dozing lions and leopards, monkeys baring their teeth, one mangy bear, and one so-called giraffe, which looked like a spotted donkey with a ridiculously long neck.
Leo was enormously proud of his menagerie. Many of the animals were gifts of noblemen, cardinals, and prince-bishops—from rulers far and wide who wanted to demonstrate their devotion to the pope and incidentally secure their living. Leo adored each one of his animals. His favorite used to be the elephant Hanno, a gift from the Portuguese king Emanuel I. Sadly, the white giant died of constipation a few years ago, after the physicians administered a laxative enriched with gold. The rhinoceros that had been sent as a replacement had gone down with the ship on its way to Rome, much to the pope’s dismay.
He preferred animals to people, as the latter only ever tried to betray him or fawn and curry favor. This de Acuña was no exception. In an attempt to make the pope well disposed toward him, the Spanish ambassador had presented him with five precious parrots from the New World. The birds paid homage to him in five different languages—not a bad idea from the Spanish Habsburgs. But Leo knew the real reason for de Acuña’s visit.
“To be honest, I am glad we finally get some time to engage in a proper conversation,” said the ambassador in a honeyed voice. “As much as I love your shows. ¡Por Dios! They are like perfect works of art.”
“Well, art is long! And life is short and fleeting,” replied Leo. “If you have something to say—out with it.”
De Acuña lowered his gaze. “As always, you are right, venerable father.” He wore a tight, bodice-like tunic with a ruff on his neck, as was fashionable among the Spaniards. His decorative épée would at the most be useful for killing a rat. “Have you put any more thought into the matter of the imminent election of the German king?”
Leo smiled thinly. “Since when does the pope get a vote in that election?”
“Perhaps not a vote as such, but your word carries a lot of weight,” replied de Acuña cautiously. “The prince-bishops especially look to you for guidance.”
“You know my opinion,” said Leo curtly, watching as some Swiss guards finally dragged the bawling dancer away. De
