“I do have a present indeed. But I will only give it to the master in person,” Johann said before handing Melzi one half of the Figura Umana.
“This is original work by Leonardo da Vinci,” explained Johann. “He wrote it himself. Take him the book and tell him that the second half is in the possession of an equally famous man who is waiting outside.”
Melzi frowned, his eyes shifting from the ripped pages in his hand to Johann and back. “And who is this famous man supposed to be?”
“Doctor Johann Georg Faustus, come especially all the way from the German Empire to pay my respects.” Johann bowed. “I think the master knows me. And he will recognize his own work.”
“Doctor Faustus? You are supposed to be the famous Doctor Faustus?” Francesco Melzi looked him up and down, his voice thick with mockery. “Since when does a magician and astrologer travel like an impoverished pilgrim?” He eyed Faust’s lifeless arm. “And since when is he a—pardon the expression—a cripple?”
“Since when is an underling employed to ask stupid questions, wasting the precious time of his master?” retorted Johann harshly. “Now hurry—or do I have to speak with the king first?”
Melzi gave all three of them a long, hard look before scrutinizing the large black dog. Then he leafed through his half of the Figura Umana, turned around, and walked to the gate, knocking profusely until someone opened it.
“I thought we didn’t want to be recognized?” whispered Karl after a while, noticing some of the onlookers starting to whisper and point. “After that performance, the whole world will soon know that the famous Doctor Faustus is in France. And then the pope might find out—Leo and the French king most likely keep in contact.”
“There was no other way,” said Johann. “We can only hope that we’ve managed to shake our pursuers. This meeting is too important.”
“And you really believe Leonardo da Vinci will receive you?” asked Greta.
Johann’s neck was crooked from the paralysis; now he tilted his head even farther to the side with thought. “If he’s anything like I think he is, then Leonardo possesses a very particular trait we both share.”
“Which is?” asked Karl.
Johann smiled. “Curiosity. Who can resist a visiting magician?”
Just then the gates opened and the steward waved at them impatiently.
“Come in,” ordered Francesco Melzi unhappily. “I don’t understand why, but the master really wants to see you.”
Karl followed the doctor with a thumping heart. He hadn’t expected Leonardo da Vinci to receive them. The news of Leonardo’s imminent death had shaken Karl almost as badly as his master. Leonardo da Vinci was—along with the much younger Raffaello, who was currently making a name for himself in Rome, and the eccentric Michelangelo, who had decorated the Sistine Chapel a few years ago—one of the greatest painters of the Christian world. To Karl, who would have liked to become a famous painter himself, meeting Leonardo came equal to an audience with the pope. And now this man, whose works of art had already made him immortal, was apparently dying?
No one is immortal, thought Karl wistfully. Not Leonardo, not I, and not even the doctor.
He looked over at Greta, who didn’t seem too upset. Her thoughts were probably still with John. The way the two of them had touched down by the harbor had been more than friendly. Karl felt a twinge of jealousy, and he cursed himself for being glad that she’d had to part with Reed.
Behind the walls, they walked through huge, parklike gardens. The manor house was much more magnificent from this side than from the front, consisting of a two-winged main building crowned with gables and an octagonal tower. Several steps led up to a portal, and an old servant wearing a threadbare, dirty linen frock waited outside. The man looked more like a gardener than a footman, leaning tiredly on a stick that served him as a walking aid.
“Our dear Battista will lead you to the reception room,” said Francesco Melzi tightly. “I have given instructions that the conversation cannot last longer than a quarter of an hour. Not a minute longer. The master is extremely weak. The devil knows why he wants to see you at all. A sorcerer, ha! Not even that can save him now.” Shaking his head, he turned back toward the gate.
The old servant bowed and limped ahead of the travelers. The rooms they passed were plain and clean, no pomp or pageantry. It smelled of pickled cabbage and wood fire.
“I wouldn’t have thought your reputation reached this far,” whispered Karl to the doctor. “I wonder if Leonardo would show us some paintings? I heard he brought some of the most beautiful ones to France. I would love to know how this sfumato—”
“I didn’t come here for advice on shading and brushwork,” growled Faust.
“I know,” said Karl with a sigh. “But I still fear the great Leonardo knows more about painting than about medicine.”
“We shall see.”
They entered a long room with an open fire crackling at one end. The room was dominated by a table that took up almost the entire length, atop which stood vases filled with fresh flowers. Late-afternoon light fell through the tall windows. The servant, who clearly struggled to stand for long, sat down on a stool in the corner. Karl sensed that Battista was secretly observing Johann, but every time he turned to look at the old man, his gaze was lowered.
Thus they waited for a long while. Just as Karl decided he would ask the servant, a door creaked open and a stooping old man came in. Karl took off his pilgrim’s hat, his knees shaking as if he were a young maid before her wedding. Seeing the famous master face to face was more than he could ever dream of.
Leonardo da Vinci wore a knee-length rose-colored tunic and a yellow cap—bright, garish colors one would expect to see on a woman. The most notable features were his beard and the white hair
