“And . . . and what is that secret supposed to be?” asked Johann. He had a hunch that he would finally learn why Lahnstein wanted to take him to Rome—and why he was now in this castle in front of the French king.
“Well, what do you think?” The king grinned. “Don’t play the fool, Doctor. It is the secret the whole world is burning to know, first and foremost the pope, that greedy pig, who is looking for you. Now you’ll just tell me instead. The fate of the world might depend on it.”
Francis leaned down once more and breathed into his ear: “It is the secret of the lapis philosophorum.”
Hundreds of miles away, Pope Leo X climbed down narrow stairs into his inner sanctum, directly beneath his chambers in Castel Sant’Angelo. This room was better hidden and protected than the papal coffers. To get to the secret chamber, he had to go behind one of the tapestries and locate a particular stone in the wall that didn’t look any different from the stones surrounding it. When it was pushed, part of the wall slid to the side, revealing a staircase that led to an iron door that was barred with three locks. The locksmith who had made them was no longer alive, and neither was the builder of the secret chamber. Aside from Leo, there was only one other person who knew of the room.
Leo pulled out his keys and opened the locks one by one. Then he pushed against the heavy door, which creaked open. The stench of sulfur and quicksilver hit his nose. To Leo it was a pleasant smell, more tantalizing than any perfume. He entered the small, square room; its walls were lined with tables and shelves full of crucibles, retorts, and vials. In the center of the room, a stone table stained by various corrosive substances held a still made of glass, and next to it glowed the remains of a fire. Between mummified salamanders and dried seahorses that were rotting away in an old mortar lay numerous books bound in yellowed leather. Leo had read them all and knew large sections by heart.
Grind the dried bezoar of a goat and mix it with the poison of an adder . . . Vaporize some quicksilver until a cloud rises to the sky . . . Mix a quart of mouse blood with wine from burgundy and the urine of a unicorn.
Years before he ascended the papal throne, Leo had discovered his passion for alchemy. He was an intelligent man, a scholar, no charlatan, and therefore he approached the subject in a serious and scientific manner. He had learned to discern lies from the truth just as he could skim the dross off iron. Alchemy was much too important a field to leave to lunatics and sorcerers. Great men had studied the subject—Democritus, Avicenna, Albertus Magnus, Nicolas Flamel, Roger Bacon. They all had tried their hands at transmutation, the complex craft of turning one element into another. This wasn’t about heretical black magic, but about white magic—or that which was nowadays called science. There even were highly venerable men of the church who practiced alchemy. No one had fully achieved transmutation yet, although minor milestones had been accomplished here and there. But no one had recognized the bigger picture yet, because everyone was only mucking out their own stables.
Leo stepped beside the glowing embers in the fireplace. An iron pan was suspended above it, and inside the pan was a reddish powder. Leo picked up a pair of bellows and pumped air into the embers until beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He breathed heavily, the quicksilver fumes making him dizzy and sharpening his senses at the same time. Everything seemed so easy, the solution was probably right before his eyes. But why couldn’t he see it? Why?
There was one person who did know it. Someone who was dead and yet alive.
In old documents deep down in the Vatican archives, the pope had stumbled across Gilles de Rais, a French marshal who had lived the high life a hundred years ago until he ran out of money. The marshal had turned to alchemy in his despair, and the documents showed Leo that Gilles had indeed solved the mystery toward the end.
Albeit using the aid of rather cruel methods.
With the future of the church at stake, however, Leo couldn’t afford to be squeamish.
He continued to pump air into the embers, which were now bright red. The pope was panting, his fat body quivering as if from convulsions of lust. It was an urge, a kind of flagellation that sometimes overcame him at night, and he would go downstairs to pore over books, stir, pump, weigh, grind, burn, and cook until the concoction foamed and bubbled. Sometimes the other one was down here with him, he whose wisdom was so much greater than Leo’s and who knew how to hide it well. It had been he who had brought the notes about the dark marshal to Leo’s attention. Leo was certain that God spoke through the mouth of the other one. He had told the pope about Gilles de Rais and that Doctor Faustus, the famous sorcerer and necromancer, had summoned the Frenchman’s soul.
And that was when Gilles de Rais had revealed his secret to the doctor!
Leo pumped faster, and the red powder in the iron pan dissolved, turning sticky at first and then liquid. Fumes rose into the air and then the other one was with him, placing his hand on Leo’s shoulder, whispering in his ear.
Do you know Faust, the doctor, my servant? Bring him to me.
Leo had questioned so many alchemists, on the rack, in chains; he’d had their limbs crushed and torn in his quest
