As Leo gazed at the bubbling liquid in the pan, he thought of the last letter from his personal representative, which had arrived three days ago. Faust had been staying with Leonardo da Vinci. And now he was on his way to Tiffauges. Leo was sure that Faust would invoke the dark marshal at the castle once more in the hope of learning more secrets. The other one had been right—the doctor was indeed the person who would serve him and the whole world.
But first he had to get Faust here, to Rome.
Leo dreaded to imagine what would happen if the French king or that young Habsburg prince found out about this. The scales of destiny would suddenly tilt to the other side. This couldn’t happen, ever. The continuity of the Christian world was at stake: monuments had to be built and new churches erected to demonstrate God’s glory to the rabble. Now especially, in these uncertain times when so many renounced the true faith.
It cannot happen.
With each word, Leo pumped another gust of air into the fire, the whispering in his ear as hot as the orange embers.
Bring me Faust. The doctor. My servant.
With one last gasp the Holy Father collapsed in front of the fireplace.
In the acrid fumes above him rose a creature that was larger, older, and more malevolent than anything men had ever imagined in their worst nightmares.
“The lapis philosophorum—the philosopher’s stone?”
Johann now understood what the French king wanted from him. It cost him a considerable effort not to break out in hysterical laughter.
“You . . . you believe I can produce gold?”
“The philosopher’s stone, the red lion, the elixir of life, panacea—call it what you will.” King Francis I didn’t bat an eyelid. “Since the days of the great Hermes Trismegistus the alchemists have been searching for the substance that can turn base metals into gold. If there can be a divine soul substance that suffuses everything and that can take an endless number of shapes, then such a transmutation must also be possible. Isn’t that what you’ve been claiming in your lectures again and again?”
Johann groaned inwardly. The philosopher’s stone was part of alchemy just like horoscopes were part of astrology, and it was true that he’d been telling people for years that he knew its secret. But that was a lie. He didn’t rule out the possibility that such a substance existed, even if Avicenna and other great scholars had voiced their doubts. But he hadn’t identified the substance, and knew of no one who had.
He remembered what Agrippa had told him, that Gilles de Rais had also dabbled in alchemy. That was why Viktor von Lahnstein had mentioned his name back at Altenburg Castle. Someone had told the pope of Johann’s connection to the dead French marshal, and now Leo thought Johann had learned the secret of the lapis philosophorum from Gilles de Rais. It was absurd! Admittedly, Johann had done everything in his power to feed his reputation as a mysterious alchemist. It seemed that now he was paying the price for his foolishness.
“So that is why they wanted to take the doctor to Rome?” asked Karl incredulously. “Because the pope believes he can make gold?”
King Francis nodded. “Leo is in dire straits financially. His court devours horrendous amounts of money—a hundred thousand ducats a year, which is more than twice as much as his predecessors spent. Leo wants to expand the Roman church with any pomp and circumstance he can think of. The construction of the enormous Saint Peter’s Basilica is just the beginning. He is convinced that people need huge Christian monuments to solidify their belief. And just when things were starting to become difficult for him, this little German monk comes along and pees on his parade.” The king gave a chuckle. “At first the Holy Father didn’t take Luther seriously, but now he’s running short of money, and his trade with indulgences is dwindling. If things carry on this way, Leo will get buried in a pauper’s gown.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you were in any danger of sharing this fate,” said Johann mockingly.
“You are right. Generally speaking, I can’t complain. But right now I need more money than you can imagine.” Francis paused for effect. “Almost one million guilders, to be precise.”
“One million guilders?” Karl’s jaw dropped with astonishment. “But . . . but . . . I mean . . . why?”
“I think I know why,” said Greta, her gaze fixed on the king. Her French was good enough by now to follow the conversation. “It was all over town, back in Orléans. His Majesty may be the king of France, but he’s not king of the world yet. For that he needs the German kingship—and, of course, the title of emperor.”
Francis smirked and looked at Johann. “Your daughter, isn’t she? A clever child indeed. I’ve always said that women would go far in politics if only they were allowed to participate. My Claude, for example—”
“You want to buy the German throne?” asked Johann, cutting him off but too confused to notice the impudence. Then he nodded thoughtfully. “Of course . . . the old German emperor Maximilian is dead, and a new king must be elected. It is between you and the Habsburg Charles. But you need the votes of the seven German electors.”
“Four would suffice. The elector of Brandenburg is the greediest. I promised him a French princess, but apparently he is too ugly for her. She eloped into the arms of the Duke of Savoy.” Francis sighed and played with the rings on his finger. “Young and ambitious Charles from the house of Habsburg doesn’t have much money to buy votes, either, but he does have the powerful Fuggers, the dynasty of merchants who financed his grandfather. And the Fuggers want Charles as their puppet so that their old notes of debt to the Habsburgs
