Alchemy, page 31
‘Look, I think it’s the way out,’ he said, suddenly animated. I followed him to see a faint glimmer of light ahead. The tunnel ended abruptly in another flight of steps cut into the rock; at the top there was a hatch of latticed metal like a drain cover. I took a deep breath; if this was locked, we were stuck down here.
‘Now would be a good time to pray, if you were so inclined,’ I said, passing him my candle and setting my foot on the first step. At the top I leaned back and pushed with both hands on the grille. It didn’t move, but when Besler held the light up I saw that it was fastened by a simple latch; once undone, this allowed the hatch to swing down on smoothly oiled hinges. I laughed aloud, giddy with relief.
Climbing out, I saw that we were in an empty room where the dank smell of underground and decay persisted. Besler followed me up and looked around.
‘It stinks of death in here too,’ he observed in a whisper.
‘Wait, I know where we are,’ I said, taking in the trestle table pushed into one corner, and the drainage channel cut into the floor. This was the room below the palace where Hajek had shown me Bartos’s body that first night. So the doctor’s anatomising chamber held the entrance to a passage that connected directly with the cathedral crypt, and presumably at least one other exit. Useful for anyone who needed to move about the castle grounds unseen.
‘But it couldn’t have been Hajek hiding in the cathedral,’ I said, closing the hatch behind us. ‘He was with Rudolf the whole time.’
‘Anyway, why would Hajek want to terrorise the Emperor with severed body parts?’ Besler said.
‘You’re right, he’s the last person who would want to do that.’ I recalled Hajek’s words to Ottavio Strada: If we lose His Majesty, we are all dead men. ‘Hajek is invested in keeping Rudolf sound in mind and body.’ But then so is Ottavio, I thought. Someone else has access to this passage. I would have to confide our discovery to Hajek, to see if he had shared the secret with anyone.
The room had only one door; I had expected to find it locked, but Besler turned the handle and it opened. Before I could stop him, he had stepped out into the corridor.
‘Which way?’
I pointed. Torches were burning low in brackets along the wall. Now we had only the problem of how to explain our presence in the bowels of the royal palace if we should be caught. We passed a door I recognised as Hajek’s laboratory and continued in the direction of the stairs, Besler hurrying in front despite my entreaties to progress cautiously. I could not blame him; I was also keen to be above ground again. We had almost reached the staircase when the corridor bent at a right angle and Besler collided with someone coming the other way, causing him to drop an armful of books.
‘Herr Besler? What in God’s name—’
‘We were looking for Dr Hajek,’ I said quickly, stepping into the light to see Ottavio Strada rubbing his elbow and looking at us with consternation.
‘How did you get in? This part of the castle is open only to the royal household.’
‘Hajek must have given my name to the guards,’ I said, before Besler could blurt anything about tunnels. I crouched to help the librarian gather the books. ‘They let us through.’
‘They should not have done.’ He pursed his lips in disapproval, and I could see him eyeing the dust and cobwebs on our clothes. ‘I will have to speak to Hajek about that – especially now, with concerns about those dreadful packages sent to His Majesty. I have not seen the doctor today – would you like me to pass on a message if I do?’
‘Thank you, but it can wait.’ I smiled, laying the final book on top of the pile in his arms. ‘Do you work down here too?’
Strada wrinkled his nose. ‘Not if I can help it. The place smells like a charnel house, thanks to Hajek’s experiments. But there are storage chambers here where I keep books that need repair, or which are no longer wanted, before we sell them on. I was taking these down in case they can be salvaged.’
‘You repair them yourself?’
‘No. I can mend superficial damage, but I don’t really have the skills for anything more demanding. Fortunately there is a book dealer in the Jewish Town who is also an excellent bookbinder – I make use of his services.’
‘Really? Some of my books are the worse for wear after so much travelling – perhaps I should pay him a visit. What’s his name?’
‘Maier. David Maier.’
‘And you recommend him?’ I said, keeping my expression neutral and willing Besler not to speak. ‘Have you known him a long time?’
‘Oh, some years.’ Strada shifted the pile in his arms to stop the books slipping. ‘He’s not cheap, but there is no better craftsman in Prague for restoring books. You might find a few interesting items in his shop while you wait. In fact’ – his face brightened – ‘since you are here, why don’t you come up to the library and see a recent treasure I acquired from him – I think it will interest you.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ I said, genuinely eager to see the library, but also curious to speak further with Strada on the subject of David Maier. So the librarian had direct dealings with David; that would make him an obvious candidate for the bookseller’s contact at the castle. But if they had legitimate reason for doing business, why would they need to skulk about meeting secretly in the yard of the Winged Horse? There was also the fact that Strada appeared to have no idea that David was dead – unless he was highly skilled at feigning, which was entirely possible with a Mantuan.
‘Wait here while I put these away,’ he said, and disappeared around the corner with his books.
‘Don’t say a word about David,’ I hissed to Besler, when the librarian was out of sight. ‘I want to see if he lets anything slip.’
‘I’m not an idiot,’ he said, ruffled, ‘even if I am annoying.’
I laughed. ‘I was annoying at your age, too.’
‘Still are,’ he murmured.
‘Am I really miserable?’ I said, after a pause. ‘Is that how you see me?’
He considered the question. ‘Well, you don’t seem especially happy, Maestro. In Wittenburg, I mean. Sometimes I glimpse you around the university and you’re always solitary. I get the feeling you don’t much like your life there. Perhaps it is too small for you. You’re different since we came to Prague – more …’ he twirled his fingers as if he might pluck the right word out of the air. ‘Inspired,’ he said, eventually, looking at me as if he feared reprimand for his bluntness.
I nodded. It was a fair assessment. I had allowed myself to become reclusive after the disappointments of leaving England, and it had grown harder to shake myself out of my brooding. ‘It does not bode well if I can only find inspiration in the face of violent death,’ I said.
Besler gave me a sly grin. ‘Or perhaps it is meeting Esther Loew that has revitalised you.’
I did not have the chance to refute this, because Strada appeared from the other end of the corridor, briskly clapping his hands.
‘Come, then,’ he said, ‘and I will show you a most rare and secret book that I had from the Jewish bookseller.’
I could hardly climb the stairs fast enough; could this be the book David had spoken of with his dying breath?
TWENTY-THREE
I had seen many great libraries across the courts of Europe in the course of my travels, but the imperial library stopped my breath. Strada flung open the doors and ushered us in, spreading his arms wide to show off his domain with as much pride as if he had built the place with his own hands. We found ourselves in a long room lined with polished oak shelves and panels, the floor tiled with geometric patterns in black and white, the vaulted ceiling painted with allegorical frescoes. A mezzanine gallery ran around the upper shelves, accessed by two curving spiral staircases in the same gleaming wood. At the far end, opposite the door, an archway revealed another, similar room beyond. There were writing desks set into the window alcoves, and stands displaying larger, chained manuscripts, their gilt illuminations glowing in the warm light of candles in glass lanterns. And on all sides, books bound in finely tooled calfskin crammed the shelves from floor to ceiling. I gazed around in wonder, breathing in the scent of leather, paper, wood and beeswax, feeling instantly at home.
Strada seemed gratified by my response.
‘I recognise a fellow bibliophile when I see one,’ he said, smiling. ‘What do you think?’
‘Extraordinary,’ I said. ‘How many volumes?’
‘More than twenty thousand. Though much of the imperial library collected by His Majesty’s late father remains in Vienna. Follow me – there is something I’d like you to see.’
He led us through the first room and into the second, while I trailed in his wake, trying to catch the titles as we passed: I saw works by Copernicus and Roger Bacon, Marsilio Ficino and Paracelsus; the Antwerp edition of della Porta’s Magia Naturalis; Ramon Lull’s De Secretis Naturae; Schylender’s Medicina Astrologica, and countless more works on astrology, chiromancy, Neoplatonism, Zoroastreanism, Cabala and cryptography. It was a treasure trove of every imaginable volume on the Holy Office’s Index of Forbidden Books, titles I had dreamed of reading as a young friar; I could have lost myself in the stacks for weeks.
‘Look at this,’ Ottavio said, approaching a hatch set into the wall at chest height. I had taken it for a cupboard, but when he opened it, I saw a dark cavity behind, with two taut ropes stretched vertically in the void. ‘Watch.’
He pulled on one of the ropes and I heard the turning of a pulley above; after a moment, an empty wooden container rose to fill the space. ‘It’s a contraption of my own devising,’ he said modestly. ‘I mentioned that I was interested in mechanics. This shaft is a disused chimney breast – with a basic system of weights and pulleys, I can load a crate of books here and lower them to storeroom level without having to carry them down the stairs.’
‘Very clever,’ I said, admiring, and he blushed at the praise.
‘But come – this is not what I brought you to see.’
At the far end of the next room, he opened a door in the corner that led to a panelled reading room lined with more books. Here he climbed a small ladder to the upper shelves and withdrew a bound manuscript which he laid on a table. I moved closer to examine it and he held up a hand to forestall me, pulling out a silk kerchief from his sleeve and passing it over with a wrinkle of his nose.
‘Would you mind wiping your hands before you touch the book? You’re very … dusty. Both of you. What have you been doing?’
‘We helped Dr Hajek’s servant move some furniture down to his cellar this morning,’ Besler said as I searched for a reasonable explanation. I glanced at him, impressed by his quick thinking.
‘Hm. I would advise you in future to change your clothes after manual labour before you present yourself at the palace.’ Strada turned to me and gestured to the book. ‘You know what this is?’
‘Dio mio.’ I wiped my hands on the kerchief and opened the cover to find parchment pages covered in small, neat Hebrew writing, carefully etched in browning ink. ‘The Sefer Yetzirah. How old is this?’
‘At least a hundred years, by my estimate,’ he said, gazing fondly at the book as if it were his own newborn child. ‘You’ve read it?’
‘I read the first printed edition.’ Gingerly, I turned another leaf. There was none of the ostentatious decoration that characterised the gospels of this period; the pages were plain and austere, the words alone sufficient.
‘Ah – Mantua, 1562,’ Strada said. ‘Of course. Well, this manuscript contains marginal commentary from a Jewish mystic which is, I believe, unique. It’s a remarkable treasure.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘From this book dealer I mentioned, Maier. The book belonged to the Chief Rabbi of Prague – he took some persuading to part with it. But His Majesty was determined to have it, and he is hard to refuse when he has set his heart on something.’ He smiled, and I recalled Rabbi Loew saying the same.
‘Do you visit this Maier’s shop often?’ I asked. ‘It sounds as if it would be worth a trip, if he has other such treasures on offer.’
Strada chuckled at my naïveté. ‘Oh, he doesn’t keep things like this on the shelves. But he is good at tracking down rare items if he knows what you want. Always for a price, of course – you know what they’re like.’ He curled his lip in distaste. ‘But in answer to your question, I rarely set foot in the Jewish Town. Maier comes to me when he has something he thinks would interest the Emperor.’
I nodded. ‘So he brought this manuscript here himself?’
‘In fact, no, not on this occasion. He entrusted it to his cousin, a young doctor, who turned out to have an ulterior motive – he fancies himself as a writer and producer of plays, and offered his services to His Majesty to put on theatrical entertainments at court, if you can imagine such audacity.’
‘It’s not without precedent,’ I said. ‘In Mantua, twenty years ago, the Jew Leone di Somma was in charge of the Gonzaga family’s court entertainments. I heard he had great influence.’
‘But this is not Mantua,’ said a rasping voice behind me.
I started, as did Strada; we turned to see Jacopo and Katherina Strada sitting together at a table in an alcove between the stacks, engaged in writing letters.
‘Papà,’ Ottavio said, smoothing over his surprise. ‘I did not know you were up?’
‘I am having one of my better days, as you see.’ He addressed this to me. ‘I am inundated with correspondence, Dr Bruno, and my hand is no longer steady enough to hold the quill. Fortunately, I have a skilled amanuensis – my daughter can emulate my writing well enough, and in this way we deceive our agents and suppliers in foreign parts, who might be inclined to drive a harder bargain if they thought my powers were failing. My son is not sufficiently ruthless to negotiate in my stead.’
‘Why are you in here?’ Ottavio asked.
‘To renew my acquaintance with the collections,’ Jacopo said, giving his son a look that hinted at a hidden meaning. ‘Katherina thought the walk would do me good.’
Katherina glanced up modestly from under her lashes and met my eye.
‘How are you today, signorina?’ I asked, with a small bow.
‘Quite well, thank you,’ she said, though her face was as wan and strained as her father’s.
‘What about you, Dr Bruno?’ Jacopo asked, as if she had not spoken. ‘Are you ruthless when the situation calls for it?’
‘I prefer to think of it as determined.’
‘Call it what you will, we are talking of the same quality.’
‘No. Determination has limits.’
‘Then it is not true determination, is it?’ The old man smiled like a fox. ‘Your delicacy doesn’t fool me. I never met a Neapolitan who didn’t have a seam of ruthlessness running through his core. Cut your throat as soon as look at you, most of them.’
‘Well, I hope—’
‘You’ve done things you’ll have to account for when you face your Maker, Giordano Bruno, I recognise it in your eyes. Even if you salve your conscience by telling yourself you’re always on the side of progress.’ He leaned his elbow on the table and pointed a bony finger at me. ‘You could teach my son a thing or two. He gives way too easily. Too afraid of causing offence, aren’t you, boy? If I didn’t know his mother to have been pure as the lily, I would wonder if any blood of mine flows in his veins.’
‘I’m doing my best to learn from you, Papà,’ Ottavio said with a dry smile, though I could see his colour rising.
‘So the young doctor had no success with his petition to put on plays, then?’ I asked, to steer the conversation away from these simmering family resentments.
Jacopo snorted. ‘I sent them on their way with a few stern words. Books for the Emperor’s private collection are one thing, but allowing them to tell their stories before the whole court? Outrageous presumption.’ He shook his head.
‘You said you sent them on their way – he was with someone?’
‘Yes, the Jewish boy brought his betrothed with him when he delivered the book, perhaps he thought her charms might help to advance his cause. It didn’t work. Can’t abide a man who hides behind a woman.’
‘I thought their ideas were interesting,’ Ottavio said mildly.
‘Well, we all know you are easily swayed by a pretty face,’ Jacopo said with a sneer, and the librarian turned away to hide his embarrassment. Though I had not especially warmed to Ottavio, I had had enough of watching him belittled by his father, and was about to take my leave when the door to the private room slammed open, juddering on its hinges, and on the threshold stood the Holy Roman Emperor between two guards, dressed in a sable-trimmed robe, his face agitated. I saw his eyes narrow with suspicion as they raked the company and his gaze fell on the open book on the table. Katherina rose instantly from her chair and helped her father haul himself to his feet; Ottavio and I dropped to one knee.
‘What are you all doing with my Sefer Yetzirah?’ Rudolf said peevishly.
‘I was showing your magnificent collection to Dr Bruno, Majesty, so that he could admire your discernment in acquisitions,’ Ottavio said to the floor.
‘Huh. Taking the credit yourself, no doubt. Get up. Where is Hajek? He’s not in the Powder Tower.’
‘I have not seen him. How may we serve, Majesty?’ Jacopo said, easing his way out from behind the desk and bowing unsteadily before his sovereign. I did not miss the fact that he had seamlessly slid a book over the paper his daughter had been copying the instant the door opened.
‘Jacopo. I did not expect to see you.’ Rudolf frowned, sizing him up. He didn’t look especially pleased about it.
‘Not on my deathbed yet, Majesty.’ The old man produced a phlegmy chuckle. ‘Is there something troubling you?’
‘Yes, as it happens. It seems the Golem has struck again, and I have to find this out through servants’ gossip. Should I not be the first to know, if my subjects are being slaughtered in the streets by some ungodly monster?’
‘You mean another murder, Majesty?’ Jacopo’s eyebrows lurched upwards in shock.
