“This polymath and polyglot with the face of a dimwit,” he continued after a moment devoted to the Alicante, “regaled me with—among others—a longish quote from The Divine Comedy. He cautioned me against submitting to temptations of vanity. To remember that everything is vanity and no misdeed will go unpunished. For among sorcerers, admittedly, Albertus Magnus meets Dante in Paradise, but Michael Scot, Guido Bonetti and Asdente, punished for necromancy, are damned in the Eighth Circle of Hell, Malebolge, the Evil Ditches, in the Fourth Cavern. They groan and weep there, shedding copious tears, and devils torment them by twisting their necks and heads backwards so that their tears pour down their arses. A fine prospect, eh? And this was recited, it should be added, by your Samson in a perfect Tuscan accent.”
Štěpán of Drahotuše and Scharley exchanged smiles and meaningful glances. Axleben swept his dark-circled eyes over them and indicated to Tvrdík to charge his glass again.
“For a moment,” Axleben announced, “the thought occurred to me: perhaps he is the Devil? The very Devil incarnate? Ha, don’t say it hasn’t occurred to you, either. Why, it’s a veritable textbook devilish trick: beguile, entice, deceive with appearances. Diabolus potest, as the classicists would have it, sensum hominis exteriorem immutare et illudere. He can achieve it in many ways, for example by transforming the very organ of sense, meaning our eye, by adding something to the ocular substance, owing to which the object we are looking at is seen as the Devil would have us see it. Bonaventure, Psellos, Pierre Lombard all wrote about it years ago, as did Witelo and Nicholas Magni of Jawor, so it would be no bad thing to revisit the works I’ve mentioned.”
“Blockhead,” whispered Fraundinst.
Axleben again pretended not to hear. “I nonetheless pronounce,” he said, banging a hand down on the table, “that we aren’t dealing with the Devil here, nor with a case of devilish possession. The interference of demons in people’s lives is possible and occurs quite often; we have seen enough of it not to doubt it. But it’s a phenomenon in line with the will of the Creator, who allows ad gloriae sue ostensionem vel ad peccati poenitenciam sive ad peccantis correccionem sive ad nostram erudicionem. A demon is not in itself a perpetrator. A demon is an incentor, excitator and impellator, a helper, an instigator and a persuader, one who heightens the evil slumbering in us and incites our sinful nature to evil deeds. And I,” he finished, “find nothing evil in this person whom you asked me to examine. I know this sounds ridiculous, but there isn’t a single trace of evil in him.
“Besides, I see written all over your faces that you yourselves have come to similar conclusions. And I saw something else written there: a great desire for me to finally admit defeat. Accept that I have been bested. Declare that I have achieved nothing. Thus do I declare: I have suffered a defeat, I’ve achieved nothing. Satisfied? Splendid. So, let’s go to some tavern, for I’m hungry. Since my last visit to Prague I’ve been dreaming of your dumplings and cabbage… Why the long faces? I thought my defeat would delight you.”
“The very thought, Master Vincent,” said Fraundinst, smiling insincerely. “Something else bothers us. If you weren’t able to discern the essence of the phenomenon—”
“Who said I wasn’t?” the necromancer replied, straightening up. “I was and did. A positive perispirit,” he added, greatly enjoying the pregnant, suspenseful silence. “Does that expression tell you anything? I ask you needlessly as it most certainly does. You have also most certainly heard that something called a ‘circling perispirit’ exists. The matter is quite thoroughly dealt with in the specialist literature, which I heartily advise you to consult.
“I advise you,” continued Axleben, utterly unmoved by the vengeful expressions of the Archangel wizards, “to study the case of Poppo of Osterna, Grand Master of the Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem, and that of Lucilla, the daughter of Marcus Aurelius. Perhaps you can recall it? No? Well, you ought to. The same thing happened to your… Samson as it did to Lucilla and Poppo. The essence of the phenomenon is the positive perispirit and the circulating perispirit. Precisely that. I know it. Unfortunately, knowledge is insufficient. I’m unable to do anything with it. I mean I wasn’t able and am unable to help this fellow Samson. Let’s go for luncheon.”
“If you aren’t able,” said Štěpán of Drahotuše, squinting, “who will be?”
“Rupilius the Silesian,” Axleben replied at once. “And no other—”
“Is he still alive?” Teggendorf interrupted the quite confounded silence.
“Does he exist at all?” Tvrdík whispered to Telesma.
“He is alive,” said Axleben, “and is the greatest living specialist in the field of astral bodies and beings. If anyone can help here, it’s him. Let’s go for luncheon. Oh… I almost forgot…” The necromancer met Reynevan’s gaze and looked him in the eyes. “You are his friend, young man,” he stated rather than asked, “and your name is Reynevan.”
Reynevan swallowed and nodded in confirmation.
“While in a trance, Samson prophesied,” said Axleben unemotionally. “A distinct, clear, precise prophesy was repeated several times. Which applied to you. You are to beware of a Woman and a Maiden. It so happens,” the necromancer threw a chilling look at Scharley and Tvrdík, who were smiling scornfully. “It so happens that I know what it’s all about. The Old Woman and the Maiden are two famous towers, in the no less famous castle of Trosky, in the Podkrkonoší. Beware of Trosky Castle, young man called Reynevan.”
“Luckily,” Reynevan mumbled, “I have no plans to go there.”
“The luck here,” Axleben said over his shoulder as he walked towards the door, “is that Rupilius the Silesian, the only person in my opinion capable of helping your Samson, has been residing in Bohemia for over a decade. In Trosky Castle.”
Chapter Four
A month later. In which bombards fire and roar at the battle of Kolín and plans are devised: some large, others smaller, more or less utopian and fantastic. But only time will tell what is really utopia and what is fantasy.
“Brother Prokop! Brother Prokop! The bombard has cooled! Shall we fire it again?”
The man to whom the master gunner addressed his question was well built and broad-shouldered. His ruddy, simple-featured face, bulbous nose and black, drooping whiskers gave him the look of a peasant, like a farmer happy with the harvest.
Reynevan had already seen that man. Several times. Reynevan always looked at him with interest.
Before the revolution, Prokop had been a priest. It was said he came from Prague, from a family of Old Town patricians. He joined the Hussites right after the Defenestration, but before 1425 had merely been one of many Taborite preachers—among whom he stood out not only for his good sense, cool head and tolerance, but also by the fact that contrary to Hussite liturgy he didn’t wear an apostolic beard, but pedantically shaved every morning, cultivating only his famous moustaches. This daily ritual had earned him the nickname “the Shaven.” Following the death of Bohuslav of Švamberk, Prokop was quite unexpectedly voted Head Hejtman, supreme commander and chief director operationum Thaboritarum, or “Operational Director of the Tábor” as the title was translated. Soon after his nomination, Prokop acquired another nickname: the Great. Which didn’t just refer to his build. Prokop turned out to be a truly formidable leader and strategist, proved by spectacular victories at the battles of Ústí, Zwettl, Tachov and Stříbro. Prokop the Shaven’s star was shining brightly.