The Book of Secrets

L

Strassburg

Often the fates drag us down like ocean waves and all our toils count for nothing. But sometimes, rarely, they rush us aloft on currents so quick even angels would struggle to keep pace. Such was my experience in those golden months in Strassburg. With Dritzehn’s money, I paid off my old loans and restored my credit. That allowed me to take out new loans, on better terms, to buy metals for our project – which in turn stood as collateral for another round of loans. Those bought more metals, which funded more loans – and so again, a virtuous circle. Of course there was little income in those months to repay the loans, but I had allowed for that. I had agreed that the interest would be added to the principal and none of it fall due until October of the following year, once the mirrors were sold in Aachen. Then, armed with the profits, I could turn my efforts back to the indulgences.

Some nights I dreamed that I sat atop a giant tower of mirrors stacked halfway to the sky, swaying and bending like a rope end in the breeze. The height made me dizzy; I knew that a single gust of wind might topple the whole tower and shatter it in ruin. But it never did.

Manufacturing the mirrors required two separate processes. The latticework frames had to be cast from the alloy, and the steel mirrors polished to a high reflective sheen. Eventually, the one would be attached to the other by means of clips, but we agreed this should be done as late as possible. When spring came we would hire a barge to carry our cargo down the Rhine to Aachen, and we did not want the mirrors scratched in transit. None of us knew how that might affect their holy properties. So we cast the frames at St Argobast, where I had the forge, and used Dritzehn’s house for the mirrors.

Late that September, the fates moved again. I had spent the day in Strassburg, arranging delivery of the next batch of metals and assuring my creditors that all was proceeding apace. The sun was edging towards the horizon, but I did not have to hurry. I made the journey between my house and the city so often in those months that I had acquired a horse, a docile mare I named Mercury. So I decided to visit Dritzehn.

I was just approaching the house, picking my way around two dogs squabbling over a piece of offal that had fallen from a butcher’s cart, when I heard a loud voice behind me.

‘Johann?’

It was not uncommon to be hailed on the streets. I had been in Strassburg almost four years and my name was well known, if only because I owed so many of its citizens money. What struck me was the surprise in the voice, the force of long-lost recognition. I had no long-lost friends I wanted to see again.

I turned, dreading who might be there. At first I did not recognise him. The last time I saw him he had been young and fit, overflowing with energy. Now his face was lined, his hair greyed far more than mine. He walked with a cane, dragging one leg behind him. Yet whatever misfortunes had blighted his life, they had not dimmed the essential fire that animated him.

‘Aeneas?’

He beamed. ‘It is you. I was certain of it. You look as if the years have treated you well. Unlike me.’

I glanced at his withered leg.

‘What happened?’

‘I went to Scotland.’ He grimaced. ‘A barbarous place. I almost died. Then my ship sank and I had to walk home.’

It must have been terrible, but he said it with such relish that I had to laugh. ‘You almost died the day I met you,’ I reminded him. ‘You should take more care of yourself. But why are you in Strassburg?’

‘I am supposed to be meeting some priests from Heidelberg. I think they want me to spy on the Pope.’ He winked. ‘But I am Italian; they will expect me to be late. The last time I saw you we agreed to meet in a tavern. I did not think it would take six years to get there, but I am happy I have found you at last. Will you share a drink with me?’

I had been wrong. There were faces from my past I was happy to see.

I led him to a wine cellar near the river, one I had never visited before. I wanted to avoid any place that Drach might see us together, Somehow, he and Aeneas belonged to separate parts of my life. I did not want them to meet.

Aeneas raised his glass and toasted me. ‘You are an extra-ordinary man, Johann. You emerged from that river mud fully formed, and vanished like a ghost. Now here you are, by your attire apparently a prosperous merchant. “Varium et mutabile semper,” as the poet says. Always changeable and surprising.’

He fixed me with his familiar gaze, eternally hopeful and inquisitive.

‘I’m sorry I abandoned you so suddenly,’ I said. ‘I had to go.’

Aeneas waited for more. When he saw he would get none, he nodded. ‘I suppose even men who emerge from the mud have pasts. Perhaps some day you will tell me how you came to be there.’

I changed the subject. ‘And Nicholas? How is he?’

Aeneas looked sad. ‘We do not speak so much now. You know that the Pope has just dissolved the council of Basle?’

I did not, though I knew that it had continued until recently. Every few months I heard some news of it in church or in the marketplace, and was astonished that the council I had briefly participated in six years earlier still ground on.

‘The council was finally beginning to achieve something. There is so much rotten with the Church, and it all starts at the top. The council had taken some sensible measures to reform the worst abuses. Naturally, this involved curtailing the Pope’s power. We – the council – needed to assert that the Pope is a servant of the community of the Church, not its master.’

He spoke animatedly, rocking on his stool as he talked and catching my eye often to be sure I agreed. I tried to look noncommittal; that only stoked his enthusiasm.

‘The Pope, jealous of his position, dissolved the council in Basle and ordered it to reconvene in Italy. By having it closer to Rome, he hoped to bring it to heel. Many members obeyed: but those of us who see how the Church must be reformed refused. We stayed in Basle and voted to suspend the Pope, who has at last shown his true colours.’

‘Nicholas went to Italy,’ I guessed.

‘He has his reasons. I cannot agree with them. He wants the Church unified; I want it perfected.’ Aeneas stared at the table dejectedly. Then, suddenly, a smile flashed across his face. ‘More to the point, it is the men in Basle who pay my wages.’

I do not know what ever happened to the priests from Heidelberg who hoped to meet him. We sat in the tavern some hours, emptying cups of wine and plates of food. As always, Aeneas talked most, but I was happy to listen. He was easy company. Conversation with Kaspar was a field of swords: no statement went unargued, no compromise or trivial hypocrisy unwithered by his sarcasm. I never knew when the idlest comment might be hurled back at me – or wound him so unexpectedly that he would spend the entire evening sulking. It was exhilarating, but also exhausting.

Aeneas, by contrast, prided himself on neither giving nor taking offence. In this he was only intermittently successful: his love of speech was so great that words often outpaced tact. But he always recognised his mistakes, with such sincere contrition that it was impossible not to forgive him.

‘It is good to see you looking so well,’ he told me. I believed it: he always took genuine pleasure from those around him. ‘Are you married?’

Some memory of the disaster with Ennelin must have shown on my face. Even before I could demur he hurried on. ‘For myself, I am lately in love. Smitten. There is a woman at the inn where I am staying – Agnes is her name – from Biscarosse. The most sublime creature.’

Despite myself, I was drawn into his story. ‘Is she travelling alone?’

‘Her husband is a merchant. He leaves her there while he travels up and down the river to contract his business. I saw him at breakfast two days ago. He is a fool. He does not deserve her.’

‘Is this how you plan to reform the Church? By seducing other men’s wives?’

Aeneas gazed on me with a soulful look. ‘I could never take the vows of a priest. She ravished my heart with a single glimpse. Do you see these bags under my eyes? I cannot sleep because of her. Every night I go to her door and plead with her, but she is cool and steadfast as marble. She does not admit me – yet she gives me reason to hope. Perhaps tonight I shall finally conquer. I must, for tomorrow I return to Basle.’

He dropped his head like a dog. ‘I know this love is ruinous. But I would rather this agony than a lifetime of numb comfort. Can you understand that?’

‘I understand,’ I murmured, and the longing in my voice must have penetrated Aeneas’ self-pity. It drew a swift glance.

‘I will not ask,’ he said. ‘You never tell me anyway. But I hope we both win our hearts’ desires.’

I raised my glass to that.

‘And now I must go.’ He stood abruptly. In another man it would have been discourteous; with Aeneas, it signified only that his busy mind had leaped forward again. ‘I must sleep now if I am to woo my Agnes tonight.’

I was sad to part. He had reminded me of a simpler age in my life, a humble time when all that mattered was faithfully copying what Nicholas said. Also how wretched I had been before he rescued me. All I had repaid him with were sudden disappearances and evasions. I owed him more; I wanted him to know my gratitude.

‘I am sorry about Basle.’ I pulled the mirror out of the pouch on my belt. It had become a talisman for me in those golden months, proof of our good fortune. I carried it everywhere. ‘I never forgot your generosity.’

His face lit up with delight. He embraced me. ‘I am glad I found you. I hope you do not disappear again.’ He took the mirror from my hand and examined it, smiling. ‘My Aachen mirror. I had almost forgotten it. I do not know that it ever brought me good fortune, but perhaps it averted some great misfortune that would otherwise have befallen me. Perhaps I stood too far away to feel the full effects of the rays.’

He handed the mirror back. ‘I have just returned from Aachen, actually, on an errand for the council.’

‘Is all well there?’ I asked, feigning carelessness. I had not told him the secret of the mirrors. ‘Is all in hand for next year’s pilgrimage?’

‘It is a disaster.’ Aeneas began to turn away, eager to be back to his inn. ‘Has the news not reached here yet? An outbreak of the plague has swept the north. No one knows when it will end or how many souls it will claim. The authorities in Aachen have had no choice but to postpone the pilgrimage for a full year.’

He peered at me through the deepening gloom. ‘What is wrong, Johann? You look as though you are about to disappear again.’