Three Emperors (9780062194138) (5 page)

It's modern to tuck the dead away, out of sight and out of mind.

Expediency makes strange bedfellows. I lifted the end of each coffin to gauge its weight, located the slimmest cadaver, and used Talleyrand's broken sword to pry up the lid. The young woman inside had a broken neck, her head rocking back and forth like a doll's.

“I apologize for the intimacy, signora,” I whispered, “but this is for love and rescue of my family.”

I climbed in beside her, not completely horrified. I've had experience with battlefield dead and catacomb bones, and have come to regard corpses as not much more remarkable, or grisly, than a side of beef. I needed escape, and this unfortunate woman, who had probably died in a fall, could provide one. I pulled down the lid as tight as I could, nestled next to my uncomplaining companion, and waited.

Whether my pursuers followed me through the brothel I know not, but a half hour later I heard surly commands, complaints from roused priests, the clank and screech of unlocking doors, and the tramp of boots. Richter's henchmen were searching the church like a herd of buffalo. Why did a Bohemian baron care so much about me and my broken sword?

Was he pursuing the Brazen Head as well?

What had burned his face?

Had lovely Nahir known my identity when she invited me to the brelan game? Yet how could I have been expected to appear in Venice?

And how had he heard of Astiza?

None of the rose scholars lingered near the coffins, feeling like most people that they'd get to one soon enough.

Eventually, they left entirely.

I actually dozed as morning came, since it had been a wearying night. Then I woke to morning Mass, the buzz and shuffle of worshippers, a funeral for one of the dearly departed, and finally the clump of cemetery workmen arriving for the day's cargo of caskets.

“Jesus Lord in Heaven, here's a fat one,” they remarked as they hoisted my container. “Ate enough for two, this one did.”

“He'll sink into the mud that much faster,” said his companion, “and if the sinner is meant for Satan, his gluttony will hurry him on his way.”

“Lid's not even tight.” They hammered it down, which would have been disquieting except that I'd left the stub of sword in the joint to ensure air and a slight crack.

I was carried, swaying against my sad companion, then carted, and then floated aboard the funeral boat. Once I sensed we were seaborne, I used the broken sword to pry against my board ceiling and make escape quicker. I had to be able to resurrect faster than they could shovel.

It was winter's dusk by the time the young woman and I were lowered into her island grave. I heard the first rattle of dirt thrown on top. That was when I pried for dear life, shouting, “Wait, wait, I've come back to warn you!”

Cries of terror.

I kicked, pushed, and finally burst through the boards, standing upright in the wreckage. I peered over the lip of the grave. The cemetery was empty, the burial tools abandoned. The workers had fled.

They'd come back to find a woman, not a man, quite dead after all. And new stories would be told about the ghosts of San Michele.

Night was already falling again after this brief winter day. I hurried to the shore, stole a funeral gondola, oriented myself by Venice's lamps and the North Star, and sculled to find a trade ship to buy passage to Trieste, planning to travel by coach from there. I was damp, mud-smeared, and musty, but newly risen. It was time to rejuvenate myself as Ethan Gage and hurry on to Vienna.

A man is not completely born until he is dead
, my mentor Franklin had said.

Somewhere my wife and son were in peril.

Richter's agents were in a boil behind me.

And it was past time for answers from the prophetic Brazen Head.

Chapter 6

Astiza

A
s with all grand and venerable castles, the agglomeration of architecture at Český Krumlov is haunted. Naiads guard treasure in the lake of the castle gardens. A spectral White Lady, cursed by her father for not forgiving his cruelty, wanders the halls with white gloves at cheerful events and black gloves when death nears. On the floorboards of the castle theater are bloodstains from the virgin Evelyn, an actress with unrequited love who stabbed herself to death onstage. Decades of scrubbing have yet to rinse her rose stain away.

The castle bell tower has a golden flagstaff, green copper roof, and rose-colored paint bright as a stick of candy. The rest of the castle is grayer, the centuries having produced a rambling warren perfect for aristocrats and mice. Its pride and penury are evident in the bears kept captive in its dry moat. The castle's Czech families have claimed relation to the prestigious Ursini family of Italy,
ursus
is the Latin word for “bear,” and the beasts are imprisoned to bolster the pretense. They pace, more forlorn than fierce, while bored sentries pelt them with vegetables. Harry was fascinated, and leaned too far over the moat parapet before I pulled him back.

The moat bridge leads to a gate and courtyard with barracks, mint, and buttery. Then another gate, and a tunnel up the hill that twists so the way is blind to invading troops, who can be met with grapeshot ricocheting down the passageway. The castle is no longer a practical fortification, however. There are still stone dungeons and kitchens below, but the top is Renaissance and baroque rooms with leaded glass windows, ceramic stoves, and Flemish tapestries. We passed through the chapel, hall of mirrors, and Chinese salon. Most charming was the masquerade hall, where the artist Lederer decorated every inch of the walls with life-size frescoes of ballroom attendees in carnival costumes, posed as if viewing the dance.

“The people are dressed like clowns!” Harry exclaimed. I loved the whimsy.

A chamberlain led us across the enclosed Na Plášti Bridge to the “Princes' Box,” in the huge castle theater, the last building before the castle gardens. It was in their theater that Josef and Paulina Schwarzenberg could live for a few hours in worlds more controllable than the violent one of Napoleon. That is where they chose to receive me. Fortune-tellers are entertainment.

“Ah! The gypsy seer!” Paulina greeted. “How propitious that you've arrived at a time I'm trying to talk sense into my husband.”

“Destinies entwine,” I recited. “Signs from heaven.”

“I wish God saw fit to correspond with me,” grumbled Josef. “His whispers seem audible only to the fairer sex.”

“Audible to those who listen,” I said.

Paulina laughed and clapped her hands.

“Hmph. You are Astiza?” He looked at me skeptically. “Curious name.”

I curtsied. “A priestess from Egypt, by way of Paris, the French city founded on a temple of Isis at the place where Notre Dame stands today.” Soothsayers from the East fascinate Europeans. I bought clothing to dress the part, and wore a peaked felt cap, black cloak, pointed boots, and a dress spangled with stars. An ankh and the Eye of Horus dangle at my throat. My fingers have rings with hieroglyphic symbols, and my waist belt is embossed with the signs of the zodiac. My dark hair falls, deliberately wild, to the small of my back. I carry a white-handled dagger for magical spells, a wand of ash, and a satchel with pens, ink, parchment, incense, candles, and metal pentacles of the five-pointed star. “This is my son, Horus, named for the falcon god.”

Paulina smiled. “More sparrow at his age.”

“A sparrow hawk!” Harry said.

“Can we really know the future, priestess?” Josef asked.

“It depends on interpretation,” I replied. “The Roman emperor Valens, when he wished to know the name of his successor, used a chicken for divination by assigning letters to grains of wheat and watching which ones the bird pecked. The feathered diviner spelled out
T-H-E-O-D.
When the emperor learned this, he assumed it referred to his high official Theodotus and had the poor man killed to extend his own reign. Shortly afterward, Valens lost his life in a battle with the Goths. His successor was a man named Theodosius.”

“Such stories chill, do they not?” Paulina said. “Josef, our visitor has more wisdom than the crones who sell predictions for a pfennig in the market square.”

“And she has a clever helpmate.” Josef patted Harry like a dog. “But then, you expect more than a pfennig, don't you?”

“The quality of a reading is reflected in what one pays,” I said. “I contribute learning to my interpretations. Antoine Court de Gébelin believed the tarot is an abbreviation of the Book of Thoth, a long-lost scroll of ancient wisdom.” I didn't mention that my husband had found that book and that we'd watched it burn. “I've had instruction from the famed Marie Anne Lenormand in Paris.” Lenormand was a celebrity in Napoleon's court, made rich enough by her prophecies to buy a house. I've been paying for my own journey through life by casting fortunes, mixing herbal remedies, serving as midwife, and selling songs. I'd practiced the harp while a prisoner of Leon Martel, and the flute while living in Paris. My habit was to practice when Ethan was absent, since he was tempted to lend his voice and is a terrible singer. In any event, the money I earn is not enough to afford books, let alone a house, but then, I can't carry a magical repository with us anyway. I prowl the libraries we pass, looking for clues to the Brazen Head. My readings suggest Rosenkreutz came this way.

So I flee, even as I seek. It troubles me that the French police did not make more effort to chase us after our escape from the coronation. Did they let us go to follow us now? Sometimes I feel we're being watched as closely in Bohemia as we were in Paris.

Josef would not be part of such a cabal, I assume. He's a noble who retains the enthusiasms of a child. “We're debating whether I can safely fly Apollo's chariot at our audience during a performance,” the duke explained. “I want to descend like a god, but the theater rigging is old. My wife wants you to forecast my chances.”

“Perhaps I should inspect the ropes and pulleys.”

He laughed. “Our gypsy is sly!”

“I'm not a gypsy. I'm a scholar, seeking knowledge.”

“But an Egyptian, no?”

“Yes.” I knew the gypsies are reputed to have originated from my nation, hence the name. Others say they are the Rom, from Slavic lands. “The wise say that, of the ancient magicians, Egypt had nine-tenths.”

“Then come, priestess! Comfort my wife by inspecting my winged chariot.”

He led us up a spiral stairway to the attic above the theater. A wooden footbridge crossed rafters to give peeks of seats and stage below. We glimpsed brightly painted balconies, candles mirrored by brass reflectors, and hard benches like pews. The loft itself was gloomy timbers and branching catwalks, a cavity to enchant my son. I looked up. A few bats slept. Below, painted scenery hung from pulleys. Drums of rope could be turned like an anchor capstan to raise and lower clouds, castles, or storms. Suspended in midair was a full-size chariot with golden car and scarlet wheels.

“I perform in my own dramas,” Josef said. “I want to sweep down to capture Aphrodite, but my practical wife fears I'll crush her instead.”

“We're too old for this foolery anyway,” said Paulina. “Why can't you just fall off your horse while hunting, like ordinary men?”

“Because I am extraordinary, madame. And a good horseman.”

“Let's see what the cards say.”

“You want the tarot here in this loft?” I asked Paulina.

“Does it matter where you spread them?”

“Truth pervades even an attic.” One learns to play the role.

“And what is your fee to cast a fortune?” Josef said. “Like so many nobles these days, I have more castle than money.”

“Then you'll be pleased to learn I want only ten talers. And an answer to a question.”

“Ha! Do you know how much value my wife puts on my answers?”

I smiled. He's playful. Outside these walls the emperors Francis, Alexander, and Bonaparte upend whole kingdoms. Inside his theater, Josef can pretend. “Then I offer you a bargain.”

There was a plank nailed to the timbered wall where servants rested beer and bread while working. I brushed their crumbs aside and spread the deck. I've learned from my husband how to mark cards by roughing the edges or spotting the back, and so can turn what seems appropriate to the situation. I peeked at the rigging and noticed a cracked drum handle, frayed hemp, and knotted repairs. Like all occupations, the tarot benefits from close observation and critical thinking.

Josef chuckled as I turn over the Chariot card, and Paulina took a breath at the Lovers. I revealed the Sun, the Hanged Man, and the Fool, which made my own heart lurch. The Fool is my Ethan.

“It's not propitious,” I forecast, selling them common sense. “Here's the Sun, Apollo, and his Chariot, but the Hanged Man suggests a mishap.” He dangled by one foot. “You'd be wise, sire, to refrain from attempting flight.”

“I told you so,” Paulina said. Always enlist the wife.

But Josef regards this risk as challenge. “I cannot tell if your prophecy is correct unless I fly across my painted sky, no?”

“It's a fall that will make it correct. I might not collect my fee if you're dead.”

Josef had a knight's reckless grin, and indeed I turned over a knight as well. “Then ten talers now.” A servant counted it out.

“This card forecasts boldness,” I admitted, pointing to the knight.

“Now I'll demonstrate why the tarot is superstition,” Josef said. In great good humor, enjoying his wife's fret, he donned painted wooden armor, put Apollo's crested helmet on his brow, and mounted his suspended chariot. I could feel what would happen—I have the Sense, even without the Brazen Head—but judged that the fall would hurt little but his pride. Harry was goggle-eyed at the man's costume, and in awe of the magic his mother commands. This will diminish as he grows, but it flatters me now. Do we have children to be admired, if only briefly?

I had prayed to Isis-Mary, and she promised I'd learn something useful in this palace of roses. The duke's servants swung the chariot free, Josef flew like the gods, and drums and pulleys cranked him down to where an audience could gasp.

The ropes creaked and twisted.

Josef swooped, the servants grunted to control his flight, line unreeled . . . and the winch handle snapped off at its base.

As Paulina shrieked and Harry yelled, the drum spun out of control, hemp particles puffing like a cloud. The golden chariot with its golden god smashed onto the stage, Josef swearing as he bounced off the boards in his pretend armor. We thundered along the footbridge, descended the spiral stairs, and rushed up the theater aisle.

Our shaken Apollo rose, bruised but intact. His chariot lay in three pieces, his helmet amid the ruins.

Josef looked at me warily. “Madame, you are indeed a sorceress.”

“A priestess. I hope you're not seriously hurt.”

He tentatively shook his limbs and then stood tall. He is, after all, a duke. “No more than a knight thrown at a joust. But your tarot . . . Emil, what happened?”

“A handle, sire. The rigging needs replacement.”

“Which I can scarce afford. Well.” He looked up to the rafters. I looked down and noticed the dark stain where the virgin Evelyn had killed herself. “Ten talers is cheap for good advice.”

“And costly when ignored,” Paulina said. She turned to me. “I'm impressed. Will you read my fortune for another ten?”

I hadn't asked my question yet. “As you wish. Would you prefer your own chambers?”

“No, here. Now.” She was excited by my success. I glanced at the stain again and she followed my eye. This couple liked to dare fate.

I hoped for a happy fortune but dealt apprehensively on the lip of the stage. Despite my markings, sometimes the cards have a will of their own. I turned the first.

“A Three of Cups,” I said with relief. “It suggests merriment. A dance, perhaps, in your painted ballroom.”

She clapped her hands again. “I so love a party.”

Then I turned over the second. The Devil, meaning my fingers betrayed me. I frowned. “This suggests a dangerous and powerful being. The host?”

“Witch, you strain our hospitality,” Josef said, only half in jest.

I hurried to correct my suggestion. “Perhaps, madame, you will dance as a guest in another capital, with a powerful but dangerous ruler.”

“Paris!” She laughed. “And Bonaparte!”

The words gave me a strange premonition. I turned another card. Death. The skeleton. The number thirteen. The duchess blanched.

“What evil is this?” Josef didn't like my tarot.

And another. The Nine of Swords: grief, or the nightmare. It's the most dreaded card, forecasting disaster. Usually the tarot can be read to satisfy a customer, but this hand confounded me.

“What does it mean?” Paulina asked, her voice small.

The cards lay across the bloodstain of the suicidal Evelyn. Understand that the world is not neutral. Places have spirit, both good and bad, and this was a poor choice for my work. “Are you attending a ball, duchess?”

“None is planned.”

“Good.” I turned again and the card showed Six of Swords, the boatman, sign of a dangerous journey. “Nor must you go if invited. There's danger for you. A fire, perhaps. Avoid powerful men. Avoid Paris.” I had a dark image of her in flames.

Paulina looked worried. “Yours is a dark art.”

“I'm sorry, duchess. I'm as surprised and puzzled as you by this hand.”

Josef kicked at a fragment of chariot. “First a winch handle snaps and then you frighten my wife. What's your real purpose, sorceress?”