Sent to the Devil

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  Prologue

  Peter Albrechts’s patience was running out.

  Like most military men of high rank, he could easily wait weeks for an enemy under siege to surrender, but had little forbearance when subordinates were ill-prepared, inefficient, or tardy.

  Where was the damned man? It was past one o’clock. He should be home in his bed, not standing in the middle of a dark, deserted city square. Strict adherence to a routine was important for a warrior. He must stay fit for battle, in case the emperor should call on him to lead the troops once again. True, he had been retired for many years, but he was still more capable than that fool Lacy the emperor had put in charge.

  He walked over to the monument in the center of the plaza. He’d always liked the bronze column, dedicated to the Virgin Mary, although he scoffed at the legend that claimed that she had aided Vienna in its war with Sweden a hundred years ago. Victory was achieved through discipline and good planning, not through prayer and superstition.

  A slight rustle sounded from behind the stone plinth of the monument.

  “Who’s there?” he called.

  There was no answer. He shrugged. Probably just the breeze. It had been warm that day, unusual for Vienna in April. He had heard that summer weather had arrived in Semlin already. The troops camped there had better invade Belgrade soon, or men would begin to die in the swampy conditions caused by the heavy spring rains.

  He glanced down at the paper in his hand. He had no time for such nonsense. Once his correspondent showed himself, he would quickly learn that he had chosen the wrong man to threaten. One did not insinuate such things about a war hero. How dare the scoundrel sully the Albrechts name!

  The breeze whispered from behind the plinth once more.

  He had waited long enough. He shoved the page into his coat pocket and turned away from the monument.

  There was a stirring behind him, and then his body was jerked backward. A heavy arm circled his neck.

  “Good evening, General,” a voice hissed in his ear. “I knew you would come.”

  “Who are you?” the old man cried as he struggled to pull the arm away. “What is the meaning of this?”

  His assailant twisted him around and shoved him onto the low stone steps of the monument. “Are you ready?” he asked. As he leaned over the general, he pulled a small dagger from his coat pocket.

  “Ready for what? Who are you? What is it you want—money?” He tried to push himself up, but his aged arms betrayed him, and he fell back. He stared up at the man’s face. “You! What do you want with me?”

  “You know what I want you to do,” the man hissed. He knelt, pushed the general’s head against the cold stone, and brought the dagger to his wrinkled neck.

  Rage surged through the old man’s veins as the man continued to talk. Blood pounded in his ears, deafening him to the words. How dare he! I am General Peter Albrechts!

  “No!” He tried to shout, but his voice was merely a croak. “No! I will not!”

  His assailant grunted. He pulled back his arm. The old man saw a blurred motion, and then pain seared his neck.

  An owl hooted in the distance as blood spattered over the stone steps.

  “I am dying!” he cried. But he could not hear his own voice, only a loud gurgling, and after a few moments, nothing.

  PART I

  A Solemn Oath

  One

  Monday, April 14, 1788

  The second message was waiting on my desk when I arrived at my office.

  The cheap paper had been hastily folded, sealed with a messy blob of wax, and its front scrawled with the words “Lorenzo Da Ponte, Court Theater.” I turned it over in my hands. There were no marks on the outside to show that the letter had traveled through the postal system, and no insignia pressed into the wax to identify the sender. I went to my cupboard, placed the note on a high shelf, returned to my desk, and pulled out the aria I had been writing. I had no time this morning for the game my mysterious correspondent insisted on playing.

  I’d been working night and day for the last nine months. I am the poet of the Court Theater in Vienna, where I am responsible for editing all of the librettos—the texts—and coordinating the productions of operas performed there. I augment my salary by taking on commissions to write librettos myself, and last fall I had written three at the same time, one for each of the city’s top composers. The opera I had written for my friend Wolfgang Mozart, Don Giovanni, had debuted in Prague six months ago, and had been a big hit there. There was no rest for us after our triumph, however, because soon after, Emperor Joseph II had ordered a performance of the opera here in Vienna. Mozart and I were busy adapting our work to the more sophisticated tastes of the imperial capital. And once Don Giovanni premiered in May, I had commissions for several more librettos. I was tired. Sometimes I wished that I’d been born a Viennese nobleman, instead of a leatherworker’s son from the Veneto who had to work for a living.

  But although I was overworked, I had to admit that I was happy with my life in Vienna. I loved my job, and had achieved professional recognition for my talents. I treasured my relationship with the emperor, who had supported me from the very first day he had appointed me to my post. I had a small circle of friends with whom I could discuss literature, art, and music. And lately, I had even returned to writing my own poetry, which was my first love.

  When I had edited the aria to my satisfaction, I put it into my satchel. My stomach grumbled as I pulled my watch from my waistcoat pocket. Half past one already! I had an appointment for dinner at two. I closed my satchel and went to the cupboard, where I pulled on my cloak. My eyes went to the high shelf. I sighed, grabbed the message and shoved it into my cloak pocket.

  * * *

  Outside in the Michaelerplatz—the gateway to the Hofburg, the large complex of buildings that housed the imperial government and the emperor’s personal apartments—small groups of newly inducted soldiers in crisp, shiny uniforms stood under the leaden sky laughing and teasing one another, their smooth faces flushed with excitement. In the Kohlmarkt, I stopped and peeled off my cloak. The spring weather had been unseasonably balmy for a week now.

  At the end of the Kohlmarkt, a small crowd had gathered to watch two laborers bang a large board over the entrance of one of the city’s most popular print shops. A large painted sign indicated that it had been closed by the Ministry of Police. The once-free presses of Vienna must now be cautious about what they printed, or suffer the fate of this one. I hurried by. I had had my own encounter with the Ministry of Police two years before, and now tried to avoid trouble whenever possible.

  I turned into the Graben. As late as last autumn, the large plaza had been the place to see and be seen for Viennese society, but as the snows of winter melted and the emperor and his troops marched off to war, the large expanse had lost its frivolous air. Instead of promenading down the plaza and stopping to chat with friends, people now hurried to th
eir destinations, greeting one another with nothing but a quick nod.

  “We are the aggressors in this war, not the Turks!” Ahead of me, a young man stood on an upended crate at the base of the elaborate plague column that dominated the middle of the Graben. A few shoppers and workmen were gathered around one side of the monument’s enormous plinth, which was decorated with sculptures symbolizing the triumph of faith over disease. I stopped at the back of the group, nodding at a square-jawed man in his early thirties who leaned on an ornate stick next to me.

  “Our ally Russia is to blame!” the young man shouted. His features were handsome, but his long hair was tangled and his beard unkempt. He wore a threadbare coat over breeches that were torn at both knees.

  “That’s nonsense!”

  I started as the man next to me called to the protester.

  “Read the papers. The Turks have been stocking arms since the Crimean crisis. They are stirring up the peoples in the Caucasus against Russia.”

  “The Turks are just trying to defend themselves, sir,” the orator replied. “Russia provoked them. The emperor was a fool to sign a treaty with—”

  My neighbor snorted. “The Turks declared war first!” he shouted. “You are the fool! How can you believe they are an innocent party?”

  A group of market women had stopped to watch the argument.

  “They had to declare war. They had to defend themselves before Russia’s army grouped along their borders—”

  “If the Turks are just defending themselves, as you say, why did they refuse offers by France and Britain to mediate their dispute with Russia?” my neighbor asked.

  The war protester turned to the newcomers in the crowd. “Friends, you look like solid citizens of the empire. Do you want your fathers, your sons, your brothers to give their lives for Catherine of Russia’s expansionist policies?”

  “No!” a middle-aged woman holding the hand of a young child shouted.

  The man left my side and, using his stick for aid, pushed his way to the front of the crowd. His twisted right leg dragged behind him. “Russia is not our enemy,” he shouted at the orator. “You are young and naïve. We need Catherine’s help in keeping the Prussians away from our own borders!”

  Two constables approached the assembly. “Everyone move along,” one shouted. The market women turned away.

  “We should also have France as an ally against Prussia.” The orator looked down at the crippled man. “The French carry on a large trade with the Turks. By declaring war against the Ottoman Empire, Joseph has alienated the French.”

  As the constables continued to press, the group broke up. I lingered as the angry man moved close to the orator’s box. The protester shouted to the backs of the dispersing crowd. “Think of the lives lost already! Our men sitting in that swamp in Semlin waiting for the Russians to distract the Turks in Galicia before we can invade their garrison in Belgrade. How many of our boys will die of disease as the weather gets hotter?”

  “That’s Turkish propaganda!” The crippled man shook his fist. “Joseph will be taking Belgrade any day now! The Turks will surrender. Everyone knows how bad morale is in their army. Our boys will be home before the end of summer.”

  “How many will never come home?” The young protester looked the man up and down, taking in his dress suit and elegant stick. “It is easy for you to speak in favor of sending them to their deaths, while you sit at home, comfortable in your palace.”

  “You insolent swine! How dare you speak to me like that!”

  I watched, astonished, as the man raised his stick and swung it at the orator. The young man ducked and fell off the crate. He sprawled on the ground against the low balustrade that surrounded the monument.

  “Hey now, stop that, sir.” One of the constables grabbed the assailant’s arm.

  “Let go of me!” the man said, his face red with anger. “I am Baron Walther Hennen. I’ll report you to your superior officer.”

  The constable withdrew his hand.

  Hennen glared at the orator. “As for you—you are one to speak about avoiding service in the war. I know who you are. You had better be careful, or you’ll end up in Semlin before you know it.” He turned and limped angrily in the direction of St. Peter’s Church.

  I continued on toward the Stephansplatz. I wasn’t sure what to think about this war. I was not a native Austrian, so I had no emotional connection to the hostilities. But I worried that a prolonged war could affect my life here in Vienna, especially my position at the theater. When the emperor had left a few weeks ago to join the troops at Semlin, he had ordered the city theaters to remain open. If the war dragged on, though, that situation could change, and I might be out of a job. But I knew the emperor well, and I respected his wisdom and trusted his judgment. If he felt it was necessary to support the empress of Russia in her war against the Turks, who was I to question him? I just hoped the Turks could be defeated quickly.

  In the Stephansplatz, the buildings were draped in black bunting, as were the main doors of the great cathedral. A funeral mass had been held yesterday for General Peter Albrechts, a hero in the late empress’s war thirty years ago. I had not attended, but I had heard that the crowd of mourners had spilled out of the cathedral.

  I walked by the west portal of the cathedral and crossed the small side plaza to a nondescript office building. I climbed four flights of stairs, made my way down a small corridor to the office at its end, and poked my head in the open door.

  “Alois?”

  “Lorenzo!” Alois Bayer rose from his desk. “I was beginning to worry that I had my dates confused.”

  “I’m sorry. I was held up by a disturbance in the Graben,” I explained as I gently returned his embrace. My elderly friend was growing more fragile every time I saw him. “That young man who is always protesting against the war—he and a bystander almost came to blows.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, some constables broke up the fight before any violence occurred,” I said. I settled into the chair next to Alois’s desk and looked around the familiar space. Books were piled on every free surface. I took a deep breath and inhaled one of my favorite smells—the scent of old books punctuated by a slight trace of the peppermint drops Alois ate constantly. A thin straw-filled pallet lay on the floor behind the desk. I frowned. “What is that? Are you sleeping here now? What happened to your room over in the Wollzeile?”

  Alois shrugged. “The cathedral needed it for one of the new priests. I don’t mind it here. It gives me more time to study.”

  I opened my mouth to object, but closed it as the red tinge of embarrassment spread over his papery cheeks. “Are you ready for dinner?” I asked. “I’d like to try that new catering shop over by the Greek church.”

  He hesitated. “I’m not that hungry, Lorenzo. The older I get, the less appetite I have. I have a nice bottle of Tokay. Why don’t we stay here and drink it instead of going out for dinner? We haven’t had a good talk in a long time.”

  I shook my head. I knew why he was protesting. Since he had retired from the active priesthood, he lived on a small stipend from the cathedral, and he spent most of his money on books. I worried that he seldom ate a hearty meal, which is why I had made a point of inviting him out today.

  “Nonsense,” I said. “We can discuss whatever you want at the catering shop.” I put my hand up as he shook his head. “I invited you out to dinner, and out to dinner you will come.”

  “No, no, Lorenzo,” Alois protested. “You have better things to do with your money.”

  “Better things to do than spend an afternoon with a good friend, enjoying a delicious meal?” I stood. “No more protests. You’ll insult my Venetian honor if you don’t come,” I added, smiling.

  “Well, since you put it that way—” He laughed. “Do you mind if we stop by the cathedral for a moment on the way out?” He took a book off his desk. “I want to return this to the archivist.”

  “As long as we’re quick about it,” I
said. “I’m famished.”

  I helped him into his thin, worn cloak and followed him out of the office. We slowly made our way down the stairs. In the small lobby, I held the heavy door for him, and followed him out into the gray, warm afternoon.

  * * *

  The dark, bulky north tower of the cathedral hovered over the busy side plaza. The tower was much shorter than the ornate, elegant tower on the south side of the building. Legend had it that when the church decided to erect the second tower in the fifteenth century, the master builder had sold his soul to the devil to ensure the success of the project, and one day, while the man was high on the scaffolding, he uttered a holy name, angering his evil patron, who caused the scaffold to fall to the ground, taking the unfortunate builder with it. The tower had never been completed.

  We waited as several carriages trundled by, and then crossed to the portico. To our left, several yards down the exterior wall of the cathedral, stood the old Capistran Chancel, a Gothic stone pulpit where Saint Johannes Capistrano, a Franciscan monk, had raised a crusade against the Turks in 1456. Fifty years ago, the Franciscans had erected a statue to commemorate the saint, who had died after defeating the Turks in Belgrade. The order’s own founder, Saint Francis, stood beneath a richly wrought golden sunburst, his feet trampling the body of a dead Turk.

  Two cathedral workmen stood atop rickety ladders, removing the black funeral bunting from the tall north doors. Alois and I ducked around a long piece of swaying fabric and stepped into the vestibule. Felix Urbanek, one of the priests, came to greet us.

  “Father Bayer, Signor Da Ponte. How good to see you both,” he said. He turned to Alois. “Have you come for the meeting about funding the new parishes, Father?”

  “No, we just stopped in so that I could return this book to the archives,” Alois said.

  “Careful, Fathers!” a workman shouted from behind us. His colleague had climbed to the very top of his ladder, which teetered precariously as he tried to reach the highest swath of bunting. We moved deeper into the vestibule.