Veritas (Atto Melani) (56 page)

As he stood there before the princes of the Empire and the Pope’s legates, holding the pages in his hands, Rudolph was approached by a messenger, who whispered into his ear that Maximilian
had passed away. He listened impassively, as if it were the blandest of news. Then the young Rudolph, who now knew he was Emperor, continued reading, and his voice never trembled. He knew that if
he lost control of the session the princes who were his father’s enemies would take advantage of it to stir up trouble and sabotage his election to the Caesarean throne.

The session finished in good order; Rudolph had won the battle fought in his throat. But the inner turmoil of these moments and the other momentous matters that awaited him were bound to have
their effect.

Rudolph asked the princes not to leave Regensburg and summoned them for the following day. He would have to inform them of his father’s death; till then the imperial court would keep its
secret. An autopsy was carried out, and the innards were interred in a copper case in the cathedral of Regensburg.

While David Ungnad set out again calmly for Constantinople, where he would remain for two more years, Maximilian’s final journey began: the saddest, darkest and most painful.

At the moment of his death it had not been decided where he would be buried. He had chosen Vienna; instead they decided on Prague.

“And why was that?” I asked in surprise.

“Maximilian had twice kept the great Suleiman outside the sacred walls of Vienna, and with him the enemies of Christ: by way of revenge Maximilian himself was to be kept forever far from
the dear land that he had saved from the insult of Mahomet.”

“So it was actually a
post mortem
revenge?”

“The hatred of certain people knows no end.”

I shivered while the Greek proceeded with the tale. A funeral procession, led by Rudolph, would take the body from Regensburg to Prague, travelling for hundreds of miles over the lands of the
Empire in the grip of winter. At every halt the coffin must be greeted solemnly by the local authorities. The procession would be grand and awe-inspiring. The imperial family, the courtiers, pages,
footmen, trumpeters, organists, drummers, officers, cooks, quartermasters, councillors and chancellors, even the carriage-drivers and boatman who were to transport the cortège: everyone,
their ashen faces framed by white ruffs, would be wrapped in dark cloaks and black vestments, urgently procured from the markets of Augsburg and Nuremberg, together with massive supplies of
candles, cutlery, blankets, imperial insignia, banners, standards, horses, not forgetting a final stock of priests and choristers.

But right from the outset fate was against them: the city council, made up of Protestants, refused to escort the procession out of the city, or to light their way with lanterns. Their enemy was
dead: let him go to the devil by himself.

Finally the cortège set off. The coffin was loaded onto a boat that headed down the Danube. The winter set in: rain, wind and snow made the roads impassable, causing injuries and wearing
out the horses. The procession struggled onwards. In each city they reached, fewer and fewer subjects came from their homes to honour the corpse of this Emperor who had been too mysterious.

The procession straggled and trudged through the winter landscape. Amid the howling gale, within the stone-cold coffin, dragged awkwardly by creaking carts, by hacks half-dead from exhaustion,
by frostbitten hands, scorned by the welcoming committees, led hither and thither like a burden with no destination, Maximilian the Wise was an unloved, shelterless and peace-denied body: he was
now the dead man with no homeland.

It was January 1577. It had taken three months for the funeral cortège to arrive in Austria, at Linz. It was hoped that they would reach Prague in eight more days. But a fresh blizzard
began to rage, blocking the road they had intended to take. They had to change their route, staying in isolated castles, continually losing their way and re-finding it with difficulty.

When the funeral procession reached Bohemia, the few who turned out to greet it were not even sufficient to carry the coffin. They finally arrived in Prague on 6th February, almost four months
after Maximilian’s death. But their misadventures were not over yet. The
Castrum doloris
, the funeral baldachin set up in the church of St Vitus, was not yet complete. The ceremony
had to be postponed; many declared that they would not be able to attend, even including two archdukes of the House of Habsburg.

The funeral rites were at last celebrated, and the procession made its way through the streets of Prague. Finally there was something of a crowd: it was led by the papal legate, the Ambassador
of Spain, the Ambassador of the King of France, Hungarian magnates, the Ambassador of Ferdinand, the Archduke of the Tyrol and Maximilian’s brother. Then came the princes of the Empire,
envoys from Austria, from Silesia, from Moravia, priests and laymen, in addition to numerous knights, bishops, abbots and Jesuits, who had come flocking from all around.

The bier that held the sarcophagus was of dark, knotty wood. The shroud was crimson against a gold background, with six glittering imperial coats of arms. Behind the sarcophagus marched Rudolph,
his sallow face hidden by a black, ankle-length cloak, his nervous hand clutching his sword hilt at his belt. He was followed by his brothers Matthias and Maximilian, who were also cloaked and
armed with swords. Then came the papal legate in a broad-brimmed hat with green tassels, holding a large white candle in his joined hands, kept warm by pearl-studded gloves. More candles,
enlivening the procession with shining points of light, were held by the princes of the Empire, who followed in the procession. Some of them were weeping, and the rain washed away their tears. In
the grim multitude, groups of noblemen bore the holy imperial crown, the crown of Hungary and those of the other lands of the Empire, glittering tremulously like stars in the wintry night sky.
After the procession of men came another: that of the horses. The first was Maximilian’s steed, sadly swathed in a dark cloth with the imperial coat of arms. Then came the horse of the
Empire, which was the most richly adorned, surrounded by banners and standards. Finally there were the Barbary horses of Silesia, of Spain, of the Tyrol and of France, all with lowered eyes,
drooping ears and unsteady gait, as if they too wished to pay their tribute of tears.

The procession arrived in front of the church of St James, in old Prague, just beyond the town hall. The sarcophagus was crossing a road between two pharmacies, where the faithful have always
gone to worship the relics of the body of St John Chrisostomos. Suddenly someone, to stir up trouble, threw coins among the common people observing the procession. The tactic proved entirely
successful; with eager shouts the mob hurled themselves on the coins and fights broke out. The soldiers forming the armed escort ran down the side streets to reinforce the head of the procession;
the scuffles and the clash of weapons raised the alarm: “Treachery! Treachery! It’s Antwerp again!” shouted the spectators, perched at the windows, on the gutters and ledges,
alluding to the recent massacres of Catholics in Protestant lands.

The pallbearers began to panic, the coffin lurched, Maximilian’s rotten bones were about to fall to the ground. Those who continued to resist witnessed grim omens; underneath the
sarcophagus there inexplicably appeared an enormous and hideous sow. The pallbearers tried to drive it away with their lighted torches, but in vain, and so they fled in terror, convinced it must be
a diabolic apparition, while the animal vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

Rudolph, pale and trembling, was left on his own. While everyone abandoned him, the young man stayed beside his father’s sarcophagus and was about to draw his sword. But one of the
courtiers, perhaps a ghost from who knows where, held his arm, preventing him from unsheathing the weapon. Rudolph turned round but saw no one. He was now expecting to be stabbed in the back, but
at that moment mounted archers came to his assistance.

The people from the procession were now fleeing in chaos down the back streets, through the mud and slush. Violence broke out. Madness had seized Prague, and the people’s hatred against
the clergy was let loose; anyone wearing a cassock was hunted down like a dog. Everyone was fleeing. The fastest were the bishops, abbots and Jesuits: they leaped from the bridges into the freezing
waters of the river, ran into homes, into cellars, were caught by the owners of the houses, knocked about and kicked out. The dean of Hradschin fell into a cellar breaking his leg, and a canon and
two abbots came crashing down on top of him, and all of them were at once beaten out of the house by the women there. One of the three sought refuge in a nearby tavern, but was thrown out amid
insults. In the fury people pushed aside their neighbours, fell or were knocked down and trampled into the mud, the horseshit, and finally killed.

“The traitors had cast their net everywhere,” remarked Simonis. “The folly of those days in Prague was the poison they had injected into the body of the Empire. It was a dress
rehearsal for what they could have done later. And it was a sign of the curse they had cast on Maximilian.”

As they rushed through the streets of Prague, terrorised by the thought of the Protestants, the priests threw off their cassocks in order to run faster and were left half naked. The Father
Superior of the convent of Our Lady Mother of God was struck down by a blow to the face with a halberd and a Viennese Jesuit was found with his skull smashed in. The Bishop of Olmütz, battered
and tattered, slipped into a shop and begged the owner on his knees not to betray him; he even offered her a hundred florins but was kicked out all the same. A soldier attacked the Bishop of
Vienna, stealing his precious crozier studded with pearls and gems, and beat his servant mercilessly, while the Bishop ran for his life, abandoning his holy ornaments. Even the Archbishop of
Prague, who previously had walked with great difficulty, ran off like a hare.

It was two hours before calm was restored. Slowly the fugitives reappeared and formed a straggling train behind Maximilian’s bier. But the new procession was dirty, ragged, trembling and
as grey as the leaden skies that hung over the city. The participants no longer had precious stoles and pearl-adorned gloves; the gold-and silver-embroidered caps were buried in the mud or in the
pockets of the jackals. There was only half the number of priests, the singers had disappeared, and the procession moved forward in total silence. Some were limping, most were looking nervously
over their shoulders and to their sides. No one dared to comment on the shameful behaviour of a few moments earlier. Everyone asked in vain what had sparked off this pandemonium, and why it had
ended as quickly as it had begun. The sermon in the church of St Vitus at Hradschin lasted only half an hour. After the holy service the young Rudolph made his way to the altar to bestow his alms,
with a great white candle held solemnly in his hands.

Everyone’s eyes were fixed on him, and they were all seeking an answer from him. How had he been scarred by the events of Regensburg and Prague? The people observing him did not know it
yet, but that nightmare had inflicted the final blow on his psyche, already so sorely tried by his father’s enemies: henceforth he would be Rudolph the Misanthrope, Rudolph the Indolent,
Rudolph the Mad.

“After his first years of government,” declared Simonis, “everyone understood that his intellect was clouded, obsessed with magic arts and alchemy, consumed by fears and
phobias. As time passed Rudolph locked himself up in secret laboratories of necromantic arts, and gave heed to the lowest and unworthiest of his own servants. And in the end he soiled even this
place with these absurdities.”

“So it’s true that he had an alchemical workshop here at Neugebäu as well.”

Simonis nodded gravely. “Rudolph was mad, but, what is worse for a Caesar, he was also, sadly, ridiculous. He had seen too many horrors in his youth. And so he preferred to spend his
evenings stargazing, instead of using his eyes and judging for himself.”

Going against his father’s will, Rudolph moved the capital: from Vienna the sweet the court was transferred to Prague the magical, Prague the obscure, Prague the diabolic. It was here that
the disgrace of Maximilian’s funeral had taken place, it was here that Rudolph would lose his senses.

In August 1584 two English magicians arrived in Prague: Jan Devus (but he was called John Dee) and Edward Kelley. Devus, Queen Elizabeth’s astrologer, was preceded by his fame as a wise
man. He conversed with spirits after summoning them with a magic mirror, a globe of quartz he said he had received from the Archangel Uriel. It was not clear whether he was an impostor or was
actually possessed. Kelley wanted to be called Engelander (but his real name was Talbot) and appeared to be a vulgar swindler; his ears had been cut off (the punishment for forgers in England) and
he covered them with his long greasy hair. He had a corvine nose, mouse-like eyes and a base, greedy expression.

The two men charmed and wheedled and swindled their way into court, extorting money with astrological predictions, remedies against sickness, vague promises to find the philosopher’s
stone. Rumours arose: they were spies and rabble-rousers, sent by Queen Elizabeth to undermine the Habsburgs’ power in the region. Or contrariwise, their ugly appearances were deceptive: they
were real enchanters. But what difference did it make? The devil is English, people say.

Like crazed magnets, Devus and Engelander attracted legions of warlocks, necromancers, dark wizards, alchemists and spagyrists. Prague opened up its soft, dark underbelly; the forces of darkness
were welcome, the Emperor’s feeble mind threw wide the gates, and the fetid wind of the magical arts swept in triumphantly.

The people were confused, the noblemen let themselves be swindled, the slimy English pair grew rich rapidly and finally wormed their way into Rudolph’s confidence. The Emperor was also
obsessed with astrology; he asked all those who visited him to bring their own horoscopes with them. If the astrologers gave a negative verdict, the visitors were driven out. Rudolph spent crazy
sums on talismans, elixirs, amulets and panaceas. He never stirred a finger, even with women, if he suspected that the person in front of him was born under an evil star. Everyone took advantage of
this and bribed his councillors to gain access to him. Anyone could deceive the Emperor.