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TWO HUNDRED MILES TO THE WEST, IN PRAGUE. Rabbi Judah Loew thought he heard something. He had been having a late supper with his family; his wife Pearl was talking. But over her another, louder voice spoke a sentence in a foreign language, and he heard the word “Prague.”

Another voice answered, this one female, and she also said something about Prague. And somehow Loew understood that these people would be traveling to his city, that he would meet them, that his fate would be entwined with theirs.

Something was about to happen, that much was certain. Those strange signs and portents in his study … He looked at Pearl, wanting for perhaps the hundredth time to tell her what he suspected, and for the hundredth time being unable to.

The voices had fallen silent. “Judah?” Pearl said, looking concerned. She was a small woman, her figure rounded from childbearing. Over the years her hair had gone from a lustrous brown to iron-gray and had become coarser, almost wiry; she wore it, like all modest women, tucked up under a kerchief. Her eyes were a deep gray-green—like the sea, Loew had thought when he had first seen her. “Judah, did you hear anything I said?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. He gazed out over the table, seeing the three of his six daughters who had come for supper, his son, their spouses and children. The small room had not been enough to contain them all; some of the younger children sat at a makeshift table in the tiny hallway. The tables bowed under the weight of the dishes; the candles shone over the faces of his loved ones, their cheeks shiny with grease after the large meal. Up until two months ago he had thought himself the most fortunate man in the world. But God, apparently, wanted more from him.

Two months ago he had looked at the four books on his desk and had noticed that they were all open to page thirty-six. Engrossed in his studies, he had shrugged this off as coincidence and pulled another book from his shelf. The book had opened, almost of its own volition, to page thirty-six.

Since then he saw the number everywhere he turned. He would be invited somewhere; the address would be thirty-six. He would buy a new book or some trinket for Pearl; it would cost thirty-six pennies, or he would get that amount in change.

In all his studies he had come across only one meaning for the number thirty-six. An old Jewish tradition said that there were thirty-six righteous men who upheld the world. According to the tradition if any of these men should die, or stray from the path of righteousness, the world would come to an end. They were called the la’med vavniks, from the Hebrew letters that corresponded to thirty-six.

Was he one of these men? He had far too many faults, he knew that; his anger flared out too easily, he coveted the post of Chief Rabbi of Prague, he wanted to know and understand more than was perhaps lawful for a mere man. And how could he take on such a vast responsibility? How could he carry the weight of the world on his shoulders?

“Judah?” Pearl said again. “Are you listening to me? I said Izak wants to talk to you after supper.”

He forced his attention back to his family. The conversation turned to his audience with Emperor Rudolf, set for two days hence. Another heavy responsibility, Loew thought.

“Why do you suppose the emperor wants to see you?” his daughter Leah asked.

“I don’t know,” Loew said. “It’s said that Rudolf studies Kabbalah. I’m perfectly willing to discuss this with him, if that’s what he wants. My worry is that he summoned me to talk about something else.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how precarious our situation here is,” Loew said. Leah shook her head, and Loew had to remind himself that his children had lived here in safety all their lives. “It was only forty years ago that King Ferdinand of Bohemia expelled all the Jews from Prague.”

“Did he?” one of the grandchildren asked. “But then why are we here?”

“The next emperor, Maximilian, reversed the order.”

“So everything worked out well, then,” the grandchild said, taking a last bite of chicken.

Loew smiled. “Yes, but you see, our lives depend on the whim of whoever is in power. And Rudolf, they say, is mad. I will have to be very careful.”

“Mad?” Leah looked at him with consternation. “What do you mean? Mad how?”

Now he had frightened the children, and some of the grandchildren as well. “Oh, nothing too strange,” he said, trying to sound unconcerned. “He collects things—it’s said his castle is filled with paintings and statues and scientific instruments. And he has fits of temper, and banishes his counselors when they displease him.”

“That doesn’t sound so terrible,” Leah said.

“No, as you say,” Loew said. “I’m certain I’ll be fine.” But he caught Pearl’s eye and saw that she shared his worry. One misstep on his part, and they might all be exiled again.

Someone knocked at the door. “That will be Izak,” Pearl said, rising. “Should I tell him you’ll see him in your study?”

Loew nodded. He took one of the candles and headed back into the house. It was only as he opened the door to his study that he realized he hadn’t asked Pearl which Izak had come to see him: there must be dozens in the quarter.

As he lit a lamp he noticed that the book on his desk was open to page thirty-six. He closed it angrily and sat behind the desk.

A young man came into the study. His face was thin and bony, with a protuberant chin, and he had curly, sandy-colored hair. Now Loew remembered him from the school; he had been a good student, though not a brilliant one. What was his father’s name? Izak son of … He shook his head at his absentmindedness.

To Loew’s surprise a young beautiful woman stepped in after him. “This is Sarah,” Izak said. “We want to be married, and we want you to perform the ceremony.”

Now Loew remembered what he had forgotten earlier, and a great sadness came over him. “Sit down, please,” he told the couple. He looked from one of them to the other. “I’m afraid I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?” Izak said.

“Because you’re illegitimate,” Loew said to him. “I’d give anything not to have to say this, but the law does not allow you to marry.”

“What! What do you mean?”

“Just as I say. The law forbids illegitimate children to marry.”

“But—but I want to get married. Sarah and I want to get married. She knows I’m illegitimate, and she doesn’t mind.”

“Unless you can tell me that your mother married your father—”

“Of course she didn’t! He’s probably that peddler who comes to the Quarter every few weeks—he has a child in every town, or so I’ve heard.”

“Then I’m sorry,” Loew said.

Sarah looked stricken. Izak stood and began to pace in a tight circle.

“Well, the hell with you, then!” Izak said. He went to the door and opened it.

“Where are you going?” Loew asked.

“To find someone who will marry us.”

“Everyone you talk to will tell you the same thing.”

Izak left without saying anything more. Sarah hurried after him. The door closed behind them.

Loew sighed. One more problem, he thought, though not as serious as King Rudolf’s summons. Serious to Izak, though. He stood and headed back to his family.

IZAK RAN OUT INTO THE NIGHT AIR, LEAVING SARAH BEHIND. His mind whirled. What would happen to him if he couldn’t marry? A long sterile life and an unhappy one, with no wife, no children, no comforts …

He was so occupied with his thoughts that he nearly knocked someone down. He smelled a terrible odor, the stench of a person who hadn’t washed in years, and he reached out and grabbed what felt like a bundle of rags. The rags shouted; he saw now that he had hold of an old woman. He steadied her and she grinned, showing three or four rotten teeth. He had never seen her in the Quarter before.

“Whoa!” she said. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“Nowhere,” he said.

“Well, you haven’t reached nowhere yet,” she said. “You’re still somewhere.”

“Who are you?” he asked, studying her by the light of a nearby lamp. The colorful layers of clothing she wore hid her shape; she could have been fat or thin or anywhere in-between. Her face was narrow and almost bronze from the sun; she had dark brown eyes and a long pointed nose, almost a beak. Her ears were pointed as well, and several thick wiry hairs grew from them. She seemed to have no lips. “You don’t live here.”

“Anyone can walk through the streets, can’t they? Or run through them, in your case.”

She had stopped grinning; she looked almost concerned. “I just found out I can’t get married,” he found himself saying. Well, why not? He would never see her again in his life. “Apparently bastards can’t marry.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I should have lied to him. I should have told him that horrible peddler married my mother. And why didn’t he, anyway? Why should I be punished for something he did? I’ll kill him if I ever get my hands on him, I swear I will.”

“Slow down. Lied to who?”

“Rabbi Loew.”

“Ah, Rabbi Loew. He’s a great magician, isn’t he?”

He stared at her. “Where did you hear that?”

“Everyone knows it. Magicians are flocking to Prague, now that Emperor Rudolf is here. There’s another great one coming from England … .”

He barely heard her. “Well, he can’t help me,” he said bitterly.

“Don’t give up hope just yet. You asked me who I am—my name’s Magdalena. What’s yours?”

He had no intention of giving her his name, but to his surprise he said, “Izak. Izak, son of no one.”

“Good evening, Izak son of no one. Maybe we’ll meet again.”

She moved away, melting into the shadows of the twisting streets, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

TWO DAYS LATER LOEW STOOD IN HIS TINY FRONT ROOM. Getting ready for his meeting with Rudolf. Half the men in town seemed to be crowded in with him, all of them offering advice and clothing. He studied a coat from one, a pair of trousers from another; both were brown, though of different shades. Still, they would probably pass muster. They had to; they were the newest things anyone owned.

The town barber forced him into a chair and began to trim his unruly beard. “Whatever you do, don’t mention King Ferdinand,” someone behind him said.

“Why not?” This was another man, from another part of the room.

“He’s the one who expelled the Jews. You don’t want to remind him of that, don’t want to have him start thinking that’s a good idea.”

“But they’re proud of their families, these kings and emperors.”

“That’s true. You’ll have to flatter him, flatter all of them. Tell him how magnificent he is. Magnificent, that’s a good word. And his father and grandfather, and anyone else he’s related to, no matter what they’ve done to us.”

“I hear he hates his brother Matthias.”

“Yes, that’s true. Don’t mention Matthias. Everyone else, though—everyone else is magnificent.”

“Why does he hate his brother?”

“Who knows? Just don’t mention him, that’s all.”

“Do you say ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Your Majesty’?”

“‘Your Magnificence—’”

The barber had finished and was holding a mirror up to Loew’s face. Loew studied himself, noting the graying brown hair and beard, the level brown eyes behind his spectacles. His face would match the clothing, at least, he thought wryly. Was he ready? Was this a face Rudolf would trust?

He was as ready as he ever would be. “Listen, people,” he said. “I need to be alone to think. Everyone outside. Now,” he added to a few people who seemed inclined to stay behind.

He put on the town’s clothes and took one last look in the mirror the barber had left. There were heavy lines on his forehead, cut there like rivers scoured deeply into the earth. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and set out for the castle.

He returned five hours later, tired, footsore and humiliated. Some of the men of the town had gathered in front of his house, waiting to hear what had happened.

“How did it go?” one of them asked.

“It didn’t,” Loew said.

“What do you mean?”

“As I said. He didn’t see me.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I waited in a room for hours. There were other people there, all of them waiting for an audience, but no one was called. One of them told me it was the fifth time he had been summoned, but that so far he had never seen the emperor. Another said that if I wanted to see the emperor I should talk to the man who grooms his horses.”

“His horses?”

“Apparently that’s who he’s taking advice from these days. He’s dismissed all his counselors again.”

“Well, but this is good news, isn’t it? It means he’s forgotten us. We can go on the way we were.”

“That isn’t true, unfortunately. I was invited back. After we had all been there for hours a man came into the room and told us all to go. Except me, he said. The emperor wanted to see me again.”

“When?”

“A few weeks from now. He’ll have probably forgotten by then. Nevertheless, I have to go.”

DEE HAD KNOWN MAPMAKERS IN HIS YOUTH, RTELLIUS AND Mercator, the best in the world. The journey from Cracow to Prague was a short one as the crow flew, but the road on land wound over a good many mountains; it would take a while to reach his destination. And Jane—traveling with the children would take her several weeks, perhaps even a month. Still, she should be in Prague before the child was born.

The coach rocked as it made its way down a steep path. He smiled, thinking of the child. Some might find all this fecundity embarrassing—he was, after all, nearly fifty-seven years old—but he had spent his youth in studying and had come late to the joys of marriage and family.

He closed his eyes, remembering. At Cambridge he had studied eighteen hours a day, stopping only to eat, sleep, and go to church. He had wanted to know everything: What were the stars made of? Why did water boil and wood did not? How were salamanders able to live in the heart of fire? What had God and Adam talked about in the Garden of Eden? Did women have fewer teeth than men, as Aristotle said? (Later he had counted Jane’s; she had thirty-two, the same as he.) Was it truly possible to create the Philosopher’s Stone and live forever?

He learned a good deal; he knew enough magic to satisfy most men. But it was simple stuff; the answers to his most pressing questions eluded him. Only God knew the answers; everything existed in the mind of God. And so he had started trying to summon angels. When Edward Kelley had knocked on his door and introduced himself a year ago, he thought the man had come in answer to his prayers.

“Will King Rudolf want us to search for the Philosopher’s Stone?” Kelley asked.

Dee opened his eyes and looked at Kelley, sitting on the bench across from him. “I don’t know,” Dee said. “Maybe.”

“Good,” Kelley said. “I am tired of scrying.”

Dee studied the other man. Had he truly been sent by God? Then why was he so recalcitrant? Why was he interested only in money and ways to acquire money? Kelley had told him what he would do with the Philosopher’s Stone if he had it: he would touch everything he owned and turn it to gold as Midas had, and then live like a king, surrounded by splendor and wealth.

“Rudolf may want us to scry as well,” Dee said.

“Then you scry for him,” Kelley said. “I am tired.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Then find someone else.”

“I have never been able to.”

“God damn it!” Kelley said. “I am tired. I never want to see the glass or those damned angels again. Leave me alone!”

Dee caught his breath at the blasphemy. He tried to speak mildly. “We’ll see how you feel when we get there.”

“I know how I’ll feel. Tired.” As if to prove his point he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.

The coach continued over the mountains. They passed tangled forests, the trees growing wildly in the profligacy of summer. Despite Dee’s best efforts his thoughts turned sometimes to the spirit’s messages. How much of what it said was true? Was his precious library destroyed, and if so had the spirit done it?

How could God permit such a spirit to run loose in the world? Or, conversely, if there were such a spirit, did that mean that God did not exist, or that He was powerless to stop evil? Was everything random, did everything happen at the whim of powers he did not understand? And the feeling of dread would come over him again, the terror of standing naked before such things without even God to protect him.

When this happened he would strain to see beyond the trees to the next bend in the road, hoping to find an inn and firelight and people. But inns were rare in this part of the world, and in the few they did find no one spoke any language they understood. They were forced to convey their needs by gestures.

Once they found a man who knew German, though he spoke brokenly and with a good many mistakes. But the man was no comfort; he told them a tale about people who could turn into wolves, and another about a Hungarian noblewoman who bathed in the blood of virgins to stay young forever. Unbelievable stories, Dee told himself, tales meant to frighten children. His mood did not lighten.

After a while the language they heard in the inns changed from Polish to Czech, and Dee guessed that they had crossed into Bohemia. Czech was a barbarous language with few vowels; every second word seemed to run aground against the shoals of the teeth and become swallowed.

Finally the land flattened out and they began to see acres of farmland and a scattering of houses. Other travelers joined them on the road, everything from elegant coaches with coats-of-arms on the doors to the mule-drawn carts of farmers bringing their produce to market. The traffic raised a fine dust from the road; it sifted in around the closed windows of the coach and covered them in a gritty film.

Smaller roads began to converge with theirs, tributaries to their vast river. Then they were through the walls and in the city. Dee knew only one person in Prague, a scientist and counselor to the king named Thadeus Hageck, and he gave the driver his address on Bethlem Street.

At Doctor Hageck’s house they received the first bit of good news in a long time—the first, it seemed, since they had started on this mad journey. The doctor and his family gave them a warm welcome and invited them to stay as long as they wanted, setting aside a portion of their large house for him and Kelley and the others who were coming later. Dee accepted gratefully.

DEE SENT A NOTE UP TO THE CASTLE ASKING FOR AN AUDIence. Days passed, but there was no answer.

In the meantime he decided to explore the city. Kelley refused to come with him; he had set out his retorts and alembics and filled Hageck’s study with disgusting-smelling potions and philters, leaving only to buy more of the ingredients he needed. The study was very congenial to him; it had been used by alchemists even before Hageck lived there. Mysterious hieroglyphs were carved on the walls, along with birds and fish and flowers and fruit. An earlier alchemist, Simon, had written his name in several places in letters of gold and silver.

On Dee’s first day out he discovered a river spanned by a long, handsome bridge. Coaches drove noisily back and forth, their drivers swearing and lashing their whips, but there was space for those on foot as well. Curious, he went across.

On the other side he saw an arch flanked by two towers. As soon as he passed under the arch all the bells in all the spires rang out at once. All over the city something was taking wing, ascending … . Were they angels? His heart began to beat loudly. Then they settled back, wings flapping, and he realized that they were just birds, pigeons and seagulls for the most part.

Whatever happened later, this was his first impression, and an enduring one—that Prague was haunted with angels.

This side of the river was grander than the one he lived in. He saw a forest of statues and cupolas and cathedrals, spires and dark towers, a blur of copper domes and red roofs. People thronged the streets, priests and beggars and scholars and tradesmen. Huge houses with carved facades stood by the side of the road, dwarfing the people. Carts and coaches squealed on the cobblestones. And over all of it loomed a castle on a hill, King Rudolfs domain.

He soon discovered that everything had two names in this city, which confused him until he realized that one was German and one Czech. The river dividing Prague, for example— it had been called the Moldau on his maps, but the Czechs called it the Vltava. He heard a babel of other languages as well, Latin and Dutch and Italian and others he could not recognize. London was as big as Prague, perhaps even bigger, but London was isolated, a backwater compared to this, and the only language one ever heard there was English.

Well, of course Prague would be greater than London, Dee thought. It was the capital of the Holy Roman Empire, a German confederacy that stretched from the Italian states all the way to Russia. And farther still, if you counted all the marriages and alliances the Habsburgs had made. King Rudolf’s uncle, for example, was King Philip of Spain, Elizabeth’s old enemy.

He felt very small, and sorry for his country and sovereign. They should be greater, an empire, Britannia. After all, he had once drawn up a genealogy proving that Elizabeth was descended from King Arthur.

He began to walk and came almost immediately to a church. It was small and unassuming, nothing like the grand cathedrals the Catholics built. He remembered that there was something called the Czech Brethren, that a man named Jan Hus had once challenged the Roman church.

And yet now he saw that there was a cathedral on this street as well. Did Rudolf allow the two faiths to exist side by side? How could that work, how were they kept from violence? Or did violence flare out anyway?

He should know more about this strange place where he had come to rest, washed ashore like so much sea-wrack. But they had left in such a hurry … . He wished he had had more time.

The next day he kept to his side of the bridge. The streets across the river had been clean, far cleaner than those in London, paved with cobblestones and swept often. The streets in his neighborhood, however, seemed to belong to a different city; they were poorly-drained, littered with refuse, so muddy that carts sank up to their axles. There were mice here, too, and other vermin; once he saw a cat study a rat, its haunches twitching, until it finally sprang in a blur of speed.

His wanderings brought him to a walled city within the city. He looked in through an open gate; the people inside went about their business like everyone else, sweeping and building, shopping and gossiping. But why did none of them go out? And why did no one come in? He took a step toward the gate, but several people on both sides frowned at him and he backed away.

On both sides of the river he saw alchemists and conjurers selling herbs and elixirs, powders and gemstones from their booths by the side of the road. A few even claimed to have the Philosopher’s Stone. They beckoned and called out to him as he passed but he ignored them.

But there were others in the city, powerful-looking men who walked the streets purposefully, going about on their own mysterious errands. Several times he saw a man wrapped in a black cloak with two giant black mastiffs by his side: one of the dogs had only one eye and the other three legs. And once he saw a tall man who held himself like an aristocrat but wore the clothing of a lower class; he carried a vial and spoke as if to a companion next to him, but as Dee came closer he saw that there was no one there. He longed to talk to these people, to trade knowledge with them, maybe even ask them for help, but something—their mystery, their haughty bearing—stopped him.

On August twenty-fourth a strange thing happened—Hageck’s son informed him that, in spite of what the angels had told him, his friend Henry Sidney was not dead. The angels could not lie, Dee knew that. The message about Sidney must have come from the demon, then, and so had the horrible prophecy about Dee’s wife. Dee gave thanks that they had left Poland when they did, that his wife would be fine, that they had, perhaps, escaped the demon’s notice.

Three days later an angry and bewildered letter came from Prince Laski. Why had Dee left Poland in such a hurry? Why hadn’t he told Laski about his plans? “I am sending a messenger to Prague,” Laski said, “and if my man does not get satisfactory answers from you then my patronage will come to an end.”

Dee hid the letter away. Now, truly, all his hopes were pinned on the emperor.

He continued to send messages to Rudolf. Once he climbed up to the palace itself, wondering how far he would get before he was turned back. There was an unguarded moat in front of him and he crossed it. A lion roared from somewhere and he looked around in alarm. He saw nothing, no animals, no courtiers, not even any servants.

A man stepped out from behind a hedge. His clothing was good, Dee saw, and he had a well-trimmed beard and full cheeks and lips. Was he from Rudolf’s court? Dee headed toward him, formulating a polite German phrase as he went.

The man brandished a rake and yelled something in Czech. Dee stepped back. Was he a gardener? Did even the gardeners dress well in this country? Perhaps he was a courtier who enjoyed working with plants, Dee thought, someone who would report to Rudolf that he had been trespassing. He quickly spoke a few words to change his appearance, shifting his shape so that he seemed smaller and fatter. The gardener returned to his plants and Dee headed back toward the moat, walking slowly so the other man would not realize he had been alarmed.

Jane arrived the next day. She had left Rowland, who was not yet two, in Poland with a nurse, and brought Arthur and Katherine with her. She was not near term but Dee scoured the city for a midwife, wanting to be prepared when the time came. He found only a dirty foul-mouthed crone who smelled of sweat and animals and excrement and other, perhaps worse, things. In his desperation he nearly hired her, but then, fortunately, Hageck found him a stout woman from the country. The woman spoke no German and Dee no Czech, but somehow Dee managed to convey to her that he would have need of her in a few months’ time.

Jane and the children settled in. Jane complained about the smell from Kelley’s experiments but for the most part she was too busy learning her way around the city to argue as forcefully as she once did. Arthur and Katherine played out in the streets and came home speaking what sounded like whole sentences in Czech or German.

Laski’s man arrived, and to Dee’s horror Kelley immediately got into a drunken fight with him. Dee wrote of the incident, “God suffered E. K. to be tempted and almost overcome by Satan: to my great grief, discomfort, and most great discredit, if it should come to the emperor’s understanding.”

But the emperor had not heard, or had taken no notice, because the next day, September third, a man wearing Rudolf’s livery knocked at their door. Dee’s request for an audience had been granted.