Luther, his companion, and the warrior are standing next to each other in the great hall of Wartburg castle. The hall is so big and relatively empty, that Luther feels it is a waste of space.
A hand armed with expensive rings rises before the three men, waving the warrior away. The warrior heads to the door after showing respect. He stops and looks back at the companion, who is still standing next to Luther. Pulling the companion’s shirt, he shows the door with his head. Luther nods when the confused companion consults him with his eyes. The companion mocks the warrior’s way of showing respect and follows him.
Luther takes his eyes off the owner of the ring-heavy hand and onto the two men leaving the hall. The hall being big, it takes a while for the two to reach the door. The door is shut behind them when they finally exit the hall. Still facing the door, Luther has no rush to look back at the hand laden with rings. There is a moment of silence.
“You are a lucky man, Luther,” Luther hears, finally. “You have gained his majesty’s favor.”
Luther reluctantly turns his gaze back to the voice. “Say my sincere thanks to Prince Frederick,” Luther says sarcastically, “for promising safe conduct if I would appear in the Diet of Worms, and also thank him for knowing that the promise is void and catches me before the Holy Roman Empire’s soldiers do.”
Pfaffinger, Frederick’s treasurer, is sitting on, not a throne, but quite a fancy chair. He is a 55-ish-year-old man, with the sly eyes of a politician. Jewelry is hanging from every corner of his luxurious outfit. Although he chuckles, his eyes give away that he is upset by Luther’s remark. “With a bitter tongue like that,” Pfaffinger responds, “I’m not surprised that the Pope wants your rebellious head.”
Pfaffinger, making a mirthless smile, stares at Luther. Luther is still analyzing the response to determine what kind of man he is dealing with. Atrocious dictators is what they are, Luther thinks; Emperor or Elector, they are all the same. Pfaffinger breaks the silence when gets no reaction. “But… you’re still alive, aren’t you?” he continues with a friendlier tone. “Come on, do sit please, join me for a drink. We should celebrate that you’re safe and sound with us.”
Pfaffinger pours red wine into two ornate silver cups that were waiting on the small table at his side. Sitting on the chair left of Pfaffinger, Luther picks up the silver cup. The contrast between the modesty of his chair and the extravagance of Pfaffinger’s is striking.
Both men are waiting for the other to start. Holding the cup in his hands, Luther stares at his reflection in the wine instead of looking at Pfaffinger. Pfaffinger finally leans forward, to the point that his head is very near Luther’s. “Charles once said,” he whispers, “I speak Spanish to God, Italian to women, French to men, and German to my horse.” He takes a moment for that to sink in. “German to my horse!” he repeats slowly. “It is time for good German people to gain their dignity back—”
“And give it to Frederick III, Elector of Saxony.”
This slaps Pfaffinger in the face. He seems upset but with no snappy response to deliver. Breathing heavily, he slowly leans back. For a few moments, he does nothing but taps his fingers on the table. He suddenly springs up from his royal chair and steps forward a bit, backs onto Luther. “If the Pope had truly supported the candidacy of our prince,” he yells, “Frederick would be sitting on the Holy Roman Emperor’s throne.” Pfaffinger turns to Luther, pointing at him. “Then you, my friend, would be speaking freely on German soil to common German people, and not being prosecuted by an Italian church, and escaping from the blade of a Spanish Emperor.”
Panting through his nose, Pfaffinger tries to hide his shaking hand behind him when noticing Luther’s staring eyes on it. Luther looks back at his reflection in the red wine.
A while after Pfaffinger regains his temper, he approaches Luther, leans down, holds his hands, and says: “The Pope has no power without the Emperor’s support, nor would you without that of Frederick. Your reformation would die in its inception if the Elector of Saxony doesn’t protect your church.”
Luther is still staring at the cup instead of looking at Pfaffinger. “Have faith, Luther,” Pfaffinger says, and with that Luther’s attention is immediately grabbed. He looks up at Pfaffinger, right into his eyes. “We all must,” Pfaffinger continues with a furtive smile. “The future of poor, common Germans is in your hand.”
Pfaffinger and Luther’s hands are joined together around the deluxe silver cup.