Now they could see a high bridge made of stone spanning the landscape. “One of the famous aqueducts,” said Johann excitedly to Karl, who was holding up his hand against the blinding sun.
Even though it was nearly October, temperatures were still extremely hot. Johann pointed at the arches of the bridge, which was crumbling in many places even as it stretched across the landscape like a snake.
“Once upon a time, the aqueducts brought water from faraway to the city. There were baths, cold ones as well as warm ones heated with fire in underground stoves. Those baths were huge basins created for the enjoyment of all Romans—poor and rich, men and women. They were called thermal baths.” He gave a sigh. “So many things disappeared with the Romans, and it is going take a very long time before those accomplishments return—if ever.”
“But those Romans also used to set wild animals on Christians in their circuses,” said Karl. “And they loved to watch as gladiators brutally killed each other. Rather barbaric, if you ask me.”
Johann nodded. “Man carries both sides within himself—he is angel and demon at once.” Quietly he added, “Who’d know better than me?”
They had come down the Via Francigena, the old pilgrimage route that led into the holy city from the north. From Arles their road had led first to Genoa and then to Pisa, then across the Apennine Mountains, which Johann knew from his previous journey through Italy. Back then he had traveled with a troupe of jugglers, performing shows in every city and town. Now, too, war raged in Italy, powerful rulers fighting for predominance in Europe. The German emperor had allied with Pope Leo X and the king of England against France, and Milan was close to falling back to the empire. Many times in recent weeks Johann and Karl had passed refugees carrying their few belongings and dragging along snotty-nosed, whining children.
Johann lifted his head tiredly and looked around. The dusty road had steadily filled with travelers since the morning. Many were clad in pilgrims’ garb like he and Karl wore. Some shuffled toward the walls of Rome on their knees and with lowered heads, while others sang loudly or prayed rosaries along the way. Johann listened to the monotonous litanies and emotional pleas; from his time in Venice as a young juggler, he spoke a little Italian. But he also heard a few German voices, Spanish ones, French speakers, and even a few Englishmen. The world still came together in Rome.
They entered the city through a tall old gate made of bronze that hung crookedly on its hinges. Johann instantly struggled with the stink. They had already smelled it out in the fields, hanging above the landscape like a toxic cloud. Now it was so intense that Johann breathed only though his mouth. Once upon a time, the Cloaca Maxima flushed the excrement of thousands of Romans into the Tiber, but that was long ago. These days, trash and feces, as well as human and animal remains, simply stayed in the narrow, winding lanes. Ragged beggars, crippled soldiers, garishly made-up whores, and other dubious figures hung about the corners, hungrily watching the travelers and pilgrims who poured into the city hour after hour. It was a loud and steady stream in which Johann and Karl drifted like corks, past ruins, hastily erected barracks, and derelict temples taken apart for building materials. In between, cattle grazed on overgrown spaces among headless statues. There were monuments everywhere, immortalizing deities whose names had long been forgotten.
The deeper they went into the center of the city, the more they also saw newly built churches, monasteries, and palaces. In the distance they saw a large unfinished structure on the other side of the Tiber. Scaffolding and cranes with pulleys stood on a large square, and several stone arches rose behind them. A mountain of rubble told of a previous building.
“The new Saint Peter’s Basilica,” said Johann to Karl. “Leo’s pride and joy, and perhaps his downfall, too. Pope Julius started the project. Leo wants to complete the basilica as fast as possible as a monument to himself. But now he’s lacking the money from the trade with indulgences from the empire.” Johann chuckled. “No wonder he’s trying to make gold. This Luther truly came at the wrong time for him.”
In the last two years, the writings of Martin Luther had spread through the empire like wildfire, and to many Germans, the pope had become the symbol of the Antichrist. In the eyes of those Germans, Rome stood for decadence, whoring, and debauchery. The pope had excommunicated Luther, but the former monk enjoyed the protection of many German rulers, most notably the Saxon prince-elector Friedrich. Only this year Luther had been permitted to defend his theses once more at the diet at Worms, following which the emperor imposed an imperial ban upon him. Since then Luther had vanished, possibly with the aid of Prince-Elector Friedrich.
“I wonder if Pope Leo still wants you as an alchemist and manufacturer of gold?” said Karl.
Johann shrugged. “We should keep a low profile, in any case. We are God-fearing pilgrims, nothing else.” He gestured to the east. “I heard that German pilgrims like to take lodgings near the Piazza Navona. There’s some kind of German community with craftsmen, taverns, and a newly built German church. I think we should find somewhere to stay there and keep an ear out.”
“Keep an ear out for what?” asked Karl. “For news of a German girl named Greta who came to Rome about two years ago? There are probably as many poor German girls in Rome as statues of the Virgin Mary.”
“I know,” snarled Johann. “But it’s a start, isn’t it?”
Johann hadn’t put much thought into the question of how they were supposed to find Greta in the maze of Roman alleys. Hope alone had brought him this far, but now, among thousands of people, their undertaking seemed utterly foolish. Greta could be anywhere and nowhere. She might not even be in Rome any longer.
Or no longer be alive, thought Johann with a pang.
At least it proved to be easy to merge with the crowd among all the German pilgrims. Around the Piazza Navona a variety of German and Germanic dialects could be heard—like Swabian, Tyrolean, Dutch, and Bavarian. It was as if they were walking through a city in Germany. Johann and Karl took a room at an inn near the square and soon sat in the taproom over a sparse meal. Johann took his wine thinned with water now; during the last two years, he had drunk enough to last a lifetime.
“So, what do we know?” he began, chewing on a piece of salty ewe’s cheese and pushing the loaf of bread toward Karl. “Viktor von Lahnstein brought my daughter to Rome with him. Why?”
“If his plan was to lure you to Rome that way, he didn’t make much of an effort to let you know,” replied Karl.
“‘You must return to me of your own free will,’” murmured Johann.
“What did you say?”
“‘You must return to me of your own free will,’” repeated Johann. “That was what Tonio told me back at Nuremberg. Remember? It’s the only way for the pact to succeed. It’s an ancient rule.”
“So . . . so you’re saying that Tonio is behind all this?” asked Karl with disbelief. “He wants to lure you to Rome?”
“I don’t know, damn it! But he abducted my daughter before. Maybe he’s done it again with the help of Lahnstein? Tonio has a score to settle with me and—” Johann broke off.
“What is it?” asked Karl.
And I own something he desperately wishes to have.
He still hadn’t told Karl about the tiny silver globe and its baleful contents—in part because he hadn’t made up his mind whether to give the globe to Tonio after all.
In exchange for my daughter.
“I think it’s quite enough for God’s representative on earth to be involved. The devil doesn’t need to be part of it also,” said Karl, shaking his head. “No, I believe Lahnstein wanted to strike you where it hurts the most. Greta is his revenge for what you did to him in Bamberg. He takes your daughter, but instead of killing her, he . . .” Karl closed his eyes, trying to focus. “Back at Tiffauges when I saw Greta for the last time, she was no prisoner. In hindsight it seems to me like she went with Lahnstein voluntarily. But why?”
“It’s no use.” Johann rose. “We mu
st make inquiries. If need be, even among the papal staff. We must find out what became of Lahnstein. Perhaps he’s the key to all our questions.”
“That means risking attracting the attention of that horrible Hagen again,” said Karl. “This is their city, don’t forget.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” Johann nodded glumly. “But it’s about the life of my daughter and the part I played in getting her here. I must right my wrongs no matter the risk.”
It took a few days for Johann to find his bearings in this city. He had been to many large cities before—Nuremberg, Augsburg, Venice—but Rome was different, inspiring and draining at once. Enormous ruins rose at every corner, the imposing Colosseum only one of many. Rome was like a wasteland where thousands of new blossoms sprouted from the earth. Under the rule of the last two popes especially, plentiful new and magnificent churches and palaces had been erected, but in between, the citizens continued to live in foul-smelling hovels. Johann soon noticed that vast parts of the city were barely inhabited. Once he left the larger streets and pilgrimage sites behind, the city became eerily quiet, like a moor or a forest. Since the water supply had broken down, some of the hills the city was built upon were practically deserted, beyond a few beggars and thieves. On the other hand, the quarter on the far bank of the Tiber and the area around Vatican Hill flourished, and a multitude of tradesmen and officials had settled there in the vicinity of the papal palaces.
Karl and Johann soon learned that it was nearly impossible to enter the Mons Vaticanus. It was surrounded by a high wall, and the gates were manned by Swiss guards. Cardinals and other high-ranking dignitaries came and went all the time, so Johann thought it possible that Viktor von Lahnstein, as papal representative, also lived within those walls. But where was Greta? How would they ever find out? The pope himself only rarely appeared in public. The next occasion wouldn’t be until All Saints’ Day at the start of November—more than four weeks from now.
Karl had taken up drawing again. He used every spare hour to roam the hills and capture with charcoal the many ruins, churches, and statues. In addition, he was working on a map to help them find their way through the labyrinth of Roman lanes. His map showed the city not from the side, as was customary, but from above—a technique Karl had learned from Leonardo da Vinci. During the daytime, they visited the various quarters among the hills, asking people in the streets and at pilgrims’ hostels about a blonde German girl named Greta, but without success. In the evening, they would sit over Karl’s map in silence, brooding, their hopes fading.
“If Greta went with Lahnstein voluntarily, then he had plans for her,” said Karl. “Then it would be likely that she’s somewhere near him.”
“Which would be on Vatican Hill.” Johann groaned and tapped his finger on the map. “It’s a huge area and well guarded.”
“So were the Nuremberg dungeons, and we still managed to get in,” said Karl. “Why shouldn’t we do it again?” He smiled. “You’re a wizard, remember?”
“I’m afraid my time as a great magician is over,” said Johann glumly. “I’m a drunk whose hands shake even doing the simplest card tricks.”
Increasingly, they went their separate ways. Karl liked to visit the wealth of churches, admiring the frescoes and altars, many of them created during the reign of the current pope. It was as if Leo X was trying to build not only a new basilica but an entire new city as a monument to himself—a city that was still laced with heathen beliefs.
“This morning, I went past the Mons Palatinus,” said Karl one evening as they sat together over bread, olives, and cheese. “There, some commoners still pray to Romulus and Remus.” He shook his head. “Allegedly, there are remains of a cave where the two brothers were nursed by a she-wolf. What a ridiculous notion!”
“Really?” Johann smiled. “Weren’t those brothers abandoned as infants and washed ashore in a willow basket on the banks of the Tiber? And didn’t Romulus kill his brother later on before founding Rome?”
“Yes, I think that’s how the story goes.” Karl frowned. “Why?”
“Well, Moses was also abandoned in a willow basket on a river, and Cain killed his brother, Abel. So, the one story is a ridiculous notion while the other is true belief? Where is the difference?”
“Debating with you is probably more exhausting than debating that Luther.”
“I’m not debating, merely posing questions,” replied Johann. “Just like the Greek philosopher Socrates used to do. Questions bring light to the darkness of the world.”
Unlike Karl, Johann avoided the churches. They offered no consolation to him; on the contrary. Whenever Johann stood before a crucifix, he thought he could feel the Savior’s sad eyes on him. At night, when Karl was asleep, Johann often took out the silver globe, wondering if he oughtn’t destroy its contents after all. If Tonio was the one who’d lured him to Rome, then the master would find him.
And with him, the globe.
Following yet another sleepless night, Johann decided to do something he hadn’t done since childhood. He made the decision as he stood outside the Santa Maria dell’Anima Church, the German church near the Piazza Navona. It was after sunset, but the church door was still open.
Johann took a deep breath and entered the gloomy building; unlike many other churches in town, it had been built in the old-fashioned German style. Johann headed straight for the confessionals, in the eastern transept. Inside one of them flickered the light of a candle. Johann closed the small door behind him and sat down on the bench. He could vaguely make out the silhouette of a person through the wooden partition.
“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen,” said Johann, reciting the ancient formula.
“May God, who guides our way, give you true insight of your sins and of His forgiveness,” sounded a male voice with a soft Franconian accent.
Johann began haltingly. “Father, I . . . I have sinned. More than most people could imagine.”
“God’s grace is infinite if you show remorse,” said the priest gently. “Relieve your conscience.”
“I . . . I only ever thought of myself and . . . and let nobody get in my way.”
“Are you saying that you . . . ?”
“That I have killed, yes,” said Johann. “Not with evil intent, however—I was . . . I was drugged. The man my daughter loved died by my hand. I wish I could undo it. But that’s not all.” He swallowed. “Others have died because I chose the wrong path, because I placed knowledge and learning above the commandment of love. Those I loved the most had to suffer. My path is paved with ill luck and pain, Father. With restlessness and discontent. But my intentions were always for the best. The devil is reaching out for me, even now.”
“Who else did you kill?” asked the priest.
“Father, I have a question,” said Johann quickly. “It is this question which brought me here. What weighs more heavily? The life of one’s own child or that of humanity?”
“What sort of a question is that?” sounded the surprised voice of the priest. “Murder is always a deadly sin.”
Johann leaned forward until his lips nearly touched the wooden partition. He spoke very quietly now. “May I save my daughter if doing so puts the lives of many others at risk? Imagine—just theoretically—that the devil offers you a pact. Your own daughter or mankind? Jesus died at the cross to save us all. He sacrificed himself for us. Does that mean I must also sacrifice my daughter?”
“That . . . that is blasphemy!” exclaimed the priest. “Watch your tongue, my son!”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Because it cannot be answered. One life weighs as much as any other. Think of the words of Jesus Christ. ‘What you did to the least of my brothers, you did to me.’”
Johann said nothing for a few moments. “I . . . I’m sorry,” he said after a while. “I shouldn’t have come. It was a mistake.”
He was about to leave the confessional, but then he sat back down, the words pouring out of him.
“And yet the church sacrifices people. By the thousands! She forces her sheep into so-called holy wars, murdering and looting in order to follow the true path. How many men and women have been burned to death innocently or fallen on the battlefields? How many Christians have been sacrificed for the true faith?” Johann’s voice had grown louder and could be heard outside the confessionals now. “The end justifies the means—isn’t that what they say? That which holds true for the pope and his followers ought to apply to the belief in reason also, to science. Why can inquisitors like Viktor von Lahnstein elevate themselves above others, kidnapping and murdering in the name of the church, while the common folk aren’t permitted to do any of those things? God says nothing about that!”
“You . . . you are confused, son,” replied the priest, shuffling uncomfortably on his bench behind the partition. “Stop before you burden yourself with more deadly sins!”
“I have laden so many deadly sins upon myself, one more won’t matter. Save your breath, Father. I am the only one who can forgive myself. Homo Deus est.”
With those words, Johann stormed out of the confessional, down the nave, and out into the dark street. He was so full of anger. At the same time he cursed himself for his stupidity. How could he have believed that he would find solace and answers in a church, of all places? The church had taken his daughter from him, just like it had done with his beloved years ago. For centuries Christianity had been nothing but a pawn in the hands of power-hungry despots who thought only of their own interests. Pope Leo was just a link in a long chain. The popes had never cared for the people. The individual man was nothing to them.
Only then did Johann realize that he had used the same words in the confessional that Tonio and his men used to say. It had been their motto.
Homo Deus est.
Man is his own god. Johann couldn’t expect any help or advice from above. At least that insight had come out of his church visit.
He had to decide for himself what was right and what was wrong.
The Devil's Pawn Page 45
