“Watch out, you clod!” Johann got to his feet and was about to find a way out of the throngs of people when he caught a glimpse of the papal dignitaries following the throne.
His heart skipped a beat.
One of the men was Viktor von Lahnstein.
In all the chaos, he hadn’t noticed the papal representative sooner, partly because Lahnstein wore a wide hood. Johann caught his breath. He hadn’t seen Lahnstein in more than two years, but there was no doubt. The same bushy eyebrows, the same piercing look, the same gaunt, tall appearance. Just like during their first encounter at Bamberg, the papal delegate wore the snow-white gown of a Dominican and a large wooden rosary around his neck. As Lahnstein looked up, Johann realized with horror why the man was wearing a hood.
Lahnstein’s face was that of a monster, his nose nothing more than a tiny lump with two holes, like the nose of a dog or of one of the panthers Johann had just seen—a beast of prey in the body of a human.
For a brief moment, Johann thought his old nemesis might have recognized him in the crowd. Lahnstein’s head jerked to the right, his eyes flashing hatefully, but then he looked straight ahead again. Several other Dominicans walked beside him, praising the Lord in loud voices.
Johann felt enormous rage rise up in him. He wanted to run and throw himself at Lahnstein, the man who had probably abducted his daughter. But then he would never find out what had happened to Greta. And so he let the moment pass, his breathing slowly calming down. He took a few steps back and let the procession pass him by. Then, using the pope’s throne as a point of orientation, Johann began following the retinue at a safe distance. They walked to the Lateran Basilica and then all the way back to Saint Peter’s. For almost three hours Johann followed them patiently.
When the procession turned toward the construction site near the Tiber, something unexpected happened. The group of Dominicans split from the train and strode toward a big, gloomy building that was surrounded by a wall with four towers.
Castel Sant’Angelo.
A gate opened, and the Dominicans, including Viktor von Lahnstein, disappeared inside as if swallowed by a huge whale.
For a long while Johann remained standing on Sant’Angelo Bridge, which stretched across the Tiber directly in front of the castle. He had found Lahnstein, and yet the man was out of reach. Castel Sant’Angelo was probably the only building in Rome that was even more heavily guarded than the papal palace.
Was Greta inside?
After waiting indecisively for more than a quarter of an hour, Johann hurried across the bridge toward Piazza Navona. During the short walk back to the hostel, Johann couldn’t stop thinking about the maimed face of his enemy. Had Karl gone back to the hostel? He couldn’t wait to tell him what had happened. They needed a plan—an idea for how they might find out more about Lahnstein. Johann felt the old familiar urgency return, his ambitious need to get to the bottom of things that had brought him so far. His brain worked at full speed.
There must be a way. There always is one!
He was so deeply in thought that he nearly missed the hulk of a man standing in the lane.
The huge fellow was standing opposite Santa Maria dell’Anima Church, talking to one of the priests. The man was so tall that he had to bend down to hear the corpulent clergyman. Johann would have recognized the man anywhere.
It was Hagen.
Johann held his breath.
They had found him.
Johann shoved the door open and stormed into their room at the inn. He was out of breath from racing up the steep stairs to the attic, where, to his relief, he found Karl waiting for him.
“Pack your bags—we must get away—” he began but broke off when he saw that someone else was in the room.
A boy was lying in Karl’s bed.
Anger welled up in Johann. “Don’t tell me you didn’t show up because you were busy amusing yourself. I can’t believe you—”
He broke off again when he realized how pale and sad Karl’s expression was. He took a closer look at the boy. He was a child of about twelve years—much too young to interest Karl. His skin was the color of marble, and his eyes were closed. His hands lay folded on top of the blanket as if he were praying.
Or as if he were . . .
“My God,” breathed Johann, rushing to the bedside and touching the boy’s ice-cold hands. “What in God’s name happened here?”
“A crane toppled and crushed his rib cage at the construction site of Saint Peter’s,” said Karl dejectedly. “I was on my way to meet you when it happened. I carried the boy here to care for him, but it was too late.” He wiped his eyes. “And yet it was a miracle.”
“A miracle? Why on earth would a dead child be a miracle?”
“Because”—Karl paused—“because he might have given us the decisive clue to Greta’s whereabouts.”
“Greta’s whereabouts?” Johann stood as if rooted to the spot.
His plan had been to flee immediately. It wouldn’t be long until Hagen found them here. But now everything seemed to happen at once.
“What are you saying? He knew Greta?” he asked hoarsely.
“One time, the boy was very ill. A nasty cough, apparently,” explained Karl. “He was taken to the Hospital Santo Spirito in Sassia, which is right beneath Vatican Hill—it’s the oldest hospital in Italy, if not the world. Even beggars and paupers get treated there, and by trained physicians.”
“And what does any of this have to do with Greta?” asked Johann impatiently.
“The brothers working there are assisted by canonesses, nuns wearing white garments. The boy told me about a young sister who can foresee a patient’s death in the palms of their hands. She’s considered a great healer, and yet she is feared. The poor folks know of her ability and talk about it in whispers.” Karl gave a sad smile. “They call her la donna bianca, the white woman, and also la tedesca, the German one.” He paused. “Apparently this young sister has flaxen hair.”
“Greta,” groaned Johann. “By God, it might truly be Greta. We must go to this hospital immediately!”
“I knew you would say that. But I would like to ask you to help me take this poor boy over to the church first.” Karl nodded at the pale child. “He deserves a worthy send-off.”
Johann shook his head. “We . . . we can’t go in that church. In fact, we should be getting out of the German quarter as fast as we can.”
In hasty words he told Karl what had happened in the last few hours, culminating with the sighting of Hagen with a priest right outside their lodging. “I’m guessing it’s the same priest I spoke to in confession yesterday. I was so stupid! I never should have gone there, and now it’s too late. Hagen might very well be standing outside the inn’s door as we speak.”
“I won’t leave this boy behind without one last prayer,” insisted Karl. “We owe him that much.” He knelt beside the bed and folded his hands. Johann cursed under his breath and knelt down next to him.
“Domine, exaudi vocem meam. Fiant aures tuae intendentes in vocem deprecationis meae,” Karl muttered and said a few more Latin psalms.
Johann felt like he prayed for an eternity. They needed to get away from here! If Hagen found them now, Johann would never see Greta again. It occurred to him that to God, every life was equally precious—Greta’s life weighed as much as this poor lad’s. Nonetheless, he struggled to hold still.
When Karl had finally finished, he stood up and kissed the boy’s cold forehead. “You’re in a better place now,” whispered Karl. “May God keep your soul.”
Only then did he pick up his coat and hat, following Johann downstairs and out into the street.
The Hospital Santo Spirito in Sassia stood by a bend in the Tiber not far from the papal palaces. And yet it seemed like a different world.
Several rotting barges floated on the murky water, which stank worse here than in other places in Rome. The bloated cadaver of a pig slowly drifted by. The hospital itself was a gloomy complex with a church and
a campanile at one end. There were two entrances, one of them for carts, and even this late in the afternoon they arrived continuously. On one lay an older man, moaning and thrashing about wildly. A younger man and a woman, probably his relatives, tried to hold him down and spoke soothing words to him. Knights Hospitallers in black habits with the cross of the order hurried past the cart. Next to the gate, several beggars and sick people hoped for alms.
Breathing heavily, Karl glanced back down the street, fearing someone might have followed them. They had come straight from Piazza Navona, having left the inn through the back door to avoid running into Hagen. They’d left behind almost all their belongings in their room, along with the dead boy. Karl had left a few coins for his burial and hoped the innkeeper wouldn’t pocket them.
There was a long line of people waiting outside the other, smaller entrance. A cripple with no legs pleaded with a passing monk, who blessed him and gave him a crust of bread. This close to the river, the ground was muddy and covered in filth, and carts struggled to get through the lane. Karl couldn’t believe that only a stone’s throw away, the pope lived in pomp and splendor.
“So?” he asked quietly. “What do we do now? Line up?”
“We don’t have the time. And besides, I’m seriously ill.” Faust hunched over and let his right arm hang down limply, just like when he had been struck by Tonio’s curse. Saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth. “I think it is the falling sickness. You’ll have to hold me up.”
Karl couldn’t help but smile. It was just like years ago when they used to trick an audience during their acts, only Karl would play the ill man who was healed miraculously by the doctor’s homemade theriac. If they really found Greta, perhaps things could go back to the way they used to be.
Johann put his arm around Karl’s, and together they limped past the line, causing some of the beggars to complain loudly. In a small hut next to the door sat the gatekeeper, eyeing them suspiciously.
“Dove volete andare?” asked the short man in harsh Italian. “We don’t accept any more patients today. Come back tomorrow.”
“No physician wants to treat my father,” wailed Karl and made the sign of the cross. “They say he is cursed.”
“What’s wrong with him?” asked the gatekeeper.
“Morbus maledicta,” said Karl in a low voice. “When my old man gets angry, he starts swearing profusely and utters curses that sometimes come true.” He exchanged a look with Johann. “Holy Mother Mary, it’s starting again! Look!”
Johann was twitching violently and began to mutter incomprehensibly, spittle running out of his mouth. He raised a trembling finger toward the gatekeeper, who took a step back. The other people in line also stepped aside fearfully.
“That is awful!” exclaimed the gatekeeper. “Make him take down that finger before something bad happens.”
Karl sighed theatrically. “That will only make it worse. The last person my father cursed only had two weeks to live. It started with diarrhea and pus-filled ulcers, and then—”
“Go to the Corsia Sistina and ask for a physician,” said the gatekeeper, cutting him off. “Now. Get away from me!”
Karl gave him a nod and led the dribbling and twitching doctor into the huge hospital grounds.
Once they were out of sight, Johann straightened up and grinned. “Morbus maledicta—what wonderful nonsense.”
Karl blushed. Praise from the doctor was rare. “Sometimes all it takes is a few Latin terms. I learned that at the university.” He walked ahead and looked around searchingly. “Getting past the gatekeeper was probably the easiest part. This hospital is enormous.”
“Let us find the Corsia Sistina,” said Faust. “I gather that’s the treatment room. Maybe we can ask patients about a young German nun. If Greta really does work here, someone must know her.”
The hospital was a maze of passageways, courtyards, and buildings. Several times they passed Knights Hospitallers in black and canonesses wearing white scapulars and white bonnets.
Donne bianche—white women, thought Karl. Is Greta one of them?
Many of the sisters looked very young. Karl knew that canonesses often were daughters from good families who helped in the monasteries without taking vows. He admired them for giving up their comfortable homes in order to dedicate their lives to the poor and the sick. And there were plenty of those here. Long rows of cots lined the corridors, and lying atop them were the most pitiful creatures, scarcely covered with threadbare, stained sheets. Many of the men and women had scabies, their bloodied heads shorn. Some wore bandages saturated with pus, while others coughed or cried out for water. The young sisters leaned over them, soothing them and applying salves or feeding them gruel. In between, men of the order administered clysters and pills.
When Karl and Johann had crossed two more courtyards, they found themselves at the entrance to a larger hall. In his time as a student of medicine, Karl had seen some big hospitals, but never before had he seen a hall that served exclusively for the treatment of the ill. The space actually consisted of two high-ceilinged wings that were connected by an octagonal church room in the middle. The walls were whitewashed, and evening light streamed in through skylights. Countless beds filled the halls, with narrow walkways in between where canonesses scurried along with busy steps, their billowing scapulars giving them an angelic look. The air stank of disease and excrement and pungent medication. But unlike the hospitals back home, this place didn’t remind Karl of a realm of the dead, perhaps because of the fresh white walls but also because of the pretty young sisters, going about their tasks diligently and without complaint.
“Have you registered? Patients aren’t permitted to enter the Corsia alone.”
Karl jumped. He hadn’t noticed the older sister approach them. He could tell by the silver rosary around her neck that she was the mother superior. At least they knew now that they were in the right place.
“Um, we aren’t patients,” he said.
“You’re not?” The mother superior seemed suspicious now, tilting her head to the side like an owl. “Then who are you? You have no business being here.”
“We . . . we are looking for my niece,” said Johann. “We traveled all the way from the German lands to pay her a visit. Do you know her? She . . .” He paused. “Her name is Greta. Flaxen hair, early twenties. We’ve been told she is helping here at the hospital.”
“Greta?” The old nun raised an eyebrow. “Well, this is rather unusual. Visitors must apply for an appointment first, or else anyone could come along. But since you’re already here.” She sighed. “Flaxen hair and German, you say?”
Karl and Johann nodded in silence, and Karl saw the doctor trembling and clenching his fists.
The silence stretched and became almost tangible, but finally the nun smiled. “I believe I know who you’re looking for.”
“Yes?” croaked Johann.
“She works back there.” The mother superior gestured toward the far end of the wing they had entered, where the arcades opened into the church room beyond. “You may speak with her briefly. But not for long! Sister Greta is one of our most capable hands, despite her young age. It is nearly time for vespers, and she still has many patients to prepare for the night.”
Karl looked in the direction the nun had pointed out.
And then he saw her.
Praise the Lord, he thought, struggling to hide his emotions. We have found her!
Like all other sisters in the hall, Greta wore the simple habit of the canonesses, a black robe with a white scapular and a white bonnet. They couldn’t actually see much of her face. But Karl recognized her instantly. Several blonde strands of hair had slipped out of the knot and were hanging into her face, her eyes cast downward in concentration. She was bandaging the arm of an old man whose face was disfigured by pockmarks and weeping wounds. Nevertheless, she was smiling—a smile that Karl remembered well. How could he ever forget this smile? He had known Greta since she was fourteen; she had been like a li
ttle sister to him when they had traveled the lands alongside the great Doctor Faustus—the happiest time in his life. For two long years he hadn’t seen her, and once more the vague memory from their last encounter at Tiffauges Castle came to his mind.
I’m going to Rome, Karl.
Greta hadn’t noticed them yet. When Karl glanced at the doctor, he saw that he was shaking heavily, almost as if the accursed disease had flared up again.
“What is the matter?” asked the old nun beside them. “Aren’t you pleased to see your niece?”
“I am . . . It’s just . . .” Johann’s voice was low and husky. “I’m not sure she’ll be pleased to see me.”
“How do you mean?”
“Things . . . things happened in the last few years.” Turning away from the stupefied mother superior, Johann whispered to Karl, “I want you to go to her on your own. Tell her I’m waiting in the church.” He jerked his head toward the towerlike building that connected the two halls. “Tell her that . . .” He faltered. “That I am incredibly sorry. That I would like to explain everything to her.”
“Explain everything?” Karl frowned. “If you say so.”
He gave the nun a grateful nod and started to walk toward Greta—the only woman who truly meant something to him and whom he had missed for so long.
Johann’s gaze followed him.
Greta still hadn’t looked up, entirely absorbed by the task of changing the old man’s bandage. Then Karl addressed her. She looked up and gave a small cry as she dropped the copper bowl she had been holding. The clatter echoed through the hall. Thankfully, the mother superior had moved to a different part of the building, so that only a few patients turned their heads. Karl picked up the bowl for Greta, then he embraced her for a long moment. Johann heard his daughter sob. A thick, slimy lump sat in his throat and he was still shaking, his eye welling up. And yet he couldn’t cry, nor could he walk over to his daughter.
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