The sight of her was overwhelming, almost too much for him. She was obviously doing well. The smile on her lips when he’d first beheld her had been real, as if she had found an inner peace that was denied to him. Johann was afraid the smile would disappear if she saw him here at the hospital. That she would call him what he was.
The murderer of her intended.
Would she ever forgive him?
One more time Johann looked at Karl and Greta, still clinging to one another like a shipwrecked couple at sea, and then he walked over to the church and waited. Towering above the altar was a ciborium of colored marble, dedicated to Job, patron saint of those who suffer. Johann remembered the story about the devil challenging God by questioning Job’s faith. God tried His follower with numerous harsh blows, and in the end the devil lost the bet. God remained victorious.
Who wins in my story? wondered Johann, kneeling before the altar. God or the devil? His head was empty, and he felt incapable of saying a prayer, as much as he would have liked to.
Arcades along the sides of the church opened into the two wings of the Corsia Sistina, so that the patients could glimpse the altar from their beds. From his position on the ground, Johann couldn’t see Karl or Greta, and he was glad. He closed his eyes and folded his hands.
Greta, please forgive me. Dear God, forgive me.
Finally he heard footsteps. It was Karl, walking up to him with a pale and serious expression. He knelt down beside Johann and began to pray in silence. A long while passed.
“She told you, didn’t she?” asked Johann eventually. “She told you that I killed John Reed and that I nearly killed you, too, down in the crypt of Tiffauges. But did she also tell you that I wasn’t in my right mind? The black potion—”
“What happened back then no longer matters,” said Karl, his voice breaking. “What matters is that you kept it from me. Why?”
“I like to deal with things on my own,” replied Johann.
“Oh yes, I know that only too well.” Karl gave a dry laugh. “And it’s always been that way, hasn’t it? Then you won’t be surprised to learn that you will have to continue to deal with things on your own. Greta doesn’t want to see you.”
“I could come back tomorrow—”
“Don’t you understand?” Karl’s voice rose. “She doesn’t want to see you ever again. She is happy here, do you hear me? And she doesn’t want you to destroy this happiness, too. Viktor von Lahnstein arranged for her place here at the hospital, for whatever reason. Greta has found her calling as a sister and a healer. People appreciate and respect her—treating the sick has lent a purpose to her life that the likes of us are still searching for in books. Accept it, Doctor! Greta is no longer your daughter. She is going her own way now, and that is good. Let her go.”
Johann said nothing for a long while. To outsiders it looked as though two men were peacefully praying in front of the altar. But on the inside, Johann was in turmoil. Powerful emotions raged inside him—anger, disappointment, love, grief.
Greta is no longer your daughter.
“I . . . I cannot accept it,” he said eventually. “Not like this—not this easily.”
He rose tiredly and walked out through the church door into a courtyard, where a cool evening breeze and soft drizzle met his face, but he didn’t feel it.
Greta is no longer your daughter.
For the first time in his life, Johann felt much older than he was. Like a decrepit old man awaiting his death without hope and without salvation.
22
VIKTOR VON LAHNSTEIN WAITED IMPATIENTLY OUTSIDE THE double doors of one of the many papal reception chambers. The ceiling of the waiting room was as high as the nave of a church and was decorated with leaf gold, depicting the creation of the world in six days. Lahnstein felt like that was how long he’d been waiting, although it had only been an hour. Still, he had some very important news to share—and had reminded the soldiers of the Swiss guard by the door several times. But they had merely stared in silence at the hole in his face as if he was some kind of strange animal. Lahnstein had grown accustomed to such looks, but they still pained him.
Lahnstein sighed and gazed at the painting on the ceiling to calm his spirit. It had become increasingly difficult in recent months to get through to the Holy Father. Leo seemed to live in his very own world and often retreated into the depths of Castel Sant’Angelo. Even he, Viktor von Lahnstein, the personal representative of the pope, no longer had unlimited access to him, even though people were saying he was Leo’s private watchdog, his shadow.
A shadow he likes to walk all over, thought Lahnstein.
Whenever he was annoyed, the wound in his face burned like fire. Things had never been easy with the Medici pope, not even when Leo had first ascended the throne eight years ago. Yes, he was extremely clever and learned, but at the same time he could be as naive as a child. Those ridiculous theater plays and shows he hosted all the time—Leo loved to surround himself with fools, jugglers, and crazy folks. And he was seriously running out of money; the gifts to his favorites alone cost the Vatican eight thousand ducats a month. The fact that the curia pocketed plentiful bribery to appoint cardinals didn’t make a difference. If something didn’t change soon, then it was only a matter of time before they wouldn’t be able to buy candles for the papal palace. The curia already whispered about bankruptcy. A few years ago there had been an attempt on Leo’s life. It was prevented in the last moment, and the perpetrator was tortured and executed. But the church’s difficulties were still growing. That accursed Luther with his inflammatory speeches. The entire German Empire was on the brink of apostatizing.
Lahnstein shifted nervously on his red-silk upholstered seat. He kept glancing at the closed door. When, a few years ago, Leo had become obsessed by the idea of finding an alchemist who knew how to make gold, Lahnstein had first thought it one of the pope’s many harebrained ideas. But then the thought had begun to tempt him, too. Hadn’t other great men tried their hand at it and nearly succeeded? Albertus Magnus, Avicenna, and even that heretic Roger Bacon. The question wasn’t whether it was possible to make gold. The scriptures definitely stated that it was. Only no alchemist had worked out how to do it yet.
Faust could have been that alchemist, especially since he truly appeared to be in league with the devil, as events at Tiffauges two years ago had shown. They had lost track of him back then, and instead Lahnstein had received the strange order to bring Faust’s daughter to Rome. Ever since then, Leo had become more and more absorbed by mysterious books and odd experiments that were supposed to help him find the philosopher’s stone.
God moves in mysterious ways, Lahnstein thought. He knew he was completely and utterly at Leo’s mercy—too tightly had he interwoven his own career with that of the pope’s.
If Leo went down, then so would he.
A gentle bell rang out somewhere, and finally the Swiss guards opened the portal to the reception room. To Lahnstein’s astonishment, warm steam came pouring out through the doors. When the fog had lifted a little, he beheld a hall whose ceiling was even higher than the one in the waiting room. Tied up with gold-threaded bands, two panthers were lying in a corner, cleaning themselves like little cats. They were the pope’s latest toys and as expensive as everything else his heart desired. The animals had also been part of the procession on All Saints’ Day.
In the center of the hall was a huge gilded tub surrounded by antique statues. Sitting in it, amid a sea of bubbles, was the pope. His fat upper body rose out of the foam like a white mountain, and his cheeks were red with heat. His loud laughter echoed out into the corridors.
“Ha, delicious! Too delicious! You must tell me more of those amusing, filthy stories later.”
The tub must have been brought to the hall recently. Puddles had formed on the expensive cherrywood parquet, and Lahnstein walked around them as he approached Leo amid several low bows. Behind the tub, half-hidden by the steam, stood another figure. When Lahnstein saw why he had been ma
de to wait for over an hour, he felt sick with rage. No high-ranking cardinal was standing behind the basin, and no foreign dignitary, just the damned jester. The fool jingled his rattle, jutted out his backside, and made a disgusting noise before walking away with one last grimace. Leo wiped tears of laughter from his face and turned toward his personal representative.
“Do you know the joke about Luther riding on a pregnant cow?” he asked Lahnstein.
“I can’t say that I do.”
“I’m afraid it would be wasted on you.” Leo waved with a sigh. “You have no sense of humor, Viktor. That’s a character flaw.”
Lahnstein bowed, relieved he didn’t have to listen to a vulgar joke. “I beg your forgiveness, Holy Father.”
“Never mind. That’s what I have my jester for.” Leo shrugged. “You must excuse me for holding my audiences in the tub, but my fistulas prick like the fork of the devil. It’s getting worse.” He groaned and lowered himself up to his neck in the water. “Have you heard about Milan?”
Lahnstein nodded. The pope had entered an allegiance with the German emperor a while back, after having previously colluded with France several times. Thanks to the support of a thousand Swiss mercenaries, the city of Milan was very close to falling into the hands of Charles V.
“In return, Charles is going to give me Parma and Piacenza, and maybe even Ferrara. Florence falls under his protection, and the church’s territory is growing considerably.” Leo smiled. “The alliance with the German emperor is the best thing that could have happened to the church. I want to hold a three-day celebration in Rome, with fireworks atop Castel Sant’Angelo. Will you take care of that, Viktor?”
“Of course, Your Excellency,” said Lahnstein, quickly calculating in his head what a spectacle like that would cost the church. And the Swiss mercenaries standing outside Milan hadn’t even been paid yet. Lahnstein’s look turned to the two panthers that seemed to size him up like possible prey before closing their eyes again.
“But you haven’t come to discuss politics with me, have you?” Leo eyed him with curiosity. “So what is it, Viktor? What could be so urgent that you disturb my bath?”
“It’s about Doctor Faustus, Holy Father. He has been sighted in Rome with that Karl Wagner. I have it on good authority. He slipped through our fingers at Piazza Navona, but I’m confident we will apprehend him soon.”
“Is that right? Faustus?” Leo wiped the foam from his face and seemed to think. “The doctor found his way here after all. Hmm, interesting.”
“I assume he is searching for his daughter,” replied Lahnstein, a little taken aback by the pope’s subdued reaction.
Leo had searched for Faust all through Europe. The letter from the German priest had reached Lahnstein the day before, and he’d immediately sent Hagen to the German quarter, where suspicion had turned into certainty. The man who’d visited the confessional at Santa Maria dell’Anima must have been Faust—too much suggested that he was.
“With your permission, I will have the city searched for the doctor this very day,” continued Lahnstein. “It shouldn’t take long with a troop of soldiers—”
“You will do no such thing,” said Leo, cutting him off. “That would only . . . well, complicate matters.”
“I . . . I’m afraid I don’t understand,” stammered Lahnstein. “The doctor is in Rome and—”
“Not even you have to understand everything, dear Viktor. Believe me, soon everything is going to turn out for the best. It won’t be much longer.” Leo smiled broadly and scrambled to his feet.
Once more Lahnstein noticed how fat the pope had become in the last few years, a pale, wobbling colossus.
“Soon we will have so much gold that we could line Saint Peter’s Basilica with it. I know that you long for revenge, Viktor. Your mangled face truly isn’t cause for celebration. But revenge isn’t a goal as such. Our goal lies much higher.”
“It’s not about revenge,” said Lahnstein. “The point is that the man you were searching for so desperately is finally within reach. One word from you—”
“Don’t worry, we are going to hurt Faust much more than we ever could have on the rack. Patience, Viktor! Focus on the task I set you.” Leo leaned forward, looking like a toad that was creeping out of its burrow. He winked at his personal representative. “How is our darling doing?”
Lahnstein nodded. “Couldn’t be better. Don’t worry. I’m taking care of it.”
“Good, that’s good. Make sure it stays this way. His life is as precious as gold, one could say.” Leo laughed, clapping his fat hands together several times as more water gushed onto the parquet. “Now tell the musicians to enter. I need a little relaxation. The coming night is going be quite”—the pope hesitated—“quite exhausting once again. For body and soul. And, Viktor?”
“Yes, Holy Father?”
“I’ll say it once more: leave Faust alone. Don’t do anything until I tell you otherwise. Put your mind to the fireworks. And remind Hagen that I need fresh venison for my two little cats. They love venison. That’s an order—understood?”
One of the panthers hissed as if lending weight to its master’s threat.
“I . . . understand.”
Bowing low, his heart filled with insatiable hatred, Lahnstein retreated. His forehead was wet with sweat and the room’s hot dampness. He wondered what it was that was going to be so exhausting that night.
He had a certain hunch.
And that hunch wouldn’t help him to rest easy.
It was two days before Johann spoke again. He had fully withdrawn into himself, seeming to Karl like a walking corpse. Since they couldn’t return to the hostel in the German quarter, they sought shelter in one of Rome’s more remote districts behind the Palatine Hill. It was a run-down inn filled with day laborers, drunkards, and thieves. At night there was a lot of raucous shouting and fights, and cheap whores looking for customers. When Johann and Karl moved into their room, several pairs of eyes followed them desirously, some belonging to prostitutes and others to thieves. But evidently there was something about Johann that made people leave them alone. It was as if he exuded an infectious disease.
He spent most of those two days walking alone on the overgrown piece of land directly in front of the inn; apparently, the field used to be a gigantic racecourse that the Romans had called Circus Maximus. There were only a few remains left of the stands, and many of the rocks had recently been removed for the rebuilding of Saint Peter’s. Here, among the goats and sheep grazing in the tall grass and wild grains, Johann felt as if he were in the country. Now that autumn was moving into Rome, the weather was often rainy, foggy, and cold, so that Karl didn’t want to join the doctor on his walks. His former assistant preferred to stay at the inn drawing, waiting for Johann to make a decision.
Should he give up Greta? Should they leave Rome and go their separate ways? Probably, Johann thought. It would be the most sensible thing to do. Leave everything behind and make a fresh start, without Greta, without Karl, and without Tonio, who still followed him like a shadow. Crows circled above the old racetrack.
But it’s not over yet, thought Johann. Not with Greta, and not with Tonio.
On the morning of the third day he had finally reached his lonesome decision. Before breakfast he left Karl, who was still asleep, and walked along the Tiber until he was back outside the hospital entrance. He was in luck—it was a different gatekeeper than last time.
“What do you want?” asked the man when it was finally Johann’s turn. “Are you ill? You don’t look it.”
“I am a physician from the German Empire and wish to offer my services,” he said with a firm voice. “I feel touched by the suffering of the unfortunate.”
“Like a pilgrim’s pledge, huh?” When Johann made no reply, the gatekeeper asked him to wait. After a short while he returned with a nun. Johann started. It was the mother superior he and Karl had met three days ago.
“I know you,” said the older nun. “You are the uncle wh
o came to visit his niece. Our dear Sister Greta. She will be busy all day. We can’t allow visitors and idle chat every day. Maybe after vespers—”
“I haven’t come for my niece, but because of the sick,” said Johann briskly. “I am a physician, a learned doctor from faraway Heidelberg, versed in pharmacology, medicine, and anatomy, and I want to help. God Himself ordered me.”
“God Himself, you say?” The mother superior gave a thin smile. “I’m afraid it isn’t as easy as you think, dottore. The Santo Spirito in Sassia isn’t just any hospital, but the oldest and possibly the best in the world. The physicians who work here studied at the most prestigious universities, like Bologna, Padua, and Ferrara. They are the best in their field. Do you have any references?”
“I’m afraid not. I came to Rome as a simple pilgrim.”
“Then I am sorry,” said the nun and turned away.
“Wait!” called Johann after her.
He studied the first man in line behind him. He was scrawny and older, with sunken cheeks and yellowish eyes, and he was doubling over with pain. Johann looked him up and down for a few moments.
“Passing water is painful for you, isn’t it?” he asked loudly enough for the mother superior to hear. “And your urine is slightly red?”
The man gazed at him with wonderment. “Madre mia—it’s true!”
“They will have to remove a stone from your bladder. Make sure the surgeon gives you a few drops of poppy juice first. And stay in bed for two weeks following the operation, drinking a brew of chamomile blossoms. If you don’t, the wound will become infected.” Johann stepped to the next patient in line, a narrow-chested youth who was coughing terribly, holding a kerchief to his mouth.
“Is your phlegm red?” Johann asked the young man, who nodded. “That’s not a good sign. But we might get your cough under control with an extract of mold and honey. Ask for it at the spezieria. If this hospital is truly as outstanding as it claims to be, they will have the elixir. Tell them you’re suffering from la piaga bianca. The doctors will know what you mean.”
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