Where are these times going to lead us? To paradise ahead or back into the darkness?
He would ensure that the church, at least, was on the right track. But to do so, he urgently needed the one man he’d been waiting for so desperately. The only man who, after all these setbacks, actually knew the secret that would solve all of Leo’s problems.
“. . . particularly spectacular are the crossing pillars, which, with the aid of a new roof construction . . . ,” said Raffaello, and Leo heard it as if through fog as his gaze traveled across the many scaffolds.
It’s all been taking too long.
And then the pain in his backside—he could hardly bear it.
He was greatly relieved when a messenger appeared next to his litter, bowing low. Leo’s heart beat faster when he saw that the man carried a letter. The pope had demanded to stay informed about certain occurrences in the empire at all times. Raffaello ceased his explanations once more, unable to suppress a scowl. Leo took the letter and broke the seal, trying to stop his hands from trembling. His eyes darted across the lines. They’d been written by one of his best men—the only man he could trust with this mission and the only one who possessed the necessary discretion.
Leo’s mouth twisted into a smile when he finished the letter.
Lord in heaven, praised be thy goodness.
Everything was ready. All he had to do now was wait.
He would pass the time with a few interesting experiments, deep down below Castel Sant’Angelo.
“Thank you for your illuminating updates, Master,” he said, turning to the dumbfounded Raffaello. “Important commitments force me to take my leave. I expect you will ensure that your men work more and fall off the scaffold less. If you complete the barrel vaults this year, I will pay your weight in gold. If you don’t . . .” He paused and studied dainty Raffaello as if studying a pretty, shimmering bug. “Well, the dungeons of Castel Sant’Angelo are in need of some renovations. If you know what I mean.”
He clapped his hands, and the four litter carriers rose. Swaying like a fat old camel, Pope Leo X hovered away above the heads of his flock.
It took Johann, Greta, and Karl ten days to travel to Bamberg, and unlike normally, they spent the nights not at warm inns but in the drafty wagon. The people of Franconia were particularly superstitious and fond of beer, and following the incident in Bretten, Faust was more wary than usual of the danger of drunken mobs. Besides, they traveled faster that way.
Greta sat next to Faust on the box seat and enjoyed the gentle swaying that was always part of their journey. She held the reins loosely; the horse knew how to find its way. The road wound endlessly through the Franconian hills, which were speckled with tufts of autumnal fog. Their wagon was in fact a carriage, a terribly expensive vehicle invented in the kingdom of Hungary. On this new type of transport, the compartment was suspended, making for a much smoother ride. The inside of their wagon was a chaos of chests, crates, and colorful clothes that hung from the ceiling alongside fragrant bunches of dried herbs. It smelled of mint, chamomile, and the cheap, potent theriac brandy. The small clay bottles jingled like little bells when the carriage moved. At nights, the wind swept through the thin timber walls.
A book in his hands, his legs wrapped up in a thick woolen blanket, Karl sat leaning against a chest in the back of the wagon while Faust and Greta watched the world go by in silence. Little Satan was jogging alongside the carriage, as he did so often. Greta loved these moments of peace, when nothing seemed to exist but the present. But she knew these times couldn’t last forever. She had often toyed with the idea of leaving their little group. She was good enough to join another troupe of jugglers, and she hoped she might one day find the right man for her and leave behind the gloomy past that connected her to Faust. But her friendship with Karl kept her put.
And an insight she hadn’t shared with anyone yet—not even with Karl.
The black wings.
Greta shivered. They hadn’t spent this many nights in their wagon for a long time. Over the last several years, the doctor had preferred expensive inns and the chambers of castles and abbeys. Greta felt certain that Bamberg’s Altenburg Castle would suit Faust’s extravagant tastes. Prince-Bishop Georg Schenk von Limpurg was one of the most powerful men in the empire, his influence extending far beyond the walls of Bamberg. As far as Greta knew, he was answerable only to the pope. Not even the emperor could order him around. Greta suddenly thought that such a high-profile meeting wasn’t without danger.
“Have you been to Bamberg before, Uncle?” she asked.
Her voice startled Faust. Evidently, he had been deep in thought.
“Oh yes, and so have you,” he replied with a smile. “But that was a few years ago now. I guess that’s why you don’t remember. It’s a beautiful town, with a large cathedral and excellent smoked beer. But sadly, we won’t see much of Bamberg itself, as the bishop resides at Altenburg Castle, which lies some way outside of town.”
“I think a little peace and quiet will do us good,” said Greta. “You especially.”
She gave him an inscrutable look, and Faust frowned. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
Greta looked away. As much as the matter tormented her, she couldn’t bring herself to open up to Faust. He was a man of reason—he was bound to shrug off her fears as nonsense.
And what if he doesn’t?
That thought was even worse. The possibility
