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
