Keuchlin shuddered. And what about those last words? Homo Deus est. They sounded like a battle cry. The fellow was not just a murderer but also a heretic.
But something else bothered Keuchlin even more.
The stranger had mentioned Viktor von Lahnstein.
Sebastian Keuchlin wasn’t just a plain confessor. He was a member of the brotherhood of Santa Maria dell’Anima, a college of seven chaplains who were responsible for the well-being of the German pilgrims in Rome. In addition, Keuchlin was a close confidant of the papal curia. He had served under Johannes Burckard, the former papal master of ceremonies, who had introduced his young ward Sebastian to the higher circles. Circles also frequented by Viktor von Lahnstein. There weren’t many who personally knew the creepy inquisitor—known as “the pope’s mastiff” behind his back. In an accident, Lahnstein had lost his nose, making him look somewhat like a dog. Keuchlin shook himself with repulsion. It was kind of fitting for a Dominican—one of the domini canes, the dogs of the Lord, as those stern inquisitors were often called.
In the last two years, Lahnstein had vanished almost completely from the scene while at the same time rising to be Leo’s personal adjutant—even though no one could say with certainty what it was that he did. And now a crazy stranger turns up and mentions his name. Was it supposed to be a threat?
Sebastian Keuchlin respected the seal of confession, but he also knew what loyalty meant. Santa Maria dell’Anima Church wasn’t completed—funds were lacking since that awful Luther preached about the “whore of Rome.”
Everything has its price.
Keuchlin wiped the sweat off his forehead once more. The stranger wasn’t entirely wrong. The church had to make certain sacrifices for the good of Christianity.
The chaplain squeezed his corpulent body out of the confessional, hurried down the dark nave, and waddled over to the hospice gardens, where his humble abode stood. There, he sat down at his desk and wrote a long letter to His Eminence the papal inquisitor Viktor von Lahnstein.
He felt certain that it wouldn’t be to the detriment of the German church in Rome.
21
STEADILY THE CHARCOAL PEN FOLLOWED ITS COURSE, crosshatching here, filling in there, tweaking one line or another. The face of the Mother of God held all the pain in the world, and yet there was solace, too. Mary was holding her grown-up son in her arms like a babe, cradling him, singing him to sleep like an infant. A magical aura seemed to shine from both figures, soothing Karl, as art did for him so often. And this artwork in front of him was the most perfect he had ever seen.
It was the most beautiful sculpture in the world.
With a sigh, Karl put down pen and parchment and focused entirely on the almost life-sized marble pietà before him. He knew that he would never be able to create anything so beautiful, but the act of copying it with a piece of charcoal gave him a deep sense of satisfaction, putting him in a state of contemplation that, he guessed, monks achieved through prayer.
The pietà stood in a side chapel of Saint Peter’s, concealed from the eyes of most believers who visited Saint Peter’s Square on a daily basis despite the construction work. The tomb of Saint Peter himself lay nearby. A Roman cardinal had commissioned the marble sculpture shortly before his death, requesting the artist create the most beautiful statue in Rome. Not an easy feat considering the large number of outstanding sculptures in the city.
And yet the artist, a certain Michelangelo Buonarroti, had succeeded.
Karl had heard about this Michelangelo before. During the last few years, he had risen to the top of Italian sculptors, just like Raffaello used to be considered the greatest painter in Rome, until he’d died unexpectedly the year before. Leonardo da Vinci had told Karl about Michelangelo and Raffaello. Leonardo’s grudging remarks had been tinged with the subtle jealousy typical of old masters faced with talented young apprentices. Looking at Michelangelo’s pietà, Karl could understand Leonardo’s envy.
For weeks now Karl had been visiting the churches of Rome, drawing anything he laid his eyes on. He would have loved to own a pair of eye glasses like he used to have, but the specially cut pieces of glass were simply too expensive. Even so, drawing helped him to gradually regain his old life. Every day, with every stroke, more memories returned. And it took his mind off the unsolvable task before them.
Greta, where are you? Are you still alive? Do you remember your old friend Karl?
Karl’s hand went to the little guardian angel at his neck. Deep down, he had given up hope of ever finding Greta. No one had heard of her—no innkeeper, no pilgrim, not even the whores. Maybe he had been mistaken. Maybe she hadn’t traveled to Rome with Lahnstein. In some ways he had doubted the success of their mission since Toulouse, but had followed Johann to Rome nonetheless. Something tied him to the doctor that Karl couldn’t explain. Rationally speaking, Faust was too old to be physically attractive to Karl. It was something far greater than sexual attraction—something that went beyond human love.
It was devotion.
Karl still didn’t know what, exactly, had happened between him and Faust in the crypt below Tiffauges. It must have been something so terrible that his mind refused to this day to release the memories. As much as Karl loved the doctor, he also sensed that he was harming himself with this love. He had to leave the doctor before he became the end of Karl.
The only question was when.
The church bells started to toll loudly, startling Karl. He had completely forgotten the time. Today was the first of November, All Saints’ Day, and therewith the day of the papal procession they had been awaiting for weeks. So far, they hadn’t caught a single glimpse of the pope or his inner circle. But today the opportunity would finally
