He quickly packed his drawing utensils into his small leather bag and hurried to the chapel’s exit. Outside, people thronged toward the procession in masses; evidently the event had already begun. Karl heard trumpets, drums, and scattered cheers. Cursing, he rushed across the building site, an obstacle course of scaffolds, cranes, sacks of lime, and rocks.
He was about to turn onto the wide street that led down to the Tiber when he heard a soft whirring sound above, followed an instant later by heavy rumbling. Karl looked up. Several bricks in a freshly mortared wall had come loose, and at the same time a cascade of roof tiles came hurtling down from a scaffold higher up. Karl managed to leap aside just before the stones hit his head. A red cloud of clay dust rose up, and then he saw the toppled crane through the haze. It would seem one of the ropes of the pulley had snapped, setting off an avalanche of stone. Breathing heavily, Karl patted the dust from his shirt. He made the sign of the cross and uttered a prayer of thanks. The Lord had decided not to take him today.
But it would seem someone else hadn’t been so lucky.
Karl heard high-pitched screams of pain that turned into a mournful whimpering. He looked around and spotted a small figure behind the pile of rubble. He rushed over and saw that it was a boy, no older than twelve, probably one of the many day laborers who lugged heavy sacks of lime in exchange for one warm meal a day. His face was white with dust, blood ran over his forehead, and a heavy beam lay across his chest. The boy’s eyes were wide open with fear.
“Santa Maria,” he gasped in Italian. “Che dolore.”
Karl spoke a little Italian, but it didn’t require knowledge of the language to understand that the boy was in severe pain.
“Hang on, I’ll help you.” Karl grabbed the beam with both hands and pulled, but it was much heavier than he’d expected. As Karl pushed and pulled in turns, the boy repeatedly screamed out in pain. Karl was surprised none of the other laborers had come to their aid yet, but then he remembered that they’d probably all gone to watch the procession.
Finally, Karl was able to pull the beam off the boy’s chest. He bent over him, listening and examining the wound like he had learned during his time as a student of medicine. He thought the boy was bleeding internally and certainly had a few broken ribs.
“L’uccello nero,” murmured the boy over and over. “Con le ali nere.”
“Black bird—black wings? What do you mean?” Karl helplessly dabbed the blood from the boy’s forehead.
As Karl used one of his scraps of paper to wipe the boy’s face, he gazed down at him. The boy didn’t seem to be in his right senses, but he was handsome, with delicate features and long eyelashes, reminding Karl of—
Karl winced.
The boy’s face reminded him of the Savior from the pietà he had just drawn.
“Con le ali nere,” repeated the boy. “Con le ali nere.”
Karl desperately looked around. This injured boy badly needed a physician, a hospital. But the two of them seemed to be all alone; no one rushed to their aid.
Karl reminded himself that he had studied medicine once upon a time. Maybe he could help the boy. But he would need water and wine to wash him and a quiet place to treat him. He could still hear the festive music in the distance, but it was growing fainter. Karl hesitated. He had promised to meet Johann. They wanted to keep their eyes peeled for any sign of Lahnstein or perhaps even Greta. It could be their last chance. But here was a small, fragile person in need of his help.
“Mamma,” whimpered the boy. “Mamma mia.” Then he closed his eyes and stopped moving.
Karl felt his pulse and found it still beat weakly. He made his decision; he lifted the injured boy; he was astonishingly light. Karl thought of the Mother Mary and how she had cradled her dead son in her lap, immortalized in Michelangelo’s pietà. He managed to heave the boy onto his back and carry him through the lanes, which, away from the procession, were all but deserted. The noise and music still sounding in the distance, Karl carried the boy over to the German quarter, pausing every now and again to catch his breath.
After several more breaks, stopping to check if the boy was still alive, Karl finally arrived at the inn near the Piazza Navona. Apart from the half-deaf landlady, no one was in the taproom. Followed by the suspicious looks of the old woman, Karl climbed the stairs with his burden and entered the small chamber he shared with Faust. He gently placed the boy onto the bed and covered him. The boy briefly opened his eyes.
“Il cielo?” he murmured.
“You are too young to go to heaven,” whispered Karl with a smile. “All will be well. Sleep now.”
The boy closed his eyes and lost consciousness again. Karl opened the child’s shirt and studied the wound more closely. The rib cage was definitely crushed, and bruises indicated there was internal bleeding. Karl cleaned the boy’s chest with brandy nonetheless. The rattling breath suggested that the lungs might be injured.
No physician in
