Like a ship at sea, the pope’s throne traveled past the rows of spectators. Now the fool and some of the jugglers tossed copper and silver coins into the crowd, causing people to scream out and raise their hands as if they were catching manna from heaven. The same people who had just been griping about the pope now cheered his name. The big fellow behind Johann gave him a shove, and Johann landed face first in the muck.
“Watch out, you clod!” Johann got to his feet and was about to find a way out of the throngs of people when he caught a glimpse of the papal dignitaries following the throne.
His heart skipped a beat.
One of the men was Viktor von Lahnstein.
In all the chaos, he hadn’t noticed the papal representative sooner, partly because Lahnstein wore a wide hood. Johann caught his breath. He hadn’t seen Lahnstein in more than two years, but there was no doubt. The same bushy eyebrows, the same piercing look, the same gaunt, tall appearance. Just like during their first encounter at Bamberg, the papal delegate wore the snow-white gown of a Dominican and a large wooden rosary around his neck. As Lahnstein looked up, Johann realized with horror why the man was wearing a hood.
Lahnstein’s face was that of a monster, his nose nothing more than a tiny lump with two holes, like the nose of a dog or of one of the panthers Johann had just seen—a beast of prey in the body of a human.
For a brief moment, Johann thought his old nemesis might have recognized him in the crowd. Lahnstein’s head jerked to the right, his eyes flashing hatefully, but then he looked straight ahead again. Several other Dominicans walked beside him, praising the Lord in loud voices.
Johann felt enormous rage rise up in him. He wanted to run and throw himself at Lahnstein, the man who had probably abducted his daughter. But then he would never find out what had happened to Greta. And so he let the moment pass, his breathing slowly calming down. He took a few steps back and let the procession pass him by. Then, using the pope’s throne as a point of orientation, Johann began following the retinue at a safe distance. They walked to the Lateran Basilica and then all the way back to Saint Peter’s. For almost three hours Johann followed them patiently.
When the procession turned toward the construction site near the Tiber, something unexpected happened. The group of Dominicans split from the train and strode toward a big, gloomy building that was surrounded by a wall with four towers.
Castel Sant’Angelo.
A gate opened, and the Dominicans, including Viktor von Lahnstein, disappeared inside as if swallowed by a huge whale.
For a long while Johann remained standing on Sant’Angelo Bridge, which stretched across the Tiber directly in front of the castle. He had found Lahnstein, and yet the man was out of reach. Castel Sant’Angelo was probably the only building in Rome that was even more heavily guarded than the papal palace.
Was Greta inside?
After waiting indecisively for more than a quarter of an hour, Johann hurried across the bridge toward Piazza Navona. During the short walk back to the hostel, Johann couldn’t stop thinking about the maimed face of his enemy. Had Karl gone back to the hostel? He couldn’t wait to tell him what had happened. They needed a plan—an idea for how they might find out more about Lahnstein. Johann felt the old familiar urgency return, his ambitious need to get to the bottom of things that had brought him so far. His brain worked at full speed.
There must be a way. There always is one!
He was so deeply in thought that he nearly missed the hulk of a man standing in the lane.
The huge fellow was standing opposite Santa Maria dell’Anima Church, talking to one of the priests. The man was so tall that he had to bend down to hear the corpulent clergyman. Johann would have recognized the man anywhere.
It was Hagen.
Johann held his breath.
They had found him.
Johann shoved the door open and stormed into their room at the inn. He was out of breath from racing up the steep stairs to the attic, where, to his relief, he found Karl waiting for him.
“Pack your bags—we must get away—” he began but broke off when he saw that someone else was in the room.
A boy was lying in Karl’s bed.
Anger welled up in Johann. “Don’t tell me you didn’t show up because you were busy amusing yourself. I can’t believe you—”
He broke off again when he realized how pale and sad Karl’s expression was. He took a closer look at the boy. He was a child of about twelve years—much too young to interest Karl. His skin was the color of marble, and his eyes were closed. His hands lay folded on top of the blanket as if he were praying.
Or as if he were . . .
“My God,” breathed Johann, rushing to the bedside and touching the boy’s ice-cold hands. “What in God’s name happened here?”
“A crane toppled and crushed his rib cage at the construction site of Saint Peter’s,” said Karl dejectedly. “I was on my way to meet you when it happened. I carried the boy here to care for him, but it was too late.” He wiped his eyes. “And yet it was a miracle.”
“A miracle? Why on earth would a dead child be a miracle?”
“Because”—Karl paused—“because he might have given us the decisive clue to Greta’s whereabouts.”
“Greta’s whereabouts?” Johann stood as if rooted to the spot.
His plan had been to flee immediately. It wouldn’t be long until Hagen found them here. But now everything seemed to happen at once.
“What are you saying? He
