“One time, the boy was very ill. A nasty cough, apparently,” explained Karl. “He was taken to the Hospital Santo Spirito in Sassia, which is right beneath Vatican Hill—it’s the oldest hospital in Italy, if not the world. Even beggars and paupers get treated there, and by trained physicians.”
“And what does any of this have to do with Greta?” asked Johann impatiently.
“The brothers working there are assisted by canonesses, nuns wearing white garments. The boy told me about a young sister who can foresee a patient’s death in the palms of their hands. She’s considered a great healer, and yet she is feared. The poor folks know of her ability and talk about it in whispers.” Karl gave a sad smile. “They call her la donna bianca, the white woman, and also la tedesca, the German one.” He paused. “Apparently this young sister has flaxen hair.”
“Greta,” groaned Johann. “By God, it might truly be Greta. We must go to this hospital immediately!”
“I knew you would say that. But I would like to ask you to help me take this poor boy over to the church first.” Karl nodded at the pale child. “He deserves a worthy send-off.”
Johann shook his head. “We . . . we can’t go in that church. In fact, we should be getting out of the German quarter as fast as we can.”
In hasty words he told Karl what had happened in the last few hours, culminating with the sighting of Hagen with a priest right outside their lodging. “I’m guessing it’s the same priest I spoke to in confession yesterday. I was so stupid! I never should have gone there, and now it’s too late. Hagen might very well be standing outside the inn’s door as we speak.”
“I won’t leave this boy behind without one last prayer,” insisted Karl. “We owe him that much.” He knelt beside the bed and folded his hands. Johann cursed under his breath and knelt down next to him.
“Domine, exaudi vocem meam. Fiant aures tuae intendentes in vocem deprecationis meae,” Karl muttered and said a few more Latin psalms.
Johann felt like he prayed for an eternity. They needed to get away from here! If Hagen found them now, Johann would never see Greta again. It occurred to him that to God, every life was equally precious—Greta’s life weighed as much as this poor lad’s. Nonetheless, he struggled to hold still.
When Karl had finally finished, he stood up and kissed the boy’s cold forehead. “You’re in a better place now,” whispered Karl. “May God keep your soul.”
Only then did he pick up his coat and hat, following Johann downstairs and out into the street.
The Hospital Santo Spirito in Sassia stood by a bend in the Tiber not far from the papal palaces. And yet it seemed like a different world.
Several rotting barges floated on the murky water, which stank worse here than in other places in Rome. The bloated cadaver of a pig slowly drifted by. The hospital itself was a gloomy complex with a church and a campanile at one end. There were two entrances, one of them for carts, and even this late in the afternoon they arrived continuously. On one lay an older man, moaning and thrashing about wildly. A younger man and a woman, probably his relatives, tried to hold him down and spoke soothing words to him. Knights Hospitallers in black habits with the cross of the order hurried past the cart. Next to the gate, several beggars and sick people hoped for alms.
Breathing heavily, Karl glanced back down the street, fearing someone might have followed them. They had come straight from Piazza Navona, having left the inn through the back door to avoid running into Hagen. They’d left behind almost all their belongings in their room, along with the dead boy. Karl had left a few coins for his burial and hoped the innkeeper wouldn’t pocket them.
There was a long line of people waiting outside the other, smaller entrance. A cripple with no legs pleaded with a passing monk, who blessed him and gave him a crust of bread. This close to the river, the ground was muddy and covered in filth, and carts struggled to get through the lane. Karl couldn’t believe that only a stone’s throw away, the pope lived in pomp and splendor.
“So?” he asked quietly. “What do we do now? Line up?”
“We don’t have the time. And besides, I’m seriously ill.” Faust hunched over and let his right arm hang down limply, just like when he had been struck by Tonio’s curse. Saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth. “I think it is the falling sickness. You’ll have to hold me up.”
Karl couldn’t help but smile. It was just like years ago when they used to trick an audience during their acts, only Karl would play the ill man who was healed miraculously by the doctor’s homemade theriac. If they really found Greta, perhaps things could go back to the way they used to be.
Johann put his arm around Karl’s, and together they limped past the line, causing some of the beggars to complain loudly. In a small hut next to the door sat the gatekeeper, eyeing them suspiciously.
“Dove volete andare?” asked the short man in harsh Italian. “We don’t accept any more patients today. Come back tomorrow.”
“No physician wants to treat my father,” wailed Karl and made the sign of the cross. “They say he is cursed.”
“What’s wrong with him?” asked the gatekeeper.
“Morbus maledicta,” said Karl in a low voice. “When my old man gets angry, he starts swearing profusely and utters curses that sometimes come true.” He exchanged a look with Johann. “Holy Mother Mary, it’s starting again! Look!”
Johann was twitching violently and began to mutter incomprehensibly, spittle running out of his mouth. He raised a trembling finger toward the gatekeeper, who took a step back. The other people in line also stepped aside fearfully.
“That is awful!” exclaimed the gatekeeper. “Make him take down that finger before
