Karl sighed theatrically. “That will only make it worse. The last person my father cursed only had two weeks to live. It started with diarrhea and pus-filled ulcers, and then—”
“Go to the Corsia Sistina and ask for a physician,” said the gatekeeper, cutting him off. “Now. Get away from me!”
Karl gave him a nod and led the dribbling and twitching doctor into the huge hospital grounds.
Once they were out of sight, Johann straightened up and grinned. “Morbus maledicta—what wonderful nonsense.”
Karl blushed. Praise from the doctor was rare. “Sometimes all it takes is a few Latin terms. I learned that at the university.” He walked ahead and looked around searchingly. “Getting past the gatekeeper was probably the easiest part. This hospital is enormous.”
“Let us find the Corsia Sistina,” said Faust. “I gather that’s the treatment room. Maybe we can ask patients about a young German nun. If Greta really does work here, someone must know her.”
The hospital was a maze of passageways, courtyards, and buildings. Several times they passed Knights Hospitallers in black and canonesses wearing white scapulars and white bonnets.
Donne bianche—white women, thought Karl. Is Greta one of them?
Many of the sisters looked very young. Karl knew that canonesses often were daughters from good families who helped in the monasteries without taking vows. He admired them for giving up their comfortable homes in order to dedicate their lives to the poor and the sick. And there were plenty of those here. Long rows of cots lined the corridors, and lying atop them were the most pitiful creatures, scarcely covered with threadbare, stained sheets. Many of the men and women had scabies, their bloodied heads shorn. Some wore bandages saturated with pus, while others coughed or cried out for water. The young sisters leaned over them, soothing them and applying salves or feeding them gruel. In between, men of the order administered clysters and pills.
When Karl and Johann had crossed two more courtyards, they found themselves at the entrance to a larger hall. In his time as a student of medicine, Karl had seen some big hospitals, but never before had he seen a hall that served exclusively for the treatment of the ill. The space actually consisted of two high-ceilinged wings that were connected by an octagonal church room in the middle. The walls were whitewashed, and evening light streamed in through skylights. Countless beds filled the halls, with narrow walkways in between where canonesses scurried along with busy steps, their billowing scapulars giving them an angelic look. The air stank of disease and excrement and pungent medication. But unlike the hospitals back home, this place didn’t remind Karl of a realm of the dead, perhaps because of the fresh white walls but also because of the pretty young sisters, going about their tasks diligently and without complaint.
“Have you registered? Patients aren’t permitted to enter the Corsia alone.”
Karl jumped. He hadn’t noticed the older sister approach them. He could tell by the silver rosary around her neck that she was the mother superior. At least they knew now that they were in the right place.
“Um, we aren’t patients,” he said.
“You’re not?” The mother superior seemed suspicious now, tilting her head to the side like an owl. “Then who are you? You have no business being here.”
“We . . . we are looking for my niece,” said Johann. “We traveled all the way from the German lands to pay her a visit. Do you know her? She . . .” He paused. “Her name is Greta. Flaxen hair, early twenties. We’ve been told she is helping here at the hospital.”
“Greta?” The old nun raised an eyebrow. “Well, this is rather unusual. Visitors must apply for an appointment first, or else anyone could come along. But since you’re already here.” She sighed. “Flaxen hair and German, you say?”
Karl and Johann nodded in silence, and Karl saw the doctor trembling and clenching his fists.
The silence stretched and became almost tangible, but finally the nun smiled. “I believe I know who you’re looking for.”
“Yes?” croaked Johann.
“She works back there.” The mother superior gestured toward the far end of the wing they had entered, where the arcades opened into the church room beyond. “You may speak with her briefly. But not for long! Sister Greta is one of our most capable hands, despite her young age. It is nearly time for vespers, and she still has many patients to prepare for the night.”
Karl looked in the direction the nun had pointed out.
And then he saw her.
Praise the Lord, he thought, struggling to hide his emotions. We have found her!
Like all other sisters in the hall, Greta wore the simple habit of the canonesses, a black robe with a white scapular and a white bonnet. They couldn’t actually see much of her face. But Karl recognized her instantly. Several blonde strands of hair had slipped out of the knot and were hanging into her face, her eyes cast downward in concentration. She was bandaging the arm of an old man whose face was disfigured by pockmarks and weeping wounds. Nevertheless, she was smiling—a smile that Karl remembered well. How could he ever forget this smile? He had known Greta since she was fourteen; she had been like a little sister to him when they had traveled the lands alongside the great Doctor Faustus—the happiest time in his life. For two long years he hadn’t seen her, and once more the vague memory from their last encounter at Tiffauges Castle came to his mind.
I’m going to Rome, Karl.
Greta hadn’t noticed them yet. When Karl glanced at the doctor, he saw that he was shaking heavily, almost as if the accursed disease had flared up again.
“What is the matter?” asked the old nun beside them. “Aren’t you pleased to see your niece?”
“I am . . . It’s just . . .” Johann’s voice was low and husky. “I’m not sure she’ll be pleased to see me.”
“How do you mean?”
“Things . . . things happened in the last few years.” Turning away from the stupefied mother superior,
