“It’s about Doctor Faustus, Holy Father. He has been sighted in Rome with that Karl Wagner. I have it on good authority. He slipped through our fingers at Piazza Navona, but I’m confident we will apprehend him soon.”
“Is that right? Faustus?” Leo wiped the foam from his face and seemed to think. “The doctor found his way here after all. Hmm, interesting.”
“I assume he is searching for his daughter,” replied Lahnstein, a little taken aback by the pope’s subdued reaction.
Leo had searched for Faust all through Europe. The letter from the German priest had reached Lahnstein the day before, and he’d immediately sent Hagen to the German quarter, where suspicion had turned into certainty. The man who’d visited the confessional at Santa Maria dell’Anima must have been Faust—too much suggested that he was.
“With your permission, I will have the city searched for the doctor this very day,” continued Lahnstein. “It shouldn’t take long with a troop of soldiers—”
“You will do no such thing,” said Leo, cutting him off. “That would only . . . well, complicate matters.”
“I . . . I’m afraid I don’t understand,” stammered Lahnstein. “The doctor is in Rome and—”
“Not even you have to understand everything, dear Viktor. Believe me, soon everything is going to turn out for the best. It won’t be much longer.” Leo smiled broadly and scrambled to his feet.
Once more Lahnstein noticed how fat the pope had become in the last few years, a pale, wobbling colossus.
“Soon we will have so much gold that we could line Saint Peter’s Basilica with it. I know that you long for revenge, Viktor. Your mangled face truly isn’t cause for celebration. But revenge isn’t a goal as such. Our goal lies much higher.”
“It’s not about revenge,” said Lahnstein. “The point is that the man you were searching for so desperately is finally within reach. One word from you—”
“Don’t worry, we are going to hurt Faust much more than we ever could have on the rack. Patience, Viktor! Focus on the task I set you.” Leo leaned forward, looking like a toad that was creeping out of its burrow. He winked at his personal representative. “How is our darling doing?”
Lahnstein nodded. “Couldn’t be better. Don’t worry. I’m taking care of it.”
“Good, that’s good. Make sure it stays this way. His life is as precious as gold, one could say.” Leo laughed, clapping his fat hands together several times as more water gushed onto the parquet. “Now tell the musicians to enter. I need a little relaxation. The coming night is going be quite”—the pope hesitated—“quite exhausting once again. For body and soul. And, Viktor?”
“Yes, Holy Father?”
“I’ll say it once more: leave Faust alone. Don’t do anything until I tell you otherwise. Put your mind to the fireworks. And remind Hagen that I need fresh venison for my two little cats. They love venison. That’s an order—understood?”
One of the panthers hissed as if lending weight to its master’s threat.
“I . . . understand.”
Bowing low, his heart filled with insatiable hatred, Lahnstein retreated. His forehead was wet with sweat and the room’s hot dampness. He wondered what it was that was going to be so exhausting that night.
He had a certain hunch.
And that hunch wouldn’t help him to rest easy.
It was two days before Johann spoke again. He had fully withdrawn into himself, seeming to Karl like a walking corpse. Since they couldn’t return to the hostel in the German quarter, they sought shelter in one of Rome’s more remote districts behind the Palatine Hill. It was a run-down inn filled with day laborers, drunkards, and thieves. At night there was a lot of raucous shouting and fights, and cheap whores looking for customers. When Johann and Karl moved into their room, several pairs of eyes followed them desirously, some belonging to prostitutes and others to thieves. But evidently there was something about Johann that made people leave them alone. It was as if he exuded an infectious disease.
He spent most of those two days walking alone on the overgrown piece of land directly in front of the inn; apparently, the field used to be a gigantic racecourse that the Romans had called Circus Maximus. There were only a few remains left of the stands, and many of the rocks had recently been removed for the rebuilding of Saint Peter’s. Here, among the goats and sheep grazing in the tall grass and wild grains, Johann felt as if he were in the country. Now that autumn was moving into Rome, the weather was often rainy, foggy, and cold, so that Karl didn’t want to join the doctor on his walks. His former assistant preferred to stay at the inn drawing, waiting for Johann to make a decision.
Should he give up Greta? Should they leave Rome and go their separate ways? Probably, Johann thought. It would be the most sensible thing to do. Leave everything behind and make a fresh start, without Greta, without Karl, and without Tonio, who still followed him like a shadow. Crows circled above the old racetrack.
But it’s not over yet, thought Johann. Not with Greta, and not with Tonio.
On the morning of the third day he had finally reached his lonesome decision. Before breakfast he left Karl, who was still asleep, and walked along the Tiber until he was back outside the hospital entrance. He was in luck—it was a different gatekeeper than last time.
“What do you want?” asked the man when it was finally Johann’s turn. “Are you ill? You don’t look it.”
“I am a physician from the German Empire and wish to offer my services,” he said with a firm voice. “I feel touched by the suffering of the unfortunate.”
“Like a pilgrim’s pledge, huh?” When Johann made no reply, the gatekeeper asked him to wait. After a short while he returned with a nun. Johann started. It was the mother superior he and Karl had met three days
