“I know you,” said the older nun. “You are the uncle who came to visit his niece. Our dear Sister Greta. She will be busy all day. We can’t allow visitors and idle chat every day. Maybe after vespers—”
“I haven’t come for my niece, but because of the sick,” said Johann briskly. “I am a physician, a learned doctor from faraway Heidelberg, versed in pharmacology, medicine, and anatomy, and I want to help. God Himself ordered me.”
“God Himself, you say?” The mother superior gave a thin smile. “I’m afraid it isn’t as easy as you think, dottore. The Santo Spirito in Sassia isn’t just any hospital, but the oldest and possibly the best in the world. The physicians who work here studied at the most prestigious universities, like Bologna, Padua, and Ferrara. They are the best in their field. Do you have any references?”
“I’m afraid not. I came to Rome as a simple pilgrim.”
“Then I am sorry,” said the nun and turned away.
“Wait!” called Johann after her.
He studied the first man in line behind him. He was scrawny and older, with sunken cheeks and yellowish eyes, and he was doubling over with pain. Johann looked him up and down for a few moments.
“Passing water is painful for you, isn’t it?” he asked loudly enough for the mother superior to hear. “And your urine is slightly red?”
The man gazed at him with wonderment. “Madre mia—it’s true!”
“They will have to remove a stone from your bladder. Make sure the surgeon gives you a few drops of poppy juice first. And stay in bed for two weeks following the operation, drinking a brew of chamomile blossoms. If you don’t, the wound will become infected.” Johann stepped to the next patient in line, a narrow-chested youth who was coughing terribly, holding a kerchief to his mouth.
“Is your phlegm red?” Johann asked the young man, who nodded. “That’s not a good sign. But we might get your cough under control with an extract of mold and honey. Ask for it at the spezieria. If this hospital is truly as outstanding as it claims to be, they will have the elixir. Tell them you’re suffering from la piaga bianca. The doctors will know what you mean.”
Johann slowly made his way down the line, giving advice, gazing into toothless mouths, and palpating broken limbs. He was no physician, but he had read widely and watched plenty of itinerant surgeons in the German Empire. He also knew that sometimes patience and a few kind words achieved more than expensive medicine. Eventually he stopped in front of a small, pale girl who was pressing herself against her mother fearfully. The girl was about five years old and bore dark rings around her eyes. Johann knelt down and looked at her.
“How are you, little one?”
Instead of the girl, the gaunt woman, who could have been the child’s mother or grandmother, replied. “She hasn’t been eating or drinking. And she sleeps a lot. We can’t afford a doctor—the hospital is our last hope!”
“Hmm . . .” Johann hesitated, then he picked up the girl’s tiny hand and stroked it gently. He had an inkling, but he wanted to know for certain. And so he did something he hadn’t done in years.
He closed his eyes and bent over the hand. He felt a warm throbbing, and dark lines showed on the insides of his eyelids.
The black wings.
And he knew that he hadn’t been mistaken.
He took a deep breath before rising with a smile on his face. “I believe your daughter is going to feel much better soon. And about eating.” He rubbed his fingers together, snapped them once—and suddenly held a small, wrinkled apple in his hand, and then another one and another. “The food should be sweet, the way children like it. Then they’ll eat.” Accompanied by the laughter of the girl and the onlookers, he juggled the apples before handing them to the girl with a bow.
“Grazie,” breathed the mother, tears of joy in her eyes. “It has been a long time since Clara laughed.”
The mother superior came closer. She tried to maintain her stern expression, but Johann could tell that she was touched. “What are you, a physician or a fairground magician?” she asked in an imperious tone.
Johann grinned. “A bit of both, I believe. Aren’t good physicians something like magicians?”
“I honestly don’t know what to make of you, signore,” replied the mother superior with a sigh. “Your show hasn’t entirely convinced me, but I am favorably disposed toward you. You may lend a hand to the sisters. Help them wash patients, empty chamber pots, apply dressings, but drop the tricks and juggling. This is a serious place.”
“Then . . . then I may work here?” asked Johann.
“Not as a physician, but as a nurse. But beware.” The older woman wagged a finger. “If Greta really is your niece—which I doubt—then I don’t want you to distract her from her work. We need her here, understood? She gives strength and solace to the sick, which is sometimes more important than medicine.”
“You have my word—I won’t bother her.” Johann nodded. “One more thing, venerable mother.” He turned serious and lowered his voice so that no one else could overhear. “The little girl . . .” He faltered. “I’m so sorry, but she . . . she hasn’t got long to live. The only thing we can still do for her is to give her a little joy. Please allow me to juggle for her—only for her. I beg you.”
“How do you know the Lord will take her soon?” asked the mother superior with a frown.
“I just do. Trust me.” Johann smiled sadly. “Like I said—physicians sometimes are magicians.”
The following days and weeks were hard. Each morning, Johann left the inn by the old racecourse and walked to the hospital. Karl would often be up already, sitting by the window upstairs, bent over a drawing. Their relationship wasn’t the same since Karl had learned what had really happened at Tiffauges. And yet he waited for Johann to decide whether
