“I asked Greta not to tell you.” Karl raised his hands apologetically. “I knew it would pain you, and it doesn’t change anything.”
“It changes everything,” screamed Johann, his face red with anger. Exhausted, he dropped onto the flea-ridden, moldy bed. “Don’t you understand?” he asked, running his hands through his hair. “She trusts him! And Viktor von Lahnstein is holding my grandson hostage, like a pawn!”
“A pawn for what?”
“For . . . for . . .” Faust broke off and waved his hand. “Another time. Believe me—I know that Lahnstein has plans for that child. Or do you really believe he is raising the boy at Castel Sant’Angelo out of the goodness of his heart?”
“Admittedly, it is unusual,” said Karl with a shrug. “It’s possible that it is some kind of belated revenge on you. And it would be a particularly sweet revenge. Lahnstein couldn’t get you, so he takes your daughter and grandson. Instead of hurting Greta, he turns her into a tool of the church. And then he raises her son like his own.”
“So you admit that Greta is but a tool?”
Karl sighed deeply. “She has changed, it’s true. But the most important thing is that your daughter is well—she and her son, your grandchild. Greta found a new home. You might not like it, but that’s the way it is. I beg you: let your daughter go!”
“I know he’s got plans for the boy,” muttered Johann. “I just know it. Tonio still holds me in his clutches. The pact still stands.”
“Tonio? You seriously believe Tonio del Moravia is behind all this?” Karl shook his head. “You were talking about Lahnstein a moment ago and now it’s about Tonio?”
“You didn’t see what I saw at Tiffauges and thereafter. Evil truly exists. And I can feel that we’re very close to it.”
“Now you sound like your daughter.” Karl gave a tired smile. “Except she believes you are this evil.”
Johann closed his eyes as if he was thinking hard. When he started to speak again, he was very calm. “I know you want to leave me, Karl. And you have every reason to. In all these years I’ve brought you nothing but misfortune.”
“That’s not true, Doctor,” said Karl in protest. “I’ve learned so much from you.”
And I still love you, he added in his mind. Even if my love is growing weaker by the day.
Karl had indeed decided to soon part ways with Johann. Their common story had reached its end. Greta would stay here in Rome with her son, and Karl would try to start another course of study. He wanted to travel the empire as an itinerant scholar, sketching, exploring, forever learning. Life as a juggler and quack was over for him. But first he wanted to say farewell to Greta.
“I would only ask you one last favor,” said Johann as if reading Karl’s mind. “One very last one. Maybe you’re right and my grandson is safe. But I have a strong sense of foreboding. Something . . .” He hesitated. “Something is going to happen. Very soon. I can feel it like an impending thunderstorm. Give me one more week. I want us to observe Castel Sant’Angelo for one week. I can’t do it on my own—I need your help.”
“You want to spy on Lahnstein?” asked Karl, puzzled. “But isn’t he the one looking for you?”
Johann smiled. “It’s just like chess. Always make the move your opponent least expects. We used to play a lot of chess together. Remember, Karl? Those were good times.”
“I almost always lost.”
Karl had planned to depart within the next few days. But now that the doctor was sitting there, pleading, he couldn’t bring himself to refuse.
“Just this one last favor,” said Johann.
Karl nodded. “One week. Not a day longer. If you promise me that afterward, you will finally leave your daughter and her son in peace.”
“I promise.”
Karl gave him a serious look. “You still talk about your pact with Tonio and about a curse. I never really believed in it, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“So you also believe that Tonio still persecutes me?”
“Oh yes, he does. In here,” Karl said, tapping his forehead. “Trust me, Doctor, if you want to vanquish this curse, you have to let go. Of Tonio, of your daughter, of your grandson. As long as you don’t learn to forget, Tonio del Moravia will always remain a part of you.”
The screams of a child echoed through the labyrinthine corridors, long hallways, and remote chambers of Castel Sant’Angelo.
It was the kind of persistent, never-ending screaming that filled one’s head and left no room for any other thoughts. The screaming became shriller, like a saw cutting through bone—it sounded like the screams of someone being tortured.
At least, that’s how Viktor von Lahnstein perceived it.
He hurried along the corridor, past the guards who grinned furtively. Many of them were fathers and used to such clamor. Unlike a papal representative, who had spent the larger part of his life in monastic austerity.
The screaming came from a room in the eastern wing of the castle, a wing that was reserved for higher-ranking servants and, occasionally, for legates. Lahnstein opened the door just as the noise behind it stopped abruptly. The chamber was clad with silk tapestries but was otherwise rather bare. On a stool in its center sat a plump young woman with healthy red cheeks. Sitting on her lap like a little prince was a baby boy getting spoon-fed. His face was smeared, and porridge was dripping onto the ground. He ate ravenously, as if he hadn’t eaten in days, but he looked quite strong. Despite his young age, his hair was full and
