But the boy’s eyes were those of his grandfather.
Sebastian also carried Johann’s burden, the same as she did. The curse had spread across the entire family.
For a few weeks after the birth, Greta had nursed Sebastian, cuddled and kissed him. But Lahnstein had made it clear that her work was elsewhere, and so little Sebastian had moved into Castel Sant’Angelo. He was doing well there; he had a friendly nurse, plenty of toys, and a warm, cozy cradle. Greta was allowed to visit him as often as her duties permitted. Sometimes she felt a pang in her heart, a deep longing, but those moments always passed, and prayer, chanting, and the daily liturgies never failed to calm her. Life had gone on, quiet and peaceful.
Until her father had found her.
Hatred had returned along with Johann, and also the memories of her former life. It had been nice to talk about the old times with Karl, but the appearance of the two men had brought everything back to the surface. Perhaps that was where the strange feeling of being shaken awake was coming from. But Greta didn’t want to be awakened.
She sensed that if she did wake, a terrible reality would descend upon her.
“Is it true what they say?” asked the old man after having watched her work for quite some time. “That you can see in someone’s hands if they are going to die?”
“Folks talk a lot of nonsense,” said Greta, harsher than she had intended. It was true, she had used her gift from time to time. She wanted to give people the opportunity to ready themselves for death, for their last rites. But it had been a mistake, and she had stopped doing so months ago.
“I don’t want to know,” said the old man. “What sort of a life is it if one waits for death? Counting each day, each breath? I want to enjoy every day as if it were my last. Only God ought to know when we see our loved ones here on earth for the last time.”
Greta smiled. “You’re right.”
She dressed the wound with a fresh bandage and covered the man with a blanket. Suddenly she paused. There it was again, the shaking. This time it was softer, more like a gentle nudge.
Our loved ones.
She stood up and wiped her hands on her apron.
“Where are you off to?” asked the old man.
“I am going to visit someone,” said Greta. “I want to make sure he is well.”
Longing for her child flooded her heart.
The days following the conversation at the inn were the most boring and contemplative in a long time for Karl.
They were also damned cold.
He and Johann had been watching the entrance to Castel Sant’Angelo in turns, hoping for Lahnstein to show, or for anything else to happen that would confirm Johann’s hunch. But nothing happened, except that Karl’s fingers and toes nearly froze off. It was almost December, and a damp chill had crept into the city and burrowed underneath any layers of clothing. Karl could feel a cold nesting inside him, his nose dripping and his throat scratching. He cursed himself for making Faust a promise instead of leaving as planned.
Castel Sant’Angelo stood opposite Sant’Angelo Bridge, which was one of just two bridges in Rome and accordingly busy. A steady stream of people, wagons and carts, oxen, and horses traveled across it, and so it was easy for Karl to hide in the crowd. He’d heard that years ago the bridge had collapsed, killing hundreds of people. Even now it didn’t look particularly stable. Karl had picked a spot at the start of the bridge from where he had the best view of the castle. Yet he knew that their chances were slim. Faust had watched from here all morning and had then rushed over to the papal palaces in the hope of finding Lahnstein there. Karl spent the frosty hours of waiting sitting on a low wall, drawing, eating nuts, and mentally bidding farewell to a time that would soon lie behind him.
His time with the doctor.
Sometimes Karl wondered whether his love for Faust had anything to do with the rejection of his own father. Franz Josef Wagner, renowned chirurgeon from Leipzig, had probably always suspected his son to be a sodomite and had treated him accordingly. Faust, on the other hand, had accepted Karl for who he was right from the beginning, even if he wasn’t thrilled about it. But Karl’s love had something in common with the obsession that tied the doctor to the creepy Tonio del Moravia.
Karl’s eyes turned to Castel Sant’Angelo, a gloomy structure from pre-Christian times that used to serve as a tomb for Roman emperors. Now that winter was moving into town and fog hung above the river, the castle looked even eerier than usual. A tall, square wall with four corner bastions enclosed a towering cylinder. The fortress had nothing airy or angelic about it. A former pope had named it when, during a plague epidemic, he had seen Archangel Michael hovering above it, whereupon the plague vanished from the city like a miracle. Since those times, the castle had been serving as a place of retreat and residence to the popes. Since Leo’s reign, regular fireworks took place on the upper terrace. Karl had heard that another such display was scheduled to happen in just a few days. It was part of a three-day-long festival to mark Milan being liberated from the French.
His hands shaking, Karl was about to pull out one of the cheap pieces of paper he had bought off a dealer
