“I always trusted him,” muttered Lahnstein eventually, more to himself. “All those years I thought it was just about the philosopher’s stone. Not an entirely ludicrous idea, after all. It might have been possible. But lately, he . . . changed. And I believe I know who is responsible.” He shook his head. “How could I have been so stupid!”
“Who are you talking about?” asked Johann.
Lahnstein stood up.
“It is not too late. The fireworks haven’t started. We might still be able to stop him. Someone has to stop him before this madness drags us all down. Let’s go up to the rooftop terrace.” Lahnstein turned to the huge mercenary. “Prepare to do the unimaginable in order to save the world.”
Without another word he stormed to the door. Hagen shouldered his longsword and followed.
The door was pushed shut. Johann heard a key turn twice in the lock.
Then he was alone with his pain and his sense of foreboding.
Meanwhile, Karl was sitting by the window, staring out into the dusk settling over Rome. Small lights flared up in the hills. Downstairs, in the taproom, a fiddle struck up a tune while a whore laughed loudly as she led a customer into the backyard. There was still no sign of Faust, and Karl was convinced that the doctor wouldn’t return.
Perhaps not ever again.
Three hours had passed since they’d separated. Had the doctor been attacked, or murdered, even? Karl had decided to force such thoughts aside for now. Instead he frantically tried to figure out what he could do. He had come to believe that Greta’s son was in danger. The list of alchemy ingredients was rather unambiguous, and Lahnstein was certainly after revenge on Faust. So was that his plan? To conduct some sort of gruesome ritual with the blood of the doctor’s grandchild? Is that why the boy was being raised at Castel Sant’Angelo?
Just a few days ago, Karl had been ready to say goodbye to Johann for good. Now the doctor was missing—maybe dead—and Karl felt fear and grief consuming him from the inside. He needed to do something. If he couldn’t help the doctor, then at least he’d have to warn Greta.
He cast one last glance through the window onto the dark street below, then he put on his coat and hurried down the steps and outside.
Rome received him with noise and laughter, the lanes full of cheerful people heading for Castel Sant’Angelo or searching for a good spot in the hills from which to watch the fireworks. Some citizens carried wine amphoras to keep themselves warm during the cold night. Pope Leo X was well known for his fireworks, and tonight’s display was supposed to be the greatest Rome had ever seen.
Karl made his way through the excited crowd along the Tiber until he finally stood outside the hospital. He was out of breath and his heart thumped wildly, but he forced himself to appear calm as he asked the gatekeeper if he could speak with Sister Greta. It was urgent, a family emergency.
“It is evening vespers,” said the gatekeeper, waving at the tall campanile rising up behind the hospital. “The nuns are praying in Santo Spirito Church. You’ll just have to wait.”
Without paying any heed to the stunned gatekeeper, Karl rushed past him and toward the hospital church. He could hear the monotonous chorale of female voices from inside. Karl opened the church door and was hit by the smell of incense. Wafts of smoke drifted through the high-ceilinged building, which was dimly illuminated by a few candelabras. He guessed there were about two dozen sisters singing and praying.
After searching cautiously for a while, Karl finally spotted Greta in a rear pew on the right-hand side. She sat with her eyes closed and her hands folded in prayer. Karl made the sign of the cross and sat down next to her.
“Greta, we need to talk,” he whispered. “It’s vitally important.”
Greta opened her eyes with surprise and turned to look at him. “How dare you disturb me during mass?” she hissed.
“Your son is in grave danger.”
“That’s what my father said, and I didn’t believe him,” she replied through clenched teeth.
“But it’s the truth, Greta. I swear it by all the saints and the Mother Mary. By the Holy Spirit who gave this church its name.”
Karl had spoken loudly enough for some of the nuns to turn their heads. Greta squeezed Karl’s hand and nodded at him to leave the church with her. Several indignant pairs of eyes followed them.
“So, what is it you want to tell me?” asked Greta when they stood in the dark lane. “And don’t even bother talking to me about some sort of ridiculous devil ceremony like your lord and master, whom, despite everything, you still idolize.”
“What your father told you is the truth, Greta. I saw with my own eyes how Hagen collected the ingredients and murdered the alchemist as an unwanted witness. And I also know TheSworn Book of Honorius, from which the ritual is taken—a ritual that demands the blood of a child. Whether it is hocus-pocus or not doesn’t matter to the poor boy—he is going to be sacrificed either way.”
He grabbed Greta by the shoulders and shook her as if trying to wake her.
“Your father went missing today. I believe Lahnstein abducted him or perhaps even killed him because we got too close to the truth. Think, Greta! Your son . . .” He paused as a merry group walked past them. “Your son is Johann’s grandchild,” he continued in a whisper. “And Lahnstein has a score to settle with Johann. What if Lahnstein really is going to sacrifice your son for an invocation?”
“That . . . that’s nonsense,” replied Greta, but her resistance was visibly crumbling. “Why should Lahnstein invoke the devil? He is the personal representative of the pope.”
“Maybe he is more than that.” Karl sighed. “Maybe the devil is very close to the pope. Greta,
