“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t,” replied Greta. “I lost my key ring. Yesterday it was still around my neck. It must have ripped off at work, but I’ve looked everywhere.”
“So that’s where he got it,” Karl murmured.
Greta gaped at him, and Karl knew he’d said the wrong thing.
“He stole my keys?” Greta slapped her hand against her forehead. “Of course! When I dropped the bowl of pills. He orchestrated everything, as always. That means . . .” She started with fright as she finished her line of thought. “He hasn’t been abducted or murdered. He hoodwinked us both. Most likely, he’s on his way into Castel Sant’Angelo to steal his grandson. It is his revenge, not Lahnstein’s! Because he can’t have me, he kidnaps Sebastian so that he can teach my son the same way Tonio used to teach my father. He wants to become Sebastian’s master!”
Karl wanted to protest, but suddenly his mouth was very dry. Could Greta be right? He’d had a feeling that Johann was keeping something from him. Had the doctor used him once more?
Karl no longer knew what to believe. Just like one of the many Roman statues, he stood outside the church, mute, incapable of making a decision. It was Greta who grabbed him and pulled him along.
“We must go stop my father—now!”
Johann listened to the hurried steps of Lahnstein and Hagen fading away. Then he counted to ten in his mind, seeking the tranquility he required to think.
The situation had changed. The papal delegate didn’t, in fact, know about the summoning. Until then, Lahnstein had assumed that the pope was desperately trying to produce gold. But now Lahnstein knew that was not the case. What was it the delegate had said about the pope?
But lately, he changed. And I believe I know who is responsible.
And Johann thought he knew, too.
He closed his eyes and focused entirely on his insides. He subdued his shaking and made his body as limp as if his bones were made of cartilage. It was an exercise he had learned during his time as a juggler. Back then, with Peter Nachtigall, Salome, and the other jugglers, they had occasionally performed escape tricks. Salome had taught him how free himself from a tangle of ropes in no time. All it took was a little deftness and inner calm—a serenity that Johann had lacked earlier, in the chest filled with toxic fumes. But now things were different. He twisted and turned his wrists until he felt the ropes gradually loosening. After a while his right arm was free, then his left, and then he hastily untied his feet. Eventually, he stood up, swaying.
Hagen’s blows had left their marks; blood was running from his nose, and with every breath his lungs burned from the toxic fumes. Johann grew dizzy and held on to the statue of Hermes to keep from falling. Once he had overcome his urge to vomit, he squatted down and inspected his leather satchel.
In his shock of hearing about the planned invocation of the devil, Lahnstein must have forgotten all about the bag. There was less broken than Johann had feared. Several jars and vials were still intact, and thankfully the small bottle of spirits of salt was among them. Johann rummaged through the satchel and, at its bottom, found the most important thing: Greta’s key ring.
He walked to the door and, with unsteady hands, tried one key after the other in the lock.
The fifth key worked.
He exhaled with relief, only now noticing the cold sweat on his forehead. There was a good chance Greta sometimes prayed in this small chapel. Now her belief gave him another chance to avert disaster. He was about to leave the room when he turned around once more to fetch the bag. Some vials were broken, but the rest might still come in useful.
Walking hunched over, he found himself in a dark courtyard. Night had fallen, and Johann heard the occasional cracking and hissing in the distance—the first signs of the impending fireworks. The cheers of the crowds were muted by the castle’s walls.
Johann shuddered. Carefully he looked around but saw no guards. From the courtyard, some stairs led to a terrace. He shouldered his bag and headed that way. Through arrow slits in the wall he caught glimpses of Rome, clusters of lights that became more dense the closer they were to Castel Sant’Angelo and Saint Peter.
Johann was about to rush on when he spotted two guards patrolling the round walk, heading straight toward him. This was the wrong way. He ducked, hurried back down the stairs, and decided on a door opposite the chapel. Once again Greta’s keys helped him.
The room on the other side was plain, with a tiled stove and a handful of chests. Johann guessed it was servants’ quarters. A second exit led him to corridors and more stairs, and he made sure to keep going up, not down. He was hoping to find the terrace Lahnstein had spoken of.
Once more he used Greta’s keys to open a door, and twice more guards walked toward him, but each time Johann managed to hide behind a curtain or a door. The soldiers were in high spirits and not particularly alert; they, too, were looking forward to the fireworks.
Johann soon found that Castel Sant’Angelo was a veritable maze. It looked as though, since the days of the Romans, each ruler had added some new walls, stairs, or corridors and barricaded some old ones. The castle was like an anthill with thousands of tunnels. Johann passed through richly decorated deserted halls, and also a high, barred room that was filled with stacked-up iron chests hung with padlocks—probably the papal treasury. Strangely, there were no guards here, either. The higher he climbed, the more forlorn the countless chambers and hallways, erected
