“Wait here,” whispered Karl. “Do not go inside without me!”
He hurried across the courtyard, grabbed one of the torches, and returned to Greta, who stared at him from wide eyes. “What is the meaning of this?” she asked quietly. “Where is Martha? Where is Sebastian? Maybe . . . maybe she just took him to the balustrade to watch the fireworks.”
“Maybe,” murmured Karl.
He shoved the door open and cautiously stepped into the room with the torch in his hand. Flickering light fell onto a table with a bowl of cold porridge. Farther back, Karl made out a plain bed and a cradle beside it.
The cradle was empty.
Karl lowered the torch and saw a child’s rattle on the floor, a spinning top, a velvet cushion, a hand.
A hand.
Karl started. Next to him, Greta gave a small cry.
A severed human hand was lying on the floor.
A trail of blood led a few steps to the side, where, in a large pool of blood, lay the body of a woman. Her throat had been almost cut right through, and the stump of her arm was pointed toward the empty cradle as if in silent admonishment. Mercifully, the corner of a sheet covered the upper part of her face.
“Martha!” cried Greta. “Oh God, Martha! Oh God!”
She was holding both hands to her mouth, staring at the dead woman as if she hoped to wake from this nightmare at any moment.
“Where . . . where is Sebastian? Where? Where? Where?” Her voice was growing increasingly shrill.
Karl dragged her away from the corpse. It looked as though there had been a struggle between Martha and her murderer. The nursemaid had probably refused to give up the child, whereupon the murderer had first cut off her hand and then killed her with another stroke of his sword.
A stroke of his sword.
Karl’s eyes turned to the wooden floor and saw bloody footprints.
Very large footprints.
He grabbed Greta and pulled her to the door. Not far away the first firecrackers exploded, and a solitary rocket painted a red arch above the courtyard.
“Where do the fireworks get lit?” asked Karl breathlessly. He shook Greta, who still seemed in a daze. “Where?”
“Probably upstairs . . . up on the terrace. There’d be enough room. But—”
“Quickly!” ordered Karl. “I think I know where we’ll find your son. May God ensure that it isn’t too late.”
The pope reclined in his throne with a smile on his face, like he was expecting a present. Indeed, now Johann heard a crying that quickly became louder.
Someone was coming up the stairs with a child.
“And there he is, the little one!” Leo clapped his hands, and the panthers pricked up their ears. Moments later, Hagen appeared on the terrace with a crying child. The boy was kicking his legs wildly, but Hagen held him in a viselike grip.
Sebastian! thought Johann. My own flesh and blood.
It nearly broke Johann’s heart to behold his grandson for the first time in this way. Sebastian had his father’s hair and perhaps also his stout build, but Johann recognized the child’s black eyes immediately.
My eyes.
He took a step toward Sebastian and Hagen, whereupon the giant slowly shook his head.
“Don’t even try,” said Leo. “The boy will only die sooner. Better enjoy the few moments you have with him. And remember: he is giving his young life for a good cause, the well-being of Christendom. Besides, he is baptized and thus guaranteed a place in heaven. Unlike you.” Leo’s voice had become malicious and sharp, and Johann wondered how many poor devils had heard this voice as they’d suffered on the rack, deep down below Castel Sant’Angelo.
“Why Sebastian?” asked Johann, not wanting to arouse the pope’s suspicions. Johann’s expression was blank, but inside, his thoughts were racing. He would only have one attempt—one lousy attempt, but he had to risk it, had to stake everything on one card.
“It was your old master’s idea that we use your grandson for the ritual,” said Leo. “It could have been any child. But I liked the notion, and to be frank, I thought good old Viktor would also appreciate it. I wanted to give this moment of revenge to him as a gift. Now he’s missing it, unfortunately.”
Johann closed his eyes and counted down in his mind. It was like during one of their juggling shows years ago, except he hadn’t been able to practice this time. It was like a dance on the rope without a net.
Three.
Johann’s hand slid into the satchel. Little Sebastian was screaming at the top of his lungs now, his face bright red. Hagen held him by the scruff like a rabbit before slaughter.
Two.
Johann heard a low growl behind his back.
One.
“One wrong movement and my darlings will rip open your throat,” said Leo. “They adore Hagen because he always brings them the finest meats. Romulus and Remus would never forgive you if you harm as much as a hair on Hagen’s body. You better accept your—”
Now!
At lightning speed, Johann’s hand shot out from the satchel and hurled the vial of spirits of salt at Hagen. He had stealthily removed the cork inside the bag, and now the contents of the small bottle were spilling over Hagen’s right thigh. Johann would have preferred to hit the bastard right in the face with it, but then he would have risked hurting Sebastian.
But even so, the effect was enormous.
With a hissing noise the liquid ate through Hagen’s leather trousers and, roaring with pain, the giant fell to the ground. The child slipped from his grasp.
“My darlings will tear you to pieces for this!” screamed the pope. “Romulus, Remus!”
The beasts hissed and pulled at their leash. Johann darted to one of the firepots, snatched it, and held the flames to one of the many fuses connected to other fuses. There was a soft hiss as the string caught on fire.
“Noooo!” yelled the pope. “The ritual! The ritual isn’t complete!”
Thick smoke spread around Johann; there were crackling sounds and blue sparks flying. Then the first rockets howled
