It could have been worse.
“Sebastian! Sebastian!” Greta’s screams startled him. His daughter had run to the closed door and hammered her fists against it.
“Don’t bother.” Johann stood up with a groan. His body ached all over. When he had saved his grandson from the panther, he had smelled the beast’s rotten breath, breath that had come straight from hell. “The guards will be here soon.”
“You know what that means, don’t you?” Karl looked down and across to Sant’Angelo Bridge, where the crowds of people slowly dispersed. “They will think we killed the pope!” Karl gave a desperate laugh. “Doctor Faustus and his two helpers summon the devil, who then comes and takes the pope. Ha! At least we’ll go down in Vatican history with this tale. The death penalty for this crime hasn’t been invented yet!”
“I don’t think they’ll want to shout it from the rooftops,” remarked Johann tiredly. “I’m guessing the cardinals will try to gloss over the whole affair. They can’t afford the story to come to light that the pope tried to invoke the devil. I think they’ll say that Leo died very suddenly of illness. And very soon white smoke will rise above Vatican Hill.”
“The smoke from our burning flesh is going to rise,” snapped Karl. “We won’t get away from here. This is the end.”
“And my son is lost,” breathed Greta. All her strength seemed to have drained from her body. She was cowering at the bottom of the closed door, her face ashen. “It’s like a curse,” she said to Johann. “With you, evil returned to my life. All those years working at Santo Spirito as a sister—for nothing!” She shook her head. “God is punishing me. But why is He punishing my son?”
“I tried to save your son,” murmured Johann, but he could tell that Greta wouldn’t hear him now.
They were all lost—Greta, Karl, Johann, and, worst of all, little Sebastian, whom Hagen was taking to Tonio del Moravia at this very moment. Johann still didn’t really understand the intended purpose of the ritual on the rooftop. If Tonio was the devil himself—which Johann now assumed—then why would he persuade the pope to invoke him? Leo’s ritual had failed, but what good was that if the devil was already in Rome?
Johann felt empty and spent. Surely it wouldn’t be long until the guards arrived. What they would find here would change the history of Rome forever. The small silver globe weighed heavily on Johann’s chest; he had almost forgotten about it in all the excitement. He still owned this pawn, which he had intended to use to bargain with Tonio.
The globe’s contents in exchange for my grandson.
But what use was that when they couldn’t get away from here? Johann’s eye turned to the mangled body of the pope beneath the baldachin. Miraculously, the shelter had been the only thing to remain intact amid all the chaos. It merely bore a few scorch marks and the fabric was torn at the edges, hanging down like limp wings. What was it Pope Leo had said when he couldn’t work out how Johann had made it up here?
Can you fly?
Johann sighed. He wished he could. But it wasn’t possible. No man could fly, not even—
He started.
An image appeared before his mind’s eye, an image he’d seen a long time ago among Leonardo da Vinci’s notes. Back at Château du Cloux, he had been permitted to browse through the library and read the wealth of notes the genius had composed. Leonardo, too, had been fascinated by flying. He had observed the flight of birds closely, studying the movement of their wings. There were images of a flying apparatus with long wings made of wood and linen, and other sketches of types of propellers. But Johann was thinking of yet another image.
The drawing of a man with a large canopy above his head, like a roof.
Almost like a baldachin.
Johann sprang to life.
“Help me!” he shouted at Greta and Karl. “I know how we can get away from here!”
“What’s your plan?” asked Karl. “If you’re thinking of using the remaining aqua regia to get through the door, I don’t think—”
“Quit jabbering—come help me!” Johann had already rushed over to the baldachin.
To make it rain- and wind-resistant, it had been manufactured from solid, reinforced linen that was additionally strengthened by thin wooden sticks. Four poles held up the corners, and strings looped through iron rings held the baldachin to the ground. Johann untied one of the strings and lifted the shelter tentatively. It was amazingly light, and it would be even lighter without the poles.
Karl turned pale. Now he probably also remembered the drawing from Leonardo da Vinci’s house.
“Jesus, don’t tell me you want to—”
“Can you think of another way?” barked Johann. “We don’t have much time! Even if we managed to lower ourselves to one of the levels below, they would only catch us there.”
As if to support his words, someone started banging against the door. Angry shouts followed. Johann gave a tired smile.
“At least it looks like Hagen didn’t give his key to his comrades. I’m guessing only very few people have access to this terrace. We still have a few minutes until they break through the door.”
“Hold on,” said Greta. “Are you . . . are you planning to use this thing to . . . ?”
“To fly, yes,” sighed Karl as the banging against the door grew louder.
“Eleven by eleven paces. That’s how big the canopy ought to be, according to Leonardo’s calculations. But I believe he’s wrong. A smaller area should work, too.”
“But there are three of us!” insisted Karl.
“And we’re not trying to cross the Alps but merely to glide to the bottom.”
“Glide?” Karl groaned again. “We are going to shatter like rotten apples.”
“If it’s the only way to get down from here, then so be it,” said Greta. “No matter how slim our chances. I would do anything to save my son.
