“And?” asked Karl. “Did he trust you?”
“Leonardo wanted to ensure that no one else would get their hands on the recipe. But he couldn’t bring himself to part with it.” Johann sighed. “Inventions can be like a curse that clings to a person. And so Leonardo hid the formula. Inside his own world.”
“Inside his own world?” Karl frowned. “What is that supposed to—?”
Johann held up a thin chain he had pulled out from under his shirt. Dangling on the chain was a tiny silver globe.
“The recipe is inside this.” Johann rolled the ball between his fingers. “Written in mirror writing, in tiny letters upon tissue paper. Leonardo took every precaution so that only I would find the globe. He wanted me to decide what would happen to his invention.” He smiled thinly. “A tempting thought, isn’t it? All those wars in Europe, and this weapon could be the decisive factor. Maybe, with the help of this weapon, a unified, peaceful empire could be founded.”
“An empire built on terror,” said Greta.
“Is that why you kept the recipe?” asked Karl. “Because you haven’t decided who to give igró pir to? Hardly to the church, nor to the French king. Let alone the German emperor. They would only cause mass destruction with it.”
Johann shook his head with a grin. “Even when they only thought I could make gold, the high and mighty practically bashed each other’s heads in. What would happen if they learned of this weapon? No.” His expression turned serious. “I kept the recipe because I hoped it would serve me as a pawn. As a pawn in a bargain with Tonio. At first I thought I could use it to win back my daughter. But now it seems I am going to need it for someone else.”
Johann looked at Greta.
“For Sebastian. The fate of the world for your son.”
Somewhere deep below them, in the belly of Palatine Hill, the master bathed in a fountain full of blood. His eyes were closed and he hummed his old song.
Because everything that exists deserves to perish.
This was the oldest place in one of the oldest cities of mankind. The place where everything had begun. The master loved such places, because where there was a beginning, there would always be an end.
Finis terrae. The end of the world.
His great plan had failed. Once again, little Faustus had foiled it. But unlike men, the master had time. Plenty of time.
There was a flutter of wings, and moments later, a raven came flying into the cave and settled on the edge of the well. The bird opened its beak and cawed. If one listened very closely, one could hear a voice that—many, many years ago—might have been human, the voice of a child. The master nodded.
“So he came. And of his own free will. That is good, very good! Prepare everything, Baphomet.” He grinned, his fingers stroking the scuffed beak of the raven. “If you fulfill your tasks to my satisfaction, you shall have something especially sweet to eat, my pet. Not salted and dried, but fresh—as fresh as if it was still screaming.”
Inside a cage in the corner whimpered a small two-year-old boy.
Greta kept staring at the little silver globe, swinging before her eyes like a pendulum.
She had heard what her father had said, but she still struggled to comprehend. If it was true, then contained inside the silver ball were the instructions for a weapon the likes of which mankind could not fathom. Greta had no trouble imagining that someone like Tonio del Moravia was interested in it. He could sell the formula to the highest bidder. Clearly, the pope had been interested. But perhaps also the young German emperor who was locking horns with the French king over Italy, or the English king Henry VIII, who was also considered highly ambitious.
Whoever owns this recipe rules the world, thought Greta. And they will sow death and fire.
Tonio had stolen her son because he wanted the igró pir. Sebastian was the hostage in a trade. It had probably been Tonio’s plan as far back as her journey to Rome with Lahnstein. They’d only have to hand over the recipe and Sebastian would be free. But then why wasn’t Tonio showing himself?
You must come of your own free will.
Evidently this, too, was a part of the sick game between Tonio and her father, a game whose rules Greta neither understood nor wanted to understand. She only wanted her son back.
Even if it means the death of thousands of people on the battlefields of Europe?
The thought was mind boggling. Greta’s feet hurt like hell. She had seen unimaginable things at Castel Sant’Angelo, had plunged into the ice-cold Tiber, had run through half of Rome in a wet dress, and had barely managed to escape death—she wouldn’t give up, not this close to the goal.
“We have to find this cave,” she said eventually.
Johann gave her a hard look. “So you have made your decision?”
“What decision?”
“We give the recipe to Tonio. You know what that means?”
“This is about my son, damn it! How can it be my son’s fault if some old men think up horrible things? Why should he pay for it? He is only a child!” She paused. “Even if we destroyed the recipe here and now, who’s to say that someone else won’t invent something similar, or that the old formula won’t reappear? I can only save my son, not the whole world.”
“Maybe we’ll still find a different solution,” said Karl. “But first we need to find the cave.” He stood and pointed uphill. “Augustus’s palace isn’t much farther. Let’s start our search there.”
Flinching with pain, Greta got to her feet. She was limping, but at least she could walk unaided, albeit slowly. Thus they eventually arrived at the ruins of the imperial palace. Here, too, all was overgrown with weeds. In the light of the moon, Greta saw arches and crumbling walls; in an old courtyard stood a headless
