His lips trembled too strongly now for Greta to understand any more.
“Who is coming for you?” asked Greta. “Who?”
But Johann no longer spoke.
In her despair, Greta did the first thing she could think of: she knelt beside the doctor and prayed.
She had believed in the power of prayer from early childhood. Praying had given her strength when she’d spent weeks locked in the catacombs of Nuremberg, not knowing if she’d ever see the light of day again. Prayers were like rays of sunshine connecting her to her childhood. She uttered the first prayer that came to her mind. In her shaking voice, the ancient words came tumbling out.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures and leadeth me beside still waters . . .”
Johann’s eyes closed then, his breathing steadied, and he fell into a deep sleep.
When Johann woke up, he was lying beside a fire in the woods. It was the middle of the night and the stars sparkled above him. He felt cold and as exhausted as if he’d been riding for days, his limbs aching. Little by little, the memories returned, but the images were jarred and from another perspective, almost as if he hadn’t been there. Greta was sitting next to him, while Karl was busy sorting torn pages of books a few yards away from him; a ripped cover was lying on the ground in front of him.
“The Figura,” said Johann weakly as he tried to sit up.
“Is quite safe.” Greta gently pushed him back down on his bed of leaves and twigs. “The pages are dirty but complete,” she said with a tired smile. “Besides, you should be worrying about your own health, not that of your books. This fit was much worse than the one at Altenburg Castle.”
“At least it made those scoundrels take to their heels. We survived. You—” Johann paused when a thought struck him. He cleared his throat. “You held my hand earlier. What were you doing?”
“What I was doing?” Greta hesitated before continuing. “I . . . well, I prayed for you.”
“You did what?”
“I prayed for you. Is that really so strange?” Greta breathed deeply. “You did look as if you were possessed by the devil. It was the same psalm Uncle Valentin used to recite when I was a child. I . . . The words suddenly came to my mind. Believe it or not, afterward I felt better.”
“You . . . you prayed for me.” Johann smiled faintly.
Greta was his daughter, and he had never felt this truth more strongly than right at this moment. And she’d started remembering things from her childhood. How much longer could he keep the truth from her? But if he told her now, he would also have to tell her everything else—his terrible guilt, the death of her mother, the pact with Tonio, and everything that had happened back in Nuremberg. And all the small and big lies since then.
He couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“You mentioned a name during your fit,” said Greta into the silence. “I think it was . . . Tonio del Moravia or something like that. An odd name. I feel like I’ve heard it before. You said he was coming for you. You mentioned a pact.” She paused, trying to work out where she might have heard the name before. “Who is this Tonio? Should I know him?”
Karl looked over to them, darting a questioning look at Johann. They fell silent for a while.
“He is no one of consequence,” said Johann eventually. “Just an old acquaintance. I’m tired now. I want to sleep.”
When he closed his eyes he heard the cawing of crows or ravens, and he wasn’t sure if it was a dream or reality.
A few days later, they finally left the Wasgau region behind. The landscape became flatter as they approached the land of Lotharingia, or Lorraine, a beautiful area crossed by rivers and studded with deep-green ponds that were beginning to be covered by a thin layer of ice.
Johann remembered hearing about this country for the first time as a child. The grandsons of the most famous emperor of all time, Charlemagne, had split France into three even parts. The eldest grandson, Lothar, had received the middle part, which used to reach all the way to the North Sea; all that remained of it now was this narrow strip of land behind the Wasgau, where cities, counties, and duchies were forever arguing. Of all the tiny dominions along the western border of the German Empire, the city of Metz was the most powerful, and a wide, well-maintained trading route led straight toward it.
The free imperial city lay on the Moselle River, which had its source in the Vosges Mountains and wound its way in countless bends past steep vineyards toward Koblenz, on the Rhine. It was snowing so heavily when they arrived at Metz that the city walls were merely vague outlines. It was still afternoon, but dusk already crept across the city’s roofs. With the month of December, winter had arrived—earlier than in previous years. Johann was glad they had finally reached their winter quarters. He only hoped they’d traveled far enough to be safe from the papal henchmen.
Metz was one of the biggest cities of the empire. Much of its wealth came from money-lending businesses. A ring wall several miles long enclosed twenty thousand inhabitants. Through the snow Johann could make out many towers and the rooftops of monasteries and churches, and farther in the distance the spire of Metz Cathedral, its yellow limestone glowing in the last light of day. Like so many other cathedrals, it was unfinished—an eternal building site in God’s honor.
The three travelers entered the city with a caravan of merchants via a stone bridge that ended in a bulky, narrow gate flanked by two watchtowers. Throngs of people pushed in both directions, and Johann heard the soft French tongue that always reminded him of
