The Master's Apprentice, page 20
part #1 of Faust Series
“Looks like the wine market opened earlier than usual today,” the old man growled, looking around anxiously. “Fingers crossed that we aren’t too late. Hey, Albertus, old friend! Here I am!”
He jumped down from the box seat and was soon deep in conversation with a grumpy-looking bald-headed man. It wasn’t long before a heavy purse changed owners. The wine merchant returned to Johann with a wide grin.
“Albertus has been awaiting me desperately. He supplies the dance hall. Apparently, the Rhenish wine is so sour this year that they have to sweeten it with honey. Two of the barrels he was sold can only be used as vinegar. Albertus thanked God and all the saints when I told him I had five barrels of good wine left—at a price, of course.” He opened the purse and tossed Johann a coin. “Here, for you. You brought me luck. And now off with you before I get too softhearted.” He frowned. “The devil knows what you’ve been through. You screamed in your sleep last night as if all seven hounds of hell were after you. I wish you good luck for wherever you’re going next.”
He gave Johann one last pat on the shoulder, and then he turned away to help the other man unload the barrels.
“Thank you,” Johann called after him. “And God bless you!” But the old man seemed not to hear him.
Clutching the coin tightly in his hand, Johann drifted with the crowd until he’d left the wine market behind. Another square with stalls followed—the fish market, judging by the smell, and some of the wares didn’t seem to be the freshest. A tall tower rose up behind the fish market, and Johann headed toward it. He walked around the tower and found a mangy bear locked up behind an iron grate. The beast was lying in a corner, looking tired, its dull fur matted with scabs and dried blood. Every now and then children would prod it with a stick until the bear growled and swiped at them angrily before lying back down. The once-proud animal reminded Johann of himself. Tired, hurt, no way out . . .
Thoughtfully, he studied the coin in his hand. It was an old Augsburg penny, so smooth from handling that the image of Emperor Friedrich was barely recognizable. Well, the coin would buy him a warm supper and one night at a flea-infested inn—and then what?
Dejected, he moved on. He felt even more pathetic amid all the splendor of this wealthy place. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea to come to Augsburg, the golden city, after all. What was he doing here, surrounded by rich, confidence-oozing burghers? He reached another square and thought the huge building at its far end must be the city hall; it wasn’t far from the cathedral. A crowd had formed outside the building. At first Johann thought it was another type of market, but then he heard a loud, cheerful voice and stopped.
“Not three, not four, no, five balls are going to be juggled by our very own Emilio! Only the most talented jugglers can accomplish this feat. Watch and be amazed!”
Johann smiled. He thought about the time he and Tonio traveled from village to village as jugglers. It seemed like an eternity ago, though only a few months had passed since then. He made his way through the spectators and soon caught sight of two wagons with colorful canvases. Between them, blue and red ribbons roped off an area where a juggler was throwing leather balls into the air, accompanied by a man on the fiddle. Both wore the typical colorful garb of a juggler: yellow and red for one, the other one clad in green and blue.
The juggler—Emilio, evidently—didn’t look much older than Johann, while the fiddle player was probably past thirty. He had fiery red hair and a raw face with a huge beak of a nose. He played faster and faster while the boy threw the balls higher and higher. Small bells attached to the juggler’s clothes jingled to the beat of the music. His curly brown hair and his handsome, dark face suggested he came from southern lands.
“And now, it is my pleasure to introduce to you the beautiful Princess Salome from the Orient! Once upon a time she turned the head of John the Baptist,” announced the fiddler loudly. “Watch and be amazed! But beware, dear husbands—it’s going to be hard to remain faithful to your wives at the sight of the princess.”
A young woman emerged from behind one of the wagons, and a murmur went through the crowd. Her jet-black hair reached down to her hips. Her skin was dark—almost as dark as a Moor’s. A fire burned in her eyes, and her mouth was hidden behind a veil. She was dressed in colorful silk scarves that she twirled all around herself as the fiddler played an exotic-sounding tune. She moved her hips suggestively as she danced, causing some of the spectators to sigh out loud.
A hulk of a man who was just as dark skinned appeared behind her. He wore tight leggings, and nothing but a leather vest covered his chest, revealing his bulging muscles. He stared straight ahead with dark eyes, his strong arms crossed in front of him. The giant’s head was as bald as an egg.
“Mustafa the Strong, an Ottoman eunuch, is always at Salome’s side, watching over her,” the fiddler declared. “Beware of him! He can rip out entire trees with his arms and bend iron rods. He will demonstrate his skills shortly. But now, behold the Princess Salome!”
On cue, the foreign-looking girl pulled from under her dress several wooden skittles painted gold. She began throwing them to Emilio, one after the other. For each skittle, Emilio threw one ball to her. The woman continued to dance while she managed to keep the balls and skittles in the air like pearls on a string. The crowd exploded in raucous applause. The male spectators couldn’t stop gaping. With her low-cut outfit and wide hips, Salome did indeed look like a princess from the Far East. Her flowing black hair was stunning. Women never wore their hair down in public—only dancers and other dishonorable folk went out without a bonnet. Salome, however, wore her hair as proudly as precious jewelry.
The fiddler played one last quick run that ended on a high-pitched, mournful note—and suddenly the balls disappeared, swallowed up by Salome’s flowing garments. The juggler caught the skittles, and together they bowed to the fierce applause of the people of Augsburg.
Johann grinned. The show wasn’t bad, even if he’d seen better in Knittlingen. Some jugglers performed their tricks with closed eyes or while balancing on a rope; others ate fire or swallowed entire swords. But this girl was as beautiful as the dawn, and the red-haired fiddler played like the devil. Together with the rest of the audience, Johann felt transported to a different, faraway country.
The fiddle player, who appeared to be the leader of the troupe, raised his hands and asked for silence. “We’ve arrived at our next highlight!” he shouted. “From the hot plains of Jerusalem, we’ve been joined by a man whose reputation precedes him like the roar of a lion. He once lived as a hermit in the desert and is so wise that sultans and emperors sought his advice. Bow your heads to the widely traveled Magister Archibaldus!”
The cloth covering the door to one of the wagons was pushed aside, and out came a skinny old man with wild gray hair. His almost-white beard reached to his navel. He was wearing a slightly threadbare red frock and held a plain wooden staff, which he used to help him climb down the few steps from the wagon. He tried his best to appear dignified, but he clearly struggled to stay on his feet, swaying from side to side. Countless tiny veins crisscrossed his beefy nose.
“Magister Archibaldus has been fasting for nearly fifty years and consumes nothing but water,” the fiddler explained.
“And wine!” shouted one of the spectators, and the people around him laughed.
The red-haired man put on a stern look. “Don’t mock him. The venerable master is privy to the secret of the philosopher’s stone—do you want to see it or continue to crack jokes?”
The crowd cheered and clapped. Meanwhile, Archibaldus had walked to the middle of the arena, where the strong Mustafa had prepared a copper bowl that looked like a large mortar. The beautiful Salome and Emilio the juggler appeared with flasks and jars.
“Hear, worthy people of Augsburg! I succeeded where Albertus Magnus and Avicenna failed,” said Archibaldus with a rasping voice, raising his staff into the air like a monstrance. “I studied the forbidden art of alchemy for many years, and now finally I have found the philosopher’s stone. A tincture that has the power to turn any kind of material into gold. Even”—he paused for effect—“even this plain wooden staff from a yew tree.”
The audience murmured appreciatively, and Archibaldus turned to Salome.
“Well, then, my beautiful assistant, prepare the magical tincture.” He struggled to suppress a hiccup. Then he pointed at the various flasks, one after another, as Salome poured a few drops of each into the bowl.
“The blood of a unicorn,” Archibaldus counted. “The tears of a person in love, three ounces of liquid lead, the juice of a whole orange picked in the garden of Eden—”
“No wine—because he drank it all up!” shouted the same joker as before, but the audience ignored him this time. Spellbound, they stared at the bowl while Archibaldus continued with a heavy tongue.
“Dragon saliva from distant India, as well as ground pepper, nutmeg, and cloves—but only a pinch of each!”
With the tips of her fingers, Salome sprinkled a little powder into the bowl before stepping aside with a bow. Then Archibaldus dipped his staff into the bowl, and blue smoke began rising out of it, enshrouding the alchemist like a saint. For a few moments, he was barely visible.
“By the seven times seven magical formulas of Hermes,” the old man muttered while moving his stick around in the smoke. “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, and . . . wood to gold!”
He stepped out of the smoke and held up his staff. A murmur of amazement went through the crowd.
The tip of the staff gleamed golden.
“It is done!” declared Archibaldus, bowing low and staggering a little. The crowd cheered, and a few people tried to grab the stick, but Mustafa the Strong took one step forward and they stopped.
“Magister Archibaldus must rest now,” the redhead said loudly, casting a stern look at the old man. “Following the show, you are invited to his wagon to gaze upon some relics the wise man has brought with him from the East. Among others, hay from the crib at Bethlehem and a feather from the wings of Gabriel the archangel. Only one kreuzer per visit.” He gave a wide grin. “And for those of you who think they can’t afford it, come and win yourself some money. It’s child’s play!” He snapped his fingers and Mustafa brought a table, which looked like a wooden toy in his big hands. When the fiddler produced three nutshells from his pocket and placed them on the table, Johann knew immediately what was happening.
“Believe me, it has never been easier to make a quick buck,” the red-haired man said. “All you need is a fast pair of eyes and your wits.” He held up a pea. “I’m going to hide this pea under one of the shells now, and then I’ll move the shells around. If you can point to the shell that the pea is hiding under, you get back double the money you put in. Who wants to give it a shot?”
A few curious onlookers came and tried their luck. The first two put in one kreuzer each and guessed correctly. The fiddler handed them their winnings, seeming disgruntled. The participants became braver and put in more money, but increasingly, the fiddler won.
Johann grinned. He’d practiced this trick so many times that he could do it with his eyes closed. The knack was in managing to make the pea disappear in one’s hand while lifting one nutshell and transferring it to another without anyone noticing. Every second or third customer needed to win so the audience wouldn’t grow suspicious. Occasionally jugglers even paid people to pretend they’d happened to pass by and wanted to play.
Suddenly Johann knew how he could make a little money.
He waited until it grew quieter around the table. Then he approached the fiddler, holding up his coin shyly. The man smiled.
“Ah, someone wants to try his luck. Well, then, my boy.” Slowly, he moved the shells from side to side. “Place your coin where you think the pea is hiding.”
Johann guessed right, which didn’t surprise him. The man wanted him to feel safe.
“Now you have two pennies,” said the fiddler with a sigh. “And I have none. Do you want to try again?”
Johann nodded eagerly and the musician started moving the shells around again. This time Johann saw how the man hid the pea in the palm of his hand and then placed it beneath another shell. He was good at it, but not good enough. Without hesitating, Johann placed his coins in front of the right shell, and the fiddler’s smile froze.
“Right again. Well done.” The redhead waved to Salome. “Be so kind and fetch two more pennies from our savings. A promise is a promise.” He gave Johann a challenging look. “Another round?”
“Why not? What do I have to lose?” Johann grinned and placed four coins on the table. “I only started with one penny.”
This time the man moved the shells so fast that Johann’s eyes could barely follow. But Johann picked the right shell again. The small crowd of onlookers laughed as the fiddler pushed eight pennies across the table with a doleful expression.
“You’re good,” he hissed from between clenched teeth, watching Johann closely. “You know the game, don’t you?”
“I want to play again,” Johann said, ignoring the man’s comment and dropping his coins onto the table with a jingle. “For all or nothing.”
“I think we’ve had enough for one day,” the fiddler said. “Folks still want to see the relics, after all, and Magister Archibaldus—”
“If the boy wants to play, he should play,” said a broad-shouldered laborer standing next to Johann. “A promise is a promise. You said so yourself.”
Others in the crowd joined in, and the fiddler waved dismissively. “All right, why not? Every winning streak must come to an end.”
The shells flew across the table at a speed that made the spectators gasp with amazement. Johann saw that the fiddler kept the pea in his hand.
“Which shell?” asked the man harshly.
Johann shook his head. “I can’t say.”
The fiddler grinned and reached for the coins. “Ha, you can’t say, which means—”
“I can’t say because the pea isn’t under any of the shells.”
“What are you saying?” The man pretended to be outraged. “Just look for yourself, numbskull.”
Before the man could touch one of the shells, Johann quickly turned over all three.
The pea wasn’t under any of them. A cry of outrage went through the crowd.
“Um, the pea must have rolled off the table,” the fiddler said vaguely and leaned down. “It must be here somewhere . . .”
“Cheat!” shouted the man next to Johann. Other spectators joined in. “Cheat! Dishonorable fraudsters! Hang them!”
The table with the nutshells was pushed over, and the first few stones were thrown. The fiddler, Salome, and Emilio the juggler took cover behind a wagon while Mustafa struck one of the assailants. From the corner of his eye, Johann saw several Augsburg city guards run over from the city hall. He bent down and quickly gathered up any coins he could find, and then he strolled off at a leisurely pace. The guards rushed past him with raised halberds. No one cared about the boy in simple peasant clothes.
As Johann walked past the city hall, he could hear cries of pain and the sound of splintering wood behind him. Someone blew a horn. He left the main street and turned onto a smaller lane, and the noise ebbed off.
He counted his winnings with trembling fingers. He’d managed to pick up nine Augsburg pennies—not a bad day’s work, even though he felt sorry for the jugglers. The red-haired fiddler had done nothing Johann himself hadn’t been doing a few months ago. Johann hoped the outraged people of Augsburg wouldn’t hurt the jugglers too badly and the guards wouldn’t lock them up.
With the coins in his hand, he prowled through the narrow lanes, wondering how much wine and roast chicken one could buy for a fistful of pennies in the wealthiest city on earth.
A few hours later, Johann came staggering out of a tavern in the hope of sobering up a little in the fresh air. He soon realized that wasn’t going to happen quickly.
To celebrate his winnings, he had decided on one of the better taverns near the cathedral. He struggled to remember what had happened after. At first the tavern keeper didn’t want to serve the gaunt young boy who clearly came from the country. But when Johann showed him his silver pennies, the man suddenly turned friendly and brought him roast venison with cranberry sauce, white bread baked from the finest flour, and a heavy deep-red wine that, according to the keeper, came from France. Wherever it came from, it was damned strong and just as expensive.
After the third jug of wine and a dessert made from egg yolk and honey, Johann was five pennies poorer. He gave two more to a busty, almost-toothless prostitute who disappeared quickly. In a generous mood fueled by alcohol, he gave the eighth penny to a homeless musician who was hanging around outside the tavern. Johann vaguely remembered that he’d performed card tricks at the tavern—hadn’t that tattered beggar played some music to his tricks on his old lute? Whatever the case, now his money was almost all gone, and all he had left was the one coin the wine merchant had given him.
Only just won, already gone, Johann thought in his drunken stupor.
He weaved along the dark lane without knowing where he was headed. He needed a cheap place to stay for the night, but one penny wouldn’t get him far in a city like Augsburg. Or should he just sleep out of doors? Chances were some scoundrel would slit his throat while he was asleep. Strangely, Johann wasn’t frightened by the thought. What reason was there for him to still be in this world? Everyone he’d ever loved was gone. Mother, Margarethe, his little brother. And his teacher, who had shown him the workings of the world, had turned out to be a profoundly evil man and a heretic. He thought about what Tonio had said to Poitou about him at the Golden Sun Inn.
If we go about this the right way, he will change the world . . .
What a joke! He must have heard wrong. He was a nothing, a nobody.
Grief and self-pity overwhelmed Johann. Tears streamed down his face, and he wanted to die. He felt awfully sick from all the wine and the sweet dessert. He braced himself against the wall of a house and took a deep breath, when suddenly someone slipped a sack over his head from behind.
