The Master's Apprentice, page 24
part #1 of Faust Series
“Our bed,” whispered Salome.
She pulled him down into the snow, and they loved each other passionately, as if it would be the last time. The wind pushed the clouds aside and the snow sparkled in the moonlight. Johann didn’t feel the cold, and his exhaustion had vanished as if by magic. Salome was showing him a world he’d never known before. Her hands clawed his back and he cried out, because some of his wounds from that unfortunate night near Nördlingen hadn’t fully healed yet.
“What’s that?” she asked and ran her fingers over the bumpy scabs. She gave him a wink. “Another woman? Should I be worried, little wolf?”
“Sometimes I ask myself the same thing,” Johann murmured. He stroked a long scar that ran right across Salome’s back. “And what about this one? What secret are you carrying around with you?”
Salome smiled, but her eyes looked sad. “We all have our little secrets, don’t we?”
He grabbed her again and made love to her in silence with an aggression that was new and a little frightening to him. Salome groaned and cried out—he couldn’t tell whether with pleasure or pain.
When they sneaked back to the hostel a while later, she gave him one last kiss.
“Thank you,” she breathed and disappeared inside the wagon.
Johann wasn’t sure whether she was thanking him for saving her life in the gorge or for their lovemaking in the snow.
He slipped through the gate and entered the dark, foul-smelling hall. He was about to wrap himself back up in his blanket when he noticed Emilio watching him.
“I guess you think that just because you saved her life she’ll be forever at your feet,” said the young juggler. “Forget it. That woman can’t be owned—you’ll learn soon enough.”
“I don’t want to own her,” Johann replied.
“I first met her more than three years ago, when she arrived at the port in Genoa with Mustafa,” Emilio continued as if Johann hadn’t spoken. “Did you know the two of them are brother and sister? She said they came from Alexandria, where they used to be slaves of a wealthy Syrian merchant. She was his plaything and he raped her several times a day, torturing her with whips, chains, and other instruments. One time, Mustafa tried to defend her, and the merchant had his tongue cut out. The devil knows how those two managed to escape.” Emilio gave a sad smile. “Believe me, Salome’s had many pets like you. I was her companion for a while, now it’s you, and soon enough it’ll be someone else. She needs us men to help her forget. We’re just her toys.”
“I’m tired,” said Johann. “I want to sleep now.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to fight for her. I’m merely warning you. She can eat a man up—that’s what she did to me.” Emilio hesitated. “Earlier, in the gorge—I was trying to save myself,” he said pensively. “Of course I was scared of falling to my death, but more than that, I was afraid of her dragging me down further into her abyss. Good night, Johann.”
Emilio turned away and said no more. After a few moments, Johann pulled the damp blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes, aching from the long, hard day. He was filled by a quiet happiness, despite Emilio’s words of warning.
His last thought before he fell asleep was that today was April 23—his seventeenth birthday. He’d heard some of the pilgrims mentioning Saint George’s Day that morning. In all the excitement in the gorge, he’d almost forgotten the day that used to be so important to his mother. He smiled wistfully.
He was seventeen years old and a man.
10
THE WEATHER IMPROVED the following morning. Clouds and fog dispersed as they buried the dead at the small hostel cemetery. They set off when the bells rang the noon hour, and soon after, they reached the top of the pass. Johann looked down at valleys and lush meadows grazed by fat cows. The grass was knee high and glinted with the rain of the previous evening. Colorful meadow flowers and herbs were speckled among the green. But the mountains weren’t finished yet—snowcapped ranges stretched in every direction.
“The Vinschgau,” said Peter with a sweeping gesture. “It’s a fertile valley with lots of cattle and grassland. Beyond it is the Etschtal Valley, which leads us to Meran and eventually Bozen.”
“Will these mountains never end?” asked Johann.
Peter laughed. “Not until we reach the Val Padana, and that’s still a fair way off. The great Po River runs through its plains and makes it Italy’s granary. The people there are wealthy and grateful for any diversion. That’s where we want to try our luck before spending the winter in Venice.”
Despite the harrowing events of the previous day, Peter seemed rested and almost cheerful. “Thank you for saving Salome yesterday,” he said to Johann, patting his shoulder. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Looks like there’s more to you than I thought.”
Johann shook his hand, pleased the troupe’s leader finally seemed to have accepted him. Peter’s snarly remarks in the last few weeks had begun to bother him.
The road was no longer extremely steep; it led gently downhill, past lakes, meadows, and farmers with scythes doffing their hats. Johann noticed that the houses and churches looked different here than on the other side of the pass. The language of the people living here was barely understandable. Peter explained that the inhabitants of this area belonged to an old people who’d mixed with the Romans a long time ago. Here, in the remote mountain valley, its ancient culture had been preserved.
As predicted by Emilio, Salome was much nicer to Johann now. She gave him furtive smiles, squeezed his hand, or brushed against his codpiece when she thought no one was looking. They made love every night of their journey through the Vinschgau and Etschtal Valleys, finding outlying barns and other secluded places. Salome proved to be a good teacher. She knew countless games and positions, and Johann tried not to think about what Emilio had said about her past. He didn’t want to be reminded of the source of Salome’s knowledge. Much to his relief, Emilio kept his word and didn’t try to compete for her. The young juggler seemed relieved.
Every night, they put on a show for their fellow travelers and for the villages they passed through. Each time Johann made an egg appear beneath the hat of a farmer or wagon driver, or made coins disappear and reappear, the spectators laughed and cheered. The warm receptions encouraged Johann to put great effort into each performance.
One evening, after yet another successful show, Peter asked Johann to join him by the fire.
“Magister Archibaldus told me you used to travel with an astrologer and chiromancer. Is that true?”
Johann nodded reluctantly. He wasn’t sure what Peter was getting at.
“Does that mean you know how to cast horoscopes?” asked Peter. “Mine, for example?”
“Horoscopes are time consuming,” Johann replied. “I’d have to make calculations and check tables I don’t have. And I’d need to know the exact date and place of your birth.”
“I know the place.” Peter’s expression turned dark. “Even though I don’t like thinking about it. Too many unhappy memories. I don’t know the date of my birth, but it must have been the summer the Ottomans conquered Constantinople, in the year of our Lord 1453.”
Johann counted back and realized that Peter was over forty years old. He’d always thought the man with the lively eyes and fiery red hair was younger than that. But then Johann realized something else: Tonio del Moravia had also spoken of Constantinople once—of a Constantinople he’d visited before the Ottomans had conquered the city. That would have been almost fifty years ago. Could that be right? After all, Tonio hadn’t seemed like an old man, but more like someone in his late forties or early fifties. Johann shuddered.
How old was the magician?
“If you can’t cast a horoscope for me, at least read my palm,” said Peter, tearing Johann from his thoughts. He held out his hand with a laugh. “There’s no way every twist and turn of my life can fit on one hand—you’ll probably have to continue up my arm.”
Johann started to reach for Peter’s hand but then paused. He hadn’t read a palm since his experience at the Allgäu farmstead. He still didn’t understand how and why he’d foreseen the boy’s death.
“Go on,” Peter said and gave an encouraging wink. “Or I’ll have to assume that you’re nothing but a fraud.”
Johann was glad Peter had finally accepted him, and he didn’t want to offend the troupe leader. So he took the hand and bent over it. Peter’s fingers were long and slender—not surprising, since he was a talented fiddle player. The Mount of Luna was very pronounced on the outside edge of his palm, which also suggested musicality. The Life line running right across the ball of the hand was furrowed and showed lots of small branches.
Johann was about to start talking when he flinched. He was overcome by the same strange feeling he’d sensed at the farmstead that time: a soft, warm pulsating, as if the lines lit up for the briefest instant. Fear shot through him, and he dropped Peter’s hand as if it were on fire. He knew immediately what the pulsating meant.
He had foreseen Peter’s imminent death.
“What is it?” asked Peter, who noticed that Johann had turned white as chalk. “Something bad? You’re trembling.”
“No, it’s nothing.” Johann shook his head. “Just a fever I must have caught in the last few cold nights.”
“Yes, and I know just what kind of fever.” Peter grinned. “Salome is one hell of a woman. Don’t think I don’t see what’s going on. I can’t blame you!” He laughed and gave Johann a pat on the shoulder. “But be careful Emilio doesn’t slit your throat at night. Those southerners can be rather jealous.”
Johann gave a strained smile. “We already worked it out like men.”
“Like men? Hear, hear! That’s good.” Peter nodded. “So, then, what do you see in my hand, great chiromancer?”
Johann cleared his throat. Then he told Peter about complex Life lines, interestingly curved Head lines, and a promising future as the leader of his troupe. He hinted at something dark in the man’s past, according to the pieces of gossip he’d heard from the other members of the troupe. He tried his best, and Peter was impressed. When Johann had finished, the fiddler frowned.
“I think you understand me better than my dear mother used to, God rest her soul,” he said. “I applaud you. We really ought to make this part of our show—for money, of course. What do you say?”
“Let me think about it,” Johann replied weakly. He quickly got up and walked away, feeling sick to his stomach.
“I must have a word with Salome,” Peter shouted after him. “I’ll lose my best juggler if she continues to wear you out like this!”
Johann felt like he was in a bad dream as he staggered past the pilgrims and other travelers who sat around the fire, laughing and drinking. He still had a vivid image of Peter’s glowing hand in his mind.
And he prayed that it truly was a fever playing tricks on him, and nothing else.
The farther down the wide valley they went, the warmer it got. Johann noticed that the air smelled different on this side of the Alps. The mild breeze carried the scent of flowers, grass, and, very faintly, something salty. They were still traveling between mountain ranges, but the peaks weren’t as high and rugged. Johann also discovered plants and trees he’d never seen before. The sky was blue, and apart from the occasional shower, the weather remained fair.
For the first time since his escape from Tonio, Johann felt lighthearted. He tried to forget what he’d seen in Peter’s palm. The man seemed healthy and happy, and Johann came to the conclusion that he’d only imagined the throbbing in Peter’s hand. After all, he didn’t even know whether the boy from the farmstead had died in the end.
Only rarely and late at night did he think of Margarethe, his young brother Martin, and the eerie gathering in the forest near Nördlingen. His nightly rendezvous with Salome helped him forget his gloomy thoughts. She always came up with new games; occasionally they involved binding her wrists with ropes or blindfolding him. Johann always went along without resisting, and he didn’t ask why Salome allowed him to orgasm inside her. He assumed she was unable to bear children or took certain remedies to prevent a pregnancy.
Each night, it was as if he were in a state of intoxication that only ended just before dawn. Accordingly, he was exhausted during the day, but he tried not to let it affect his performances. The applause of the crowd gave him the strength he needed. However, he grew more sullen and moody by the day. The arrogance he’d shown even as a child increasingly came out as violent fits of temper. If something went wrong during a show, he would vent his anger on Emilio and the others. And when he lay with Salome, their play was often like a battle where he was the conqueror.
In the evenings and between performances he continued to practice with his knife, throwing the blade with a force and accuracy that caused Emilio to shake his head. Since their nighttime conversation up on the pass, the two young men had become something like friends, even though Salome still stood between them like an invisible shadow.
“It’s amazing how skilled you’ve grown with the knife in just a few weeks,” said Emilio. “You’re gifted. But try not to throw with so much force—it’s scary to watch.” He gave a laugh. “It looks like you’re trying to kill someone with every throw.”
Maybe I am, Johann thought and hurled the blade at a tree, where it lodged dead in the center of a knothole, the blade quivering.
The following day, they included knife throwing in their show. The audience groaned with fear as Johann threw knife after knife at Salome, who was tied to a board. Every time, the blade landed only a finger’s breadth away from her face or her chest. It seemed to Johann that Salome was enjoying the mortal danger. She never so much as blinked and always gazed at him with an encouraging smile. He, too, enjoyed the thrill of the game, the gauging of the boundaries—life and death separated only by a thin, invisible line. He felt almost delirious when he threw the knives, one after the other, driven by an inexplicable fury. But he never performed with the knife Tonio had given him, although he couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the absurd thought that it would somehow, magically, find its way to Salome’s heart. Johann still didn’t know what the strange initials on it stood for.
Another week later they came to a lake that seemed to Johann as large as an ocean. They traveled along its eastern shore until they reached the city of Verona. Johann had never seen anyplace like it. Roman palaces and ruins stood among the tall, imposing patrician villas like witnesses from a long-gone era. There was a huge, crumbling arena that people were using as a quarry. Once upon a time, heretics had been burned in its center; now the old arena was sometimes used for plays. The Italians, Johann realized, loved pomp and all things bright and cheerful much more than the dolorous Germans did. The country reminded him of an elderly, drunken harlot who had applied a little too much makeup but still radiated plenty of charisma.
Peter asked him repeatedly whether he was ready to read people’s palms, and each time, Johann made up excuses. Here at Verona, Peter tried again.
“The Veronese are wealthy and superstitious. We could make a pile of money with palm reading.” Peter gave Johann a pleading look. “Come on! It’s just a bit of hocus-pocus. What’s so hard about it?”
But Johann remained stubborn. Archibaldus gave him a thoughtful look. Following their evening performance on the Piazza delle Erbe, which had been used as a market and meeting square since Roman times, the old man sought him out. Together they sat on the bank of the River Etsch, which flowed underneath a huge stone bridge. On the opposite bank, the arena rose up among houses. A small fire at their feet dispelled the chill of the night. Archibaldus took a long sip from a wineskin and burped.
“Did you know that they used to set lions on Christians in arenas like this in Roman times?” he said. “How strange the course of this world is. First the Christians are persecuted and burned as heretics, and then they go and burn heretics themselves. Cathars, Waldensians, sorcerers . . .” He gave Johann a sideways look. “Was your mentor one of those sorcerers?”
“He is an astrologer and chiromancer,” replied Johann hesitantly, unsure of Archibaldus’s question. “He only dabbles in the kind of white magic that’s permitted by the church.” Johann had no intention of discussing Tonio’s other side with the old magister—the dark, evil side Johann had only really seen at the end.
The old man cleared his throat and scratched his louse-ridden head. “Seems to me you’re no friend of chiromancy,” he said. “How come? Don’t you trust the skills of your former master?”
Johann gave a shrug. “Peter’s right. There’s a lot of hocus-pocus to it.”
“Is that so?” Archibaldus raised an eyebrow. His voice sounded steady and serious now, not at all like that of a drunkard. “Perhaps that’s true for some chiromancers. But I’ve also heard there are a few who can actually foresee a person’s fate—even his death.” He looked intently at Johann, who gave an embarrassed laugh.
“Oh, I don’t know—”
“I’ve watched you the last few days and weeks, Johann,” said Archibaldus, cutting him off. “I’ve been in this world for a while now, and I think I know a fair bit about people. You’re not just a juggler. You’re damned clever—the cleverest lad I’ve ever met. You could become a great scholar—or a fool who mocks the world. There’s something dark inside you that I can’t read, and the darkness is growing. Something inside you is searching, looking for answers, foraging in depths we mortals aren’t supposed to explore. You’re changing, Johann, and I’m afraid for you. Those words . . .”
“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That Latin phrase you used a few weeks ago,” Archibaldus said. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Remember? Homo Deus est. How do you know those words?”
“My . . . my mentor mentioned them once. Why do you ask?”
“Tonio del Moravia. That was his name, wasn’t it?” Archibaldus nodded pensively. “An interesting name for an itinerant white magician. I’ll find out where I’ve heard that name before. Man is God . . . Hmm. They like to use those words to identify themselves.”
