The Master's Apprentice, page 25
part #1 of Faust Series
“Who? What do you mean?” asked Johann. But Archibaldus said nothing. The logs crackled in the fire, and Johann thought of the burning minstrel in Nördlingen. He could almost hear his screams—just like the screams of all those Christians chased to death by beasts of prey in the arena of Verona once upon a time.
Archibaldus looked up to the cloudless night sky and the sparkling stars. He gestured upward. “The honorable Bertold of Regensburg, a learned Franciscan and assistant of Albertus Magnus, once said that heaven consisted of ten heavenly choirs, but one of them rebelled against God and became the flock of the devil. According to Bertold, the Earth is also divided into ten groups, one of which is devoted to the devil.”
“And who is that group supposed to be?” asked Johann.
Archibaldus smiled. “Haven’t you figured it out? It’s the jugglers, traveling magicians, and charlatans. Bertold even gave them names of devils. Azazel, Baphomet, Beelzebub, Mephistopheles . . .” He took another sip of wine and burped loudly.
“Damn good wine they make, those Italians. But they should leave the brewing of beer to the Germans.” Archibaldus rose to his feet, and Johann saw how exhausted the old man looked. His face was gray and gaunt, covered with a web of red veins and wrinkles. “Those daily shows take it out of me,” he said. “I’m very tired. Too tired to drink, even. I must be getting old. Good night, Johann. And stay away from sorcerers.”
He nodded at Johann and walked over to the troupe’s camp.
That night, Johann made love to Salome so hard that she screamed out loud with pleasure and pain.
With May, summer came to this bright country, which was so different from the cold German lands that had been Johann’s home. He thought the light seemed more intense here, making the villages and towns they passed through appear much friendlier than the gloomy backwaters in the Allgäu or in Franconia. It was much warmer, too, and finally he understood why German jugglers preferred to spend winter here.
They arrived at the Val Padana, the valley of the Po River, where endless fields of grain stretched along the banks of the wide, lazy waterway. On their journey through the cities of Lombardy, Johann saw ancient Roman ruins, but also magnificent palaces and stone churches financed by citizens who were conscious of their power and wealth. Northern Italy was ruled by patricians—members of influential dynasties who accumulated their riches through trade, interest, and a good deal of artfulness. The old nobility and faith in the church had been gradually replaced by an all-powerful, unstoppable force: money. Money didn’t care about rank or title.
Occasionally, Johann could feel Archibaldus’s eyes on him, but they never again spoke about Johann’s former master or that which the old man had called the darkness inside him. Johann learned to better control his temper, although anger continued to fester within him. At night, when everyone was asleep and he lay beside Salome, he wondered if it had been Tonio who’d awakened the darkness in him. Or had it always been there and was only becoming more pronounced now that he was growing into a man?
Emilio told him that northern Italy actually still belonged to the German empire, but it had been many years since a German emperor had managed to assert his claim in the region. Decades had gone by since a German ruler last marched an army across the Alps. Over the years, many city-states had evolved; some of the most powerful included Venice, Milan, Florence, and Geneva. In between, countless small fiefdoms remained that were still loosely connected to the empire—and that always welcomed German jugglers and paid well for their performances.
Together the troupe had decided to travel through Lombardy and farther south over the summer. In fall, they’d head for Venice and the trading post where Archibaldus held sway. They knew their journey wasn’t without danger. The land they were moving through had been at war since the year before, although at this stage, the fighting took place elsewhere. The French king, Charles VIII, had conquered Naples and Rome in an attempt to gain a foothold in wealthy Italy. Rising up against him was the so-called Holy League, led by the pope and the Venetians. The battle lines were shifting back and forth, and the jugglers heard rumors about groups of marauding mercenaries who terrorized remote parts of the country, even up here in the north. Apparently, Charles VIII was on his way to Lombardy with more than five thousand men to defeat the Holy League for good.
“Damn those Frenchmen!” groused Peter, cracking his whip. “King Charles is an ugly gnome who sends his soldiers anywhere he suspects there’s money. The devil take the lot of them!”
Little did he know that his curse would soon come true for many French soldiers—but also for himself.
On a hot, dry day in July, the two opposing armies met in combat near the city of Parma. The battle was short and devastating. Thousands of French soldiers bled to death in the dusty fields of Fornovo, and Charles VIII was forced to retreat from Italy.
Many of his mercenaries stayed behind, however, leaving a bloody trail of torched villages, murdered farmers, and raped women in their wake.
The troupe had given several successful shows at Mantua—a city favorably inclined toward Germans and ruled by the powerful Gonzaga dynasty. Now they wanted to continue on their way, crossing the Apennine Mountains toward Florence and Siena.
The Apennines were a karstic, densely wooded mountain range, and the troupe rarely passed other travelers. The road wound its way across hills that were covered with thick, nearly impregnable brush. The sun beat down mercilessly from a cloudless sky, and the only sound came from the cicadas, singing their monotonous lullaby. Salome had retreated into the wagon, and Mustafa brought her some water. Johann longed to be alone in the wagon with her. But she’d been cold toward him for days now. Things between them usually went like this: at night she loved him and dug her fingernails into his sweat-covered back, and during the day she completely ignored him. Johann had no idea why. She’ll drive me insane, he thought. Each climax seemed to drain him a little more, as if she sucked the blood from his veins—and yet he couldn’t keep his hands off her.
While they passed through a shady ravine one afternoon, Johann heard a conspicuous whirring noise. In the next moment, a crossbow bolt struck the side of the wagon, quickly followed by a second. Johann and Peter dived headfirst off the box seat and, together with Archibaldus and Emilio, sought shelter behind the wagon. They could hear shouts in a foreign language—French, Johann thought. Moments later, half a dozen mercenaries in colorful slashed trousers and rusty cuirasses emerged from the bushes. Two of them were armed with crossbows, while the rest slowly walked toward the troupe with drawn swords. Johann could tell by the look in the soldiers’ eyes that they’d show no mercy.
“La fille,” growled the front-most mercenary, a tall, bearded man with a poorly healed scar on his face. “Donne-moi la fille!” He gestured toward Salome, who was peering out from behind the wagon canvas. Two of the men slowly stepped toward Emilio and Archibaldus, raising their swords with smirks on their faces. Clearly, they didn’t expect much of a fight.
Johann frantically tried to figure out what to do. Defend Salome and die? He had no weapons other than Tonio’s knife. Peter owned a rusty short sword, and Emilio and Mustafa were tough opponents in a pub brawl, but they didn’t stand a chance against half a dozen trained French mercenaries. Should he try to run away? He shot a glance at the thorny bushes by the wayside. They were just a few steps from him, but even a few steps was too far with a crossbow pointed at you. And he couldn’t abandon Salome.
Meanwhile, two of the mercenaries had dragged the screaming Salome out of the wagon. She thrashed about wildly, but to no avail. The men were already tearing off her clothes, laughing as they groped her naked breasts. The rest of the troupe was herded together like a flock of chickens waiting to be slaughtered.
Salome was lying on the road with her legs spread apart, held down by two struggling soldiers. One of the mercenaries opened his fly, knelt down, and gave his comrades a triumphant look.
“C’est moi le premier,” he said, rubbing his hard penis. “Et ensuite—”
A rumble went through the wagon as if a volcano were erupting inside. The next moment, Mustafa lunged down from the box seat, holding one of the chains he used during his performances. He roared as he swung the chain wildly above his head. It was the first sound Johann had ever heard from the dark giant. His roar sounded like that of an angry bear. The chain hissed like a snake and struck the face of the soldier kneeling in front of Salome, turning it into a bloody mess. Screaming with pain, the man fell to his side, his trousers slipping down to his knees. Mustafa swung the chain and it wrapped itself around the neck of the next man. The soldier turned red in the face, then Mustafa jerked the chain and there was a cracking sound. The man’s legs gave way and he fell to the ground with a broken neck.
Everything had happened so fast that none of the remaining four soldiers had had time to react. But now they came to their senses.
“En garde!” shouted the leader, running toward Mustafa, who was standing with his back to the soldier.
When the man ran past, Johann threw his knife.
He did it with the exact same movement he’d practiced time and time again over the last few days and weeks, his face twisted into a grimace of determination and hatred. When the blade left his fingers, he felt an enormous sense of relief, as if something inside him let go. For the briefest moment, the face of the mercenary leader turned into Tonio’s grinning visage.
Then the knife entered the soldier’s left eye with a smacking noise. The man kept running for another yard or two, as if he hadn’t noticed his own death, and then he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Mustafa turned around and gave Johann a nod as the giant bent down to pick up the dead man’s sword. A crossbow bolt struck Mustafa’s left upper arm, but he didn’t even seem to react. He hurled himself at the next opponent with a dull cry. The man raised his weapon, gasping with fear, but Mustafa shoved the blade aside as if it were a twig and buried his own sword in the crook of the soldier’s neck. A fountain of blood spurted from the wound and onto the dusty road.
The two remaining men didn’t linger for long when they saw their comrades lying dead in the dirt. They threw down their crossbow and sword and turned to run. But Mustafa wasn’t finished. He went after the men, grabbed the slower one by the collar, and yanked him back like a rag doll. Then he pummeled the mercenary’s face with his fists until it was nothing but bloody pulp. When Mustafa finally let go of him, the man groaned, gave one last twitch, and died. The last mercenary got away through the bushes.
The man whose face Mustafa had demolished with the chain was still screaming. “Mon visage, mon visage!” he moaned over and over, rolling around on the ground. “Je suis aveugle, je ne vois rien! O Vierge Sainte!”
Mustafa walked over to him and slit his throat with one swift movement.
A heavy silence descended over the ravine. Blowflies found the dead bodies and landed in the gaping wounds. Among the corpses sat Salome, her dress torn, almost naked, staring straight ahead. She was trembling, but she held her head high like a proud queen of death. Eventually she stood up, leaned over the man with the slit throat, and spat in his bloodied face.
Mustafa pulled the bolt from his upper arm as if removing a splinter, and then he gently wrapped a blanket around his sister’s shoulders. Johann thought about what Emilio had told him a few weeks ago. Apparently Mustafa had tried to defend Salome in faraway Alexandria, whereupon their master had cut out his tongue. No wonder Mustafa wasn’t going to stand by and watch while someone tried to rape his sister again. He’d rather die—or kill.
Peter was the first to speak after a long silence. “That . . . that was damned close,” he said. “Thanks, Mustafa.”
Mustafa didn’t deign to look at him but continued to care for Salome. Johann walked over to the body of the lead mercenary and pulled his knife from the man’s eye. The blade was sticky and bloody, and the man’s other eye seemed to stare at him reproachfully. It was the first time Johann had killed somebody. It had been so easy.
And if he was being honest with himself, he’d even enjoyed it.
The desire for vengeance and retribution had flowed through his veins like sweet poison, just like the time in Knittlingen when he’d met Tonio and wished for the death of Margarethe’s brother. He remembered Tonio’s words.
Hatred can be very healing, purging the soul like fire.
Tonio had been right. Hatred was as sweet and delicious as freshly baked honey cake. The anger that had been stewing inside Johann for so long was wiped away, and all that remained was a pleasant emptiness.
“We should get away from here,” Archibaldus said warningly and brushed the dust off his frock. He was trembling, in dire need of a swig of wine. “One of them got away. We don’t know if he went to fetch reinforcements.”
“You’re right, old pisshead,” replied Peter. “Let’s get going.” His eyes turned to Mustafa again. Then he grinned. “I swear, that was the quickest fight I’ve seen in my life! You truly are—” Suddenly Peter grimaced with pain and he clutched his hands to his stomach.
“What is it?” asked Emilio. “Are you hurt?”
Peter shook his head with clenched teeth. “It’s . . . nothing. Probably just an upset stomach. It’s been paining me for a few days now. Perhaps the water from one of the wells I’ve been drinking from was foul.” He gave a strained laugh and gestured at the corpses around them. “By Christ, I could be lying there getting eaten by flies, so I’m sure I can put up with a bit of stomach pain. Let’s go before more of those French bastards turn up.”
Peter climbed onto the box seat with much difficulty, and Johann noticed that he continued to hold his side. Johann was overcome by an uneasy feeling and wondered whether Peter had really just drunk a bit of foul water.
During the following days and weeks, they crossed the Apennines and headed south toward Florence and Siena, avoiding the smaller roads whenever possible. Most French soldiers had left the country, but the troupe didn’t want to risk running into any who had stuck around. They couldn’t always rely on Mustafa.
Thankfully, the crossbow bolt hadn’t penetrated Mustafa’s arm deeply, and the wound healed fast. Peter’s stomach pains, on the other hand, persisted. Sometimes they would go away for two or three days just to return all the worse. Peter grew visibly skinny, and his face became drawn and pale. He barely ate. But he still played fiddle during their performances; in fact, he played even more heartrendingly beautifully than before—as if his life came pouring out of him with his melodies.
“What kind of a terrible disease is it?” Johann asked Archibaldus at a tavern one evening. They had just given a show in a large, magnificent town called Pisa with an oddly tilted bell tower on its market square. The old man wiped the drops of wine from his beard before replying to Johann.
“I can’t tell you for certain, but I’m afraid it’s something serious. It could be a growth in his stomach that is eating him up from the inside. The Greeks call it cancer, because apparently the growth looks somewhat like a crab.”
“Does that mean he’s going to die?” asked Johann haltingly. He’d grown fond of Peter in the last few months, admiring the man’s vivacity and leadership, but most of all his musical talent, which was unparalleled and otherworldly. But—if Johann was entirely honest—it wasn’t Peter’s probable death that scared him the most, but the fact that he had foreseen it in Peter’s palm. He remembered what Archibaldus had said a few weeks ago about chiromancers.
I’ve also heard there are a few who can actually foresee a person’s fate—even his death.
Johann turned pale at the thought. Could it be that Tonio had taught him such an ominous skill without his noticing?
“I think Peter knows that he won’t be with us for much longer.” Archibaldus sighed. “No one can say how much longer exactly. But I fear he won’t be going to Venice with us.”
“But . . . but Peter is our leader!” said Johann stubbornly. “What’s going to happen to us?”
He had become fixated on Venice as their destination. Perhaps it had something to do with the stories his mother used to tell him about the city. Johann hoped that after so much traveling, his life would settle down a little in Venice, at least for a while. He didn’t know what would come afterward.
“What’s going to happen to us?” Archibaldus gave a dry laugh. “It would be worse for you if I drank myself to death before the autumn. Remember, it is my invitation alone that will open the gates of the Fondaco dei Tedeschi to us. With Peter, we merely lose a fiddle player—a damn good one, though.” He shook his head. “It’s almost as if the devil himself taught him to play! I’d love to help him, but my knowledge of healing isn’t great enough. I guess I studied the wrong subject.”
“Where did you study?” asked Johann.
“At one of the oldest and most venerable universities in the empire: Heidelberg.”
“Heidelberg?” Johann’s heart beat faster. “That’s not far from where I come from. It’s always been my dream to study there.”
“Well, it’s a beautiful city that tends to lead a young man to feast and drink more than study,” Archibaldus replied with a grin. “My father, the great Karl Stovenbrannt, said I ought to at least gain my baccalaureus there. I was talented and thirsty for knowledge, and so I even gained the degree of magister. Then I went on trips to our trading posts at Bergen, Bruges, London, and also to Italy. And that’s where I experienced the dolce vita and was forever lost to my father and the trade.” He gave Johann an inquisitive look. “How come you’re not at the university? You’re as clever as you are learned, and you are ambitious, even though you try your best to hide it from everyone else. I’ve told you before: you could be a great scholar.”
“The man who raised me would rather have set fire to his own house than allow me to go to the university,” Johann replied bitterly. “He thought I was a good-for-nothing.”
