The Master's Apprentice, page 51
part #1 of Faust Series
“Maybe we could even visit Dürer,” he said to Johann as they, along with many other rattling wagons, oxcarts, and feisty merchants, neared the city. “A handsome man, by the way, this Dürer. I saw a self-portrait of him once. He painted himself almost like our savior, with long hair and a beard. I’d love to know what the church thinks of it.” Karl laughed and shook his head. “I doubt the pope would appreciate man turning himself into God.”
It was February, and in all directions the fields were still covered in snow. The land was barren and the Pegnitz River impassable, but several of the major routes through the empire met at Nuremberg, making the city like a spider in the center of a web. The merchants and smaller tradesmen the group passed were dressed in heavy coats and shapeless woolen hoods.
“I mean, you’re not just anybody,” Karl continued, “so a visit shouldn’t be—”
“I’m not just anybody but a wanted sodomite and devil worshipper, remember?” said Johann, cutting him off. “I don’t really think the Cologne Inquisition has any power here, but knowing people and their love of gossip, the story might have made it to Nuremberg, beefed up into a real horror story.”
“Indeed, the doctor doesn’t have the best reputation in town,” said Eberhart von Streithagen, riding beside them on his large destrier. “They talk about necromancy and quite a few instances of fraud. And many churchmen disliked your friendship with Agrippa. Therefore, we won’t enter through the large Frauentor Gate but through Spittlertor Gate. It’s close to our headquarters and not as heavily guarded.”
They followed a narrower road through the icy fields until they came to the moat and one of the smaller but solid city gates, which was flanked by an equally solid tower. Displayed above the gate was the double-headed eagle, the emperor’s coat of arms. When the guards saw the badge of the Teutonic Knights, they waved through Streithagen and the wagon he accompanied without questions.
It was lunchtime, and the whole city seemed to be on the move despite the cold. Peddlers with their crates rushed past them; they could hear the cries of market women from a nearby square, and the steady hammering from a smithy rang in Johann’s ears. The churches of Saint Sebaldus and Saint Lorenz rose above the sea of houses and the maze of narrow lanes and alleys, and right in among this maze flowed the Pegnitz, dividing the city in roughly even halves. The air smelled of fires, braised cabbage, and horse dung. Johann thought about the horrific stench of Hamburg in the summer; by comparison, the smell of Nuremberg in the winter was almost pleasant.
From the city wall, Eberhart von Streithagen led them a short distance through the noisy crowds into the city. It wasn’t long before they came to a walled-in complex holding several houses and a small church. A kind of roofed walkway bridged the lane to a second, larger church. Johann had climbed off the wagon and now led the nervous horse by the reins. His hand instinctively shot to his purse when a few pedestrians bumped into him.
“We used to be outside the city, but since the last wall extension we are like an island in a sea of disbelievers,” explained Streithagen with a dark expression as they neared a gate in the wall. “The last island of the German emperor, it seems to me. Leave the wagon here. Someone will bring it in later.”
He knocked on a heavy portal that had been reinforced with iron. A guard eyed them suspiciously through a hatch before letting them in. On the other side of the wall, they found themselves in a large green courtyard from which further gates led to stone houses, gardens, and even fields. In contrast to the noise outside, it was peacefully quiet within the walls, and even the air was better. Little Satan jumped out of Johann’s arms and peed against one of the bushes.
“What a lush piece of land you have here,” said Johann appreciatively. “The emperor was most generous.”
“In return we run the largest hospital in the city, aside from the Hospital of the Holy Ghost on Pegnitz Island,” replied Eberhart von Streithagen. “As I’m sure you’re aware, our motto is Help, defend, and heal.”
“Probably more defending than helping and healing,” whispered Karl to Johann. “The Teutonic Knights laid waste to the east of the empire once upon a time.”
Johann shot him a glance of warning. He whistled Little Satan back, and they followed Streithagen through several guarded doors until they came to a large hall. Shields with various coats of arms decorated the walls, and mighty columns held up the elaborately carved oak ceiling. A round oak table stood in the center of the hall, and bent over a few documents at the table sat a haggard old knight with a bushy beard and a monk-like, half-bald head. His expression looked serious and grim. But when he looked up and noticed the visitors, a smile spread across his careworn face.
“My dear Eberhart!” he called out happily, rising to his feet. “The guards informed me of your arrival.” His eyes turned to Johann and his smile vanished. “And this must be the famous Doctor Faustus—magician, astrologer, and necromancer by trade.”
“Doctor is plenty,” said Johann in reply and bowed his head. “Some titles are earned, while others are bestowed without one’s asking for them.” He tried to keep his tone neutral; he didn’t know what game was being played here. He gestured at Karl. “This is my assistant, an itinerant scholar.”
The older man gave Karl a brief nod without really looking at him, and then he continued to speak to Johann. “Well, Doctor, I only know you from a few hair-raising stories that I don’t particularly like. The latest come from Cologne. But it would seem there are people who think very highly of you.” He motioned for his guests to take a seat at the large table, which was covered in parchment scrolls and papers. Little Satan crawled under the table and started to gnaw on one of its legs.
“My name is Wolfgang von Eisenhofen, and I am the commander here,” the older man continued. “I have asked you to Nuremberg because . . . well, because we have a problem. And an old friend of yours reckoned you were the only man in the empire who might be able to solve this problem.”
“We shall see,” replied Johann with a shrug, trying not to let his unrest show. “It would be kind if I were allowed to meet this old friend. I traveled a long way for him, after all. Perhaps I won’t even recognize him.”
“You’re right. It is possible he . . . changed somewhat since you last met. He told me it was a while ago that you last saw each other.” With a smile, the commander turned to Knight Eberhart, who had been waiting behind them. “Very well—bring him in.”
Eberhart von Streithagen walked to the double doors on the opposite end of the hall and opened them. A hunched figure had been waiting on the other side.
Johann winced and felt the blood drain from his face.
“What in God’s name—” he burst out.
Behind the door stood Valentin.
Johann’s former friend from Heidelberg was almost completely bald. He looked like a wrinkly old man, much older than the thirty years he must be by now. He looked as though life had sucked him dry and tossed him aside.
Only Valentin’s eyes still looked as intelligent and alert as they used to. They scrutinized Johann with a mixture of disgust, curiosity, and . . .
Affection . . . Could it be true?
Johann still sat at the table, unable to move. Was he dreaming? Last time he saw Valentin, his friend was being taken to the Inquisition at Worms inside a prison cell. That had been almost fifteen years ago. Back then, Valentin was most likely going to be charged with satanism—a crime that was invariably punished with death by fire. And now here he was, approaching Johann. Changed, perhaps, but alive.
Valentin’s posture was strangely bent, like a hunchback; scars disfigured his face, and his right arm hung down limply. But then he raised the hand in greeting. It was bent like a claw and missing two fingers.
“Thumbscrews are a nasty instrument,” Valentin said and waved the hand as if it were a scrap of meat. His voice sounded dry and hoarse—burnt, almost. “Nearly as bad as the glowing pincers, the smoldering pokers, and the rack they use to break your back very slowly.”
“You . . . you’re alive . . . ,” whispered Johann.
“Well, part of me.” Valentin shrugged, whereby one shoulder went higher than the other. “They tortured me for three weeks, twice a day, morning and afternoon. But I stayed strong. I had no idea what hidden strengths lay inside me.” He gave a lopsided grin, and Johann saw that two of his front teeth were missing. “It was probably my hatred for you that kept me alive and made me deny everything. In the end they had to let me go. That’s the beauty of torture: if you make it through without confessing, you’re free sooner or later.” He flinched with pain as he came closer to the table with dragging steps. “But not a day goes by when my back and my hand don’t remind me of that time.”
“I guess it wouldn’t help if I said how sorry I was,” said Johann.
“No, it wouldn’t.” Valentin gave a dry laugh. “But do you know what, old friend? Hatred doesn’t make for good company. Just like love, it can consume a man. And so I buried my hatred. And I hope it will never rise from its grave again.”
“It was you who asked me to come here?” said Johann with a shake of his head. “How in God’s name did you find me?”
Valentin hesitated briefly. “One time in Heidelberg you told me about a tower near Füssen, remember? You said you spent a winter there once. When I heard about your trouble in Cologne, I thought the tower might be a good place to hide. And so I asked the commander to search for you.”
Johann ran his hand through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly. He could hardly believe that his old friend was standing in front of him—alive. Evidently, he had been mistaken at the tower when he thought the knight was the first sign of the comet.
“I kept myself above water as a traveling scribe for a while, here and there, always on the move,” Valentin continued after he sat down with them. “Three years ago, the Teutonic Knights offered me a permanent position here. We were happy here.”
“We?” Johann frowned. “Who?”
“I guess you’re wondering how I know about your interest in Gilles de Rais,” said Valentin, ignoring Johann’s question. “I must admit, the thought of you never quite left me in peace, Faustus. Like a flea that bites and itches. Even years later, when you were roaming the country as the famous Doctor Johann Georg Faustus, I still wanted to know what it is that drives you. Your hunger for knowledge that was never satiated no matter how many books you read, your constant musing. In your dreams in Heidelberg you often whispered the name Gilles de Rais. Sometimes you even screamed it. You used to scream a lot.” Valentin smiled sadly. “You learn a lot from sharing a room with someone. A few years after my release I had the opportunity to speak with the great Conrad Celtis once more. It was shortly before his death. The name Gilles de Rais never ceased to fascinate him, either. He told me never to say that name out loud again.”
“The name is mere noise and smoke,” replied Johann weakly.
“Is it?” Valentin smirked. “In any case, Celtis told me that it was the same for you. I knew the name would bring you to Nuremberg. If I’d told Eberhart von Streithagen to give my own name, your bad conscience might have stopped you from coming. Therefore I decided on Gilles de Rais—and voilà, here you are.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid Celtis didn’t tell me everything about that villain back then. But a scribe has plenty of time to look around old monastery libraries, and over the years I’ve discovered a few things.”
“So you know about the children,” whispered Johann. Now he noticed his own trembling fingers.
“Yes, I know.” Valentin nodded. “And that is also the reason you’re here.”
“Excuse me,” said Karl, clearing his throat. “I hate to disturb two old friends, but maybe it’s about time someone explained—”
Severe looks from both Valentin and Johann cut him off.
“Gilles de Rais was a knight,” said Wolfgang von Eisenhofen. “Not a Teutonic Knight, or a templar, or a knight of Saint John, but still a man who at some point lived according to the laws of chivalry and Christian virtue. He fought against a dozen knights during the liberation of Orléans and won, and he was a brave companion to the famous Joan of Arc—allegedly they were something like friends. The French king even made him a marshal of France. All the worse, what he did later.” The old man bit his lip and made the sign of the cross.
“But that’s hardly the reason I’m here, is it?” asked Johann with growing irritation. “Just to hear what crimes that damned Gilles de Rais committed years ago? Conrad Celtis already told me.”
“No.” Valentin shook his head. “You’re here because it looks as if Gilles de Rais has returned.”
Johann froze. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as if an evil beast had entered the hall.
Had he heard right?
Gilles de Rais has returned . . .
“How can you say that—” he started.
“Of course, he hasn’t actually returned.” Valentin gestured dismissively. “I know the monster has been dead for seventy years. But his atrocities are happening again, now, here at Nuremberg. And no one knows who might be behind them.”
Wolfgang von Eisenhofen pushed a document toward Johann. About two dozen names were written on the paper. “These are the names of Nuremberg children who have gone missing in the last few months,” explained the commander with a shaking voice. “Some are the children of patricians, while others are the children of common citizens and even of day laborers. None of the children was older than ten. Some of them were later found dead in the alleys, tossed aside like trash. Their throats were slit. They had been bled dry. There wasn’t a single drop of blood left inside them, and a dried toad was placed in their open mouths. Gilles de Rais used to murder children in a similar manner. He slit them open, bathed in their blood, and drank it. A strange coincidence, don’t you think?”
“My God, how awful!” exclaimed Karl. “How can a person do such a thing?”
“There are those who say Gilles de Rais wasn’t a person,” said Valentin. “Three words were written beside each body—in blood.” His rough voice echoed through the vaulted room. “Homo Deus est. Do you know them, Johann?”
Johann felt like someone had rammed a cudgel right into his stomach.
Homo Deus est . . . Man is God . . .
“Yes, I know them,” he whispered.
Valentin eyed him closely. “It would seem you know more than I thought. I was right to send for you.”
“I think very highly of Master Brander. He has been working for us as a scribe for a long while now. He is clever and well read, and it was his idea to find you,” said Wolfgang von Eisenhofen, squeezing Valentin’s good hand. “Even though he probably has his own reasons, too,” he added ominously. “He reckoned you were the only one who might be able to shed light on those horrific cases. The mood in the city is worsening by the day, and the fear is almost tangible. It feels as if we are all sitting atop a powder keg that might explode at any moment.”
“I still don’t understand what I can do for you,” said Johann. “I’m just an itinerant doctor, a stranger in Nuremberg—”
“If what your old friend says is true, you’re not just any doctor but one of the most intelligent men in the empire, and one of the shrewdest.” Eisenhofen gave him a sharp look. “And you’re a magician. Children who’ve been bled, dried toads, words written in blood . . . Clearly, we are dealing with black magic.” The commander paused, choosing his next words very carefully. “So, God help us, I fear only a magician can help us now. The city—the entire empire, even—is at stake! If word gets around that the devil is on the loose in Nuremberg, the emperor’s power might become seriously threatened. And he has his hands full holding both the French and the Turks at bay. Yes, we need magic!”
“Magic? You don’t believe that yourself,” snarled Johann, shaking his head. “I may be a scholar with unusual methods, an astrologer, healer, and chiromancer. But I’m certainly not a magician who can stand up to the devil like Archangel Michael.”
“Aren’t you calling yourself a magician?” asked Eisenhofen sharply.
Johann sighed. “Only to impress the simple folk. A commander and nobleman should really know better.”
“Well, if you prefer, I can hand you over to my knights, who will take you and your assistant to Cologne. The reward for your capture is several hundred guilders now—did you know that?”
“That’s blackmail!” Johann jumped up and slammed his fist on the table. “Has the Order of Teutonic Knights sunk this low? Blackmail?”
“Watch your tongue, Doctor!” Eisenhofen also stood up, his eyes flashing angrily. Behind the commander, Eberhart von Streithagen took a step forward, his hand on the pommel of his sword. Below the table, Little Satan growled and bared his small, sharp teeth.
“Perhaps it’s better if I speak with my friend alone for a moment,” Valentin said and raised his arms in a placating gesture. “A walk in the fresh air would do us both good.”
