The Master's Apprentice, page 56
part #1 of Faust Series
Fear crept up in Karl; he was almost as terrified as he’d been on the pyre in Warnheim.
While he followed the doctor down the dark passages toward the eerie chanting, Karl tried to figure out what it was that frightened him so. His heart was pounding in his throat and he struggled to breathe. His hand clutched the hilt of the sword Faust had given him, but he had a feeling that he wouldn’t know what to do with the weapon, or with the wheel-lock pistol he’d stowed in the casing of the laterna magica. He still carried the laterna on his back, like a last souvenir from the old world above them.
The doctor had changed in the course of the past week. Karl was certain that this had something to do with Valentin. Something awful must have happened between the two men, something the doctor felt deeply guilty about. Ever since Faust had visited Valentin’s niece at the prison, he’d acted like a man possessed. What was happening to him? The plan to free the girl had been doomed from the beginning. But still Karl had gone with the doctor, because . . . well, because he loved him. Because he couldn’t allow this gifted mind, this extraordinary human being, to run straight into perdition.
Although right now it looked as though they were headed for it together.
Back in Cologne, Karl had wanted to ask Faust to release him. But then they’d had to flee the city and spent the next few months at the tower, where their bond had strengthened. Karl had almost confessed his love to the doctor there, even though he knew that he would only end up heartbroken. He was bound to Faust with an invisible tie.
The events of the last few hours had been more and more puzzling. Why in God’s name was the entire prison empty, as if the plague had befallen the city? Why had Valentin run away when it was so important to him to free his niece? And what was this awful humming and chanting mixed with Latin-sounding words? He felt like his head was going to burst.
But what frightened Karl the most was the doctor.
Karl had never seen him like this. Johann Georg Faustus, the famous magician, was a sharp-witted, wise man who always kept his cool, even in the worst situations, and invariably parried every attack, every surprise with his brains alone. But now the doctor’s face showed something Karl had never seen on it before.
The doctor was scared.
Sweat was running down Faust’s forehead, and his face was ashen. He mumbled individual words that made about as much sense to Karl as that accursed chanting.
“The tower,” whispered Faust. “He knew about the tower and told him . . . It was his raven all along . . . It must have been his raven . . . Baphomet . . . I have failed.”
The last words frightened Karl the most. If the doctor had failed, then this was the end for him, too. No one could save them now—they would be buried alive.
On their way toward the mysterious voices, they passed through more chambers and cellars, and each time one of the doors stood open, almost as if someone was showing them the way. They had long left the passage they’d come from earlier. Karl thought they were heading west, but he felt quite disoriented. The humming and singing were getting very loud now. They entered a spacious cellar room with old barrels stacked up against the damp, moldy walls on both sides.
At the other end of the cellar was a large double door with strange runes carved into the wood.
And on the other side of the door, they heard the chanting of many male voices.
“O Adonai . . . prasa Deus et praesant Deus . . . O Spiritus Mephistophiel Deuschca . . . O Larua . . .”
Karl’s fear took his breath away. He thought he was going to pass out. What was going on with him? He felt as though an invisible force was holding him back, and the feeling of being unable to breathe grew worse with every step. It was as if deep down inside, he knew that death was waiting for him beyond those doors.
Or something even worse than death.
Faust strode toward the portal.
“No!” cried Karl. “Don’t open it! Don’t—”
But it was too late.
The doctor had already opened the doors.
Johann pushed against the doors with both hands, and they swung open soundlessly.
On the other side was a large hall that was at least ten paces high and twice as long. Torches and candles bathed the room in a flickering light, and the walls were lined with glowing braziers. Johann’s first impression was that he was standing in an underground church. There was a choir, a nave, a transept, massive columns holding up the painted ceiling, and a pulpit. There were an altar and a baptismal font in the apse and a cross beyond. A monk standing behind the altar had raised his arms in prayer and was preaching to his congregation in the pews before him.
“O Mephistophiel . . . Obdesca mihy Aglam . . . O Christe meschca . . . O Larua . . .”
On second glance, Johann saw the differences from a regular church: the paintings on the ceilings showed no tales of saints but blood, murder, torture, and wars. The cross in the apse hung upside down.
And lying on the altar was a young girl, either unconscious or dead.
“Greta!” screamed Johann. The sight of his daughter on the altar was too much for him. His knees buckled and he clung on to the doorframe to keep himself from falling.
The monk, who was wearing a black robe with a black hood, lowered his arms, and the congregation stopped singing.
“Greetings, Johann,” said the monk, his voice echoing through the hall. “It’s been a while since we last saw each other. Didn’t I tell you back on the old post road that our pact is valid until I dismiss you?”
Johann was shaking all over, and he was unable to move, like a rabbit at the sight of the snake’s open mouth. He knew that voice—he’d last heard it seventeen years ago. Since then he’d been running away from it, again and again, but it never stopped following him in his dreams.
Now it had caught up to him.
“Come, Johann,” said Tonio del Moravia. “My disciples would like to take a closer look at you. They’ve been waiting a long time for your return. Seventeen years.”
The heads of thirty men turned to face him, and Johann stared at blank masks. Beneath their shapeless black cloaks, which seemed to melt into the dark twilight, they all wore the colorful costumes of the Schembart runners. Faint jingling rang out here and there.
The bells. They followed us the whole time!
Then he noticed another figure. He had been hiding behind a column near the altar, but now he emerged, shaking.
“Valentin!” spat Johann. “You traitor!”
“Forgive me,” pleaded Valentin. “They . . . they made me do it. They said it was the only way for me to save Greta. Believe me—I love your daughter just like you do.”
The anger gave Johann back his strength. With a furious roar he started to storm to the front, but immediately some of the Schembart runners jumped up and stopped him. Strong muscles showed beneath the costumes of the men, and they had no trouble forcing Johann to the ground.
“Bring him to me!” commanded Tonio.
The Schembart runners dragged Johann like a sack of flour into the apse, where they forced him to his knees before his former master. Finally, Tonio took off his hood.
The sight of his face made Johann gasp.
“By all the saints,” he whispered.
“Don’t pray,” said Tonio. “It doesn’t suit you, and it won’t help you.”
Tonio had barely aged. His face was just as haggard and pale as seventeen years ago, his stature still tall and athletic. There might have been a few additional wrinkles, and the skin of his face seemed taut like that of a reptile. But other than that, he looked as though no more than a year had passed since they’d last met.
It’s impossible!
“Pleased to see you haven’t forgotten me after all these years, Johann,” said Tonio. “I must admit, following your unfortunate decision to run away in Nördlingen, it took a while to find you again. At first it seemed you had vanished into thin air. But then friends from Venice told me about a handful of jugglers at the Fondaco dei Tedeschi who called themselves Johann Faustus’s Fabulous Troupe. An unusual name, don’t you think?” Tonio smiled his old wolfish smile. “I thought I’d pay you a visit. I always had a talent for playacting.”
“You . . . you were Signore Barbarese!” gasped Johann. “They were your books!”
“Of course they were my books, you fool!” Tonio laughed. “No one else owns an original copy of The Sworn Book of Honorius, let alone so many manuscripts by Leonardo da Vinci. I was letting you mature like a good wine—you were supposed to find your own way back to me. I understood that you needed more time. It was beautiful to watch you grow and flourish, and entirely without the Krakow University I had intended for you.” He gave a shrug. “Seventeen years is nothing if you’ve been waiting for as long as I have. But then the old fellow in Venice found me out.”
“You murdered Magister Archibaldus!” Johann struggled against the masked men, but they held him firmly. “You . . . you . . .”
“Devil?” Tonio grinned. “Is that what you’re trying to say? If it makes you feel any better—I didn’t kill your drunken friend. Not personally, anyhow—followers of my order did it.”
Johann said nothing. Did Tonio know that Archibaldus had left him a message in blood back then? The powerful arms of the Schembart runners still held him down. He tried to catch a glimpse of Greta on the altar from the corner of his eye. Pain shot through him worse than being stabbed with a knife.
Greta was wearing the same linen dress she had worn in her cell. Her eyes were closed, and her childlike face pale, almost translucent. Johann noticed that her chest was rising and falling ever so slightly. She was still alive. He guessed they had sedated her with some kind of herb or potion. What were these lunatics going to do to her?
Johann struggled against his captors with all his might, but in vain. Furious, he glared at Valentin by the column. The man’s eyes went back and forth between Johann and Greta.
“Goddamned traitor!” snarled Johann again.
Valentin cowered as if he’d been struck. “They are powerful, Johann! What was I supposed to do?” His gaze turned to the unconscious girl again. “Just look at what they’ve done to my dearest treasure. They arranged everything. Greta was only the bait—they were after you all along!”
Johann flinched.
Only the bait.
He felt like punching himself in the face. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen this coming much sooner. He should have noticed when he first arrived at the command. Everything had been too easy. The underground passages leading straight into the prison, the key ring Valentin had stolen without a hitch, the map. It was so obvious—nothing but a cheap farce, and he, the oh-so-clever doctor, had fallen for it. He had followed the bacon like a mouse, and the trap had snapped shut.
“The tower,” he whispered, looking Valentin straight in the eyes. “I told you about a tower back in Heidelberg, but never about its exact location. I only remembered later. There was just one person who could have told you where to find the tower—someone who lives there himself from time to time.”
“You still don’t understand how powerful this man is,” said Valentin in a whisper. He trembled as he looked over to Tonio del Moravia.
“Oh yes, I do.”
I’ve always known. I just didn’t want to see.
He had never truly escaped the master; Tonio had always been one step ahead of him. That explained the prevailing sense of being watched. Tonio had never stopped watching him over all these years. But there must have been a reason for the master to bring Johann back to him now. After seventeen years.
At that moment, Johann understood.
Seventeen years.
Once again, Larua was in the sky, as on the day of his birth and as it had been in the clearing near Nördlingen. The comet was probably over Nuremberg right now. They had chosen this day for a reason. That was why Valentin hadn’t stolen the key ring until now, and that was why Greta had been detained at the prison for so long. They had been waiting for this particular day.
Valentin seemed to read his thoughts. “They wanted you to figure out the plan with the tunnels yourself,” he said in a shaking voice. “If you hadn’t thought of it in time, I would have helped you. But it was more believable this way.” He gave a sad smile. “I always knew you’d find the solution. Now you’re precisely where they wanted you—where he wanted you.”
Johann gazed at the upside-down cross in front of him. Back in the clearing near Nördlingen, he’d thought a horde of lunatics was going to kill him, sacrifice him for some satanic ritual like so many children and youths before him had been. But evidently they had different plans for him.
Something that would come to a close here in Nuremberg.
“Why didn’t you just abduct me and bring me here if I’m so important to you?” asked Johann, looking at his former master. “Why this farce?”
“Well, I thought a farce was appropriate for a juggler and magician,” replied Tonio nonchalantly. “Didn’t you enjoy it? It allowed you to trick and perform and show off your clever mind as you always like to do. But you’re right—that’s not the true reason. The true reason is that you must return to me of your own free will. It is an ancient law, set down in the times before time.”
Tonio studied him with black eyes, his pupils as sharp as needles.
“Back when you drank the black potion, you were almost mine. But then you got away at the last moment. Finding your daughter in Nuremberg was a stroke of luck. I’d only wanted to speak with your old friend here. I knew his name from the list at Heidelberg University.” Tonio pointed his finger at Valentin, whose scarred face had lost all color. “He was very talkative. No one wants to undergo torture for a second time, do they? All we needed to do next was lure you to Nuremberg, this resourceful city where I have the most followers in the empire. And finally we needed to get you here, into the womb of the beast. I knew you wouldn’t abandon young Greta. Not after what you did to her mother.” Tonio smiled coldly and took a step toward Johann. “You had to come of your own free will, and now you’re here. Right time, right place.”
“Where are we?” asked Johann.
“Directly underneath the Sebaldus Church, one of the city’s oldest churches. The original building was dedicated to Saint Peter.” Tonio smirked. “How appropriate, considering good old Peter founded the Roman Church. We’ve been using this buried crypt as a gathering place for a few years now. I’ve had the hall renovated, bit by bit, whenever I stopped here on my travels. Every mass needs the right setting, don’t you think?”
“And what do you want with my daughter?” asked Johann. “If you want to take revenge on me—for whatever—then—”
Tonio waved dismissively. “Your daughter is unimportant. We want you.” He leaned down close enough so Johann could smell his sweetish breath. “I want you.” Tonio sniffed at him and shuddered with lust. Almost lovingly he stroked Johann’s cheeks. “You’re the right one, Johann. I sensed it back in Knittlingen when we first met—when you were just a little boy. Everything happened just the way it was foretold.”
Johann turned his face away with disgust. He realized where the smell on Tonio’s breath came from.
It was the smell of fresh blood.
“I have a suggestion for you, Johann,” said Tonio. “You sit down among my disciples and behave. And then I will tell you how you can save your daughter. It isn’t difficult—it’s entirely up to you. Are you going to behave and listen, Johann? Are you?”
Johann nodded, and the Schembart runners dragged him over to the front row of the pews, where they sat him down in their midst. Valentin had also been brought there, and he trembled and shook as he sat between two masked men. Johann looked at the empty, smooth masks around him. Now he was grateful that Greta was unconscious and didn’t have to see this horror show.
Meanwhile, Tonio had walked over to the column with the pulpit and took the narrow, winding stairs to the top. When he stood beneath the black canopy, he paused for a moment, drinking in the ecclesial atmosphere, which was heavy with anticipation. Then he addressed his followers.
“You’ve been waiting for a long time,” he shouted into the hall, looking like an angry, emaciated preacher. “But now the time has finally come. The reign of God ends and the age of man begins! Homo Deus est!”
“Homo Deus est!” chanted the masked men.
Johann winced at the words he’d heard again and again over the years without really understanding their full meaning. Magister Archibaldus had known who was hiding behind those words, and he’d had to die for this knowledge. It took Johann a moment to realize what Tonio’s tone reminded him of. It was the same tone of voice the sorcerer had always used to seduce the crowd at the market squares.
“For hundreds of years, the church led us to believe that there was but one truth and one teaching,” Tonio went on. “The church forbade you to read books and, yes, even to think! The church tried to lull you to sleep and condemned any scientific progress as heresy. They placed their obstinate, narrow-minded God at the center of the universe instead of man—but enough is enough!”
“Homo Deus est, Deus homo est!” chanted the masked men. Several of them had risen to their feet.
“Why has this city come so far? Why is it wealthier and more glamorous and better known than any other in the empire? Why is all the world praising Nuremberg wit and Nuremberg cleverness?” Johann could tell how much his former master and teacher enjoyed himself in the role of the zealous priest; his eyes gleamed with relish. “Because you have recognized that you can achieve greatness by yourselves! With the help of science, knowledge, inventions—you don’t need a God, because you are gods yourself! Men can create paradise right here on earth. Starting from Nuremberg, our movement will conquer the world. The rebirth of man begins here!”
The masked men cheered, and Johann looked around with wonder. Who were those people? Lunatics? Followers of some dark, satanic sect? But then he remembered what Valentin had said about the participants of the Schembartlauf parade.
They’re all from respectable, influential Nuremberg families.
