The Master's Apprentice, page 22
part #1 of Faust Series
“Hmm,” said the old man hesitantly. “It’s true. And it’s the only damn reason they’re letting me come. I know I’m a lousy alchemist and relic peddler these days. The straw from the crib of Bethlehem is moldy, and Archangel Gabriel’s wing feather is as tousled as if the cat had got him.”
Johann smiled, glad for the change of subject. Relic peddlers traveled the country with more-or-less-genuine relics, displaying them for money. He’d once heard that there were enough pieces of “the true cross” to build an entire city. Partly to blame was the fact that items were sometimes declared relics when they’d merely touched a relic.
Archibaldus gave an almost-toothless grin. “But I still have a few connections in trading circles because of my family name. Among others, in the German trading post in Venice. That’s where we stay for the winter, in exchange for a bit of juggling and music.” He snickered. “I’ve got a letter of recommendation from Hamburg, from very high places. It’s my retirement security, so to speak. And—”
“Hey, you two!” shouted Peter from up front. “Are you draining our wine together now? Come here, Johann, I need you to push. There’s a hill up ahead, and this horse won’t manage on its own.”
Johann was about to get up when Archibaldus clutched him by the sleeve.
“Those Latin words you said before,” he said quietly. “You know: homo Deus est. I don’t care where you got them from, but keep them to yourself from now on. You don’t want the wrong ears to hear them. Do you understand?”
Johann nodded, even though he wasn’t sure he understood. Was the old man trying to frighten him? He turned away and climbed out of the wagon. Long after Johann had left, Archibaldus’s eyes remained on the slit in the canvas. Then the old scholar sighed deeply and continued his search for the keg of wine.
With the slightly damaged wagon, their progress went slower than expected, and they ended up spending the night beside the river. Cold fog rose up from the water at sunset. Johann shivered but tried not to let it show. As the new one in the troupe, he sat a little apart from the rest while eating his stew. Salome gave him a few strange smiles.
Following their sparse supper, Peter played his fiddle for a while, and Johann thought once more that he was an excellent musician. Most musicians he knew from Knittlingen were drunken drifters who could barely keep a rhythm. But Peter was bowing his instrument like an angel, closing his eyes and losing himself in the music. Johann envied his apparent ability to shut out all his worries and fears for a while. He himself couldn’t do it, and so he slept poorly once more, dreaming of Tonio and small, squirming bodies in a clearing somewhere in the woods near Nördlingen. Several times he was woken by sighs and moans, but it was only Emilio and Salome, enjoying themselves not far from him under a thin fur blanket.
They finally reached Landsberg in the late morning of the following day. Johann was supposed to perform his first show there.
Like Augsburg, this town also lay by the gentle River Lech. A castle sat upon a steep hill in the east, tall defensive walls telling of the city’s power and wealth. Peter had been here many times before, and it wasn’t long before they were granted permission to perform on the market square.
Along with dozens of other travelers, they crossed the river on a wide wooden bridge with a weir on one side. The salt road led through Landsberg—it was an important trading route on which precious salt was carted from Reichenhall via Munich to Lake Constance. A salt store and road tolls ensured that the people of Landsberg got their share of the daily salt transport.
As soon as their wagon rolled into the market square, the first curious onlookers began to gather. Children flocked around the troupe; old men and women muttered prayers and made the sign of the cross but couldn’t help gawking at the jugglers’ colorful costumes. Johann knew from his time with Tonio that people were grateful for any distraction. There wasn’t much entertainment outside of church fairs and the occasional execution, particularly in smaller towns and villages. One or two convivial hours, a bit of laughter and amazement—jugglers took people on a journey to a land far away from the misery and monotony of their daily lives.
There was a fountain in the center of the square unlike any Johann had seen before. Water spouted into the air several yards high, resembling lances glinting in the light of the sun. Behind the fountain lay the three-story city hall with its tall, crenellated facade and stair turret and many windows. Johann thought about the old well outside the Knittlingen town hall and the moat with its murky waters. The closer they got to the Alps, the wealthier the towns and cities seemed to be.
“Nervous?” asked Peter mockingly. Johann was still gaping at the fountain. “Don’t soil your pants—Salome won’t want to wash them for you.” He laughed and handed Johann some items of clothing. “Put these on. They were a little too big for Lukas, so they should be just right for you.”
Johann pulled on a pair of bright-green leggings and a red jerkin with a hood as long as his arm. Colorful pieces of fabric had been sewn onto the jerkin, and it had several slits with yellow cloth showing underneath. It was warm and elaborately made, even if he looked like a fool in it. To his horror, Johann noticed that the right trouser leg had been poorly patched up and was speckled with dried blood.
“It’s a good jerkin,” said Peter, noticing Johann’s look. “Poor Lukas was given it as a gift from a Saxon nobleman who liked his tricks. Just before his death. We cleaned it as well as we could.” He gave a grin. “You’re not fussy, are you?”
Johann said nothing as he fastened the jerkin.
Their show on the market square was a great success. Emilio juggled, Salome danced with her veils, and Mustafa bent iron rods like willow branches. Even Magister Archibaldus appeared to be relatively sober, and the crowd bought his alchemist story and clapped wildly at the sight of his gilded staff.
Peter’s playing was so heartrendingly beautiful that people’s eyes welled up with tears. Johann thought he understood now where Peter’s name came from—Nachtigall meant “nightingale.” He wasn’t just a gifted musician but also an astounding singer. His voice was loud and clear both when he sang and when he spoke, and his announcements between acts made people laugh and gasp with amazement. Peter was without a doubt a born leader, even if his speech suffered slightly from the new gap in his teeth.
Johann thought his own performance hadn’t been too bad, either. The audience loved the trick with the egg; this time, he’d asked a slow-witted butcher’s apprentice on stage to pose for him. When Johann lifted the boy’s hat and people saw the egg, they roared with laughter. His card and coin tricks worked well, too, especially with Salome acting as his assistant. She handed him the cards and patted him down to prove that he didn’t have any additional cards hidden on his body, touching him in places that weren’t strictly necessary for the act.
Johann noticed that the young female spectators eyed him differently than had the girls he’d seen a few months ago. He had grown taller and had filled out a little. His hair was black and luscious, and his teeth gleamed white, thanks to a cleansing recipe from his mother using mint and mallow root. Still, he felt rather ridiculous in the slit jerkin and the long gugel hood.
Added to the proceeds from the sale of the broken wagon, the money they made was enough for accommodation at a decent inn near the church and a bowl of hot meat stew for each of them. And the innkeeper promised to have their battered wagon fixed the following day.
They stayed in Landsberg for two more days, giving three shows a day. At first Johann’s performance had been a bit rusty, but with each show the tricks came a little more easily. Still, Peter remained cold toward him. Johann feared the man would never forgive him the gap in his teeth.
In the hours before and between shows, Johann practiced juggling with Emilio and learned that the young juggler was deft with a throwing knife. Johann pulled out his own knife and hurled it at a wagon wheel, where the blade came to a trembling halt in the hub of the wheel. He’d had plenty of practice during his time with Tonio, especially when his hatred of all those narrow-minded Knittlingers had become unbearable. Emilio nodded appreciatively.
“If you get a little better, we might be able to turn it into an act,” he said with a grin. “With Salome, perhaps. But we better practice without live targets first—I don’t want you to make a hole in my pretty girl’s dress.”
On the second night, Johann needed to empty his bladder long before sunrise. He got up as quietly as he could. He shared a chamber with Archibaldus, who was snoring beside him. As usual, the magister had stayed up drinking until late and reeked like an old barrel of wine. Johann thought even the fleas in the beds must find him disgusting. He sneaked downstairs on tiptoes and walked into the yard behind the inn to the wooden outhouse. When he was finished, he lingered in the yard for a while, gazing at the waning moon. It had been only a week since he’d fled from Tonio beneath the same moon. It seemed to him like a different, long-gone life.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Johann spun around and saw the fine features of Salome’s face. She looked even more exotic in the dark, with her oval face the color of burned clay, high cheekbones, and bushy eyebrows. Her hair was tousled, and she wrapped herself up in a blanket that didn’t hide her curves. Her full lips twisted into a mocking smile.
“Are you howling at the moon, my little wolf?”
Johann shook his head. “I’m thinking of something I’d rather forget.”
“Aren’t we all?” She gave a hoarse laugh, sounding almost like a man. “Archibaldus would like to forget that he’s just an old drunk and not an itinerant scholar from a wealthy house. Emilio wants to forget what the mercenaries did to his parents in Lombardy. Peter wants to forget that his time as a great showman is over.”
“He really plays like the—”
“Like the devil, I know.” Salome grinned. “How appropriate! The church considers jugglers as lures of the devil and dancing as their mass.” She swayed her hips suggestively. “And especially dishonorable jugglers’ wenches like me. Well, can you feel the lure of the wench? Can you feel it?”
“Peter could play his music at the courts of noblemen,” Johann said without responding to Salome. “But instead he travels from town to town with your troupe—why?”
Salome gave him a wink. “Once again it was an accursed wench dragging the man to his demise. As far as I know, Peter is the youngest son of a Franconian knight. He loved a girl—a simple barber’s daughter, apparently—and left his family for her. But the lass died young, and not even his music could save her. He’s been roaming the empire with a broken heart ever since.” She shrugged. “At least that’s what he says when he’s drunk. And then he’s pretty hard to understand. Sometimes, when he’s in a really bad state, he talks about some pact that stole the girl from him.”
“I understand Peter too well,” said Johann glumly.
“Because you, too, loved a girl?” She came closer. “Did you?”
“And what about you?” asked Johann quickly. “Are you also trying to forget something?”
“Every day I forget what happened the night before.”
She opened the tattered blanket, revealing her immaculate naked body, with her fuzzy black triangle and full breasts bathed in pale moonlight. He couldn’t move. She brusquely pulled him against her and kissed him hard and passionately, her tongue burrowing into his mouth like an angry viper. Johann felt her hand on his crotch, and there was nothing he could do to stop his penis from growing.
“I like your eyes, my little wolf,” she breathed. “They’re as dark and deep as ponds in the forest. There’s something gleaming under the surface I don’t understand. Can you explain?”
“What . . . what about Emilio?” he asked, breathing heavily.
“Who is Emilio?” She gave a giggle. “I’m free, little wolf. I belong to no one—not even to a god.”
She had pushed him against the rim of a barrel. Johann feverishly grabbed her buttocks and lifted her onto him. Her hips moved slowly and rhythmically, her eyes closed and her delirious face turned toward the crescent moon. They made love in silence except for their gasping breath, wrapped tightly around each other as if they were wrestling. Then Salome gave a soft cry, and her whole body tensed before growing limp. Johann inhaled the scent of her salty sweat. Even though it was cold, he felt as hot as he had that day in the field with Margarethe.
After a few moments she let go of him and wrapped the blanket back around her. She was smiling.
“We should go back before the others wake up. Peter wants to leave early.” She ran her thumb over the black fluff growing on Johann’s chin. “My cute little wolf,” she whispered. “We’ll taste each other again.” Then she turned around and quickly walked back inside the inn.
Johann stayed in the yard for a long time, spellbound, as in a dream.
Johann could not sleep. He tossed and turned in his bed, thinking about Salome. It had been the first time he’d truly had sex with a woman. Back in the cave in Schillingswald Forest, he and Margarethe hadn’t gone the whole way, and whatever happened that night near Nördlingen—he didn’t want to think about. When Johann closed his eyes, he thought he could still smell Salome’s sweat and the scent of her sex. So that was the great magic everyone talked about. And he had to admit: he was bewitched. Still, how could he ever look Emilio in the eye again without blushing? Would Salome tell him what had happened?
But when they finally sat together in the gray twilight of the taproom downstairs, eating their barley porridge and drinking their thinned beer, Salome didn’t even look at Johann. She seemed cool and distant. She never even gave him a smile but bantered with Emilio all the more. Johann was deeply confused at first, but then he thought he understood. If she and Emilio were a couple, the other man couldn’t know about his mistress’s excursion. Johann thought about Emilio’s knife and how quickly men started brawls about women.
Worried and tired, Johann leaned over his bowl and tried to forget about Salome. But he couldn’t. What had happened between them had been amazing. Something stirred inside him every time he thought about it. He tried to eat his porridge quickly and hurried outside to brush the horse.
They left Landsberg in the light of the rising sun, following the Lech River until they came to a crossroad near a town called Schongau. Two years before, a fire had devastated the entire town, and not all the houses had been rebuilt yet. A performance among the ruins didn’t seem practical, so they decided to rest outside the town walls.
Johann filled a bucket with water for the horse from a cold, clear stream that was lined with ice crystals. The mountains were much closer now, and he thought he could smell the snow even though it was already the beginning of April. When he returned, Peter and Archibaldus were in the middle of a loud argument, but for once it didn’t seem to be about the old man’s drinking.
“I’ll say it one more time: it’s nonsense taking the upper route,” Archibaldus was saying, still reasonably sober at lunchtime. “It’s longer and more dangerous. I know what I’m talking about—I’ve traveled through the Finstermünz Gorge before. It’s still deepest winter there in April! There’ll be avalanches, and storms can break out at any moment. The Eisacktal Valley, by Bozen, on the other hand—”
“Is just as dangerous, if not more so,” Peter retorted. “Even though the toll keepers are trying to tell us otherwise—I don’t fall for their tricks.” His eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms on his chest. “Believe me, old man, I spoke with several merchants about this, just last night in Landsberg, when you were already under the table. The lower route is flooded with meltwater in many places and blocked by landslides. And the locals demand horrendous tolls for the detours. We can’t afford those. The upper route may be longer, but it’s safer and—most importantly—cheaper. I’ve traveled it twice myself.”
“But the gorge—” tried Archibaldus again.
“That’s my final word,” snarled Peter, cutting him off. “I’m the leader of this troupe, and I don’t let anyone tell me what to do, especially not an old drunkard who last traveled that road in the time of Methuselah.”
Grumbling, Archibaldus retreated back inside the wagon.
Johann put the bucket down in front of the horse and gazed at the Alps. They suddenly seemed a lot more menacing. Evidently, there were several different routes across this tall, impregnable-looking wall of mountains, and none of them was absolutely safe. As the sun drifted toward the western horizon, it painted the mountains in a red light, making them look like they were on fire.
That night, as they were sleeping around the wagon, Johann heard Salome’s soft cries. Emilio giggled, then groaned loudly. Johann thought of how Salome had cried out for him just the night before, and the thought drove him wild. He pulled his hood over his ears and held them shut, but he could still hear the moans and lustful sighs of the lovers.
The next evening, the travelers finally reached the foot of the mountains. A newly built castle rose up beside a monastery right where the Lech River came roaring down from the mountains. Below the castle lay the town of Füssen, which Johann had heard of. It was the starting point of the Lech’s navigable section; beyond lay nothing but mountainous wilderness. The king himself had visited Füssen on his way from Innsbruck to Augsburg. The tall townhouses were surrounded by a thick wall. Many merchants and pilgrims chose to stay here at the start of their journeys to Italy.
Peter thoughtfully studied the fluffy clouds above, which covered the evening sky like spilled milk.
“The weather’s turning,” Peter muttered. “Damn it. Pray to God it’ll last for a while longer.”
After a lengthy search they found an affordable tavern near the town’s granary. Over wine, bacon, and eggs, Peter blathered about Füssen’s excellent lute makers and a number of new songs he intended to perform in Venice. He said nothing more about the upper route they were going to take the following day, or about the changing weather. Archibaldus sulked in the corner, emptying cup after cup until he finally passed out at the table.
