The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,102

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