The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,181

with herbs and alleged magic powers—caused him to become reasonably well off. He purchased the individual parts he required for the laterna magica and assembled it; he read palms, promised grand futures in his horoscopes, and called himself magister and doctor. Everyone believed him—even the universities. His wit, his gift of public speaking, and his knowledge did the rest.

And so the young Johann Faustus, a Heidelberg student wanted for sorcery and murder, became the infamous Doctor Johann Georg Faustus.

A living legend.

Out of spite and sarcasm he had kept the name he’d used to matriculate at Heidelberg University, the name his mother had lovingly called him. He sometimes went by Faust now—fist. No longer a lucky one, but a punch in the face to all the slow-witted, superstitious, and narrow-minded folk out there. Johann smiled. The fact that every little county, bishopric, and duchy worried only about its own affairs had its advantages. No one seemed to make the connection between the murderer from Heidelberg and the famous doctor.

Until now, at least.

Next to him, Karl moaned again, but this time the student was smiling. Johann guessed he was dreaming of happier days with his lover, just like he himself often dreamed of his one true love.

Margarethe.

No day went by that Johann didn’t think of her. Of her blue eyes, her flaxen hair, and her laughter, which had saved him in the clearing near Nördlingen all those years ago.

Margarethe.

An owl hooted, and Johann started up from his bed. In the light of the moon he saw wafts of mist floating by the boulders. He suspected that once upon a time this place had been used as a sacrificial site, just like the one near Nördlingen where he had drunk the black potion and escaped from Tonio. He had never heard anything about the magician again. Nor, since leaving Heidelberg, about Gilles de Rais, the insane French marshal who had been dead for almost a hundred years now.

And Johann hoped it would stay that way.

With that thought he finally fell asleep.

The next morning, Johann was up before sunrise. He never slept much; a few hours was enough for him. Sleep was dangerous because it allowed the dreams to return, and so he tried to avoid sleeping at night as much as possible. Karl didn’t seem to share this problem, as he snored and stretched under his fur blanket. A thin column of smoke still rose from their fire. Dew dripped from the leaves in the trees; fall had arrived with its damp, chilly breeze.

Johann softly whistled for Satan and fed it the remains of last night’s dinner. As the mastiff slurped up the scraps, Johann watched the animal with a smile, like a father watching his child at play. He had grown fonder of Satan than of any person he’d met in the last few years. The dog had been his faithful companion on his never-ending journey through the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation, as the empire was now called. The animal was no longer so young; the fur behind its ears and on its paws was turning gray, and it didn’t run as fast as it used to. For a few weeks now it had also been limping. But Satan still provided Johann the respectability and protection he required as a lone traveler. The empire was far from safe; dangers lurked everywhere, not just in the woods. There were no laws outside the cities, and no one to keep order. Everyone had to look out for themselves.

Satan licked its jowls and gazed at its master from bloodshot eyes, evidently hoping for more. Johann stroked the mastiff behind the ears.

“Good dog,” he said in a low voice. “You’re a good dog.” He looked over at Karl. “Let’s see how we get on with our new friend. You don’t like Karl very much, do you? I guess you’re jealous.” Satan gave a growl, and Johann laughed.

When he’d seen Karl’s drawings in Leipzig, a shiver had run down his spine. The images had immediately reminded him of Valentin in Heidelberg, and so he’d continued to watch the student. The young man’s slightly clumsy yet proud demeanor had awakened memories in Johann. He had seen himself as a student in Heidelberg. And then he’d almost lost Karl in the same way he had lost Margarethe and Valentin; he’d arrived just in the nick of time. On the Warnheim market square he’d sworn to himself: never again shall a student burn as a heretic. He