The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,197
wearing his blue-and-black star cloak and the floppy hat, and the strange symbols on the wagon did the rest. Word was spreading fast that a well-known magician was waiting outside Agrippa’s house.
“It’s the sorcerer Doctor Faustus,” whispered an elderly farmer to his wife in a broad Cologne accent. “A necromancer and devil worshipper! I’ve heard of him. Down at Speyer he made two calves fly to the moon! They’re still up there today.”
“God protect us,” said the old woman, shaking her head. “When two magicians come together, terrible things will happen.”
The crowd grumbled, and the first few troublemakers started to pull at the canvas, probably trying to see what sort of devilish things were hidden inside. Karl jumped down and tried to fend off the most daring fellows. But they didn’t stop—on the contrary, more and more people came forward, shouting, swearing, and shaking the wagon. The lane was so full of people that they wouldn’t be able to get the wagon out. Johann looked about nervously. It wouldn’t be long before some city guards turned up, and that wouldn’t help his cause at all. He was already considered trouble. Should he set Satan on the mob? But that would only make things worse.
“What’s all this about? Off with you, there’s nothing to see here!”
Johann turned around and saw a rather short man with a beret and a gown striding through the throng of people. He was probably younger than Johann, but his black university garb and lordly demeanor made him appear older and more dignified. The man had intelligent, alert eyes, a pointed nose, and a thin mouth that seemed set in a permanent sneer. Despite his youth, his hair and thin beard were already turning gray.
“Don’t ask me—ask the people,” replied Johann from the box seat.
“Well, if you are who the people think you are, you are definitely the source of all this trouble.” The man smiled and suddenly looked much younger. He spoke with a Cologne accent, which made his stilted way of speaking sound like a cheap farce. “Doctor Faustus, am I right? Considering the sheer number of tales about you, I would have thought you much older.”
“Considering the number of your works, Master Agrippa, I thought you, too, were older,” replied Johann coolly, still annoyed about the turmoil he had caused. “Or were they written by someone else, perhaps?”
“Touché, dear colleague!” Agrippa laughed and bowed mockingly, the crowd now keeping a respectful distance. “I much prefer an open attack to the backstabbing attempts of all those old scholars who would love nothing more than to see me convicted of heresy. Let us go inside, where we can speak undisturbed.” He grinned and gestured toward an alleyway to the left of his house.
“You’ll find a gate to the backyard of my humble abode down there. You must forgive my sister, Martha, for not letting you in. We simply get too many supplicants—mostly traveling students hoping for a position. But I wouldn’t miss your visit, honorable Doctor. On the way home from the university alone, I heard at least a dozen stories about you.”
“Only half of them are true,” said Johann with a shrug.
“And he won’t tell you which half,” said Karl with a sigh.
Agrippa glanced at the young man. “You have an assistant?”
“A talented young man,” replied Johann. “Even if his passion runs a little wild at times.”
He walked through the crowd at Agrippa’s side. The people readily gave way now, and some even took off their hats. But Johann also saw some men and women making the sign of the cross and other gestures to ward off evil. Meanwhile, Karl climbed back onto the box seat and steered the wagon through the crowd toward the alleyway.
The front door was followed by a plainly furnished hallway, with furs and carpets on the walls and fragrant reeds on the floor.
“Follow me into the stove room,” said Agrippa as he went up the stairs. “We’ll be able to converse undisturbed there. Your assistant may wait in the kitchen and let Martha spoil him. She’s made fresh Cologne doughnuts—a veritable delicacy. As for you and me, we will content ourselves with the meager yet equally delicious fare of collegial dispute.”
The stove room was dominated by a green tiled stove as high as a man. Such stoves were increasingly the fashion in houses of burghers. Unlike the tidy hallway, this room was very messy. Books and loose pages were strewn across chests and small tables; a brown apple core lay