The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,253

Holy Ghost. The stalls that usually sold expensive spices, loaves of bread, cheese, and salted meat stood empty. Everyone, even the market wives, had rushed over to the main square, where a column of black smoke rose to the sky. The news of the burning elephant had probably lured even the last Nuremberger out of the house.

Utterly exhausted, Karl stopped by the bridge east of the hospital. “We should go back to the command,” he said. “I can’t carry Greta much further. The Teutonic Knights will give us shelter and tend to her—and you.”

“Out of the question.” Johann shook his head and started trudging across the bridge. “Who is to say that the command isn’t full of traitors? Many of Tonio’s followers are patricians. Why would the command be an exception? It’s too dangerous.”

“But we need shelter!” said Karl urgently. “Some kind of hiding place. Just look at you!” He gave a desperate laugh. “A feverish one-eyed man who can barely walk in a straight line.”

Johann looked down at himself. Karl was right. He was a shivering bundle wrapped in filthy bandages. There was nothing left of the proud, famous doctor.

“Very well,” he said. “Let us . . . rest for a while. We’ll find somewhere.”

He knew he probably wouldn’t be able to get back up once he sat down. But they couldn’t keep going, either, and so he looked around for a hiding place. In the center of the bridge, stairs led down to a long, narrow island in the Pegnitz. Its sandy shores were lined with brown foam and trash washing down the river from the mills. There was a grove in the middle of the island, which probably served as a secret meeting place for lovers during the warmer months. Low trees and shrubs would offer some shelter. They walked onto the island from the west and pushed their way into the undergrowth, where they finally collapsed with exhaustion. Greta was no longer making any sound.

“I wonder if she’ll recover.” Karl carefully opened Greta’s torn dress and leaned over her. “Her breathing is very weak.”

Johann felt a stab in his chest. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind until then. Maybe the potion Tonio had given his daughter was too strong. Maybe she’d never return to him, forever caught in the twilight? But then Greta suddenly opened her eyes—his black eyes.

“Where . . . where are we?” she asked with a feeble voice.

“Somewhere safe,” replied Johann and held her cold hand.

“Johann.” Greta gave a tired smile. She seemed to recognize him only now, underneath his bandage. “I . . . I feel so heavy. Everything is so heavy. Can you do magic for me? I . . . I like it when you do magic.”

Johann brushed her cheek with his fingers, and then he pulled a small pebble from her ear like he used to do with coins. “Your head is full of stones,” he said, trying his utmost to sound calm and cheerful. “No wonder you feel heavy.” He continued to pull pebble after pebble from her ear. She smiled once more.

“Are you . . . are you a real wizard?”

I am your father, my child, he thought. I am the man who drove your mother to her death. And I am the man who loved her more than anything. Will you ever be able to forgive me?

“Where . . . where is Uncle Valentin?”

Johann swallowed. He couldn’t tell her—not yet. What should he say? But then Greta closed her eyes, and her breathing became stronger and more regular. And as Johann watched her, he felt himself grow calm, also. It was strange. He had studied so many subjects, attended so many lectures, become a master of all seven liberal arts, but there was one art no scholar in the world had taught him—not the magisters and doctors at Heidelberg, not Archibaldus, and least of all Tonio. It was a discipline that was usually hidden behind dry words in the Latin and Greek writings, as difficult to chew as stale bread. To experience it firsthand was an entirely different story. Ovid had once called it Ars amatoria, even if he’d meant something slightly different.

The art of loving.

The eighth liberal art.

Yes, he had loved Margarethe, and he always would. But that love rested on experiences from their childhood, from a long, common history, and also on expectations that probably would never have been fulfilled. His love for this child, however, for his daughter, had no goal. It