The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,80
and adorned with colorful frescoes. The two men passed wealthy patricians wearing velvet tunics and fur-lined coats, women clad in colorful scarves and the finest fustian, and one man who wore a cap laced with gold thread instead of a hat.
The wine merchant winked at Johann. “Did you see that vain peacock? That was young Jakob Fugger. They say his family will soon be the most powerful family of Augsburg. Since Maximilian is the new king, Fugger has been doing business with him and lending him money. Ha, to think that Jakob’s grandfather started life as a simple weaver from the country! That’s what it’s like nowadays—nothing is certain anymore, and anyone can become someone.” He gestured toward an ostentatious building in the middle of the street. “All the high-class ladies and gentlemen—the Fuggers, the Welsers, the Gossembrots, and the Rehlingers—are meeting for the Geschlechtertanz here tonight—a fancy dance. Apparently, the youngest Rehlinger girl is getting hitched. It’ll be a big night of politics. And that always goes best when the throat is well oiled.” He gave a merry laugh. “And that’s where I come in. Five barrels of the finest Franconian wine! There’s none better far and wide, believe me.”
They drove a little farther and reached a long square surrounded by barns and more patrician houses. A huge crowd of people pushed past market stalls and makeshift tables. Behind the stalls and tables, dozens of barrels of every size stood stacked in piles, chalk marks designating each barrel’s origin and owner. Merchants walked up and down in front of their stalls, hawking their wares and handing out small jugs for sampling. The cobblestones were red and slippery with spilled wine.
The stench reminded Johann of the Trottenkelter press at Knittlingen, and the image of Ludwig’s brutally disfigured body appeared in his mind’s eye. He chased away the thought as quickly as he could. Knittlingen, Margarethe, Ludwig, Martin, Tonio—all of that was in the past. The future lay in front of him, even if he didn’t yet know where it led.
“Looks like the wine market opened earlier than usual today,” the old man growled, looking around anxiously. “Fingers crossed that we aren’t too late. Hey, Albertus, old friend! Here I am!”
He jumped down from the box seat and was soon deep in conversation with a grumpy-looking bald-headed man. It wasn’t long before a heavy purse changed owners. The wine merchant returned to Johann with a wide grin.
“Albertus has been awaiting me desperately. He supplies the dance hall. Apparently, the Rhenish wine is so sour this year that they have to sweeten it with honey. Two of the barrels he was sold can only be used as vinegar. Albertus thanked God and all the saints when I told him I had five barrels of good wine left—at a price, of course.” He opened the purse and tossed Johann a coin. “Here, for you. You brought me luck. And now off with you before I get too softhearted.” He frowned. “The devil knows what you’ve been through. You screamed in your sleep last night as if all seven hounds of hell were after you. I wish you good luck for wherever you’re going next.”
He gave Johann one last pat on the shoulder, and then he turned away to help the other man unload the barrels.
“Thank you,” Johann called after him. “And God bless you!” But the old man seemed not to hear him.
Clutching the coin tightly in his hand, Johann drifted with the crowd until he’d left the wine market behind. Another square with stalls followed—the fish market, judging by the smell, and some of the wares didn’t seem to be the freshest. A tall tower rose up behind the fish market, and Johann headed toward it. He walked around the tower and found a mangy bear locked up behind an iron grate. The beast was lying in a corner, looking tired, its dull fur matted with scabs and dried blood. Every now and then children would prod it with a stick until the bear growled and swiped at them angrily before lying back down. The once-proud animal reminded Johann of himself. Tired, hurt, no way out . . .
Thoughtfully, he studied the coin in his hand. It was an old Augsburg penny, so smooth from handling that the image of Emperor Friedrich was barely recognizable. Well, the coin would buy him a warm supper and one night at a flea-infested inn—and then what?
Dejected, he moved on. He felt even more pathetic amid