The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,93
the town of Füssen, which Johann had heard of. It was the starting point of the Lech’s navigable section; beyond lay nothing but mountainous wilderness. The king himself had visited Füssen on his way from Innsbruck to Augsburg. The tall townhouses were surrounded by a thick wall. Many merchants and pilgrims chose to stay here at the start of their journeys to Italy.
Peter thoughtfully studied the fluffy clouds above, which covered the evening sky like spilled milk.
“The weather’s turning,” Peter muttered. “Damn it. Pray to God it’ll last for a while longer.”
After a lengthy search they found an affordable tavern near the town’s granary. Over wine, bacon, and eggs, Peter blathered about Füssen’s excellent lute makers and a number of new songs he intended to perform in Venice. He said nothing more about the upper route they were going to take the following day, or about the changing weather. Archibaldus sulked in the corner, emptying cup after cup until he finally passed out at the table.
“He’s going to drink himself to his grave,” said Emilio.
“Let’s hope that won’t happen before Venice,” Peter replied grumpily. “He’s the key to our winter quarters. Now let’s get to bed—tomorrow is going to be a long day. And don’t forget to pray to Saint Peter to chase away the clouds.”
Peter didn’t play his fiddle that night, and the others also went to bed early. In the middle of the night, Johann got up and sneaked over to the chamber where Salome and Emilio slept. He paused for a while outside their door, listening to the calm breathing of the sleeping people inside. Then he called himself a fool and went back to bed.
But he still couldn’t sleep.
The next morning, the sky was overcast and there was a light drizzle as cold as snow. Johann thought about how beautiful the last few days had been—and now it seemed winter wanted to wield its power one more time. Peter scrutinized the mountains, which were enveloped in a gray haze. Clouds stuck to their peaks like poisonous mushrooms. The leader of their troupe spoke with other travelers, and they decided to wait until the weather improved.
They stayed at Füssen for three more days. The mood and the wine worsened, but the weather remained unchanged. It seemed like the snow and hail were lurking in the mountains—waiting for the travelers to start their journey. On the morning of the fourth day, Peter woke the others with loud knocking and ordered them to pack up.
“No one said it was going to be easy,” he growled. “Now let’s go before we all freeze to death in this place.” Archibaldus was about to respond, but Peter silenced him with one stern look.
They joined a group of merchants from Augsburg who also had decided to attempt the crossing. They carried linen, wool, and furs, and they were accompanied by several pilgrims, whose brown woolen coats, wide-brimmed hats, and staffs were a familiar sight on the roads. The pilgrims’ number had grown steadily since Augsburg. They were headed for Rome or Venice and the Holy Land, sang and prayed continuously, and weren’t intimidated by wind and rain. Johann envied the pilgrims’ trust in God, their perpetual smiles and camaraderie. He wondered if he couldn’t be a pilgrim, too. But search as he might, he couldn’t find the voice of God inside him. He felt perhaps Tonio’s black potion had tainted and sealed him from the inside.
The jugglers didn’t have to pay for the protection the train of merchants afforded them—but they promised to brighten the cold mountain evenings with music and dance. Peter was glad they didn’t have to travel alone, because the French under King Charles VIII had been fighting the Italian cities since the year before. Florence, Rome, and Naples had already fallen, and no one could tell how far north the fighting was going to reach. People were telling tales of horrific slaughters, even in the Vinschgau and Tyrol areas.
“At the imperial diet in Worms, the upper classes demanded an everlasting public peace from the emperor so that the knights can’t keep thieving and murdering as they please,” said Archibaldus, sitting in the wagon with Peter. “They even want to found an imperial court of judgment and a council that controls the king.” He gave a laugh. “And all the while the noble lords can’t even keep the lousy French out of Italy. This empire is a joke!”
“The situation is much too serious for a joke,” grumbled Peter. “Now shut