“Karl and I are going to use the winter months to change a few of the backdrops,” she said instead and flicked the reins, spurring the horse into a trot.
“I need Karl to help me with the horoscope,” he said with a shrug. “A horoscope for a bishop has to be about as thick as the Bible. I hear the coming year is going to be a decisive one for the people in power. Something like that requires solid, irrevocable horoscopes.”
From conversations they’d overheard at taverns along the way, they gathered that the prince-bishop had played an important role during the Augsburg diet, which had only just come to an end. Apparently, the main reason for Emperor Maximilian to call every elector, prince, and representative of the free imperial cities to said diet was the securing of his grandson Charles as his successor. Maximilian sensed that his life was coming to an end; for years he had been traveling the country with a coffin in tow. But contrary to his expectations, all anyone had talked about in Augsburg had been that Augustinian monk Martin Luther. In the course of just one year, the little monk from Wittenberg in Saxony had become so influential that bishops, princes, and even the emperor himself were forced to take him seriously. These were strange times indeed.
“Jugglers are always needed,” said Greta. “No matter the times—people want to be amused.”
“The bishop doesn’t like buffoons, so you can forget your usual tricks. We’ll have to play it careful.” Faust shook his head. “No dancing on the rope, no juggling, and no knife throwing. Most of all, no flirting with any guards or servants—understood?”
Greta rolled her eyes. Since the incident in Bretten, Faust was even sterner with her. But how could he know that she’d never slept with a man? She had tried a few times; there had been plenty of opportunities. But every time it came close, she had shied back as if from a wall of fire. She hadn’t yet sufficiently trusted any man—only Karl, and he was out of the question. Sometimes she wondered whether she was a normal woman. Women bore children and started families, while she crisscrossed the German lands at the side of an aging magician and his sodomite assistant. This way of life would soon have to come to an end.
“I think I am quite old enough to decide with whom I flirt,” she said sharply. “You’re not my father—you can’t order me.”
Greta expected Faust to launch into another tirade, but—strangely—he remained silent.
“Your . . . your mother would have agreed with me,” he said haltingly after a while. “I’m sure of it.”
“You . . . you knew my mother?” Greta froze, her heart skipping a beat. She stared at Faust with wide eyes. “Is . . . is it true? Tell me! Why do I only find out about this now?”
The doctor had never told her anything about her family. As far as she knew, she was an orphan who had grown up with a distant relative named Valentin. Following a series of events she never fully understood, she had ended up under arrest in Nuremberg as a young girl. People claimed she was a witch, and they had locked her up in a prison below the city hall. Her uncle Valentin and Faust had freed her back then. She had no memory whatsoever about how exactly they’d escaped from the underground passages, but whenever she thought of it, she broke out in a sweat. It was as if an evil beast she mustn’t wake slumbered in the depths of her consciousness. Uncle Valentin had died in the course of her liberation, and ever since then she had been with Faust, who claimed to be a friend of her uncle’s. No one had ever mentioned her parents.
“What do you know of my mother?” she pressed him now. “Why have you never told me that you knew her? In all these years!” She shook her head in disbelief. Dozens of questions raced through her mind.
“Well, I . . . I didn’t really know her,” said Faust, looking straight ahead. “I only saw her once or twice, when your uncle Valentin was a young lad. We . . . we studied together in Heidelberg, as you know. And she turned up one day to visit him. That’s all.”
“What did she look like?”
Faust swallowed hard. “She . . . she looked like you. Exactly like you.”
“And what was her name?” asked Greta.
“Margarethe. Uncle Valentin named you after her. Apparently she was the daughter of a prefect and died of a fever when you were just a babe, and so did your father. That’s all I know.”
“But—”
“Get a move on, you bloody old nag!”
Faust snatched the reins from her hands and flicked them angrily.
“We’d better try to get as far as we can before the rain starts again,” he grumbled. “And now quit badgering me with your questions. I must focus on the task ahead. It’s not every day I cast a horoscope for a prince-bishop.”
Around noon on the tenth day, they finally arrived at Bamberg. The city was built on seven hills, which was why it was also called the German Rome. In its center stood the cathedral with its four towers, and beneath that flowed the lazy blue ribbon of the Regnitz River. A line of merchants’ carts stood outside the city gate, noisily waiting to be let in. It was market day. Before they reached the city wall, Johann steered their carriage to the left and followed a smaller road around the town, where Altenburg Castle sat enthroned on one of the seven hills. For many years the castle had been the seat of the Bamberg prince-bishops, whose realm included large cities like Bayreuth and Rothenburg.
Johann cursed himself for telling Greta about her mother. It had just slipped out, and for a moment he’d been tempted to tell her more. But, like so often, he had changed his mind for fear of the consequences.
