“We are but plain pilgrims,” he said. “We have nothing to give. God protects us and punishes those who lay a hand on innocent Christians.”
“To hell with your nonsense, man,” replied the leader harshly. “Your God isn’t my God. One look at your face and your fine hands is enough to tell me you’re not one of us. We believe in the God of the poor—the pope uses your money and my money to build himself a golden outhouse! Luther is damned right: no more shoving money up the pope’s ass!” He stepped forward and reached for Johann’s reins. “So you might as well hand it over—it’s of much more use to us.”
“Take your dirty fingers off him,” shouted Karl from his saddle now. He reached for the hunting dagger dangling from the side of his horse. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to? This man is the famous Doctor Faustus! If he wanted to he could turn you into a slimy toad on the spot!”
“Doctor Faustus? Hmm . . .” The man seemed rattled for a moment. He frowned and rubbed his nose. “I’ve heard of him. A powerful magician, they say.” Then he grinned, exposing a row of black tooth stumps. “Ha! But I don’t see no magician—all I see is two mollycoddled moneybags and a wench.”
“A wench that is going to send you straight to hell if you don’t let us pass.” Greta opened her coat. She was holding the hand cannon she had taken from the wagon along with her few belongings. Now she aimed the weapon at the gang of men. “Well, who would like their head blasted off first? You or one of your stinking comrades?”
Again the men stepped back, deliberating like hungry wolves. They muttered and eyed their prey. Greta hoped the men would retreat. But then someone threw a stone, followed by more, and then a hailstorm of dirt and rocks descended upon the travelers. One of the stones hit Greta on the head and she lowered the cannon for a moment. That was all the robbers needed to pounce upon their victims.
“The woman is mine!” shouted one of them.
A hairy hand reached for Greta and dragged her off her horse; she dropped the weapon. Several men stabbed at the doctor and Karl with their pikes, while Karl flung his hunting dagger wildly to all sides, cutting open the side of a man’s throat. The peasant screamed, and blood spurted from the wound and onto the ground. Karl’s horse neighed in panic and reared up, Karl desperately clinging to the reins. Meanwhile, two of the peasants had lowered their pants and held Greta down. One of them tugged at her blouse while the other pushed up her skirt. She screamed and struggled as hard as she could, but she was held firmly.
“Little Satan, attack!” called out Johann.
Like a black flash the wolfhound hurled himself onto the two robbers, sinking his teeth into the bared manhood of one of them, causing the other one to run away screaming. But not even in view of the mortal danger did the others give up—on the contrary. They had worked themselves into a frenzy, probably not having eaten anything but acorns and bark for days. Angry and drooling like animals, they tore at Johann’s saddlebags. Some of the precious notebooks fell into the muck of the road, where naked feet trampled them into the dirt. The peasants rummaged through the bags in search of gold or something to eat. With a low growl, Little Satan pounced on his next victim.
At that moment, Greta saw how Johann was struck by an invisible sword.
It was as if an enormous blow wiped him off his horse. He landed on the side of the road, where he squirmed like a man possessed. Saliva ran from his mouth; he twitched uncontrollably, his limbs flying in all directions. The remaining peasants stopped what they were doing and stared at him like a ghost. Even Little Satan pricked up his ears and whimpered as he approached his master, who was making gasping sounds.
“To . . . To . . . Tonio del Moravia . . . ,” Johann stuttered. “Damn . . . damned . . .”
“By God, the devil has taken ahold of him!” shouted one of the peasants, pointing at the doctor. “Look!”
Faust’s face was contorted into an awful grimace that looked scarcely human. His skin was taut, as if something was pressing against it from the inside, and his tongue darted out like a slimy frog.
“It really is the unhappy Doctor Faustus!” exclaimed another robber. “God in heaven! Run before the devil takes one of us!”
The men ran into the woods, leaving behind their pikes and dusacks. They carried one of their comrades with them, while three others remained on the road, dead or severely injured. The man whose private parts Little Satan had bitten off was lying on the ground groaning and tossing from side to side. Greta, bleeding from her forehead, ran over to Johann.
“Uncle!” she said. “Jesus, Uncle, wake up!”
She caught his hand and held it tightly. His body convulsed, then turned as stiff as a plank. Greta felt his hand throb and, despite herself, shot a glance at his palm. What she saw in his hand this time was so unspeakably evil, so horrific, that she started back as if she’d been bitten by a snake.
“Tonio del Moravia,” whispered Faust. “The
