If at Faust You Don`t Succeed

CHAPTER 5

The soldiers escorted Faust and Marguerite to a low wooden building constructed of heavy unpainted boards. It was the dungeon, and Faust knew at once that it was one of the portable models suitable for traveling armies. This dungeon was an exceptionally well-appointed one imported from Spain, where the Moors of Andalusia knew how to do these things. Upon entering, the soldiers showed Faust and Marguerite the torture chamber, a miracle of miniaturization and cunning joinery.

"We can't pull apart a whole man, like they can do back in Europe," one of the soldiers told him, "but we can sure rack hell out of his arms or legs, and it gets the same effect as the whole-body model. These finger pincers do the trick as good as the larger models, and are no bigger than what you'd use to crack nuts. Here's our iron maiden, smaller than the one they have in Nuremberg, but with more spikes. The Moors know how to put in more spikes per square inch than anyone else. Our pincers are not full size, but they tear the flesh in a very satisfactory manner."

"You're not putting us to torture!" Faust cried.

"Certainly not," the leader of the soldiers said.

"We're common soldiers. Straightforward killing is good enough for us. Whether they torture you or not is up to the Director of the Dungeons."

As soon as the soldiers left, locking the cell door behind them, Faust crouched down and began drawing a pentagram on the dusty floor, using a twig he had found in a corner. Marguerite sat on the backless stool that was the cell's only furniture and watched him.

Faust intoned a spell, but nothing happened. The trouble was, he hadn't brought along much in the way of magical ingredients, so great had been his hurry to find the impostor. Still, he had to try. He scrubbed out the lines and drew them again in the dust on the floor of the dungeon. Marguerite stood up and began pacing up and down like a caged pantheress.

"I'm not, I'm not," Marguerite said in an exasperated voice. "Are you going to do anything with it?"

"I'm working on it," Faust muttered. He found a pinch of henbane in the bottom of his pouch, added a sprig of mistletoe he had left over from a midwinter ceremony. Shaking out his sleeves, he found some antimony. And there were two pellets of lead in his shoes. What else did he need? Common dirt would have to substitute for graveyard mold. And for mummy powder, he would substitute nose snot.

"That's disgusting," Marguerite said.

"Shut up, it may save your life."

All was in readiness. Faust waved his hands and chanted. A glimmer of rosy light appeared in the middle of the pentagram, a fiery dot at first, then it expanded.

"Oh, you did it!" Marguerite cried. "You're wonderful!"

"Quiet," Faust hissed. Then, turning to the growing light, he said, "O spirit from the darkest deep, I conjure you in the name of Asmodeus, of Beelzebub, of Belial—"

A voice came from the glowing light. It was a young woman's voice, and it said matter-of-factly, "Please stop conjuring. I am not a conjurable spirit."

"You're not?" Faust asked. "Then who or what are you?"

"I am a representative of the Infernal Communication Service. We cannot accept your conjuration in its present form. Please check your spell and if you think you have it wrong, please conjure again. Thank you. Have a nice day." The voice stopped and the rosy light dwindled and disappeared.

"Wait!" Faust cried. "I know I don't have all the right ingredients. But I've got most of them! Surely an exception can be made…"

There was no answer. The rosy light was gone, and there was no sound in the dungeon but for the tap-tap-tapping of Marguerite's foot.

Then noises started up from outside. Running feet. The clank and ring of mailed vests. The squeak of big wooden wheels turning on ungreased axles. The sound of soldiers shouting orders. And there was another sound, too. The sound of a monotonous voice reciting what sounded to Faust like an incantation.

He bade Marguerite shut up, and pressed his ear against the wall. Yes, that sound was coming from the next dungeon. But it was no incantation he was listening to. Instead, it was a prayer.

"Hear me, my Lord," the muffled voice was saying. "I have done no evil, yet I am sunk into an accursed double darkness, the darkness of mine own blindness, and the darkness of this prison cell. I, Isaac, who was once king of Constantinople and known as Alexius the Third, given to many deeds of piety and religious zeal, who gave to the churches of Constantinople the following items…" There followed a list of bequests to individual churches and churchmen, and the list was so long that Faust was able to turn to Marguerite and say, "Do you know who is in the next dungeon?"

"I really don't care," Marguerite said. "I just want to get out of this one."

"Be silent, girl! In that dungeon languishes Isaac, the old king of Constantinople, who was deposed by his cruel brother, who crowned himself emperor and had Isaac blinded."

"We're traveling in exalted company, no doubt of that," Marguerite said sarcastically. "Be silent! Someone is opening his dungeon door!"

Faust listened and heard the key turn, the door swing open, then close again. He heard shuffling feet (the plank wall was very thin) and then a moment's silence. Then old Isaac's voice could be heard plaintively asking, "Who is it comes to me? Is it the executioner? Speak, for I cannot see you." "Nor can I see you," a deep voice replied. "But I have brought you succor that needs no sight for its relief."

"Brought me what?" "Succor. Aid. Help. Relief. Don't you recognize my voice, Isaac? I am Henry Dandolo!"

"It's the doge!" Faust whispered to Marguerite. "Henry Dandolo, the all-powerful doge of Venice!"

Raising his voice, Faust called out, "Doge Dandolo! In here! We crave your intercession!" There was a mutter of voices, a stomping of feet. And then the door to Faust's dungeon was thrown open. Two soldiers entered. And just behind them was the tall, erect old figure of Henry Dandolo, resplendent in his brocaded robes of scarlet and green, holding in his hand the holy icon of St. Basil. "Who are you who thus calls me by name?" Dandolo demanded.

"I am Johann Faust," Faust cried. "I have come to this place to right a great wrong done to me. There is a fellow here who says he's me, and who has duped a gullible infernal power with his story. He claims to be a great magician, but he's not. I'm the great magician!"

"I see," Dandolo said.

"I beseech you, Henry Dandolo, release me from this place and I will prove a worthy ally to you!"

"If you're such a great magician," Dandolo said, "why don't you release yourself?"

"Even a sorcerer needs a few tools," Faust said. "I don't have any of my conjuring equipment here. Yet if I had just a single missing piece to complete the spell—that icon you hold in your hand, for example…"

Henry Dandolo looked at him with anger. "You would conjure with the holy icon of St. Basil?"

"Why, yes, of course, that's what holy icons are for!"

"The sole purpose of the icon of St. Basil," Dandolo thundered, "is to preserve the city of Constantinople from harm."

"Well, it's not doing a very good job of it, is it?"

"Don't you worry about that. It's nothing to do with you."

"Maybe not," Faust said. "At least release us, since we have done you no harm and are not your enemies."

"I need to look into your claim to being a magician," Dandolo said. "I will be back."

And with that he swung around, and, guided by the soldiers, left the dungeon. The door clanged shut and the key turned again.

"It's impossible to reason with these pigheaded Venetians!" Faust said. "Oh, my goodness, what will we do now?" Marguerite wailed.

Marguerite was depressed. Faust was feeling none too chipper himself, though in his case it was more outraged pride that irritated him than fear of death. He paced up and down, trying to think of an expedient. It had been shortsighted of him to go chasing after Mephistopheles without making sure he had his magic in order. He remembered when he had traveled throughout Europe with a bag of tricks. He had always been prepared. Had respectability dulled his wits? And if it had, how was he to know it? He toyed again with his pentagram, more just in order to occupy his hands than with any real hope of success. He was amazed to see a light growing again within the inscribed lines. It was a little light at first, just like the previous time, but it grew larger, and this time the light was of a red-and-orange hue, a color which presaged a visit from someone hellish. As the light took on human shape, Faust called out, "O spirit! I have conjured thee from the darkest pits—"

"No, you haven't," the creature in the light said, taking on the form now of a smallish, fox-faced demon with short goatlike horns, wearing a skintight sealskin suit that outlined his well-turned figure. "I haven't conjured you?"

"Certainly not. I came of my own accord. I am Azzie. I am a demon."

"I am very pleased to meet you," said Faust. "I am Johann Faust and this is my friend, Marguerite."

"I know who you are," Azzie said. "I have been observing your actions, and those of Mephistopheles, and of the other man who calls himself Faust."

"Then you know that he is an impostor! I am Faust!"

"Indeed you are," Azzie said.

"Well then?"

"Well, I have been considering the situation. And I have a proposition to make to you."

"At last!" Faust cried. "Recognition! Revenge! Eternal delights!"

"Not so fast," Azzie said. "You haven't heard the terms of my proposition."

"Well then, out with it!"

"No, not here," Azzie said. "A Frankish prison is not where I conduct my negotiations."

"Where, then?"

"I have in mind a certain mountaintop," Azzie said. "It is a high mountain in the Caucasus, not far from where Noah first found land after the Flood. There we can talk and I can lay forth my proposition with all due majesty."

"Lead on, then," Faust said.

"What about her?" Faust asked.

"She can't come. My bargain will only be with you, Faust, not with a camp-follower jade."

"You've got a lot of nerve!" Marguerite said. "I'm with him! I've even helped him in his enchantments. He asked me along. Johann, you can't leave me here!"

Faust turned to Azzie. "It's not right, you know."

"I give you my word of honor," Azzie said, "she'll be all right."

"You're sure?"

"I'm never wrong about things like that."

"Then let's go," Faust said, "Marguerite, we'll be back together after a while. I hate to do this, but business is business." But actually, Faust was not sorry to leave her, because Marguerite hadn't proven quite as admiring and servile as he'd hoped.

"No, no! Take me along!" The unhappy girl rushed to Faust and tried to throw her arms around him. But Azzie made a gesture. Smoke and fire arose, and Marguerite had to back off. When it had cleared, Faust and Azzie were gone, she was alone in the dungeon, and there was the heavy tread of soldiers approaching the door.