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The main function of Wittenberg has always been the provision of knowledge for those who will not keep it within the borders of Castalia and Castalia's community (or, rather, commune).
The information is the same that young Castalians are to imbibe, it is the method of delivery that defines the difference. One could say that guests – hospitants – are not “cut out” for thinking sharply enough, and this bias is wide-spread among certain circles, but this is a topic for another discussion.
Some had other bias against one of the professors who came out of Wittenberg and came back there, with his mind enriched with facts, theories and opinions. The man's name was Johann Faustus, and his area of expertise was history.
Just as having one's own strong opinion on a historical event or tendency, being overambitious is dangerous on its own. Changing history is impossible, the only thing left is making history, Faustus often said, and it could be read in the dry, severe straight line of his mouth that he earnestly considered himself one of such makers. However, he had no means for a breakthrough and, seemingly, no particular immediate wish to obtain these means. And passivity is a poorer sight against the canvas of endeavour.
By some game of chance, or fate, but most likely by disregard of the Wittenberg's management, Faustus was appointed to the position of history professor for the senior forms students.
Frankly, he hated them. He was proud to be chosen into Castalia, delighted to have access to books which amounted to hundreds of Alexandrian Libraries, valued the opportunity to devote his entire life to his field without being reduced to indigence, but in the end he had so little compared to his pupils. He had neither choice nor their worldly freedom.
So, there was envy. There also was greed – guests had resources from their parents that granted them a seat in a classroom, and Faustus himself was born in a shack.
And there also was despite. These young, sometimes empty minds often had no interest in learning. One or two eager hands flew up every lesson, but prying answers out of the rest of the class required metaphorical cast-iron tongs.
This unwillingness, this indifference never ceased to amaze and infuriate Faustus. He didn't understand it and never really tried to understand, deeming it not worthy, just detestable.
Mathematics, History, Philology and Music are the pillars of Castalia, everything else evolves from these four. The Game is the fifth pillar, standing at a distance without any weight of children born by its sisters.
The beauty of the Game mattered not to Faustus. He craved endless knowledge. He told this to everyone and believed it himself. Endless knowledge was for him a vital part of those means required for making history, and, regretfully, unattainable by one single person, due to simple biological constraints or the Universe's will. It is safer this way. Yes, Castalia itself has been created partly for the collection and preservation of knowledge, but… it has its limitations too and not without a reason.
One of Castalia's patrons at the time was Lord L. U. Cipher, who mostly interacted with the state via his loyal assistant, Mephistophilis, himself an alumnus of Wittenberg, who was known for his brilliant Game and the sorrow he bore in his heart when it was time for him to go back to the secular world. He was not exactly the best friend of Faustus in their student years, but they weren't strangers either.
For the purpose of better understanding of the part the above listed factors played and how it ended the way it did, let us, for a moment, leave behind the structure of an essay, which this text has been so far, and turn to imaginative interpretation to the extent available to us.
◇◇◇
"Please, Faustus," Mephistophilis said and patted the professor on the shoulder. "I believe in you. You definitely have it in you to persevere and see the prince graduate. Turn your attention to his friend. I can almost see yourself in this boy."
"Pfft," was the reply.
"Or go and see the other two of their party at the Game tomorrow. They are marvellous to watch," Mephistophilis cocked his head and looked at his friend with concern.
"I have neither time nor interest for the Game," Faustus murmured and grabbed the last textbook from a desk to return them to his office.
"Not even with me?" Mephistophilis suggested with a tint of laugh, gently touching Faustus's shoulder again.
The historian paused for a bit.
"Fine, I will go," he said, softer. "Would you mind?.."
"Ah, yes, of course," Mephistophilis took half of the books from the pile and helped the professor into his office.
The next day was indeed rather pleasant, and the spectacle lifted Faustus's mood.
"I would definitely ask you to have a drink with me," Mephistophilis sighed when they were leaving the coliseum, "if it weren't for the Castalian rules on libation and me being busy as hell."
"I haven't had a drink in decades," Faustus hummed. "I believe we could find alcohol among confiscated items. The prince surely would have smuggled some."
"Even if it is so (and I'm sure he did), I am busy, my friend."
"Tomorrow then?"
"Tomorrow I leave for home."
"Ah."
Mephistophilis glanced at his friend with sadness in his eyes. He was rather happy with how their friendship had unexpectedly grown deeper. Partly, it was definitely the prince's fault, him being a thorn in the sides of both of them, pedagogically and administratively. Interacting with Faustus in any form was a rejoice for Mephistophilis, yet at this moment his intuition kept making him feel uneasy. Intuition, that is, and a direct assignment given to him by his superior.
When he came back to Castalia a few weeks later, Mephistophilis and Faustus had one less common topic to discuss – fortunately, the semester was over, and the prince was off to his homeland.
However, the royal idler had, in fact, left spirits behind, and in the evening, the friends gathered in a guest room in the Wittenberg hospitium that was provided as accommodation for the visitor.
When Faustus's cheeks turned red, Mephistophilis made a move. There were no emotions on his face, and none in his voice, but he was speaking quietly, and, always soft, its low vibrations seemed to carry a meaning themselves.
“You are proud of your knowledge, my friend, and everyone knows it well. But I know that it is not appreciated enough by others.”
“I consider it so myself, yes,” Faustus responded.
“What would you say were I to offer a contract?”
“A contract? Castalia does not deal with contracts.”
“That is why it is not an official enquiry. It is a private proposition, for you only. Specifically for you.”
Faustus raised his brow.
“I don’t quite understand, Mephistophilis.”
“My Lord is in a need of an advisor. Someone who knows much and has a critical eye. If not a historian, who is the best at this?”
The professor said nothing.
“You are his choice. It wasn’t me who suggested it to be you,” Mephistophilis added, and a muscle in his neck twitched ever so slightly.
“It is flattering, my friend, flattering indeed,” Faustus drawled out finally.
Mephistophilis hummed affirmatively.
“But I will lose my tutorship, why, any position in Castalia!”
“Will you need it anyway, once you accept this offer?”
Faustus’s face darkened. Mephistophilis leaned back into shadow, out of the range of the candlelight. His calm mask melted into worry, but it went unnoticed.
“You should sleep on it,” he said softly. “Be careful of impulses. This is a fateful decision.”
“I bet you’ve plied me with this wine on purpose,” Faustus said and gave a short laugh.
“I have not,” lied Mephistophilis.
◇◇◇
The decision was made, and Mephistophilis returned to his master victorious.
Naturally, there was a rational consideration behind Faustus’s abjuration, but mainly it was the very same emotional impulse his friend tried to dissuade him from.
Thus, Johann Faustus became a traitor to Castalia’s ideals and an insightful and valuable advisor to Lord L. U. Cipher.
The end of his story and of this essay is sooner when you might expect, since his life was quite short after this change (which only makes the moral of it even more apparent).
Faustus did take part in making history. His advice was crucial in the slaughter that transpired two years later and came to be known as the Fortinbras Invasion. But when the time had come for justice to be met, he was abandoned overboard first, serving as a ballast thrown out by Cipher to help him dodge the well-deserved punishment, which eventually reached him anyway.
At the moment of the Invasion, Mephistophilis had been nowhere to be found for several months already and hadn’t returned ever since.