The Master's Apprentice, page 29
part #1 of Faust Series
Johann shook his head grimly. “You worry about your own problems,” he said gruffly. “And throw the balls to me better next time, or I’ll start looking for a new juggler.”
Emilio stared at him in silence, and Johann felt bad about his remark. He wasn’t getting enough sleep, and that made him irritable, though his mind was awake as never before. He couldn’t stop thinking about Barbarese’s books—not when he was at the Fondaco or in his chamber, and not even during his time with Salome.
At least he had stopped studying with Archibaldus. The old man didn’t seem to mind, believing there was nothing more he could teach Johann anyhow. But he worried about Johann.
“Something’s up with you, boy. I can tell,” said the old man.
“What do you mean?” Johann gave a shrug. “I’m growing up and making up my own mind about things.”
“A Venetian ducat for your thoughts,” murmured Archibaldus.
Johann often borrowed books from Barbarese’s library now so that he could continue his studies at the inn. He was always careful to hide them under the bed so Salome and the others wouldn’t see them. He didn’t feel like justifying himself for being distracted. The books were his secret, his treasure, his hoard that he was protecting like a dragon.
The weeks went by, and Johann became increasingly uncommunicative and brooding. He spent Christmas alone in his chamber with his books, telling Salome that he was bed-bound with a fever. He snarled at the others during rehearsal. If something didn’t work right away, he practically exploded. The only time he felt happy was during his nightly conversations with Barbarese. They still discussed God and man, but also inventions and man’s latest discoveries. But they never spoke about the books with the padlocks.
It was almost February when Johann gathered his courage and asked Barbarese about those mysterious volumes. The signore smiled as if he’d been expecting the question.
“Those books contain knowledge that isn’t for everybody,” he said after a few moments. “Some readers might feel, well . . . overwhelmed by their contents.”
“Why?” asked Johann.
“Because they question the world as we know it. No, they rattle its very foundations. Our view of the world relies on a God at its helm. But what if . . .” Barbarese paused. “What if that God doesn’t exist? What if man is his own master? If he can take charge of everything? Even life and death! Man would be the architect of his own fortune.”
“That would be heresy,” said Johann.
The idea of there being no God was preposterous. Johann felt a black abyss opening up beneath him at the mere thought of it. Everything he knew and held dear—the whole world around him—was built on the fact that God existed. God was the beginning and the end. He made trees grow and flowers blossom; He granted good harvests and brought fertile rain and mild winters. And He alone decided when a man’s time on earth was at an end. A world without God seemed impossible.
“Well, now you know why those books are locked,” Barbarese replied. “Some books can kill the weak, but they can open up new worlds to the strong.”
“I want to read those books,” said Johann stubbornly.
Barbarese eyed him thoughtfully. “Are you sure?” Then he gave a laugh. “To hell with it! I can tell you’ve made up your mind. All right, then. I trust you won’t hand me over to the church.” He pulled a large key ring from a pocket and went over to the shelves. “I think we’ll start with Leonardo da Vinci. I met him in Milan a few years ago. He had written thousands of pages of notes and drawings. When I asked him if I could have some, he didn’t even look up from his work. He’s a genius! A painter and inventor who represents nature as it actually is and doesn’t just copy the way the church likes it.” The signore smiled. “The notes are a little chaotic, but they give you a good idea of what the man is capable of. I had them bound and chose one of the artist’s drawings for the cover.” Barbarese picked a key and opened a book bound in black leather; on its front was an image of a naked man standing at once in a circle and a square with outstretched arms and legs. Barbarese handed the book to Johann with an almost reverent gesture. “Read it and let me know what you think. But you must promise not to take it back to your inn. The book’s contents are too dangerous.”
Johann promised, and Barbarese left the library. The book was like a bucketful of cold water in the face. Johann had never seen anything like it. The illustrations were the most fascinating part. With astonishing intricacy, the man had drawn war machines, boats propelled by paddle wheels, flying apparatuses, and suits that apparently enabled a person to breathe under water. Cut-open bodies displayed life so clearly that Johann thought all the sinews, bones, and organs looked like they were part of a large clock. The notes were difficult to read, especially because large sections had been written back-to-front like some kind of secret code. Still, Johann soaked up much of it like a dry sponge.
When Barbarese returned a few hours later, Johann was still spellbound.
“I’m glad you like it,” said Barbarese. “I knew you were ready for it.”
“He writes a lot about machines,” said Johann. “But all these anatomical sketches suggest man himself is also a kind of apparatus that can be repaired. And somewhere Leonardo da Vinci writes that one day, man might be in a position to decide over life and death himself—do you think that’s really possible?”
He thought about Margarethe and young Martin, and of his mother, who had died of a disease Father Antonius wanted to treat with moldy cheese. He thought about all the victims of the Black Death, which people blamed on some sort of vapors coming from the ground or on original sin—so much speculation and so many dated beliefs without any research or proof. The notes in front of him could achieve so much if they were developed in the right way!
Barbarese gave him a long, thoughtful look from behind his glasses. “To conquer death would be the crown of human achievement,” he replied eventually. “If anyone can do it at all, it would take years—decades—of dedicated studying. But yes, I think it’s possible.”
“I want to learn it.”
Barbarese laughed softly. “One thing at a time, my young adept. One thing at a time.”
Over the next few weeks, Johann studied Leonardo da Vinci’s notes and other books, like Roger Bacon’s Opus Majus, in which the author turned against traditional scholasticism. Johann read that it was the people’s fear of authority and their dependence on popular opinion that prevented them from thinking independently. In his Epistola de Secretis Operibus Artis et Naturae, Bacon prophesied that one day there would be machines that enabled humans to fly like birds. Anything was possible!
The books with the padlocks discussed science and machines, but also forbidden philosophy and magic. Increasingly Barbarese picked out volumes for Johann that weren’t just about the sciences but also about magic—white as well as black. And it was no silly hocus-pocus like Johann had first practiced with Tonio del Moravia, but a secret, esoteric field of study that asked questions no one had ever asked before. There were no boundaries in that world, and nothing was forbidden.
“If we want to understand the universe as a whole, we must leave no stone unturned,” said the signore. “There can’t be any taboos—it’s the only way for man to achieve godly wisdom. Homo Deus est.”
And for the first time Johann thought he truly understood what that sentence meant.
That night, while Johann continued to peruse da Vinci’s and Bacon’s works and tried his hand at a few sketches of his own, Signore Barbarese went into his secret chamber. A steep ladder led to the attic, where a well-concealed door led into Barbarese’s demesne: a tiny room full of books whose contents were so frightening and revolutionary that the signore didn’t dare keep them in the library.
In one corner stood a wardrobe full of wigs, fake beards, and costumes, just like in the travel chest of a juggler.
Dangling from a beam of the roof was a cage with two crows and a raven.
“I think he’s ready now,” said the master, sitting at a small table in front of a silver-framed Venetian mirror. He took off his glasses and wig and wiped the soot from his eyebrows. “What do you think, Baphomet, Azazel, and Belial?”
The birds screeched, cawed, and flapped their wings. The master silenced them with a wave of his hand. He carefully peeled away the beard from his lips and studied his pale reflection in the mirror. He had always been good at disguising himself.
“You can’t force them,” he said as he wiped away the white makeup. “Never. It’s the law. They must come of their own free will. That’s how it always has been. Sometimes it just takes a little longer.”
Humming a tune, he took a piece of paper from a drawer in the table and started to write a long letter. When he was done, he folded and rolled it up until it was as small as the finger of a child; he sealed it with wax as red as blood. Then the master opened the cage and took out the raven. At first the animal wanted to peck at him, but then it flapped its wings with fear.
“Kraa!” cried the raven, sounding whimpering, childlike. “Kraa, kraa!”
“Good boy, Baphomet,” said the master. “Always remember your reward. Only those who obey me will receive salvation.”
The master pushed the tiny paper scroll through a ring on the raven’s right claw. He double-checked that it was secured properly, then he nodded and walked over to the window with the raven.
The master pushed the shutters open wide. Pale moonlight fell into the small room and illuminated the chalky, expressionless face with its still slightly sooty eyebrows.
“Tell them that he’s ready,” said the master. “The arrival is near.”
He threw the raven out into the night like a black snowball, and the bird spread his wings and headed north, toward the mountains.
12
JOHANN GREW INCREASINGLY withdrawn, and the others hardly ever saw him. As far as they knew, he left his chamber only for the shows. Contrary to his promise to Signore Barbarese, he had taken some of the forbidden books with him to the inn, including some works on sorcery. It had been easier than he’d thought—Barbarese had left them unlocked on the table in the library. Johann simply hid them beneath the other books he was borrowing. It was almost like Barbarese had wanted Johann to take them.
Thus passed January and February, and with March came the birds. There was chirping all through the city, and people no longer wore long, warm coats. Spring put a smile on everyone’s face, and even the perpetual fog withdrew. When the days started to get warmer, the jugglers began to ask how much longer they’d stay in Venice. Johann’s replies were always evasive. He didn’t want to leave this city, least of all Barbarese’s library, where he felt like his eyes were being opened afresh every day. He hadn’t thought of Margarethe, his mother, or little Martin in a long time; he kept his dark memories locked up deep inside.
One afternoon in March, Johann was so engrossed in his reading that he didn’t hear the knock on the door. When he started up, it was already too late. Archibaldus had entered his room.
“I wanted to check on you, lad,” he said. “The others are worried about you and—”
He broke off when he saw the books on the bed. “Where did you get those?”
“None of your business,” snarled Johann, gathering up the books. He shoved them under the bed, but Archibaldus had already deciphered one of the titles.
“The Sworn Book of Honorius?” Archibaldus turned pale. “Who gave you that?”
“I told you it’s none of your business!” shouted Johann feverishly.
“My boy, you don’t know what you’re doing.” Archibaldus raised one hand in a placating gesture. “Whoever gave you this book dabbles in things that are too dangerous for a young student, no matter how talented.”
“Perhaps they are too dangerous for an old drunkard,” Johann jeered. “But not for me. Now please leave. I want to study.”
Archibaldus gave him a serious look. “I always knew there was something dark inside you, Johann,” he said eventually. “It went into hiding for a while, but now it seems to have returned. Please don’t let it take over—I’m begging you! It would destroy you and maybe even those you love. You’re clever and keen to learn, and you could become someone great—or someone very dangerous.” He hesitated. “I’ve got a suggestion for you. You said it was your greatest dream to study at Heidelberg University. I could ensure your dream comes true.”
Johann blinked with irritation. “And how are you going to do that?”
“I still have a little influence. And I know the right people. What do you say: you leave those books alone, and in return I’ll get you a spot at Heidelberg.” Archibaldus held out his hand. “Agreed?”
“I . . . I’ll think about it,” Johann said and spurned the old man’s hand. “But now I’d really like you to leave.”
“May God protect you,” said Archibaldus. “I fear something deeply evil is trying to grab ahold of you.”
Johann woke from his fixation on the books only once.
One day toward the end of March, Rieverschmitt came rushing up to him in a state of excitement.
“We need you for a bigger show tonight. The first German merchants have arrived at Venice. It was a long winter and there’s still snow on the passes, so not much comes through. There is a huge demand for their wares. The Venetians want to butter them up, so please think of something special.”
Johann nodded distractedly. His thoughts were on other matters. Barbarese’s books robbed him of his sleep. But he knew he couldn’t disappoint Rieverschmitt if he didn’t want to jeopardize his stay in Venice. There were so many books left to read. It pained him to think that he wouldn’t be able to visit Barbarese that night.
“You can always rely on Johann Faustus’s Fabulous Troupe,” he said and gave a strained smile.
A few weeks ago, Johann had taken some Venetian jugglers under contract for larger shows. One pleasant result was that it put pressure on Emilio. Johann thought the young juggler had become a little too complacent in the last few months and no longer practiced enough. And he was always badgering Johann with the question of when they’d leave Venice. But so far, Johann had managed to convince him to stay.
Even though he barely slept, Johann had his troupe under control and even managed to negotiate a higher wage with Rieverschmitt. The jugglers had become a fixture at the Fondaco. If they wanted to, they could stay for the whole year—maybe even forever, as Johann secretly hoped. He continued to spend the nights at Signore Barbarese’s, although the previous night, he’d had the feeling he was being followed there. A gondola appeared to follow his at some distance, but he hadn’t been able to make out any details in the evening fog.
The German merchants started to arrive at the trading post around sunset. There were more than a dozen of them, their heavily loaded vessels lying low in the water. The train of merchants included numerous footmen and even some mercenaries who had helped them to safely get their wares across the Alps. When the servants carried the crates and bales into the storehouses, Johann saw the finest Augsburg cloth, amber, furs, and chests full of silver. The risky journey had undoubtedly paid off for the merchants; they’d get an excellent price for their goods.
The troupe received the merchants with music and juggling at the quay. The tables set up in the courtyard were bending under the weight of the food. Three of the hired Venetian jugglers beat drums and played the lute while Salome danced seductively.
Their show later on was a huge success. Germans and Venetians applauded and tossed coins at them; several men lay drunkenly under the table or vomited in a quiet corner. Archibaldus snored with his head on the table, his tousled beard hanging in a puddle of wine. Johann hadn’t used him for their shows in a long time. He’d avoided the old man since their argument at the inn but noticed that Archibaldus eyed him with suspicion whenever he wasn’t too drunk.
Before the show and the feasting, the German merchants had closed their deals and earned a fortune. Even Rieverschmitt’s face glowed red with alcohol and excitement. Visibly drunk, he waved Johann over to him late in the evening.
“Didn’t you say once that you are from the Kraichgau region?” he asked with a heavy tongue. “From Knittlingen?”
Johann nodded. “Why do you ask?”
Rieverschmitt grinned and gestured at an equally drunk merchant beside him, who was struggling to sit up straight. “This gentleman here comes from a neighboring town, from Bretten. I thought perhaps you know him. His name’s Klaus Reuter.”
Johann was shocked. He felt a wave of homesickness at the thought of meeting someone from home here in faraway Venice. But at the same time, he was afraid the man might know him. He had made a good name for himself here at the trading post. Rieverschmitt thought Johann was much older than he actually was, and Johann had told him he was the third son of a wealthy cloth-making family. Johann nervously studied the drunk merchant, but he’d never seen the corpulent man with the saggy cheeks and the piggy eyes sunk deeply into his doughy face. Still, he knew the Reuters were a respected merchant family in Bretten and had produced many burgomasters. They also traded with the Maulbronn monastery and in Knittlingen. Did this man know his stepfather?
Johann forced himself to smile. “How nice to see someone from home. How are things in the Kraichgau?”
The man burped loudly. “Well, the Swabians are getting pushier all the time,” he said with a broad Kraichgau accent. “Last year, Württemberg was made a duchy by the king and doesn’t know where to put all its power. People are talking about war.”
“What about Knittlingen?” asked Johann shyly, his heart beating faster. Could it be possible that Klaus Reuter knew Margarethe? Her father was the prefect, after all. “How is business going there?”
Reuter gave a shrug. “I stayed at the Lion for the first night of our trip. That was back in fall. The wine is awfully sour this year.” He grinned and took a large swig from a goblet made of blue Venetian glass that sparkled in the light of the torches. “Nothing compared to this excellent grape juice.”
