The Master's Apprentice, page 30
part #1 of Faust Series
Johann cleared his throat and made another attempt. “I knew the prefect a little. My father used to do business with him. You don’t happen to know how he’s doing?”
“The Knittlingen prefect?” Reuter laughed. “I can’t say he’s doing too well. He wanted to marry his daughter off to a Bretten merchant’s son—a good match. Young Schmeltzle may not be the most handsome lad, but the family’s got money. What can I say? The girl lost her mind.”
“Is . . . is that right?” Johann struggled to keep the quiver from his voice. “How come?”
“No idea.” Reuter wiped some drops of wine from his fleshy lips. “That was almost two years ago now. She stopped talking and just lay in bed like a cold fish.” He burped again. “The wedding didn’t happen, not least because she’d allegedly lain with another man—some young smart aleck. Her father gave her to another man, a vintner from Heidelberg. He was the only one who didn’t ask questions and didn’t mind the small dowry.”
“So Margarethe lives in Heidelberg?” asked Johann quietly, more to himself.
The merchant seemed to wake from his stupor. “Margarethe, huh?” The piggy eyes scrutinized Johann closely. “How do you know her name, boy?”
“Um, didn’t I mention that our fathers occasionally had dealings with each other?” replied Johann, standing up hastily. “It was nice talking with you, Master Reuter. Give my regards to the Kraichgau when you return.”
Before the man could say anything else, Johann turned away. He gave Rieverschmitt one last nod and rushed out into the Venetian night. He needed to be alone now, alone with his thoughts. As the fog wet his face with dew, Johann repeated one name over and over.
“Margarethe, Margarethe, Margarethe . . .”
His greatest love, his only love, had entered his life again.
In the following days, Johann struggled to focus on his studies. Every time he bent over the books at Barbarese’s library, he thought he could hear Margarethe’s laughter. The signore noticed that he was distracted.
“What is it, my boy?” he asked with a frown. “I was under the impression that you were seriously interested in my collection. But now you’re unfocused and keep staring out the window.” Barbarese eyed him suspiciously from behind his glasses. “Has someone talked to you? Has anyone found out about our nightly meetings? Speak up!”
Johann shook his head. “I’m just tired, that’s all. I think I need a little rest.”
“Well, if that’s the case,” Barbarese said, smiling and placing an ice-cold hand on Johann’s shoulder, “take a few days off. I will tell my gondolier to pick you up again next Friday. Enjoy your time off and take a good look around Venice. It’s the most beautiful and most curious city in the world. But you must promise me one thing.” He raised a finger and spoke slowly and intently. “You speak with no one about this library and the books inside it, understood? The consequences could be”—he hesitated—“incalculable. For you, too.”
Johann nodded, glad to be dismissed. Everything had become a little too much for him in the last few days. He needed some quiet time and some distance—especially from Signore Barbarese and the books that seemed to drain him.
During the following days he only went to the Fondaco for their shows, spending the rest of the time walking the lanes of Venice. But as much as he admired all the palaces, churches, and canals, he couldn’t find peace. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Margarethe since the German merchant had told him about her. How was she doing? Was she speaking again? He was filled with a deep longing that pushed aside all other thoughts.
On the afternoon of the third day, Johann sensed that he was being followed. His pursuer didn’t try very hard to hide his intentions, or perhaps he wasn’t very good at it. Like a shadow, he kept ducking into gaps between houses or alcoves, always trailing twenty or thirty paces behind Johann. When the figure followed Johann into a narrow alleyway, Johann hid behind an old barrel. When he heard the quiet footsteps approach, he jumped out with his knife raised. He was about to put the blade to his pursuer’s throat when he stepped back with surprise.
“Archibaldus!” exclaimed Johann. “What . . . what are you doing here? What’s this about?”
Magister Archibaldus held up his palms. “Forgive me, but I saw no other way to talk to you in private.”
“So you follow me halfway across Venice?” asked Johann. “You could have seen me in my room.”
“It’s not safe there.” Archibaldus looked about himself. “And neither is it here. Come with me!”
Before Johann had time to protest, Archibaldus had dragged him into an even smaller alleyway. Washing hung on lines between the close walls of the houses; some hungry cats were fighting underneath a bridge. The air smelled of rotten fish and stagnant brackish water. They entered a small church that lay at the edge of a campus and was empty at this time of the day, apart from two elderly women in the front pew. The late-afternoon light fell through the narrow windows and onto an altar decorated with dried roses. It was as cold as winter inside the church.
“What’s all this about?” asked Johann again. “Have you had too much to drink again, Archibaldus? Admit it!”
The magister gave a desperate laugh. “Oh, I wish I had! Then the truth would be easier to bear. But no, I’m stone-cold sober. Well, almost . . .” He lowered his voice. “I know now who you’re visiting every night, Johann. And you ought to know the truth about him.”
“So it was you who followed me the other night?”
“Salome asked me to. She . . . she thought you were with some harlot or another, and she was jealous. But I’ve long been suspecting something else. Your temper, the way you’ve become withdrawn, and then those books you had in your chamber. The Sworn Book of Honorius and those other books of spells—”
“What are you getting at?” snapped Johann. He wanted to get out of this cold place as fast as possible.
“I made some inquiries about your host, Johann.” Archibaldus was speaking close to Johann’s ear, and he reeked of alcohol. Evidently, he wasn’t quite as sober as he’d said.
“Your Signore Barbarese, as he calls himself, is known to move in certain circles,” whispered Archibaldus. “Oh yes, he’s rich and powerful! So powerful that no one dares to touch him, no matter how much they whisper behind his back.”
Johann couldn’t help but smile. “And what do they whisper? That he eats snakes? Admittedly, he does look like an adder, but—”
“Signore Barbarese is a Satanist.”
“A what?” Johann stared at Archibaldus with his mouth open.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” hissed Archibaldus. “Barbarese is a devil worshipper. His family has been practicing the cult for centuries, probably since pre-Christian times. Nothing could ever be proven. But they say he’s involved in horrific ceremonies, nightly rituals with human sacrifices. Sometimes he’s gone for long periods of time—for years, even. But when he returns to Venice, he . . . he . . .” Archibaldus faltered.
“He what?” asked Johann.
“Well, he seems strangely rejuvenated. There are people who say he must be ancient. Not even the oldest men in Venice remember Barbarese ever being a child.”
“But that’s nonsense!” replied Johann. “Ghost stories spread by jealous competitors. And devil-worshipping ceremonies . . .” He gave a laugh. “If that were true, I’d know about them, wouldn’t I? As you know, I’ve been at Signore Barbarese’s house nearly every night. We talk about literature. I can’t see anything satanic about that. And I’ve never seen him draw pentagrams on the floor of his house.” He tried to sound mocking but failed. He couldn’t help thinking of the meeting in the woods with Tonio and Poitou. They, too, had been followers of some kind of satanic order.
And they had sacrificed humans.
Johann thought about the squirming bodies in the trees. He’d managed to suppress that memory for so long, and now it came back with a vengeance. He shuddered, and this time it had nothing to do with the cold in the church.
“So? Have you considered my proposal?”
Archibaldus’s question tore Johann from his thoughts. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What proposal?”
“You stay away from Barbarese and his books, and I get you into Heidelberg University.”
Archibaldus fished a wine-stained folded document from under his coat and held it out to Johann with a trembling hand.
“This is a letter of recommendation to a friend who got somewhere with his studies—unlike me. His name is Jodocus Gallus, and he teaches as a magister of the liberal arts at Heidelberg. He’s even made it to rector. The letter bears the seal of my family.” Archibaldus gave a sad smile. “Lucky I haven’t pawned my signet ring for a bottle of brandy yet. It came in handy for once. When we’re finished in Venice, go to Heidelberg and give Jodocus my regards. You will get far with the right teacher, Johann!”
“Thank you.” Feeling a little embarrassed, Johann accepted the sealed paper.
Archibaldus turned deadly serious again. “There’s something else I must tell you. It’s about your former mentor, Tonio del Moravia. I finally know where I’ve heard the name before. It sounds incredible, but—”
Archibaldus broke off when someone entered the chapel. The figure remained in the dim twilight and moved into one of the dark side aisles, where it stood in silence. The person might have been someone who’d come to pray, or the priest preparing for the next mass, or a harmless pilgrim . . .
Or someone who followed us here, thought Johann.
He shook himself. Now he was becoming as paranoid as drunken Archibaldus.
“We can’t talk here,” whispered Archibaldus. “I want to make a few last checks before I can be absolutely certain, anyhow. The truth would be . . .” He broke off as if afraid of his own words. “I want you to come to Torcello tomorrow morning,” Archibaldus whispered. “It’s a small island in the Venetian lagoon. They say the first Roman refugees settled there. Perhaps that’s why they chose the place, or perhaps they’ve always been there.”
“What do you mean, they?” asked Johann.
“On Torcello, follow the old canal to the Ponte del Diavolo, the devil’s bridge. From there, go to the old basilica. All will be explained there. I’ll be waiting for you. And now go with God.”
Archibaldus squeezed Johann’s hand, stood up, and hurried toward the entrance. The door opened with a squeak, and the old man disappeared into the dusk. A cool draft blew in from the door and swept the rose petals from the altar.
When Johann looked back to the dark side aisle, the figure from earlier had vanished.
13
MAGISTER ARCHIBALDUS DIDN’T come to the Fondaco for the evening show, nor was he at the inn when the others returned. But no one seemed particularly worried.
“He probably just had one too many again, and now he’s sleeping it off in some alleyway,” said Emilio with a shrug. “Let’s pray he didn’t fall and drown in one of the canals.”
Johann said nothing. He’d spent the last few hours contemplating what the old man had told him about Signore Barbarese and how he’d mentioned Tonio, too. Was there a connection between the two men? He thought about Barbarese’s old house, about the upside-down paintings and the many books about sorcery. Tonio would have enjoyed those books.
The knowledge Johann had drunk in at Barbarese’s library was enormous, as vast as the ocean, and behind every thought, every idea, lurked another flash of inspiration.
And another abyss.
Johann’s thoughts returned to Margarethe. She had been afraid of Tonio the magician as a child. And, he guessed, she’d be afraid of the Johann of today, too: the grim, taciturn fellow who was consumed by books and who sought his salvation in books of spells and sorcery. Suddenly, Johann saw himself through Margarethe’s eyes and realized how much he’d changed. Were the books to blame? Was Signore Barbarese actually a devil worshipper?
Johann knew he’d have to speak to Archibaldus again to find out with certainty—provided the old man wasn’t dead drunk and already regretting his remarks from earlier.
“I’m going to look for Archibaldus tomorrow,” he told the others. “He must be somewhere.”
“Stay with me for tonight at least, and don’t go running to your whore,” said Salome, running her hand through his shaggy black hair.
He slept poorly that night, dreaming repeatedly of Margarethe. She staggered toward him with outstretched arms, her face covered in blood. But when he tried to approach her, she shrank back. Her face turned into that of Salome and then that of his mother.
Go away, go away, she breathed. You . . . are . . . the . . . devil . . .
Early in the morning, Johann awoke bathed in sweat. He turned to the sleeping Salome and kissed her gently on the cheek. Then he set off for the island of Torcello, as Archibaldus had instructed him.
He asked his way to a quiet quay in the city’s east with the help of gestures and his broken Italian. Several fishing boats moored here, and apparently they also went to the smaller islands of the lagoon. For a few coins, an older fisherman with a weather-beaten face agreed to take Johann to Torcello.
While the small boat slowly sailed through the lagoon’s still waters, Johann gazed at the many islands in front of them. Some were tiny, nothing more than a few rocks, while others held villages with churches and monasteries. He’d heard that the Venetians sent their sick and their lunatics to the islands, as well as seamen and travelers suspected of having contracted the plague. Other islands served as walls of defense, and others again were used to grow crops or pasture livestock. On one of the largest islands, the Venetians manufactured their world-famous glass. They guarded their secret painstakingly, and there were harsh penalties in store for any treason.
Torcello was a rather plain, swampy island whose shoreline was overgrown with impenetrable reeds. The only spot to moor was at a weathered pier, and beside it, an old canal that had almost completely filled up with silt led inland.
The fisherman had talked about Torcello during the entire crossing. From the little Johann understood, he gathered that the island was indeed the oldest settlement in the lagoon, much older than Venice. Thousands of people used to live here, but then something terrible happened. Johann wasn’t sure if he’d understood correctly, but apparently Torcello had been punished by God. The people had left the island, and now only a few peasants with their sheep and cows lived there. The old fisherman had shaken his head and repeated one word several times.
Maledetta.
Johann gathered that he meant the island was cursed.
What in God’s name might Archibaldus want to show him here? Maybe the old boozer had truly had too much to drink.
Johann climbed out of the wobbly boat onto the pier. The fisherman made the sign of the cross, turned his sail into the wind, and took off. Johann had asked him to return at sundown. He only hoped the superstitious old man would keep his promise—otherwise he’d be stuck there.
A towpath led along the muddy, algae-covered canal inland. Hundreds of mosquitoes buzzed around Johann and turned every step into torture. They rose in huge swarms from the salty marshes that stretched on both banks of the canal. Every now and then a solitary cow stared at Johann as he passed by, but he saw no other living soul. Ruins covered in thorny brambles showed how many people used to live on the island. Why had they all left Torcello? Had God sent a flood to punish them for their sins? And what sins could they be?
After a while he came to a low stone bridge that led across the canal. He assumed it was the Ponte del Diavolo, the devil’s bridge. The old fisherman hadn’t been able to tell him why it was called that—or perhaps Johann hadn’t understood.
Johann could see, rising up between the trees not far from the bridge, a bell tower and the roofs of a smaller church and a taller, three-aisled basilica. Johann still hadn’t seen another person. He passed by some derelict houses and finally reached the two churches that were connected by an arcade walkway. They were situated at the edge of a square that probably used to be the center of town. A few ruinous buildings surrounded the square, and the bell tower stood behind them. The square itself was overgrown with bushes, and in the middle of it stood a large chair made of stone, like a throne used in ancient heathen ceremonies. This must have been a bustling place once, with markets and court trials. Now the only sound came from the buzzing of the mosquitoes.
A sudden noise made Johann spin around. An old man was getting to his feet amid the ruins with the help of a cane. He must have been resting among the rocks.
“Buongiorno!” called Johann. But the man didn’t reply. He just stood there and stared at Johann.
“Sto cercando un uomo,” Johann tried again. “Si chiama Magister Archibaldus. Lo conoscete?”
Still the man said nothing. A flock of pigeons rose up from the ruins behind him, and then the silence returned.
Johann gave up. He entered the smaller church, whose bare stone walls inside looked naked. There was no sign of anyone. He took the walkway toward the basilica, his solitary footsteps echoing loudly.
The basilica’s double doors were closed, and when Johann opened one, a heavy red curtain blocked his view. It smelled musty, as if it had been hanging there for centuries. Johann pushed it aside and gazed into the large space in front of him. Tall, narrow windows allowed some light to fall upon golden mosaics so magnificent that Johann shuddered. They showed the Virgin Mary with her child and the twelve apostles. The apse was separated from the rest of the church with columns and a splendidly decorated choir screen. High up above the screen, a sad-eyed savior looked down at Johann.
There was no sign of Magister Archibaldus.
“Archibaldus?” called Johann, his voice echoing through the huge space. “Are you here?”
The sound of dripping came from somewhere, as if it was raining and the roof had a leak.
Drip . . . drip . . . drip . . .
