The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,101
people’s palms, and each time, Johann made up excuses. Here at Verona, Peter tried again.
“The Veronese are wealthy and superstitious. We could make a pile of money with palm reading.” Peter gave Johann a pleading look. “Come on! It’s just a bit of hocus-pocus. What’s so hard about it?”
But Johann remained stubborn. Archibaldus gave him a thoughtful look. Following their evening performance on the Piazza delle Erbe, which had been used as a market and meeting square since Roman times, the old man sought him out. Together they sat on the bank of the River Etsch, which flowed underneath a huge stone bridge. On the opposite bank, the arena rose up among houses. A small fire at their feet dispelled the chill of the night. Archibaldus took a long sip from a wineskin and burped.
“Did you know that they used to set lions on Christians in arenas like this in Roman times?” he said. “How strange the course of this world is. First the Christians are persecuted and burned as heretics, and then they go and burn heretics themselves. Cathars, Waldensians, sorcerers . . .” He gave Johann a sideways look. “Was your mentor one of those sorcerers?”
“He is an astrologer and chiromancer,” replied Johann hesitantly, unsure of Archibaldus’s question. “He only dabbles in the kind of white magic that’s permitted by the church.” Johann had no intention of discussing Tonio’s other side with the old magister—the dark, evil side Johann had only really seen at the end.
The old man cleared his throat and scratched his louse-ridden head. “Seems to me you’re no friend of chiromancy,” he said. “How come? Don’t you trust the skills of your former master?”
Johann gave a shrug. “Peter’s right. There’s a lot of hocus-pocus to it.”
“Is that so?” Archibaldus raised an eyebrow. His voice sounded steady and serious now, not at all like that of a drunkard. “Perhaps that’s true for some chiromancers. But I’ve also heard there are a few who can actually foresee a person’s fate—even his death.” He looked intently at Johann, who gave an embarrassed laugh.
“Oh, I don’t know—”
“I’ve watched you the last few days and weeks, Johann,” said Archibaldus, cutting him off. “I’ve been in this world for a while now, and I think I know a fair bit about people. You’re not just a juggler. You’re damned clever—the cleverest lad I’ve ever met. You could become a great scholar—or a fool who mocks the world. There’s something dark inside you that I can’t read, and the darkness is growing. Something inside you is searching, looking for answers, foraging in depths we mortals aren’t supposed to explore. You’re changing, Johann, and I’m afraid for you. Those words . . .”
“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That Latin phrase you used a few weeks ago,” Archibaldus said. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Remember? Homo Deus est. How do you know those words?”
“My . . . my mentor mentioned them once. Why do you ask?”
“Tonio del Moravia. That was his name, wasn’t it?” Archibaldus nodded pensively. “An interesting name for an itinerant white magician. I’ll find out where I’ve heard that name before. Man is God . . . Hmm. They like to use those words to identify themselves.”
“Who? What do you mean?” asked Johann. But Archibaldus said nothing. The logs crackled in the fire, and Johann thought of the burning minstrel in Nördlingen. He could almost hear his screams—just like the screams of all those Christians chased to death by beasts of prey in the arena of Verona once upon a time.
Archibaldus looked up to the cloudless night sky and the sparkling stars. He gestured upward. “The honorable Bertold of Regensburg, a learned Franciscan and assistant of Albertus Magnus, once said that heaven consisted of ten heavenly choirs, but one of them rebelled against God and became the flock of the devil. According to Bertold, the Earth is also divided into ten groups, one of which is devoted to the devil.”
“And who is that group supposed to be?” asked Johann.
Archibaldus smiled. “Haven’t you figured it out? It’s the jugglers, traveling magicians, and charlatans. Bertold even gave them names of devils. Azazel, Baphomet, Beelzebub, Mephistopheles . . .” He took another sip of wine and burped loudly.
“Damn good wine they make, those Italians. But they should leave the brewing of beer to the Germans.” Archibaldus rose to his feet, and Johann saw how exhausted the old man looked. His face was gray and gaunt, covered with a