The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,105

to hold his side. Johann was overcome by an uneasy feeling and wondered whether Peter had really just drunk a bit of foul water.

During the following days and weeks, they crossed the Apennines and headed south toward Florence and Siena, avoiding the smaller roads whenever possible. Most French soldiers had left the country, but the troupe didn’t want to risk running into any who had stuck around. They couldn’t always rely on Mustafa.

Thankfully, the crossbow bolt hadn’t penetrated Mustafa’s arm deeply, and the wound healed fast. Peter’s stomach pains, on the other hand, persisted. Sometimes they would go away for two or three days just to return all the worse. Peter grew visibly skinny, and his face became drawn and pale. He barely ate. But he still played fiddle during their performances; in fact, he played even more heartrendingly beautifully than before—as if his life came pouring out of him with his melodies.

“What kind of a terrible disease is it?” Johann asked Archibaldus at a tavern one evening. They had just given a show in a large, magnificent town called Pisa with an oddly tilted bell tower on its market square. The old man wiped the drops of wine from his beard before replying to Johann.

“I can’t tell you for certain, but I’m afraid it’s something serious. It could be a growth in his stomach that is eating him up from the inside. The Greeks call it cancer, because apparently the growth looks somewhat like a crab.”

“Does that mean he’s going to die?” asked Johann haltingly. He’d grown fond of Peter in the last few months, admiring the man’s vivacity and leadership, but most of all his musical talent, which was unparalleled and otherworldly. But—if Johann was entirely honest—it wasn’t Peter’s probable death that scared him the most, but the fact that he had foreseen it in Peter’s palm. He remembered what Archibaldus had said a few weeks ago about chiromancers.

I’ve also heard there are a few who can actually foresee a person’s fate—even his death.

Johann turned pale at the thought. Could it be that Tonio had taught him such an ominous skill without his noticing?

“I think Peter knows that he won’t be with us for much longer.” Archibaldus sighed. “No one can say how much longer exactly. But I fear he won’t be going to Venice with us.”

“But . . . but Peter is our leader!” said Johann stubbornly. “What’s going to happen to us?”

He had become fixated on Venice as their destination. Perhaps it had something to do with the stories his mother used to tell him about the city. Johann hoped that after so much traveling, his life would settle down a little in Venice, at least for a while. He didn’t know what would come afterward.

“What’s going to happen to us?” Archibaldus gave a dry laugh. “It would be worse for you if I drank myself to death before the autumn. Remember, it is my invitation alone that will open the gates of the Fondaco dei Tedeschi to us. With Peter, we merely lose a fiddle player—a damn good one, though.” He shook his head. “It’s almost as if the devil himself taught him to play! I’d love to help him, but my knowledge of healing isn’t great enough. I guess I studied the wrong subject.”

“Where did you study?” asked Johann.

“At one of the oldest and most venerable universities in the empire: Heidelberg.”

“Heidelberg?” Johann’s heart beat faster. “That’s not far from where I come from. It’s always been my dream to study there.”

“Well, it’s a beautiful city that tends to lead a young man to feast and drink more than study,” Archibaldus replied with a grin. “My father, the great Karl Stovenbrannt, said I ought to at least gain my baccalaureus there. I was talented and thirsty for knowledge, and so I even gained the degree of magister. Then I went on trips to our trading posts at Bergen, Bruges, London, and also to Italy. And that’s where I experienced the dolce vita and was forever lost to my father and the trade.” He gave Johann an inquisitive look. “How come you’re not at the university? You’re as clever as you are learned, and you are ambitious, even though you try your best to hide it from everyone else. I’ve told you before: you could be a great scholar.”

“The man who raised me would rather have set fire to his own house than allow me to go to the university,” Johann replied bitterly. “He thought I