The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,111
they came to a building several stories high, with noise and shouting coming from inside. Johann could make out bits of German. An open gate led to a courtyard where many tables had been set up. Bales and crates were stacked up in front of the arcades surrounding the courtyard, and men wearing the bright garb of wealthy merchants walked around. Abaci and inkwells stood on the tables; pale-faced scribes sat hunched over documents bearing seals or entered numbers into lists.
Archibaldus grinned and pointed toward the courtyard. “The Fondaco dei Tedeschi. No other trading post in Venice is as busy as this one. The Germans are veritable penny-pinchers—especially the Swabians.” He rubbed his hands. “Now let’s go and see if the name Stovenbrannt still counts for anything in this city. Follow me.”
He was about to walk into the courtyard when two broad-shouldered men wearing the typical jerkins and slit trousers of German soldiers blocked his way.
“No begging in here, old man,” barked one of them in German. “Capisci? Qui non si mendica!”
“Dear gentlemen, I’m not here to beg but to speak with the German representative,” replied Archibaldus as gracefully as possible, brushing a strand of tangled gray hair from his face. “Please tell him Archibaldus Stovenbrannt has returned after many years.”
“Stovenbrannt?” The fatter of the two guards scratched his head. “Never heard of that name.”
“Better not say that to the German representative,” Archibaldus said sternly. “The Stovenbrannts used to sell nearly as much cloth in this town as those nouveau riche Welsers and Fuggers. Now off you go—we’re expected.”
The guard hesitated, clearly wondering whether he was looking at a drunk, confused old man or an influential merchant who could get him in a lot of trouble. Finally, he reached a decision.
“Wait here,” he muttered.
He walked over to the arcades while the other guard continued to watch the colorful troupe in silence. After a short while, an obese man of around fifty wearing a beret and a fur-lined coat walked toward them. In his hand he carried his staff of office, which designated him as the German merchants’ representative in Venice. When he saw the jugglers at the gate, his face darkened.
“You dragged me out of a business meeting for these jokers?” he snarled at the guard. “Throw them out and—”
“My dear Rieverschmitt,” said Archibaldus, spreading his arms with a smile. “Don’t you recognize old Archibaldus?”
The merchant frowned. “I can’t say I—”
“Archibaldus Stovenbrannt. Remember?” Archibaldus pulled out his crumpled document and handed it to Rieverschmitt. “Perhaps this’ll jog your memory.”
The merchant skimmed through the brief letter, and his face broke into a strained smile. “Look at that, Hans Stovenbrannt’s uncle. I do remember now, though it’s been a long time. I was a young man then, and you were visiting your nephew in Hamburg. You . . .” He paused. “You studied for many years, they say.”
Archibaldus gave a shrug. “No need to beat around the bush. I decided on a different career from the rest of my family. What you’re reading there is a letter of recommendation for me and this exceptional troupe of jugglers I’m traveling with.” He gestured at Johann and the others behind him. “You do need jugglers over the winter, don’t you? The days are gray and boring, and if you want to close a lucrative deal, you first want to get your business partner in the right mood.”
“It’s true, we could do with a few jugglers, but . . .” Rieverschmitt eyed Johann and the rest of the troupe. He didn’t seem particularly impressed. “Two young boys—juggling acts, I take it—and a huge Moor. And who’s at the back?”
Until then, Salome had hidden her face behind a veil. Now she lowered it and took a step forward. The merchant gave a whistle and licked his lips. “By God, does this beauty have a price? I know a wealthy Venetian patrician who’d—”
Mustafa stepped forward and glowered at Rieverschmitt as if the man had just blasphemed against God and all the saints at once. The merchant sensed he’d made a mistake. “Well, I only thought—”
“Great, then we’re all agreed,” Johann said and positioned himself next to Archibaldus. “What about accommodation?”
“Um, well, you can’t stay here at the Fondaco—not as jugglers,” Rieverschmitt replied, his eyes still glued to Salome. “But many Germans stay at the Flute Inn. It’s not far from here. Just tell them Rieverschmitt sent you.”
“The Flute?” Salome smiled and gazed deep into Rieverschmitt’s eyes. “I like to play the flute, signore. A fitting place for