The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,115

most powerful council in the city. If Johann didn’t follow his order, they’d probably arrest him, lock him in some dingy hole, and leave him to rot.

The entire following day, Johann was distracted. During their morning performance he botched the easiest tricks, and Emilio studied him with a frown.

“What’s the matter with you today?” he asked during a break. “I would say you’re hungover, but I didn’t see you drinking last night.”

“I slept poorly,” Johann grumbled. “That’s all.”

He decided against telling the others about the invitation. It was just between him and Barbarese; he didn’t want to drag anyone else into it and potentially get them in trouble.

So he waited the whole day and the next, but no letter arrived. When there was still no word from Barbarese on the third day, Johann decided there wouldn’t be a message. Perhaps the patrician had only been messing with him, or it simply wasn’t important to him and he’d forgotten all about it. Johann felt relieved and returned his focus to the shows and rehearsals. He also continued his studies with Archibaldus, but the old man was nearly at his wit’s end.

“I’ve got nothing left to teach you, lad,” said the magister. “Your Latin is better than mine now, and I only know enough Greek to teach you a few dirty poems by Sappho.”

“Then tell me more about arithmetic and geometry,” said Johann.

“All right.” Archibaldus sighed and started drawing lines on a piece of paper. “I will teach you Euclid’s theorem. Watch this . . .”

An hour later, Johann was poring over formulas and prime numbers in his chamber at the inn. Archibaldus had left him with some exercises, and Johann was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t hear the knocking at first. He started with fright when the sound grew louder.

“Yes?” he called out impatiently and pushed his papers aside.

It was one of the footboys Venetian patricians liked to use as messengers. When the boy handed Johann a sealed letter, Johann knew immediately who had sent it. The coat of arms showed a roaring lion and a Latin motto, as was typical for noble families.

Aude sapere.

“Dare to know,” Johann whispered. He broke the seal and read the letter. The handwriting was old fashioned and written in dark-red ink, the color of blood. Signore Barbarese asked him to wait at the quay of the Fondaco dei Tedeschi at nine o’clock that evening. The letter didn’t say what would happen after.

Johann gave the boy a small coin and sent him away. Then he gathered his study materials and left a message with the innkeeper for Salome, saying that he had some errands to run after dark.

Johann had asked the innkeeper at the Flute for a lantern to help him find his way through the lanes. It was pitch black outside and, as usual, foggy. Not a single star could be seen through the clouds. Unlike the rich citizens who were still out and about, he couldn’t afford an armed bodyguard. He relied entirely on his wits and the knife he always carried. Venice at night was a dangerous place—not only because of scoundrels but also because any wrong step on the slippery stones could send a man straight into the water. Alleyways often ended abruptly by a canal, the waters cold and black. Venice was a devilish labyrinth; most of the lanes had no names, and the best way to navigate through the city was by using the churches as points of reference along with the campi—old meeting places, of which each of the former islands had one.

Wearing his warm hooded jerkin, Johann hurried past several taverns with lights burning behind their windows. Then the voices, music, and laughter grew fainter and eventually ceased altogether. All Johann could hear now was the gurgling of the water as it gently splashed against the slimy walls of the canals.

Luckily, it wasn’t far from the inn to the Fondaco. The guards knew Johann by now and let him pass once he explained why he was there. He hurried across the deserted courtyard, past crates and bales, and onto the quay. During the day, boats came and went constantly, and the German merchants argued over the best docking spots. Now it was as quiet as a graveyard.

A solitary black gondola bobbed on the water by the quay, illuminated dimly by a golden lantern in the bow. A gondolier clad in black was standing at the stern, his face covered against the cold and partially hidden