The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,122
Fabulous Troupe,” he said and gave a strained smile.
A few weeks ago, Johann had taken some Venetian jugglers under contract for larger shows. One pleasant result was that it put pressure on Emilio. Johann thought the young juggler had become a little too complacent in the last few months and no longer practiced enough. And he was always badgering Johann with the question of when they’d leave Venice. But so far, Johann had managed to convince him to stay.
Even though he barely slept, Johann had his troupe under control and even managed to negotiate a higher wage with Rieverschmitt. The jugglers had become a fixture at the Fondaco. If they wanted to, they could stay for the whole year—maybe even forever, as Johann secretly hoped. He continued to spend the nights at Signore Barbarese’s, although the previous night, he’d had the feeling he was being followed there. A gondola appeared to follow his at some distance, but he hadn’t been able to make out any details in the evening fog.
The German merchants started to arrive at the trading post around sunset. There were more than a dozen of them, their heavily loaded vessels lying low in the water. The train of merchants included numerous footmen and even some mercenaries who had helped them to safely get their wares across the Alps. When the servants carried the crates and bales into the storehouses, Johann saw the finest Augsburg cloth, amber, furs, and chests full of silver. The risky journey had undoubtedly paid off for the merchants; they’d get an excellent price for their goods.
The troupe received the merchants with music and juggling at the quay. The tables set up in the courtyard were bending under the weight of the food. Three of the hired Venetian jugglers beat drums and played the lute while Salome danced seductively.
Their show later on was a huge success. Germans and Venetians applauded and tossed coins at them; several men lay drunkenly under the table or vomited in a quiet corner. Archibaldus snored with his head on the table, his tousled beard hanging in a puddle of wine. Johann hadn’t used him for their shows in a long time. He’d avoided the old man since their argument at the inn but noticed that Archibaldus eyed him with suspicion whenever he wasn’t too drunk.
Before the show and the feasting, the German merchants had closed their deals and earned a fortune. Even Rieverschmitt’s face glowed red with alcohol and excitement. Visibly drunk, he waved Johann over to him late in the evening.
“Didn’t you say once that you are from the Kraichgau region?” he asked with a heavy tongue. “From Knittlingen?”
Johann nodded. “Why do you ask?”
Rieverschmitt grinned and gestured at an equally drunk merchant beside him, who was struggling to sit up straight. “This gentleman here comes from a neighboring town, from Bretten. I thought perhaps you know him. His name’s Klaus Reuter.”
Johann was shocked. He felt a wave of homesickness at the thought of meeting someone from home here in faraway Venice. But at the same time, he was afraid the man might know him. He had made a good name for himself here at the trading post. Rieverschmitt thought Johann was much older than he actually was, and Johann had told him he was the third son of a wealthy cloth-making family. Johann nervously studied the drunk merchant, but he’d never seen the corpulent man with the saggy cheeks and the piggy eyes sunk deeply into his doughy face. Still, he knew the Reuters were a respected merchant family in Bretten and had produced many burgomasters. They also traded with the Maulbronn monastery and in Knittlingen. Did this man know his stepfather?
Johann forced himself to smile. “How nice to see someone from home. How are things in the Kraichgau?”
The man burped loudly. “Well, the Swabians are getting pushier all the time,” he said with a broad Kraichgau accent. “Last year, Württemberg was made a duchy by the king and doesn’t know where to put all its power. People are talking about war.”
“What about Knittlingen?” asked Johann shyly, his heart beating faster. Could it be possible that Klaus Reuter knew Margarethe? Her father was the prefect, after all. “How is business going there?”
Reuter gave a shrug. “I stayed at the Lion for the first night of our trip. That was back in fall. The wine is awfully sour this year.” He grinned and took a large swig from a goblet made of blue Venetian glass that sparkled in the