The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,124

you follow me halfway across Venice?” asked Johann. “You could have seen me in my room.”

“It’s not safe there.” Archibaldus looked about himself. “And neither is it here. Come with me!”

Before Johann had time to protest, Archibaldus had dragged him into an even smaller alleyway. Washing hung on lines between the close walls of the houses; some hungry cats were fighting underneath a bridge. The air smelled of rotten fish and stagnant brackish water. They entered a small church that lay at the edge of a campus and was empty at this time of the day, apart from two elderly women in the front pew. The late-afternoon light fell through the narrow windows and onto an altar decorated with dried roses. It was as cold as winter inside the church.

“What’s all this about?” asked Johann again. “Have you had too much to drink again, Archibaldus? Admit it!”

The magister gave a desperate laugh. “Oh, I wish I had! Then the truth would be easier to bear. But no, I’m stone-cold sober. Well, almost . . .” He lowered his voice. “I know now who you’re visiting every night, Johann. And you ought to know the truth about him.”

“So it was you who followed me the other night?”

“Salome asked me to. She . . . she thought you were with some harlot or another, and she was jealous. But I’ve long been suspecting something else. Your temper, the way you’ve become withdrawn, and then those books you had in your chamber. The Sworn Book of Honorius and those other books of spells—”

“What are you getting at?” snapped Johann. He wanted to get out of this cold place as fast as possible.

“I made some inquiries about your host, Johann.” Archibaldus was speaking close to Johann’s ear, and he reeked of alcohol. Evidently, he wasn’t quite as sober as he’d said.

“Your Signore Barbarese, as he calls himself, is known to move in certain circles,” whispered Archibaldus. “Oh yes, he’s rich and powerful! So powerful that no one dares to touch him, no matter how much they whisper behind his back.”

Johann couldn’t help but smile. “And what do they whisper? That he eats snakes? Admittedly, he does look like an adder, but—”

“Signore Barbarese is a Satanist.”

“A what?” Johann stared at Archibaldus with his mouth open.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” hissed Archibaldus. “Barbarese is a devil worshipper. His family has been practicing the cult for centuries, probably since pre-Christian times. Nothing could ever be proven. But they say he’s involved in horrific ceremonies, nightly rituals with human sacrifices. Sometimes he’s gone for long periods of time—for years, even. But when he returns to Venice, he . . . he . . .” Archibaldus faltered.

“He what?” asked Johann.

“Well, he seems strangely rejuvenated. There are people who say he must be ancient. Not even the oldest men in Venice remember Barbarese ever being a child.”

“But that’s nonsense!” replied Johann. “Ghost stories spread by jealous competitors. And devil-worshipping ceremonies . . .” He gave a laugh. “If that were true, I’d know about them, wouldn’t I? As you know, I’ve been at Signore Barbarese’s house nearly every night. We talk about literature. I can’t see anything satanic about that. And I’ve never seen him draw pentagrams on the floor of his house.” He tried to sound mocking but failed. He couldn’t help thinking of the meeting in the woods with Tonio and Poitou. They, too, had been followers of some kind of satanic order.

And they had sacrificed humans.

Johann thought about the squirming bodies in the trees. He’d managed to suppress that memory for so long, and now it came back with a vengeance. He shuddered, and this time it had nothing to do with the cold in the church.

“So? Have you considered my proposal?”

Archibaldus’s question tore Johann from his thoughts. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What proposal?”

“You stay away from Barbarese and his books, and I get you into Heidelberg University.”

Archibaldus fished a wine-stained folded document from under his coat and held it out to Johann with a trembling hand.

“This is a letter of recommendation to a friend who got somewhere with his studies—unlike me. His name is Jodocus Gallus, and he teaches as a magister of the liberal arts at Heidelberg. He’s even made it to rector. The letter bears the seal of my family.” Archibaldus gave a sad smile. “Lucky I haven’t pawned my signet ring for a bottle of brandy yet. It came in handy for once. When we’re finished in Venice, go