The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,127

twelve apostles. The apse was separated from the rest of the church with columns and a splendidly decorated choir screen. High up above the screen, a sad-eyed savior looked down at Johann.

There was no sign of Magister Archibaldus.

“Archibaldus?” called Johann, his voice echoing through the huge space. “Are you here?”

The sound of dripping came from somewhere, as if it was raining and the roof had a leak.

Drip . . . drip . . . drip . . .

Johann called out once more, but there was no reply. He decided to give up. Archibaldus wasn’t there. The old man had probably had too much to drink the day before and told Johann some old wives’ tale. Or was he waiting somewhere else on the island? But there wasn’t anything else here apart from swamp, mosquitoes, and the overgrown square. Johann feverishly tried to figure out what to do next. Clearly, his trip to the island had been for nothing. But the worst part was that the fisherman wouldn’t return until sundown. He was stuck here until then.

Drip . . . drip . . . drip . . .

The steady dripping unnerved Johann. His anger at that drunken old codger grew with every second. What had Archibaldus been playing at, sending him here? Damn it, if he really had anything to tell Johann, he could have done so in Venice and not on this mosquito-infested, godforsaken island! Hopefully he’d find another fisherman to take him back to the city. Or—

Drip . . .

That goddamned dripping! It sounded like it came from somewhere behind him. What could it be? Annoyed, Johann turned around—and froze.

Since he’d set foot in the basilica, he’d looked only to the front, to the altar. The entire back wall was covered by a huge mosaic that reached right up to the high ceiling. It showed the Last Judgment. At the top, people awaited their fate before God. From a Christ medallion in the center, a glowing stream of fire fed the flames of hell below. Angels forced the unhappy souls into damnation with their lances; snakes crept out of the eye sockets of dozens of skulls, and heads of kings were roasting in the eternal fire. To the left of the door, enthroned on a seat with a dragon’s head, was Hades, the lord of the underworld, and in his lap sat the Antichrist himself. He was displayed as a handsome young man wearing a toga, and his eyes seemed to stare straight at Johann, as if waiting for a reply.

And hanging beneath the Antichrist was Magister Archibaldus.

Like a mockery of the crucifixion scene, the old man had been nailed to the wall with heavy nails, his face frozen in a grimace of horror. Blood was dripping from the hole in his left hand, which hung down loosely at his side.

Drip . . . drip . . . drip . . .

For a long while Johann could do nothing but stand there and stare at the gruesomely staged scene. The culprit or culprits must have crucified Archibaldus alive, because it looked as though he’d managed to free his left hand before he died. Using his own blood, Archibaldus had written three words on the wall with his finger. They were badly smudged and barely legible, but Johann thought they spelled a French name.

Gilles . . . de . . . Rais.

“Gilles de Rais,” whispered Johann, and something crept up the back of his neck as if the sound of the name alone sent waves of fear and terror through his body. “What in God’s name . . .”

Speaking the name of the Lord in front of the crucified old man suddenly seemed wrong. He broke off and felt a wave of nausea wash over him; his legs almost gave way. He flashed one last look at Archibaldus’s twisted face and ran out of the basilica, along the arcade walkway, through the smaller church, and finally outside.

The old man was standing directly outside the door.

Johann almost ran right into him. He screamed and jumped back. The old man grinned, baring his almost-toothless gums.

“Il diavolo,” he mumbled. “Benvenuto nella casa del diavolo.” Then he chortled softly.

Johann pushed the grinning old man aside and ran across the square toward the muddy canal. He needed to get away from here, no matter how! He ran along the canal without looking back. Almost blind from sweat and persecuted by a swarm of mosquitoes, he rushed past the devil’s bridge and toward the shore, which