The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,144

a figure who watched the young student climb into his boat and row away. Water dripped off the man’s hood, soaked his coat, and ran down his boots. But he didn’t feel it. A hatred burned inside him that evaporated any cold.

The man waited until the boat disappeared in the rain. Then he walked down to the pier and climbed into his own boat. During the long, wet journey back to Heidelberg, he wondered how he should proceed. He smiled while the rain dripped off his broken nose.

He had time.

Boosted by the thought of seeing Margarethe again on the feast day of Saint Michael, Johann blossomed. He worked even harder at his lessons, improved his Greek by translating Aristotle and Plato in his spare time, and badgered his teachers with questions and comments about theological discourse. He avoided Hans Altmayer as much as he could. The leader of the Swabian hostel still bore bruises from Johann’s powerful punch, and his nose was crooked and swollen. Johann guessed it would never look the same again, which didn’t particularly improve Altmayer’s already pockmarked face.

On the few occasions that they passed each other during lectures, Altmayer hissed threats in his direction. “You’re dead, Faustus. You just don’t know it yet. I’m going to finish you.”

“Be my guest,” Johann replied coolly. “If you want to lose your teeth as well, you ugly pock-face. But I’m afraid the girls will run away screaming at the sight of you—unless they do so already.”

Altmayer clenched his fists. “You’ll see where your arrogance gets you,” he growled. “Just you wait. You’re not untouchable just because you’re the rector’s pet. I will strike you where you’ll expect it the least. Better watch out!”

But neither Altmayer nor his friends ambushed Johann in Heidelberg’s dark alleyways on any of the following nights. Evidently, word had gotten around that there was no messing with the strange black-haired student. Besides, he enjoyed the special protection of Rector Gallus.

Johann hadn’t yet asked Gallus about the small mirror they needed for the laterna magica. At the end of a lecture on rhetoric, he gathered all his courage and walked up to the lectern.

“So you want to build a camera obscura with young Brander,” said Gallus with a smile when Johann had finished. “An excellent tool for observing the sun. But why do you need a mirror?”

“With the mirror, we can transfer the image onto the floor of the box, making it easier for us to copy,” Johann explained.

Gallus rocked his head from side to side. “Hmm. I’m not entirely sure that’s permissible, but never mind—I’ll try to get the mirror for you.” He raised a finger. “On one condition!”

“Which is?” asked Johann. He was afraid Gallus would demand to inspect the camera obscura himself.

The rector smiled. “I want you to accompany me to a meeting tomorrow. Up at the castle.”

“Up at the castle?” Johann was too puzzled to string a sentence together. “But . . . why . . . ?”

“There are some people I’d like you to meet,” said Gallus. “As you’ve probably come to realize, the university isn’t as open to the new spirit of humanism as one would like it to be. It’s different at the court of the palatine elector. I belong to a group of scholars who meet there regularly to swap ideas and discuss our views. Our sodalitas, as we call this circle of friends, is led by no lesser man than Conrad Celtis. I’m sure you’ve heard of him before.”

Johann nodded with surprise. Not long ago, Conrad Celtis had held a guest lecture in Saint Mary’s Chapel, which had been full to the last seat. Celtis was the teacher of the two electoral princes and was considered one of the greatest scholars of the empire—although his modern views didn’t always please everyone. But the students admired him all the more. Johann’s jaw had dropped while he’d been listening to Celtis’s lecture on rhetoric and Aristotle’s poetics.

“You . . . you want me to come to the castle with you to meet . . . meet Conrad Celtis?” he stammered.

Doctor Gallus laughed. “If your Latin is as bad as your German just then, I might change my mind. Conrad Celtis himself asked me to bring a few magisters and some promising students to the meeting. The other students all have their baccalaureus, but I think you’ve earned this visit, as has your friend Valentin Brander. He might not be quite as clever as you, but he’s hardworking—and not as