The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,146

before; they debated the writings of Petrarch and the globe that a certain Martin Behaim had commissioned in Nuremberg a few years ago, which showed the world more precisely than any other model of the Earth before.

Johann was so engrossed in the conversation that he didn’t notice the men approaching behind him. He felt a tap on his shoulder, spun around, and gave a start.

Facing him were Jodocus Gallus and Conrad Celtis.

“Dear colleague, I’d like you to meet an exceptional student,” Gallus said to Conrad Celtis. “His name is Johann Faustus.”

Celtis smiled. He looked much friendlier up close than behind the lectern of Saint Mary’s Chapel. “I see: Faustus the lucky one. A happy-go-lucky, perhaps?” He grinned and gestured at Gallus beside him. “Clearly you’ve Latinized your name just like our dear Jodocus Gallus here, whose regular name is Rooster. And like me.” He winked at Johann. “But Pick doesn’t quite have the same ring as Celtis. Although the pick is a useful tool for digging—even for hidden knowledge. Where are you from, my boy?”

“From . . . from Simmern,” replied Johann. The lie he’d told Rector Gallus on the day of his matriculation still didn’t come easy. “My father worked in the vineyards there.”

“Look at that,” said Celtis. “Just like me. My father was also a vintner. That’s one thing we have in common already. You see, you don’t have to be the son of a king to understand the insights of this world. And don’t they say in vino veritas?” He smiled. “Then this hall must be a true haven of wisdom.”

Johann prayed that Celtis wouldn’t ask him any more questions about his past, and to his relief, the scholar chose a different topic.

“What is your favorite subject among the seven liberal arts?” asked Celtis.

“Well, there is no easy answer,” Johann started awkwardly, feeling his future academic career might depend on his reply. “I believe the seven liberal arts form one unit that prepares us for the higher studies. In the end, they’re nothing but the tools we require for the true questions—questions that not even jurisprudence, medicine, or theology know how to answer.”

“The true questions?” Celtis looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

Johann swallowed. He sensed he’d ventured out too far. In the chair beside him, Valentin shifted uneasily. Jodocus Gallus shot him a look of warning from behind Celtis. But it was too late to go back.

“I think that if we want to understand the world, we must leave the old knowledge behind and turn to new questions,” he continued. “Questions to which the answers may not be found in the subjects we currently study nor in the writs of antiquity.”

“Hmm . . .” Celtis considered Johann’s words. “But isn’t it the essence of humanism to fall back on the wisdom of antiquity?”

“The Greek and Roman scholars thought far indeed, but time hasn’t stood still since then,” replied Johann with a firmer voice. “We’ve discovered entire new worlds, so we must ask new questions.”

“I think we’ve heard enough of this foolishness,” said Jodocus Gallus, stepping forward to cut off Johann.

Celtis held him back. “Leave him, old friend. Sometimes, a wise thought is hidden at the core of a foolish one. Don’t they say that children and fools often speak the truth?” He turned back to Johann. “And what are those new questions supposed to be?” asked Celtis with a smile. He appeared to like the student’s nerve.

Johann hesitated. He thought about the books at Barbarese’s library, about the drawings by Leonardo da Vinci, the war machines and flying apparatuses, and about the laterna magica he was constructing with Valentin. He thought about the countless questions that had crossed his mind since then, but he didn’t dare bother Celtis with them. There was so much he wanted to know—far too much to break down into a few sentences, let alone answer them. That would take weeks, months, years.

Conrad Celtis was still looking at him expectantly, and suddenly Johann knew what he could ask the famous scholar. He still hadn’t found in any library a clue about the mysterious name Magister Archibaldus had left for him in his own blood. Perhaps Celtis had heard of it. It was worth a shot.

“I came across a manuscript a while ago,” said Johann. “And the author mentioned a certain Gilles de Rais. It sounds like a French name, but I’m not sure. I haven’t been able to find anything about him anywhere—it’s as if his name has been erased. Could he be