The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,152

arrogance, then they’ll do it because you’re dallying with a nun.”

“Not if you keep your fresh mouth shut,” retorted Johann gruffly, and he immediately regretted his words. Why had he allowed his temper to flare up again? He had hoped seeing Margarethe would finally put his mind at rest. Valentin was the only friend he had in Heidelberg—he couldn’t lose him, too.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Things have been getting the better of me lately. Let’s take a look at our laterna magica. I need a distraction.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Valentin smiled secretively and gestured toward the door. “Come to the shed. I have a little surprise for you.”

Valentin had been busy indeed. The casing was finished and the oil lamp installed; they hoped it would provide a better light than a candle. Valentin shyly pulled a small wooden box from under the table. It contained several glass plates.

“I got the glass from the glazier of the Church of the Holy Spirit,” he said. “It’s nothing special—just a start. But I think the images might have a nice effect.”

Johann picked up the glass plates and held them against the sunlight streaming through the shed’s window. He laughed with surprise. Valentin had painted small animal scenes on the glass. Johann made out a wolf, a cat arching its back, and a stag with stately antlers.

“These are fantastic! The stag looks as if he’s about to leap off the glass.”

“I decided on animals,” said Valentin. “They’re easier to draw than men, and I can draw them in movement. I botched a little here and there—”

“Don’t hide your light under a bushel,” said Johann. “Your pictures are excellent. Provided the laterna works, the show is going to be spectacular. Just imagine how much money we could make if we charged admittance.”

Valentin crossed his arms on his chest. “I didn’t intend to make money out of it. This experiment serves science alone.”

“Let’s talk about that again another time. It would be such a shame if—”

“I said these pictures aren’t for public viewing,” said Valentin hotly. “There isn’t going to be a spectacle on market squares or at hostels full of drunk students. That’s my final word, Johann Faustus! I’m a scholar, not a dishonorable juggler.”

The last words hurt Johann to the quick. Valentin had never spoken to him like this before. Clearly, Johann had offended his friend’s pride, but he tried not to let anything show.

“All right,” Johann said, giving a strained smile. “I heard you. And now show me the sketches one more time to remind me how to insert the glass plates.”

For the next two days, Johann hardly went to any lectures. He avoided running into others and couldn’t wait to see Margarethe again. He told Valentin he needed to prepare for his Greek exams, but the crude letters swam before his eyes, appearing to run away from him like black beetles. What if Margarethe wouldn’t be able to steal away from the other nuns? Or worse—what if she regretted her decision and didn’t even turn up? Did she still love him?

At the same time, his thoughts kept returning to his conversation with Conrad Celtis and what the scholar had told him about Gilles de Rais. When Archibaldus wrote the name on the church wall in his own blood—what had he been trying to say?

Johann tried to deduce logically like he’d been taught at the university. As Aristotle had done, he started with a hypothesis and supported it with arguments. The only plausible explanation for Archibaldus’s death seemed to be some sort of connection to Signore Barbarese. The old magister was murdered just before he was supposed to meet Johann to tell him more about Barbarese. Evidently, the eerie Venetian was indeed a follower of some devil-worshipping sect, and Archibaldus had found out—that was why he’d had to die. But why had Archibaldus written that name on the wall? Perhaps those disciples of Satan invoked Gilles de Rais; perhaps they considered him some sort of master, even if he’d been dead for a long time. That still left the question of what Tonio del Moravia had to do with all this. Archibaldus’s last words to Johann had been about Tonio, after all.

It’s about your former mentor, Tonio del Moravia. I finally know where I’ve heard the name before . . .

What was it that Archibaldus had learned about Tonio?

Johann pushed aside his gloomy thoughts and tried to focus on the Greek text before his eyes. Conrad Celtis was right. What did he care