The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,88

himself. Johann awkwardly cleared his throat, and Archibaldus slammed shut the lid with a start.

“Um, I was just making sure the straw of Bethlehem was still there,” the old man gabbled. “I was afraid we’d left it behind in the rush.” His hair looked as wild as the day before, but his beard was noticeably shorter. Johann realized the straggly, Methuselah-like growth had been a fake.

“If I’m not mistaken, that’s the chest with the supplies,” Johann said, gesturing at the chest. “The one with the relics is over there.”

“Of course, you’re right, boy!” Archibaldus slapped one hand against his forehead. “I’m getting old and forgetful.” He squinted and looked more closely at Johann. “You’re the new fellow, aren’t you? Well, at least you’re older than Lukas.” He winked at him. “And smarter, from what I hear.”

“Who is Lukas?” asked Johann. He’d heard the name the day before but hadn’t asked about him.

“The question should be, Who was Lukas?” replied Archibaldus dryly. “One of the wagon wheels got the poor lad as we were rolling down a hill near Leipzig. His leg broke like a twig. I put a splint on it and treated it with a salve, but fever took him in less than a fortnight. He was only fifteen years young.” The old man suppressed a burp. “Shame about the boy. He was a good juggler. Knew a lot of tricks.”

“I’m sorry,” said Johann.

Archibaldus waved his hand dismissively. “That’s just life. We come and we go, and no one knows when his time will be up. I never thought the dear Lord would grant me this many years. Almost seventy now.” He gave a grin. “I was a dapper lad when I was your age. And I had a smart mouth on me. A traveling scholar who never turned away a girl, no matter how ugly.” He laughed loudly.

“Did you study?” asked Johann. He knew students often traveled from university to university, sometimes succumbing to drink and idleness and ending up as jugglers. Itinerant clergymen known as goliards also frequently joined the performing troupes.

“Oh yes, I come from a good family. Although you wouldn’t think so, looking at me now.”

Archibaldus had taken a seat on a bench along the side of the wagon, and now Johann joined him. The man’s clothing smelled of rancid fat, and his hair was full of nits.

Archibaldus shook his head as he continued. “My father was a wealthy merchant from Hamburg. The Stovenbrannts were once among the most powerful families there. I was the third-born son and supposed to study philosophy and medicine, and law, and ah! Theology, too.” He sighed deeply. “Let us speak of other things. I hear you’re a good trickster. Who taught you?”

“A . . . widely traveled man. Tonio del Moravia.”

Archibaldus frowned. “Tonio del Moravia? I feel like I’ve heard the name before. Hmm . . .” He paused. “A juggler, you say?”

“A chiromancer and astrologer,” said Johann, disliking the intent look Archibaldus was giving him.

“And did he teach you any of the arcane arts?” asked the old man.

“Just bits and pieces.” Johann suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Maybe it had been a mistake to mention Tonio’s name. Quickly, he changed the subject. “Are you a real alchemist?”

Archibaldus looked surprised. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, the golden tip on your staff . . .”

“Oh, that.” The old man laughed. “It’s just a little gold leaf. If you smear a little mud on it, you can’t see it. The rest is hocus-pocus.”

Johann grinned. “Hoc est enim corpus meum . . .”

“So you speak Latin. A learned trickster. Wonders never cease!” Archibaldus gave Johann a mischievous wink. “Or is that the only phrase you know?”

“Lingua latina sermo patrius meus est,” replied Johann in fluent Latin. “Deorum antiquorum modo colloqui amo. Homo Deus est.” The last sentence had just slipped out—and Tonio’s favorite phrase had a strange effect on Archibaldus: the man flinched as if Johann had struck him.

He gave Johann a long, hard look. “How do you know these words?”

Johann shrugged, rattled by Archibaldus’s gaze. “I guess I heard them somewhere.” He quickly changed the topic. “Emilio mentioned yesterday that it was thanks to you that the troupe has winter quarters in Venice. Is that true?”

“Hmm,” said the old man hesitantly. “It’s true. And it’s the only damn reason they’re letting me come. I know I’m a lousy alchemist and relic peddler these days. The straw from the crib of Bethlehem is moldy, and Archangel Gabriel’s wing feather is as tousled as