The Master's Apprentice, page 27
part #1 of Faust Series
The barge was full to the last spot, and the low railing was almost level with the water. Despite the danger of falling overboard, the passengers pushed to the front to get a better view of the magnificent palaces lining the waterfront. Each building had its own dock with colorfully painted posts. Wide arches led into inner courtyards, and elaborately designed balconies adorned the upper stories.
Johann, too, was standing at the front of the boat. Black gondolas slid past him like swift fish. The gondoliers, standing at the rear, steered their boats into the smaller canals using long poles. Their passengers were ladies clad in satin and damask embroidered with gold and men wearing wide berets adorned with pearls and other trinkets. This city was so magnificent that by comparison, thought Johann, Augsburg seemed to live in an earlier era.
“Apparently, all this used to be lots of small islands,” said Archibaldus, gesturing at the foggy waters in front of them, where Johann could make out several larger islands. “Over time, they grew together. The houses and even the lanes are resting on thousands of logs. But almost everything takes place on the water here.”
The large canal took a bend, and then they saw a steep wooden bridge with two cranes in the middle. Both banks of the canal were bustling with people, and the lanes were full of market stalls. Just as they were heading toward the bridge, a loud horn sounded. The barge with the jugglers and pilgrims slid to one side, and Johann watched as the cranes pulled up the center piece of the bridge. A large galley with masts as tall as trees sailed past them. Waves caused the barge to sway from side to side, and some of the pilgrims cried out in fear. The galley passed through the bridge and the center piece was lowered again.
“I think it’s better if we get off here,” said Archibaldus, who was surprisingly sober. “God knows what other ships want to pass through the Rialto Bridge. The Fondaco dei Tedeschi isn’t far from here.”
Some of the pilgrims had also decided to disembark. The troupe gathered their belongings, and Mustafa carried the two heavy crates with the relics. Loaded like mules, they followed Archibaldus through a tangle of lanes and alleyways. It took Johann a few moments before he realized what was so strange about this city: there were hardly any wagons or oxcarts. Everything was transported via the canals. The lanes were so narrow that the troupe struggled to make any progress among all the pedestrians, shouting peddlers, beggars, and colorfully clad patricians. Johann noticed that the buildings’ main entranceways always lay on the side of the water and included a small dock or pier, whereas the doors leading into the lanes were small and plain, more like servants’ entrances. Archibaldus was right: life did take place on the water here, not on the land.
After a while they came to a building several stories high, with noise and shouting coming from inside. Johann could make out bits of German. An open gate led to a courtyard where many tables had been set up. Bales and crates were stacked up in front of the arcades surrounding the courtyard, and men wearing the bright garb of wealthy merchants walked around. Abaci and inkwells stood on the tables; pale-faced scribes sat hunched over documents bearing seals or entered numbers into lists.
Archibaldus grinned and pointed toward the courtyard. “The Fondaco dei Tedeschi. No other trading post in Venice is as busy as this one. The Germans are veritable penny-pinchers—especially the Swabians.” He rubbed his hands. “Now let’s go and see if the name Stovenbrannt still counts for anything in this city. Follow me.”
He was about to walk into the courtyard when two broad-shouldered men wearing the typical jerkins and slit trousers of German soldiers blocked his way.
“No begging in here, old man,” barked one of them in German. “Capisci? Qui non si mendica!”
“Dear gentlemen, I’m not here to beg but to speak with the German representative,” replied Archibaldus as gracefully as possible, brushing a strand of tangled gray hair from his face. “Please tell him Archibaldus Stovenbrannt has returned after many years.”
“Stovenbrannt?” The fatter of the two guards scratched his head. “Never heard of that name.”
“Better not say that to the German representative,” Archibaldus said sternly. “The Stovenbrannts used to sell nearly as much cloth in this town as those nouveau riche Welsers and Fuggers. Now off you go—we’re expected.”
The guard hesitated, clearly wondering whether he was looking at a drunk, confused old man or an influential merchant who could get him in a lot of trouble. Finally, he reached a decision.
“Wait here,” he muttered.
He walked over to the arcades while the other guard continued to watch the colorful troupe in silence. After a short while, an obese man of around fifty wearing a beret and a fur-lined coat walked toward them. In his hand he carried his staff of office, which designated him as the German merchants’ representative in Venice. When he saw the jugglers at the gate, his face darkened.
“You dragged me out of a business meeting for these jokers?” he snarled at the guard. “Throw them out and—”
“My dear Rieverschmitt,” said Archibaldus, spreading his arms with a smile. “Don’t you recognize old Archibaldus?”
The merchant frowned. “I can’t say I—”
“Archibaldus Stovenbrannt. Remember?” Archibaldus pulled out his crumpled document and handed it to Rieverschmitt. “Perhaps this’ll jog your memory.”
The merchant skimmed through the brief letter, and his face broke into a strained smile. “Look at that, Hans Stovenbrannt’s uncle. I do remember now, though it’s been a long time. I was a young man then, and you were visiting your nephew in Hamburg. You . . .” He paused. “You studied for many years, they say.”
Archibaldus gave a shrug. “No need to beat around the bush. I decided on a different career from the rest of my family. What you’re reading there is a letter of recommendation for me and this exceptional troupe of jugglers I’m traveling with.” He gestured at Johann and the others behind him. “You do need jugglers over the winter, don’t you? The days are gray and boring, and if you want to close a lucrative deal, you first want to get your business partner in the right mood.”
“It’s true, we could do with a few jugglers, but . . .” Rieverschmitt eyed Johann and the rest of the troupe. He didn’t seem particularly impressed. “Two young boys—juggling acts, I take it—and a huge Moor. And who’s at the back?”
Until then, Salome had hidden her face behind a veil. Now she lowered it and took a step forward. The merchant gave a whistle and licked his lips. “By God, does this beauty have a price? I know a wealthy Venetian patrician who’d—”
Mustafa stepped forward and glowered at Rieverschmitt as if the man had just blasphemed against God and all the saints at once. The merchant sensed he’d made a mistake. “Well, I only thought—”
“Great, then we’re all agreed,” Johann said and positioned himself next to Archibaldus. “What about accommodation?”
“Um, well, you can’t stay here at the Fondaco—not as jugglers,” Rieverschmitt replied, his eyes still glued to Salome. “But many Germans stay at the Flute Inn. It’s not far from here. Just tell them Rieverschmitt sent you.”
“The Flute?” Salome smiled and gazed deep into Rieverschmitt’s eyes. “I like to play the flute, signore. A fitting place for jugglers. I’m sure we’ll get free meals and lodging there, right?”
“We . . . we can talk about that,” said Rieverschmitt, squirming. “Best you move into your rooms first, and then come back and show me what you can do.”
“We will,” said Johann confidently. “You won’t be disappointed, Master Rieverschmitt. Johann Faustus’s Fabulous Troupe is the best troupe of jugglers you’ll find in the entire German empire.”
Johann Faustus’s Fabulous Troupe . . .
Johann repeated in his mind the name he’d just come up with. It seemed to strike the right note, because Rieverschmitt grinned.
“Faustus, the lucky one? Well, we can always use a bit of luck at the countinghouse. I’m expecting you back in an hour for your first show.”
As promised, they performed at the Fondaco later that afternoon. Rieverschmitt seemed happy enough, but Johann got the impression that the trade representative was mainly interested in Salome. She danced her seductive veil dance to a queer melody played by Emilio on his wheel-fiddle. Mustafa tore a massive chain apart and flexed his muscles, and Johann performed magic tricks, causing the merchants watching to gasp and laugh. Archibaldus appeared to be of the opinion that he’d fulfilled his part of the day’s work by talking to Rieverschmitt, and he retreated beneath the arcades with a jug of wine. The others found him passed out behind some bales of cloth later. Johann wasn’t particularly upset that Archibaldus hadn’t been part of this important performance.
Johann agreed to Rieverschmitt’s request that over the winter they give two small performances a day—one in the morning and one in the afternoon—to keep the German traders entertained. They received free board and lodging at the Flute Inn, and Johann even managed to negotiate a small sum the Fondaco would pay them each week. It wasn’t much, but enough to make their winter much more pleasurable than if they’d had to spend it north of the Alps, where it was probably snowing by now.
But even in Venice, November was cool. A thick fog covered the city, and the troupe’s clothes were always damp, no matter how many times they dried them before the fire. Johann roamed through the lanes, shivering, watching the black gondolas as they appeared from the mist and vanished again. In Saint Mark’s Square, the large piazza, stood the biggest, most magnificent church Johann had ever seen. It was dominated by five domes that gave the building a fairy-tale quality—like a castle from the stories his mother used to tell him. A huge tower stood in front of the structure, and right next to it was the Palazzo Ducale, where the Venetian doge ruled over the republic.
Archibaldus had explained to Johann that Venice was ruled by a powerful council of patricians led by the doge. The patricians acted like small kings. They never strutted through the city without at least a page boy by their side, if not also a Moor serving as their slave. The high and mighty kept those poor people as if they were pets.
Even more than in Augsburg, pomp and misery, wealth and poverty lived side by side here. Ladies with hair bleached with lemon juice, wearing expensive silks and high platform shoes, tottered past gaunt, hungry street urchins and condemned men who were tortured publicly beneath the arcades of the doge’s palace. There was an entire street dedicated to the manufacture of extremely precious mirrors, while a few streets down people were dying in the gutter.
Exploring the city helped Johann clear his head and gave him time to think. After just a few days, the troupe had accepted him as their new leader, along with their new name. No one asked where the Latin word faustus came from. In Venice, they acted more as court jesters than as jugglers performing set shows; they’d exhibit a magic trick here and do a bit of juggling over there. On good days, they even sold a few bottles of the overpriced theriac Archibaldus brewed from cheap liquor and herbs. The magister touted it as an astonishing miracle tincture and didn’t mind trying it out on himself. But the relics stayed in their chests; the troupe didn’t want to risk getting in trouble with the Venetian authorities. Venice boasted plenty of relics of its own in its many churches.
Everything was going as well as it could, and yet Johann felt restless. Venice had been his goal, the star he’d followed ever since leaving Tonio. But now he realized that this city was just another station in his colorful life. And he didn’t know how to handle Salome. He felt jealousy creeping up in him whenever men gaped at her as she swayed her hips to Emilio’s music.
“I don’t think you have to dance quite so salaciously,” he told Salome one evening, following their show at the Fondaco. “One day some drunk will drag you behind the cloth bales.”
“Maybe I want to be dragged behind the bales,” Salome replied coldly. “Always remember: you don’t own me, little wolf.”
To take his mind off Salome, Johann continued his lessons with Archibaldus. He worked hard, getting up before sunrise to practice arithmetic or check the grammar in his writings. When Archibaldus quizzed him at lunchtime, the old man would sometimes pause and gaze at him thoughtfully.
“You’re quick, Johann,” he’d say, stroking his louse-ridden beard. “Almost frightfully quick. The devil knows how you do it.”
Johann grinned. “I’m only at the start. Do you happen to know Greek?”
Archibaldus groaned. “A little. But I need a fresh jug of wine for that. Be so kind and fetch one, will you?”
The Fondaco grew quiet in December. The alpine passes were blocked by snow and ice, and no more German traders arrived in Venice. Instead, Rieverschmitt frequently received Venetian guests who were interested in German linen, salt, beeswax, silver, and amber. Often they’d feast together late into the night on wine, dried fish, and roast meat. The Venetians ate their food with three-pronged forks—an item that was still considered a tool of the devil north of the Alps. Johann thought it was quite practical for keeping one’s hands clean.
One particularly cold afternoon, when fires were lit in iron baskets throughout the Fondaco, Rieverschmitt pulled Johann aside.
“We’re expecting very important visitors this evening,” he said. “Several gentlemen from the signoria are coming tonight. I want you to put on your best show. It is crucial the councilors are well entertained.”
“The signoria?” Johann frowned. “What’s that supposed to be?”
Rieverschmitt laughed. “You might as well ask who is the king of the Germans! The signoria is the elite council, the most powerful panel in Venice. The doge is elected from their ranks, and they decide the city’s politics. Those councilors are more powerful than many dukes and monarchs. And they are shrewd businessmen.” He grinned. “This evening could mean a lot of money for the Fondaco.”
Johann nodded. “You can count on us. Johann Faustus’s renowned fabulous troupe of jugglers will put on a spectacular show for the mighty gentlemen.”
Shortly after dusk, Emilio and Johann juggled burning torches on the quay as the Venetians arrived in their gondolas. Afterward, Salome danced her veil dance and let Mustafa toss her high into the air. Together they balanced on thin ropes suspended above the courtyard and performed cartwheels, and Mustafa swallowed three burning torches thrown to him by Emilio—a feat they’d learned only since their arrival in Venice. Johann had left Archibaldus at the inn with a jug of wine. He didn’t want to risk the old man spoiling their show in a drunken stupor.
Like so many times before, one of the highlights was Johann’s trick with the egg. He’d selected one of the Venetian councilors for the purpose, a pale older gentleman in a black coat. The man wore dark eye glasses that stayed on his nose with the aid of wires that hooked around the ears, giving him the appearance of a large insect or a snake. Johann had heard of such vision aids but never seen any before, which was probably why his attention had fallen on the tall signore.
The egg appeared in an inside pocket of the old man’s coat, and the audience clapped as the man extracted it with the tips of his index finger and thumb. The pale patrician seemed surprised for a moment, but then he gave a mocking smile. He pulled out a sharp dagger, pierced a hole in the egg, and sucked it empty. Johann was reminded of a hissing black snake.
After the show, while Johann sat a little off to the side, enjoying a hot cup of mulled wine, the man approached him. Johann quickly put the cup aside and bowed low. He hoped the patrician wouldn’t punish Johann for making a fool of him in front of all the others. But the man was smiling. He sported a pointed beard and bushy black eyebrows, and his face looked as white as if he’d painted it with chalk.
“Not a bad trick, young man,” said the Venetian. He spoke quietly; his voice was a little hoarse. His German had a soft, exotic accent that seemed strangely familiar to Johann, somehow. “How did you know I like eggs?”
Johann grinned. Evidently, the man bore him no ill will. “You forget I’m a magician,” he said with a wink. “And most people like eggs, don’t they? Eggs are highly symbolic and play a role in many Christian customs.”
“You’re right, of course.” The man gave a quiet laugh. Johann had the feeling that behind the eye glasses the patrician studied him with great interest. “Eggs contain life in its purest form. When we eat them, we eat life—we practically drink it in. A lovely thought, I believe.”
The patrician gave a thin smile, and Johann thought once more that he looked like an old snake. “You seem to know a lot for a simple juggler,” the man said after a few moments. “Or are you perhaps a traveling scholar? A monastery student who ran away from his abbot?” He smiled again. “Or from someone else, perhaps?”
“I . . . I have studied a little,” replied Johann, proud that the man thought he was a student. “And I speak a little Latin and Greek.”
“Indeed?” The patrician adjusted his glasses and eyed Johann intently. “Quemadmodum omnium rerum, sic litterarum quoque intemperantia laboramus,” he said.
“Non vitae sed scholae discimus,” replied Johann, happy because he’d understood the man’s test. It was a famous quotation by Seneca, which Archibaldus had taught him not long ago. “Si tibi libet colloqui in hoc modo: homo Deus est,” he added.
The last phrase had come out before he knew he was saying it. Johann remembered that Archibaldus had advised him not to utter it in public. And indeed, the patrician raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to one side. Johann suddenly felt he was being scrutinized, like a mouse sitting petrified before a snake.
“How do you know this phrase?” asked the man. “Man is God. Don’t you know that the church forbids such talk?”
“Oh, I . . . I didn’t realize . . . ,” stammered Johann. He cursed himself for failing to keep his mouth shut. At least now he knew why Archibaldus had warned him: it seemed those words were proof of heresy. There were bound to be severe inquisitors in Venice following up every account of blasphemy. “I . . . I must have heard it somewhere,” he said, trying to get himself out of the situation.
