Gutenberg's Apprentice Read online

  “Herr Fust.” A sharp, planed face, dark probing eyes that did not look entirely pleased. “I might have known it would be you.”

  “I would have sent you word—but my impatience was too great.”

  Gutenberg just grunted and looked out behind them, peering with suspicion up and down the lane. He waved them in beneath one arm. “Patience is for fools and saints.” He slid the heavy bolt and turned to face them. Strangely for a man of his high caste, he wore a long, dark twisted beard.

  “This is the son I spoke of.” Fust nudged Peter forward.

  A ripple underneath the skin pulled the man’s lips into a grimace. “I don’t see much resemblance.” His eyes raked Peter. “He has a name, this gifted scribe?”

  “Peter Schoeffer. Sir.” He bowed his head. Already he knew how it would go. He’d been apprenticed twice before, the lowest of the low.

  “I’d offer you a drink—but where the devil is Lorenz?” The master of the house looked around testily. “I’m in the thick of it, I can’t—” He broke off then and smacked his forehead with his hand. “Forgive me,” he said, giving Fust a rueful smile. “Of course—I quite forgot that you might call. It’s second nature now, to keep stray eyeballs out.”

  Yet they were hardly strays. If Peter understood it right, his father was this madman’s financier.

  “I thought it time that Peter saw your new technique,” his father said.

  Instantly, the man’s sharp face was inches from his own. Up close his eyes weren’t black, as they had first appeared, but brown and flecked with topaz. His hair was wild and bristling to his shoulders, and his beard cascaded from his chin down his whole chest, glinting here and there like twists of wire.

  “You’ll swear to keep it secret first. Upon your life.” The breath that sprayed on Peter’s face was rank.

  “I swear,” he muttered, and at that, this Johann Gensfleisch, known as Gutenberg, spun quickly and began to lope down a dim hall. They followed through a door and out into a courtyard where, half blinded, Peter saw the dark shape turn once more and bark, “Your life!” before it yanked the heavy stable door.

  Heat and noise hit them first. A searing darkness, stoked by fire, a throbbing clatter: battering of mallets on metal, the duller thud of wood on wood. As Peter’s eyes adjusted he could see that just three men caused all this din. A red-haired giant stood beside a weird contraption made of wood; in the far corner two other men were silhouettes before the orange glow of a hot forge.

  “Impressoria.” The master of the place stretched out his arm. “Printing. Though the word alone does not begin to do it justice.” Inside his workshop his face had come alive with a fierce pride. “It’s more a system like a watercourse, a clock—a series of precise and interlocking parts.” His right arm scooped the whole thing toward him. “I had to devise each bloody part—each tool, each instrument, each wretched motion of each lousy hand—and make the whole thing mesh.”

  He led them toward the fire, into a smoke so foul and so astringent that he tossed them cloths to cover up their mouths and noses. “Hans and Keffer make the metal.” Four reddened eyes surveyed them above filthy scarves. The master turned to Peter, eyes like those of some demented barber-surgeon. “I hope to hell that you can smelt.”

  God, no. The hissing of the coals and acrid fumes had plunged him instantly back in that filthy corner of his uncle’s shop where he had sweated and endured. Alongside any number of poor grunts, his cousin and a clown named Keffer, too—if this staring swaddled face was he, and not some brother or cousin. The bloodshot eyes gave off no clue.

  “All Fusts were raised up at the forge,” Fust slid in before Peter could respond.

  Gutenberg gave a brusque nod. “We cast the letters in reverse until we’ve got enough to set ’em into lines.” He jerked his wild head toward his financier. “You see now why I started small.”

  From there they lined the letters into pages, covered them with ink, and gave them to the pressman, he went on. The ginger giant promptly straightened when the master strode toward him. “You need a mountain bear like Konrad here to heave the bar.” This bar was a long handle jutting from a wooden platform that looked strangely like the presses they erected in the vineyards for the harvest. Peter walked around it, studying its parts. There was a long and narrow tabletop the size of a small coffin; over this a kind of wooden gallows rose. Through its topmost bar was threaded not a noose but a huge wooden screw, from which was dangling, just above the tabletop, a massive wooden block.

  “My press,” said Gutenberg. He stood there for an instant, fiddling with his beard, watching their eyes. The man called Konrad slathered a black paste onto a block of metal that on closer view was seen to be a half dozen lines of letters, bound securely with a length of twine. He laid a sheet of paper over these, and then a light wood frame containing a stretched length of vellum. He grunted as he shoved the whole tray underneath the dangling block. Fust winked, and Peter finally exhaled. He’d been holding his breath since he’d first stepped into that pit.

  Konrad grabbed the lever and yanked it full across the press. This action dropped the heavy weight onto the tray. There was a thud, and then a crashing, grinding sound; Peter felt the impact in his bowels. The process was repeated in reverse; the master spat into his hands and wiped them clean, then took the paper as the pressman peeled it from the letters. He frowned, mouth working; Peter peered over his shoulder as he turned. The text was clearly crooked. “Blind buggers,” Gutenberg muttered as he strode toward the workbench by the forge. Peter and Fust, forgotten, trailed behind. Despite himself, the scribe felt a stir of interest.

  Amid a mess of crucibles and cupels on the bench stood a wooden box, and next to this a row of long brass letter punches. These were the same as those used by bookbinders to press letters into leather spines. Square-cast metal hunks were scattered randomly around.

  “We use a mold.” Gutenberg stalked past the table. “An idiot could do it. Show them, Hans.” He went on toward the window and left them waiting for the older man. The smith plucked up a piece of metal, held it out to Peter between burned, misshapen nails. He was a wizened thing, all bent and brown. “I hear you know some’at of scripts,” he said, his eyes so hooded they were hardly more than slits. Peter nodded as he took it, weighed its heft: as thick as his own index finger, and roughly half as long. It bore the letter a, protruding in relief upon its tip, and had been cast out of some dense silver metal. He jiggled it and frowned.

  “We cast ’em in the box.” The old smith gestured at the flat, hinged casket. A basic mold, like those that Peter’d seen in Uncle Jakob’s shop—filled with fine sand that held an object’s shape for a brief time. Jewelers used them to make brooches, ring heads, and seals that later they would fix to pins or bands. And now they used them to make letters out of metal.

  Peter went around the bench and saw more letters—dozens, scores, all dully gleaming. A pile of a’s and u’s and m’s, each one identical. He blanched and crossed his arms to hide his hands, afraid that they might tremble. He felt a dizziness, as if the ground had dropped away. Noise battered at his ears: he heard the furnace roar, the crude press crash, as if to rend in two the very fabric of the world.

  Gutenberg was standing in the mottled light of a small, dirty window, holding up the freshly printed sheet. Fust prodded Peter, and they gingerly approached. The man was frowning, fingers twisting at his lower lip. Though weak, the sun’s rays lit up every smear and imperfection. “Blind me,” he repeated, shaking his strange, hoary head, scowling as the two of them approached.

  Suddenly there was a gleam in his dark eyes. “You.” His head jerked. “You there, young scribe.” A thin, cruel smile flickered. “Let’s see what you advise.”

  Peter saw the smiths exchange a sidelong look. He took the paper sheet. The ink gave off a sweetish smell; he felt the strange raised welts the press had left on its reverse. He took a breath, willed his hands still, and held it up to focus on the printed lines.

/>   Which should he say—the truth or polite falsehood? He felt his father shifting at his side. He dipped the paper slightly, looked the bastard in the eyes. “Not bad. The letterforms are strong. Though I would say a bit too rounded.” He was a master scribe—he would not hide. “A thinner form, with finer spurs, might be more pleasing.”

  “Not bad!” The master’s laugh was caustic. He looked with hard, forced mirth around the room. “We forge these bloody letters in a metal he has never seen, and all that he can say is it’s not bad!” When those dark eyes returned to Peter’s face, he felt his neck hairs raise.

  “What else then, boy?”

  “I did not come here to find fault.”

  “Why not? If it’s your trade?”

  All guilds put trainees on the spot. The goldsmiths made up coins as false as any the dishonest man might pass. The jewelers gave them gemstones made of paste that shattered underneath their knives. Peter glanced at Fust; his father gave the barest nod. Warily he raised the sheet again. He let his eyes unfix, groping with his inner vision for the larger, more aesthetic shape. The whole displayed a lumpiness, a lack of grace.

  “The ink is pale in parts, too dark in others.”

  “Exactly right.” The master snatched it back. “It is a Calvary, God knows, to file and plane each bugger so it stands at the same height.”

  He’d passed. Peter felt a little stab of pride—then horror. For from the workbench he could hear the loudest silence. He cast a smile, apologetic, toward the smiths. Too late: they both looked sour. Keffer—it was Heinrich Keffer, after all, all grown up now and burly—scratched his yellow beard and raised one eyebrow. The old one, Hans, was scowling. Peter’s stomach turned. He looked back at their master, staring at the sheet still, mouth drawn down. What kind of man was this—what kind of master?—who treated his own men no better than a pair of senseless tools?

  His father’s voice came low in Peter’s ear. “I’d be obliged if you would come. We’ve still some business to discuss.” And so they left the shed and trooped into a little room in the main house that Peter took to be the master’s study. The hearth was piled with ashes from the winter past; heaps of paper on the table had been shoved aside to make room for plates. The room was chill, the furnishings unvarnished and crude.

  “You see how I have spent it all,” their host said, waving carelessly about. Indeed, the home hardly seemed to be one of means. Yet they ate well and drank a quantity of Spätburgunder. Perhaps what lacked was just a woman’s touch, Peter thought with a little nod to Grede. There seemed to be no wife nor kin: Frau Beildeck, wife of the manservant, was as rough and chapped as any fishwife.

  “I was rich once.” Their host was more expansive once he’d downed a jug or two. “But as you see, I spent it all—and more I’ve begged from here and there these thirty years.” He turned amused, sharp eyes on Peter. “I’d plundered all my kin before your father came—some more than once—to carry on this work.”

  “It is an honor,” Fust said, “to be sure.” He took a square of linen from his vest and blotted at his lips. The only question in his mind, he said, was which book they should print first.

  “I’m sure the scribe has some idea.” The master’s tone, though dry, was far less cutting than before. He drained his cup and slapped it down. “The training fee is ten guilders every annum.”

  Johann Fust—smoothly, oh so smoothly—smiled. If he was startled, he did not let on. He only chuckled. “You wouldn’t ask for payment now, Herr Gensfleisch? Not after everything I’ve lent?”

  “Gutenberg. I go by Gutenberg.” The printer glowered, started speaking once or twice, thought better of it. Finally it burst out. “You moneymen! You’re all alike. There’s nothing you won’t trade or give a price. Yet if a poor man tries to sell his skill, you balk.” He spread his hands in a queer parody of supplication. “You seem to think a man should give up his life’s work for nothing.”

  “Eight hundred guilders are not nothing.”

  Peter struggled to control his shock. Eight hundred guilders! Holy Christ. The sum was staggering, enormous even for a man of Fust’s ambitions. Enough to buy eight houses or several farms. He felt the blood drain from his face.

  “I don’t have time to waste in holding hands.”

  “Those hands are worth more than you think.”

  Peter watched those two face off across the battered table, moving not a muscle as they tossed his life between them. He should have stood and walked away. But he could not; his duty bound him hand and foot.

  “You’ve not advanced the whole.” The printer’s voice was querulous. “I need the rest for metal and equipment.”

  “You’ll get it when the contract’s drawn, as soon as I can raise it all myself.” For all his wealth, Fust didn’t have that kind of ready gold. He financed major outlays from the Lombard or some Jews in Frankfurt. “In counterpart,” his father said, “you’ll train my son, and pledge the instruments you make as guarantee.”

  “I don’t impart my knowledge on the cheap.”

  “It is my wish that Peter learn this art.”

  Gutenberg looked sharply at Peter, then returned his deep-set gaze to Fust. “I already said the whole thing’s much too tight.”

  “The Latin grammar will sell well. And once we’ve picked the book to print you’ll find and charge apprentices, as many as you please.”

  The silence hung like something breathing in the room. It pressed against the cobwebbed rafters, slithered down the blank gray walls. Peter stifled a cry for his old life—for feathers flashing, all the whirling on the place de la Sorbonne. Was this why God had raised him up? So He could fling him back into the muck from whence he’d come? He clenched his fists to stop the pricking in his eyes.

  “One thing.” Gutenberg had risen. “If there must be a contract, I will have your pledge.” His eyes bored into each in turn. “Everything I teach remains within these walls.” He scowled and threw his sharp, impatient gaze about the room; when he reached out and seized a crucifix that hung above a desk, they understood. Peter laid his hands on it and swore to tell no man the art and manner of the work; he pledged his honor in the eyes of God.

  It felt exactly as if he’d been inducted, blindfolded, into some black and cabbalistic brotherhood.

  CHAPTER 2

  MAINZ

  September–October 1450

  THUS BEGAN his apprenticeship.

  The day he started, he rose before dawn. His feet propelled him out and up and down the silent lanes of Mainz, shrunk now to just six thousand souls—less of a proud free city than a crumbling town.

  When he’d first come here, Mainz glittered. Peter still remembered how the dukes of Katzenelnbogen raced their sledges, banners flying, through the icy streets around the market square. Golden Mainz, they used to call her, a city with more gold- and silversmiths than any other in the empire. But then the workers dared to claim a piece of all that wealth, and the ruling class cried foul.

  More than once, and over many generations, the guildsmen had risen up in desperation, but were always beaten back. This time they’d won the council fair and square, and so the punishment exceeded all the times before. Most of the Elder clans had withdrawn to their country homes, his father said, incensed at being told to pay their share of taxes. The work fled with them, starving all the local craftsmen—but this was not the worst, to Fust. Archbishop Dietrich’s ban also throttled the river trade, cutting off the long-distance merchants. Mainz was besieged not from without but from within; she was a stunted place, sealed from the world.

  A candle flickered lonely in the sacristy of the cathedral as Peter passed. The ban had muzzled all St. Martin’s bells and chained its iron grille. The market square was darkened at its edges by prone bodies that he took at first for rags. Along the lane before the house of the Franciscans, he was forced to pull his cloak up to his nose. The wine the friars poured just puddled afterward as vomit spewed by idle workers seeking comfort in their courtyard. Peter turne
d his feet away and sought the ramparts, yearning for fresh air. Each of the city’s gates—the Iron, Wood, and Fish, the others doubtless too—was posted with a man from the archbishop’s guard. They eyed him coldly as he hurried past. The little stair was crumbling; the wall was in sore need of repair. Once there had been a dozen constables patrolling in rotation, shoring up the city’s main defense.

  A streak of yellow like ripe flax began to tip the eastern hills. He stood chest-high against the battlement, surveyed the river and the farther bank, the faint trace of the road that led to Frankfurt. A snail’s track from this distance, it was deadly nonetheless: infested with the desperate and thieving, men who did not pause to ask your name before they emptied out your innards. Even when they could set out, the merchants moved in guarded convoys. They’d heard about, or seen themselves, the Dutchman who’d refused to pay, whose hands and head were staked out at the junction, one leg set toward Trier, the other one toward Worms.

  Behind Peter to the west were roads that led to Luxembourg and Burgundy and France—but these too were now barred. The whole archdiocese was shut to any man of Mainz until the city scraped up the interest for the Elders and their bankers. The facts of the dispute were plain and brutal. For centuries the ruling class had run the city like their private bank. They’d lent the council sums they then repaid themselves at crushing rates of interest. These bonds they then bequeathed to their own spawn, in perpetuity. Thus was the city fated to insolvency, like half of the free cities in the Reich. Each time the treasury was bare, Archbishop Dietrich would step in, prop up that rotting edifice, enact some other tax that only workingmen and merchants had to bear. But not this time—the riffraff claimed to rule. So cry away, the Elders sneered; there’s no one else to blame. The council was to pay the debt, or else dissolve. Dietrich proposed to pay the loans if Mainz would hand him back the reins. His message was plain: stay in your place.