The Tower of Fools

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  Like every town in Silesia, Świdnica threatened anybody who threw rubbish or sewage into the street with a fine. It didn’t look as though the ban was enforced all that often, however—if at all. A short but heavy morning shower had soaked the town’s narrow streets and the hooves of horses and oxen had quickly churned it up into a bog of shit, mud and straw. Piles of refuse rose up from the bog like enchanted isles from an ocean. Geese toddled over the muck where it was thicker and ducks swam in it where it was thinner. People moved along boardwalks made of wooden planks, often falling from them. Although allowing livestock to roam freely was also punishable with a fine, squealing pigs were scuttling down the streets in both directions, knocking down pedestrians and frightening horses.

  They passed down Weavers Street, then Coopers Street—which echoed with the sound of hammers—and finally the High Street, which led to the town square. Reynevan was itching to stop at the celebrated apothecary’s shop The Golden Lindworm, for he was friendly with the apothecary, Christoph Eschenloer, with whom he had once studied the basics of alchemy and white magic. But he abandoned his plan; the last three weeks had taught him much about the principles of clandestine activity. Furthermore, Scharley was hurrying him along. He didn’t even slow down beside any of the beer cellars where they served the world-famous Świdnica March ale. They moved quickly through the busy vegetable market under the arcades directly opposite the town hall and squeezed past the wagons filling Kraszewice Street.

  Reynevan and Samson followed Scharley under a low stone lintel into the dark tunnel of an entryway smelling as though the ancient tribes of the Ślężanie and the Dziadoszanie had been pissing there since time immemorial. The entryway exited into a courtyard, a narrow space cluttered with rubbish, scrap iron and enough cats to compete with the temple of the Egyptian goddess Bastet in Bubastis.

  The courtyard ended in a horseshoe-shaped cloister with a wooden sculpture bearing faint traces of centuries-old paint and gilding, standing beside the steep steps leading up to the entrance.

  “Some saint or other?”

  “Luke the Evangelist,” explained Scharley, setting foot on the wooden staircase. “The patron saint of painters.”

  “But why are we visiting these artists?”

  “For various items.”

  “We’re wasting time,” Reynevan pronounced impatiently, yearning for his beloved. “What items? I don’t understand—”

  “We’ll find you some new footwraps,” interrupted Scharley. “You’re in urgent need of some, believe me. And we’ll also breathe more freely when you get rid of the old ones.”

  Some cats reclining on the steps reluctantly moved out of their way. Scharley knocked and the solid door opened to reveal a short, scrawny, elderly gentleman with dishevelled hair and a blue nose, wearing a smock spattered with an explosion of colourful spots.

  “Master Justus Schottel is absent,” he announced, narrowing his eyes comically. “Come back later, good… My God! I don’t believe my own eyes! The honourable—”

  “Scharley,” the penitent quickly interjected. “Don’t make me stand on the threshold, Master Unger.”

  “Indeed, indeed… Do come in…”

  The interior smelled strongly of paint, linseed oil and resin and work was in full swing. Several youths in greasy, blackened aprons were bustling around two curious-looking machines equipped with screw mechanisms which turned out to be printing presses. In front of Reynevan’s eyes, a sheet of paper depicting the Madonna and the Infant Jesus was pulled out of a platen pressed down by a wooden screw.

  “Interesting,” said Reynevan.

  “Eh?” The blue-nosed Master Unger tore his gaze away from Samson Honey-Eater. “What’s that, young sir?”

  “I said, it’s interesting.”

  “Try this.” Scharley held up a sheet of paper taken from the other machine, on which several rectangles were evenly arranged. They were piquet cards: aces, Obers and Unters in modern French patterns and in the suits of piques and trèfles.

  “We can make a full pack of thirty-six cards in four days,” boasted Unger.

  “They do it in two in Leipzig,” replied Scharley.

  “But that’s mass-produced junk!” the blue-nosed man said irritably. “From third-rate woodcuts, painted slapdash, cut crookedly. Ours, just look, are so clearly drawn, they’ll be masterpieces when they’re coloured in. That’s why they play with ours in castles and palaces, and those Leipzig ones are only fit for drinking dens and brothels—”

  “Enough. How much does a pack cost?”

  “Ex works’ll cost you ninety groschen. Carriage is extra.”

  ‘Take us through to the back, Simon. I’ll wait for Master Schottel there.”

  The room they passed through next was quieter and more peaceful. Three artists were sitting at easels, so absorbed by their work they didn’t even turn their heads.

  There was only a sketch on the first artist’s board and it was impossible to guess what the painting would finally depict. The work of the second painter was considerably more advanced, showing Salome with John the Baptist’s head on a plate. Salome was wearing diaphanous, flowing robes, and the artist had taken pains to ensure all the details were clearly visible. Samson Honey-Eater snorted softly and Reynevan gasped. When he glanced at the third board, he gasped even louder.

  The painting of Saint Sebastian was almost finished. The subject differed quite markedly from the usual depictions of the martyr. He was still standing by a post, smiling ecstatically in spite of the many arrows piercing his belly and torso, but there the similarities ended. For this Sebastian was quite naked, sporting such a huge and impressive member that the sight of it would have shamed any man.

  “A special commission,” explained Simon Unger. “For the Cistercian convent in Trzebnica. Let me take you through to the back room, gentlemen.”

  The sound of frantic clanking and clattering reached their ears from nearby Coppersmiths Street.

  “They evidently have plenty of orders,” said Scharley, who had been busily writing something on a piece of paper. “Business is booming in the copper trade. How are you doing, Simon, dear?”

  “There’s a slump,” replied Unger quite gloomily. “Orders are coming in, but what’s the use when there’s no way of transporting the goods? You can’t ride a furlong without them stopping you to ask where you’re from, where you’re heading. They want to know your business, rummage around in caskets and saddle bags—”

  “Who? The Inquisition? Or Kolditz?”

  “Both. The Inquisitor-priests reside at the Dominican monastery, a stone’s throw from here, and it’s as if the Devil himself has got into Starosta Kolditz. And all because they once caught a few Czech emissaries with heretical writings and declarations. When the municipal torturer gave them the red-hot irons, they revealed the names of their associates and accomplices. In Świdnica alone, eight of them were burned at the stake on the common outside the Lower Gate. But the real trouble began a week ago, when at high noon on Saint Bartholomew the Apostle’s Day, someone murdered a wealthy merchant, Master Mikołaj Neumarkt, on the Wrocław Road. It was a strange affair, most strange—”

  “Strange?” Reynevan asked, suddenly taking an interest. “Why?”

  “Because, young sir, no one could understand who would have killed Master Neumarkt or why. Some said that it was robber knights, like Hayn of Czirne or Buko of Krossig. Others that it was that cut-throat Kunz Aulock. They say that Aulock is hunting all over Silesia some young blade or outlaw who dishonoured somebody’s wife with rape and sorcery. Others say that the young blade Aulock’s pursuing killed the merchant. And still others say that the murderers are Hussites with whom Master Neumarkt fell into disfavour. No one knows what really happened, but Starosta Kolditz is furious. He swore that when he catches Master Neumarkt’s killer, he’ll flay him alive. Hence, you can’t deliver any goods, because someone’s always searching you.”

  Reynevan, who for some time had been scribbling in charcoal on a
sheet of paper, suddenly jerked his head up and elbowed Samson Honey-Eater.

  “Publicus super omnes,” he said softly, showing him the sheet of paper. “Anne de sanctimonia. Positione hominis. Voluntas vitae.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Voluntas vitae. Or perhaps potestas vitae? I’m trying to recall what was written on that charred paper of Peterlin’s, the one I pulled out of the fire in Powojowice. Have you forgotten? You said it was important. I was supposed to try to recall what was written on it, so I’m trying to do so.”

  “Ah, indeed. Hmm… Potestas vitae? Alas, it means nothing to me.”

  “And Master Justus is still nowhere to be seen,” Unger said to himself.

  The door opened as though a spell had been uttered and an elderly gentleman stood in the doorway, dressed in a flowing black, fur-lined coat with very wide sleeves. He didn’t look like an artist. More like a burgermeister.

  “Greetings, Justus.”

  “By the bones of Saint Wolfgang! Paul? Is it you? At liberty?”

  “Evidently. And I’m called Scharley now.”

  “Scharley, hmm… And your… compagnoni?”

  “Also at liberty.”

  Master Schottel stroked a cat that had appeared from God knew where and was rubbing up against his calves. Then he sat down at the table and linked his fingers over his belly. He examined Reynevan intently, and then for a very, very long time didn’t tear his gaze from Samson Honey-Eater.

  “You’re here for the money,” he finally said mournfully. “I must warn you—”

  “That business is very slow.” Scharley cut him off unceremoniously. “I know. I’ve heard. Here’s a list I drew up when I grew bored of waiting for you. I need everything on it by tomorrow.”

  The cat jumped onto Schottel’s knee and the printmaker stroked it pensively. He read and read. And finally looked up.

  “The day after tomorrow. For tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “True, I’d forgotten.” Scharley nodded. “Oh well, we may as well celebrate the holiday. I don’t know when I’ll be in Świdnica again, so it’d be a sin not to visit a few cool cellars and sample this year’s March ale. But the day after tomorrow, maestro, means the day after tomorrow. Monday, not a day later. Understood?”

  A nod from Master Schottel showed he did.

  “I won’t ask you,” Scharley continued, “about the state of my account, because I neither intend to dissolve the company nor withdraw from it. Just assure me that you’re taking care of it. That you aren’t ignoring the good advice once given to you, or the ideas that could be lucrative for the company. You know of what I speak?”

  “I do.” Justus Schottel dug a large key out of his pouch. “And I’ll soon prove to you that I always take your ideas and advice to heart. Master Simon, please remove the sample engravings from the chest and bring them here. The ones from the biblical series.”

  Unger quickly did as he was told.

  “Here you are.” Schottel spread some sheets of paper on the table. “All my own efforts, I didn’t give them to the apprentices. Some are ready to be printed, others need work. I believe your idea was good and that people will buy our biblical series. There you go, judge for yourself. Gentlemen, if you would.”

  They all bent over the table.

  “What…?” Reynevan, red-faced, pointed to one of the sheets showing a naked couple in an extremely explicit position and situation. “What is this?”

  “Adam and Eve. Isn’t it obvious? Eve’s up against the Tree of Knowledge.”

  “Aha.”

  “And here, please look.” The woodcarver, full of pride in his work, directed them to another carving. “Moses and Hagar. And here’s Samson and Delilah, and Amnon and Tamar. I did a nice job, didn’t I? And here…”

  “ ’Pon my soul… What’s this tangle supposed to be?”

  “Jacob, Leah and Rachel.”

  “And this…” stammered Reynevan, feeling the blood about to burst from his cheeks.

  “David and Jonathan,” Justus Schottel said carelessly, “but I have to rework it—”

  “Rework it into David and Bathsheba,” Scharley interrupted quite coldly, “because all that’s missing here is Balaam and the she-ass. Curb your imagination a little, Justus. The surfeit of it spoils the work, like a surfeit of salt spoils the soup. Which harms business. In general, though,” he added, to mollify the somewhat offended artist, “bene, bene, benissime, maestro. In brief: better than I expected.”

  Justus Schottel brightened up, as vain and greedy for praise as any artist.

  “So you see, Scharley, that I don’t let the grass grow under my feet. I’m looking after the company. I’ve also established some very promising contacts that may turn out to be most beneficial for the company. For I must tell you that I met in the Ox and Lamb an extraordinary young man, a talented inventor… Oh, why tell you, when you can see and hear for yourself. I’ve invited him here—he’s arriving forthwith. I guarantee that when you meet him—”

  “I won’t,” interrupted Scharley. “I wouldn’t want that young fellow seeing me here at all. Neither me nor my companions.”

  “I understand,” Schottel said after a moment’s silence. “You’re in the shit again.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Criminal or political?”

  “Depends on your point of view.”

  “Oh well.” Schottel sighed. “Such are the times we live in. I understand you don’t want to be seen here, but in this case your objections are unfounded. The young man I’m talking about is a German from Mainz, a scholar from the University of Erfurt passing through Świdnica. He knows no one here and won’t meet anyone, because he’s leaving soon. It would be worth making his acquaintance, Scharley, and pondering over what he’s invented. He’s a remarkable, enlightened mind, a visionary, I’d say. Vir mirabilis, in sooth. See for yourself.”

  The bell of the parish church tolled deeply and resonantly, its call to the angelus prayer taken up by the bell towers of the four other Świdnica churches. The bells definitively ended the working day—even the noisy workshops in Coppersmiths Street finally fell silent.

  The artists and apprentices had also left Master Justus Schottel’s workshop to go home, hence when the expected guest finally appeared—that promising enlightened mind and visionary—only the master himself, Simon Unger, Scharley, Reynevan and Samson Honey-Eater greeted him in the press room.

  The guest was a young man indeed, the same age as Reynevan. The two scholars soon recognised one another. On greeting, the guest bowed slightly less formally to Reynevan and his smile was a little more sincere.

  The stranger was wearing high cordovan boots, a soft velvet beret and a short cloak over a leather jerkin fastened with numerous brass buckles. Slung from his shoulder was a large travelling bag. All in all, he resembled a wandering trouveur rather than a scholar—the only thing that indicated his university connections was a wide Nuremberg dagger, a weapon popular in all European academies, among both students and academic staff.

  Not waiting for Schottel to introduce him, the visitor began, “I am a bachelor of the University of Erfurt, and my name is Johannes Gensfleisch zur Laden zum Gutenberg. I know it’s a little overlong, which is why I usually shorten it to Gutenberg. Johannes Gutenberg.”

  “Greetings,” replied Scharley. “And owing to the fact that I also favour shortening needlessly long things, let us get to the point at once. What does your invention do, Master Johannes Gutenberg?”

  “It prints. To be more precise, it prints texts.”

  Scharley casually rummaged through the prints lying on the bench, took out and presented one, which, below the symbol of the Holy Trinity, bore the inscription: BENEDICITE POPULI DEO NOSTRO.

  Gutenberg blushed faintly. “I understand your point, m’lord, but please observe that it would take a cutter two laborious days of carving in order to include even this rather short inscription on your woodcut. And should he make a mistake with one letter, al
l the work is fit for nothing; he’d have to start over. And were he to make an engraving for, let’s say, the entire Sixty-Fifth Psalm, how long would he have to work? And if he wanted to print all the psalms? Or the entire Bible? How long—”

  “All eternity, for certain,” interrupted Scharley. “Your invention, my good sir, I imagine, eliminates the disadvantages of working in wood?”

  “To a considerable extent.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “If you permit, I shall demonstrate.”

  “Please do.”

  Johannes Gutenberg opened his bag, emptied the contents onto the table and began to demonstrate, describing his actions as he did so.

  “I made hard metal blocks inscribed with the various letters,” he said as he demonstrated. “The letters on the blocks are, as you can see, carved convexly, so I called them the patrix. By pressing the patrix into soft copper, I obtained—”

  “A matrix,” guessed Scharley. “It’s obvious. The convex one fits into the concave one like a papa into a mama. Go on, Master Gutenberg.”

  “I can use the art of casting to make as many casts in the concave matrix as I want to have fonts or typefaces,” the scholar went on. “Then I arrange the typefaces, whose blocks fit perfectly next to one another, in the right order in this frame. This frame is small, for demonstration purposes, but normally it would be as large as the page in the book which is being made. As you can see, I set the length of the line thus. I put in slugs to set even margins. I secure the frame with an iron clamp so it doesn’t fall apart. I apply ink, the same ink you use—would you help me, Master Unger? I put it under the press, place a sheet of paper on it—Master Unger, the screw… And it’s done, if you please.”

  At the exact centre of the sheet of paper, printed clearly and legibly, they saw:

  IUBILATE DEO OMNIS TERRA PSALMUM DICITE NOMINI EUIS

  “Psalm sixty-five.” Justus Schottel clapped his hands together. “Large as life!”