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duty.”
    His duty, then. It was his duty to trail Fust, like a hound, beyond St. Martin’s to the square they called the Leichhof, where the painters and the binders had their workshops. Peter’s duty, to feign courtesy at meeting this Klaus Pinzler, to marvel at his altarpieces and his scenes of noble revels painted on wood and glass. His duty, to wait as the fellow scraped and bowed and Peter gave a nod to show his brush would do. His duty and his torture to sit beside the men as they agreed on the contract, and to greet the wife and daughter as they sidled in and grinned. He watched his father ooze that bonhomie that greased the salesman’s path in life, and told himself that he would take the other way. He was Fust’s son, but not his slave. He stood as soon as it was seemly and made his excuses. The family rose as well; the daughter moved to open the low door. He noticed that her fingertips were blue, tipped still with the bright paint of some Madonna. He had a sudden, fleeting urge to wrap his hands around the slender throat; how like a beast a cornered man becomes. The hands he hid inside his cloak were hardened—almost deadened now. He would not stoop to show his father how that master had scarred him. The girl looked after him, pale, almond-eyed, without a trace of interest or pity. The last thing that he saw before he turned were three small blue-tipped fingers, disappearing as she slammed the door.

CHAPTER 4
     
    SPONHEIM ABBEY
     
             September 1485
    M Y DOUBTS were more than justified.”
    The abbot, busy writing, startles at the printer’s dry, sardonic tone. “What do you mean?” Trithemius lifts his head, and then his nib, his left hand cupped beneath.
    “You know yourself,” says Peter Schoeffer, “how little was achieved.”
    The world is flooded now with crude words crudely wrought, an overwhelming glut of pages pouring from the scores of presses springing up like mushrooms after rain. Churning out their smut and prophecy, the rantings of the anarchists and antichrists—the scholars of the classics are in uproar at how printing has defiled the book.
    “Not all is worthless, surely,” the young monk protests.
    Peter turns his face away. “Not all, but much,” he says.
    He feared it from the moment he set foot in that foul workshop—that this art hailed as sacred would instead prove a dark art. How glorious it might have been! How tawdry it was now, a vehicle for man’s base lust for fame and greed. The printer watches with a certain pity as the abbot tries to hide his shock. This is not the proud recounting that Trithemius expected.
    “You would go back, then, to the days of scribes?” The abbot bends toward him, his face intent. “My monks here copy scripture for six hours a day, when they are not at chapel or at work. I’m still convinced it is the only way to truly learn the sacred texts, and practice pious discipline and self-denial.
    “Communion with the Word of God, engraved indelibly on heart and mind—this is what I tell them.” His eyes are wide. “The press, for all its magic, has removed that vital link.”
    “Nor did it bring the liberation that it promised.” Peter holds his eyes a moment, and then smiles. “Still, no one has yet found a way to put a genie back into a bottle.”
    All these years later, Mainz is more a vassal than before. The products of her presses are all censored and the workers’ rights curtailed. The dream was gone: that with those metal letters they might lift up man from bigotry and want and greed, and raise him page by page toward heaven’s peace and plenty.
    “The press is used for lucre now, and that I lay at Gutenberg’s own feet.”
    “How so?”
    “He was the first to turn the art to commerce. He cheapened it; he would print anything so long as someone paid him.”
    “Anything?” The abbot gives him a strange look.
    “Pamphlets, screeds, decrees, whatever raised a fee.”
    “And you do not?” Trithemius controls