Cathedral

by Ben Hopkins

  God Damn them, but one cannot ignore them. They are, as they know only too well themselves, our Diocese’s breath and blood. Their wealth is increasing, one must concede, by dint of cunning and hard graft, by the building of networks that now spread to England, Flanders, Italy, even to Constantinople and the Holy Land itself. Hagenburg is a passing port in this spidery web of waterways, and our Merchants are the ambassadors who know the by-laws of its pathways of silk.

  I have been holding meetings with a small selection of them. The unctuously friendly Tollmaster Thieme Isenheim, whose work brings him into contact with all who dock at our city port. Wikerus the Grain Merchant, the senior trader of the town, slowly losing his wealth and status to the younger generation. And Grete Gerber, an attractive but insolent and ambitious woman who maybe should be pitied for being the wife of Manfred, epitome of all that is low and loathsome in the mercantile class.

  In my interviews with them, conducted out of the necessity to learn our rivals’ strategies and modus operandi, they have made it clear. They have thousands that they could contribute to the Diocese. But for this, they would want something in return. Power. To share Power with the Bishop and his ministeriales. To wield Influence over the workings of the Diocese.

  Distasteful and unacceptable as this request might be, it is most clear, and easy to understand. I cannot claim to like these Merchants, but I do comprehend them.

  Perplexing and alien to me, however, are the Jews. This peculiar people, scattered to the Four Winds, their Temple destroyed not merely once, but twice, persecuted and reviled wherever they go, believe stubbornly, and in the teeth of all the evidence, that they are the Chosen People of God.

  This might be easier to understand if one could familiarise oneself with their impenetrable customs, but they keep apart and to themselves. It seems they only have their occasional dealings with us Christians out of necessity, and even these exchanges appear somehow dirtying or shameful for them. One cannot escape the sense that they, from their lousy gutter, look down on us.

  Opinion of the Jews has not been much helped by recent revelations, posted from the Holy See to all the Bishops of Christendom by a certain Nicolas Donin, a convert from Judaism. One presumes that this former Jew knows whereof he speaks when he claims that the Jews’ Talmud contains terrible blasphemies, not least of which the assertion that Our Lord Jesus Christ is punished in the afterlife by being boiled in a vat of faeces.

  In the Kingdom of France, the horror of these revelations has led to trials of the Jews and their works, with Donin himself as the Chief Prosecutor. I am glad that here in Alsace this controversy has mainly gone unnoticed. For after all, do we not need our Jews?

  When I was a boy, most trade was carried out by barter and by the exchange of services, by mutual arrangements. Most of the tithes and taxes were paid in goods; in sheep, wool, wax, honey, wine, grain, in indenture of servants: my son will work in your Household three years, and you will charge me no tithe for five. These were the deals that were struck. Goods and labour, agreement and exchange.

  But now it is all Money. Tarnished pennies, clipped hellers, golden augustales stamped with Emperor Friedrich’s head, promissory notes, payments on account, reckoning coins and lettres de foire. And I must confess it is to my detriment that I have spent the first forty years of my life ignoring these two classes of people whose expertise is Money.

  Jews and Merchants. Merchants and Jews.

  † † †

  “I am the Bishop’s Treasurer, I have come to inspect your community’s tax payments.”

  I stand stooped under the lintel. It is the biggest, finest house in the Judengasse, but still its doorway is much too low for me. In the hallway, a beautiful dark-eyed Girl is looking askance at me. Hovering at her shoulder, a Boy with bright blond hair sticking sideways out of his cap like a scarecrow overstuffed with straw. “I’ll get him,” says the Boy. “No, I’ll get him,” says the Girl. They scuffle and struggle to be first up the stairs. “Yudl!” curses the Girl, “Leah!” curses the Boy, amongst words that I confess I do not understand.

  I turn to Hieronymus, who is, as usual, standing behind me like my shadow. “You will wait outside,” I say. He stutters his disagreement, “My Lord, are-are-are you certain? There there there could be . . . trickery.” I look levelly at my loyal, long-serving Clerk. “Hieronymus. I will be fine.”

  The boy, Yudl, has won the struggle. Leah returns to sulk in the shadows of the stairwell, emphatically flicking her broom at pointless dust. Yudl bows and gestures that he will lead me upstairs.

  I am admitted into the room on the first storey that serves as Rosheimer’s bureau. Everyone stands as I enter: the Rabbi, Rosheimer, and his Gentile assistant, Emmerich Schäffer, of whom much is said, but little known.

  I dislike Society, and always have. Awkwardness, Uncertainty, Humiliation. Wondering whether to bow, shake hands, give the Kiss of Peace? Who should sit first, to whom may one turn one’s back without giving offence? These questions are a plague. In my view, a universal series of Rules and Regulations should be written out by a Papal Clerk and the Proclamation hung in every public space so that forthwith no social uncertainty should ever arise.

  Emmerich bows and kisses my ring. This is “correct,” but in a Jew’s House it feels somehow inappropriate, and he does so with a nonchalance that verges on the insolent. Then he grins and waves his hand towards his two Jewish colleagues, announcing in a clarion voice “Herr Meir Rosheimer and Rabbi Menahem HaKohen Hirsch . . . the honourable Lord Canon Treasurer von Zabern!”

  The two Jews’ right hands twitch at their sides like suffocating fish, as if uncertain whether to raise them for a handshake. Of course, a Kiss is out of the question. I resolve the uncertainty by aiming a slight bow in the Rabbi’s direction. This is maybe more than I should have conceded to him, but Let It Be. The sooner this farce is over the better.

  The two Jews, seemingly grateful to me for taking the initiative, now bow, quite deeply and gravely, in my direction. “Please sit, My Lord,” says Rosheimer, gesturing to the chair behind me. It is hardly a throne or chair of honour. But it has four legs, and even a cushion. I sit in it, and the others follow, with the boy Yudl perching in an alcove by the doorway.

  The Rabbi’s hand now waves in the air in some kind of dismissive gesture. “Herr Rosheimer will answer all your questions,” he says, “I understand nothing of money.”

  It is as I have heard. The Rabbi of Hagenburg is a religious scholar of some renown, but of little worldly understanding. The community has its de facto leader in Rosheimer.

  The Rabbi speaks in a thick mid-Rhenish dialect, from Mayenz or Worms, but when Rosheimer speaks, it is in good Alsatian: “Welcome, My Lord Treasurer, would you like some wine or other refreshment?”

  “I thank you, no,” I reply, and go straight to the matter in hand. “How is Business, Herr Rosheimer?”

  “Thank you, My Lord, business is good, but has been better.”

  “In what wise has it been better?”

  “You will have heard of the piracy on the Rhine near Illingen?”

  “I have heard of it.”

  “Now seven cargoes and two ships have been lost there, and we have had goods on all of them. I’m glad you have opened up this subject.”

  “I wasn’t aware that I did. But please continue.”

  “We have information that these pirates may be holed up near the mouth of the Albe, on the edge of the land of the Count von Schwanenstein.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “We have written to the Count, asking him to deal with this problem, but he seems preoccupied with other matters, such as tournaments.”

  “That is regrettable, but it is his land, and he is master on it.”

  “The Count is also a Canon of your Cathedral.”

  The Rabbi, hearing this, snorts. Just about audibly. Rosheimer, undistracted, keeps
his eyes on me and continues; “Have you no influence over him?”

  Silence for a long moment. “No.”

  † † †

  His Grace Bishop Berthold is still dying, but his body, bruised and bloated, seems in no haste to give up the ghost. And so the question of his Succession, which, a few years past, seemed to be a smooth transition either to me or to the Archdeacon Heinrich von Stahlem, has gradually become a tiresome political struggle. Factions emerge, make their requests, join with other factions. Silent pacts are made between individuals and parties, plots are whispered in the chapterhouse corridors, and the two candidates are forced to woo the support of men like the Count von Schwanenstein, who by quirk of tradition is indeed a Canon of the Cathedral, despite living a life of sin and dissolution.

  In short, it is an unholy mess, and I am caught up in its centre. Bishop Berthold’s political Genius consisted in his insistence on never choosing sides, never clearly favouring the policies of the Pope or of the Emperor. Staying inscrutably Neutral. But now he is dying, the Diocese is beginning to splinter, crack and divide.

  My “faction,” which I did not choose, but who instead came to me, mainly comprises members of the older families of Alsace with property in the City and the surrounding estates. The opposing “faction” has centred around those families that the present Bishop, in his thirty years of rule, ennobled, promoted and patronised in the farther marches of Alsace. My faction, broadly speaking, holds its loyalty to the Staufen Emperor Friedrich, and the opposing faction, broadly speaking, to the Pope.

  When it comes to a vote, von Schwanenstein’s old Alsatian hand will swear its pledge to me. And so I do not want to trouble him with tales of pirates. He cares for only two things: his Wife, who tortures him, and his Hunting Dogs, who worship him. Until I am chosen Bishop, I am in the unenviable position of being at his, and my other supporters’, disposal. To retain their cooperation I must tread carefully around them, must flatter and delight them, and bring them gifts and perfumed tributes.

  It is all highly tedious.

  † † †

  Emmerich Schäffer leans forward, his unnerving grey eyes fix shamelessly on mine. “Surely the Bishop, as Lord of the City, should act to protect the City’s trade?”

  “His Grace is too ill to deal with such matters as pirates now.”

  Emmerich sighs. Rosheimer looks at his hands.

  “However, if I am elected Bishop, I will deal with the matter,” I say.

  They rally. “We hear that you are the Favourite to succeed!” says Rosheimer. “They say it is inevitable.”

  “And we hear you have been holding meeting with merchants, that you look favourably upon the world of Trade,” says Schäffer. “Is it true?”

  I look studyingly at this youngish man. Grey-blue eyes, stonier than his brother’s. The same straw-coloured hair, but elegantly brushed and ruled, not like Master Rettich’s tousled mop. A cocky cap, tilted at an insolent angle. A hood of Carelian sable that many a nobleman would envy. A cote such as lower grade merchants and salesmen wear, but trimmed with coloured silk. A mixed picture, piebald, hard to define.

  But knowingly so. Emmerich Schäffer is someone who is trying to be different from Everyone Else.

  “There is maybe some truth in what you say. I am . . . exploring possibilities . . . ” My words trail off. From the street outside I seem to hear the distracting sound of Hieronymus roaring like a wounded boar. My chair is by the window, and the shutters are half-open, so I stand to look.

  I find that the tonsured and black-robed Hieronymus has become a kind of Ogre figure for the Judengasse’s children. They gather around him, hiding behind hand carts and the trunk of a solitary linden tree, creeping closer and closer until . . . Hieronymus makes a terrifying face and utters a monstrous roar. Whereupon they scatter in childish terror and hide.

  I cannot help smiling. It is probably the most entertaining afternoon that Hieronymus has had for some time. Schäffer and Rosheimer, now also looking down into the street from their end of the room, smile too. For a brief moment we look at each other, united in mirth.

  Emmerich folds his long, lady-like hands. “Is Our Lord Treasurer maybe interested in other proposals that He might consider, should He have the good fortune to become Bishop?”

  My face indicates that I am listening.

  Emmerich speaks. “A sewerage system for Hagenburg. We will start by clearing the Rheintorgässel and digging drainage for that pestilent part of town, and then continue until all main streets within the city walls are provided for with running channels of water.”

  “The Diocese has no funds for such huge projects.”

  “Impose an excise tax such as they have in Cologne. Even a small one will raise substantial funds. We will match the Diocese’s expense on the sewer project one penny to the Diocese’s two.”

  “And who will carry out the building work?”

  “I will found a company to provide this service. With the Diocese, of course, as equal partner. The citizens will understand why they are being taxed. Clean streets, fresh air! Taxes are only burdensome if one cannot see the benefits of paying them. But here they will understand.”

  “Will they also understand that your clients the von Kronthal family, who own the Rheintorgässel, will make thousands out of this?”

  “How?”

  “By building new genteel properties where the shacks are now, and renting them?”

  Rosheimer and Emmerich exchange a brief look. Rosheimer smiles, shrugs his shoulders, raises his palms to heaven. It says: he’s seen through our plans, but who cares. “My Lord is very sharp-sighted. Herr Schäffer’s plan is beneficial both for the City in general, and for our Client Baron Volmar von Kronthal in particular. If the Diocese were also our Client, we would offer the same service to you.”

  “The Diocese cannot go into partnership with Jews.”

  “I am not a Jew,” says Emmerich, “and the Diocese’s dealings would be with me.”

  “Look over your young shoulders, Herr Schäffer, and one sees Meir Rosheimer. Do you have any other proposals?”

  Emmerich looks to Rosheimer, who briefly closes his eyes and his mouth, giving Schäffer the reins.

  “Invest the Diocese’s money with us. For Baron von Kronthal last year, we delivered a profit of nine per centum. An excellent return on investment. You may see the books if you like.” Emmerich’s delicate hands flutter towards a pile of ledgers at the corner of their Counting Table.

  He leans forward. There is zeal in his falcon-grey eyes.

  “We were so glad, My Lord, when we heard that you intended to visit us! We thought ‘at last.’ An opportunity. An opportunity to wed the capital of the Diocese to our success as lenders and investors. A truly auspicious match. Profitable for both of us, My Lord.”

  In truth, I must admit, I am interested. Terrible is the temptation to make money, to make money grow like grapes on a vine, to make Profits swell like rivers after rain. Why earn one’s bread in the sweat of one’s brow? Just pay for one loaf now and lie down in the shade and sleep and wait. Then wake up, rise up and go to the Baker. And there, waiting for you on the shelf: not just one loaf, but two.

  Who would not choose this easier path?

  And yet Usury is a Sin.

  Emmerich’s grey eyes are glittering gold in the autumn’s afternoon sun. Dust specks turn somersaults in the rising warmth. It looks like the Rabbi has fallen asleep. But I look again: his lips are moving, muttering some kind of soundless prayer.

  I look back at Emmerich. He nods slowly, taking my silence as a confession. He smiles warmly, seeing that I am interested, understanding that I cannot say so. Yet.

  His hand rises and he chews his little finger, deep in thought. Then an idea comes to him. “Half of business is information, My Lord Treasurer.”

  I nod. I know what he means. Foreknowledge is
Golden.

  “Here is some help I can provide for free. As a gesture of Goodwill.”

  He fixes his gaze on me. Pauses. Draws out the silence until, with anticipation, I can hardly breathe.

  “Have you heard what is happening in Rome?”

  ANNO

  1243

  FEAST OF FOOLS

  (ANNO 1243. MANFRED GERBER VI)

  It was the Jews who came to him. All smiles and talk of shared interests and mutual benefits. “We have information,” they said, “about the whereabouts of the river bandits.”

  “And where do you have this information from?” asks Manfred, who’s heating some soup on the little hearth in his Harbour warehouse. Just after Christmas. Cold, dark, the freezing arse-end of the year. The Harbour like a graveyard, empty boats bobbing on their tethers, even the Whorehouse silent.

  “That we cannot tell you, Herr Gerber,” says Rosheimer and holds up his shrugging hands.

  “A source we trust,” says Emmerich, as if that’s helpful.

  Manfred nods vaguely, grunts. “Well that’s reassuring.” They always have their secrets, the Jews. Their clever ways of knowing things. “And what do you want from me?”

  Rosheimer dusts his stool with his sleeve, sits down. “They’re on the Count von Schwanenstein’s land.”

  “Just,” qualifies Emmerich. “Right on the border.”

  “But he won’t do anything.”

  “And the Bishop can’t do anything,” continues Emmerich. “He’s on his deathbed.”

  “He’s always on his deathbed.”

  Schäffer moves closer to the fire, lifting his coattaile, warming his behind. “Exactly. We can’t wait. If Eugenius von Zabern becomes Bishop, then he would help us. But that could well take a while.”

  “That old crow? Help us? What makes you think that?”

  “Well, we have Information about that.” Once again, Rosheimer holds up his open palms. But don’t ask how.