“And by the force of faith. Hence the hints we have been giving the Christian monarchs. Our recent publications are there to remind them that David, Solomon and Alexander owed their power not to priests, but to God Himself. We’ve been waiting for the right moment to exhume a number of ancient works devoted to the theme.”
“Is the fate of our rulers of such concern to you, then?”
“No more than it is to you.”
“And that of the Jews?”
“That is my concern, yes, but it depends on those very rulers.” Gamliel pointed to a vase filled with scrolls of parchment. “These manuscripts are from Athens. They are transcripts made by one of our people during the lifetime of Socrates. When he was sentenced to drink hemlock, who do you think made sure his words were preserved?”
“Wasn’t it Plato?”
“Plato was no scribe. He manipulated ideas as he pleased. But it so happens that, well before him, an agent had been sent by Jerusalem with a mission to follow Socrates and be present at the public debates he conducted on the streets. The notes he made are preserved by us in a safe place. Nobody apart from us knows the contents.”
“Why don’t you publish them? What are you waiting for?”
“A sign. Cosimo de’ Medici’s friendship toward us, for example. Or even your coming here. That may be an omen, and not mere chance. Socrates was excluded from public life, just like the Jews. Out of ignorance. But those who control public life can learn. They just have to be taught a good lesson.”
The rabbi did nothing to conceal the insolence of his smile. His suddenly arrogant expression embarrassed François. In it, he recognized his own, mischievous and rebellious. Shifting his gaze to the window, François looked out at the fig tree in the courtyard, its thick top ringed by a ray of moonlight. Rivers of silvery light flowed down the dark branches, making their way between the leaves and fruits, crawling as far as the roots, like reptiles. François thought of the snake in the Tree of Knowledge. Was he being lured into a pact with Satan? Rumors abounded that the Jews were plotting to take over the world, and there was no smoke without fire. They had killed Jesus. They drank the blood of babies. These accusations, so often whispered in the ear or proclaimed out loud in the public square, beat at his temples like waves crashing against a rock. The rabbi’s sibylline attitude seemed to confirm all the hearsay. Colin, for his part, was certain that this Jew’s motives were a lot more treacherous than he claimed.
In the subdued light of the brass candelabra, the rabbi’s self-satisfied face beamed placidly. On the wall behind him was a silver plaque carved with kabbalistic signs like those that François had seen on the Medicis’ coat of arms. Gamliel noticed the direction of François’s gaze.
“That’s the seal of my academy. You’ll find it on all the books coming out of Safed.”
“And in the secret library of the most powerful dynasty in Italy!”
“It’s a classification mark, nothing more.”
Colin leapt to his feet. “By which one of the noblest families in Christendom forms a solemn union with a rabbi?”
“Union is a big word, Master Colin. I’d say rather an exchange of goodwill. Think. In both Florence and Safed, Jewish writings and those considered heretical are threatened. Where can they be most safely hidden?” Rabbi Gamliel was amused at Colin’s stunned expression. “Yes, in a Catholic monastery in the heart of Galilee.”
“The Bishop of Paris would never tolerate—”
“Guillaume Chartier tolerates whatever profits him. He’ll use any means at his disposal. If you fail, he’ll ally himself with the Pope again.”
“And if we succeed?”
Gamliel looked first Colin, then François, straight in the eyes. “A fatal blow will be struck against the forces that have been ruling your lives for centuries.”
François found it hard to believe in the rabbi’s prophetic statement. Socrates’s ideas had not convinced Athens. How could they threaten Rome? The renewed infatuation with the wisdom of the ancients was merely a passing fashion, whereas dogma was unshakable. A few seditious old manuscripts wouldn’t change the situation. Yet Gamliel seemed sure of what he was saying.“This isn’t the first time Jerusalem has conducted an operation on this scale . . . ”
However François racked his brains, he could not see to what great feat Rabbi Gamliel was referring. What other large-scale plot hatched in Judea had struck at Rome? In any case, the rabbi seemed to be implying that the Medicis were pursuing an aim that went beyond their immediate financial or political interests, some more distant ideal. Their secret collaboration with Jerusalem was not limited to undermining the authority of the Holy See. Not that the unadmitted plans of the great and the good bothered François all that much. The rabbi’s intentions intrigued him rather more, as did the risks he was taking if he agreed to ally himself with Louis XI. Since the mass expulsions ordered by Philippe the Fair, there were practically no Jews left in France. Just a few hundred in Alsace and in the Dauphiné. In the Comtat and throughout Provence, though, a prosperous, flourishing community enjoyed the protection of the Papal legate. Any action against Rome would expose the Pope’s Jews to severe reprisals. Gamliel, though, did not seem too concerned with the fate of his coreligionists. It was the Christians he claimed to want to free from the yoke of the Church—whatever the cost. Even though he had little chance of succeeding, several Western rulers were already dealing with him. What this Talmudist from a small town in Galilee hoped to obtain from them in return remained a mystery.
Realizing suddenly that he had no idea of the true purpose of his mission, François felt like the first pawn advanced by a chess player at the beginning of a game. He might be sacrificed at any moment, or simply moved to deceive the opponent. Unlike a king, a knight, or a bishop, a pawn could not retreat.
“Will you supply us with the books we require? The Bishop of Paris is waiting for your answer.”
Gamliel promised nothing. France’s participation had not been part of the plan. It opened up a new front at a time when the campaign being waged with Florence and Milan had not yet extended to the rest of Italy, proceeding as it was in stages according to a rigorous plan. City by city, book by book. The rabbi nevertheless agreed to obtain an interview for them with his peers in Jerusalem. His letter of recommendation would get there in the morning by carrier pigeon.
Gamliel stood up. It was time for evening prayers. He was sorry he could not offer them hospitality but the rabbis of Safed were not accustomed to housing Catholic pilgrims. In order not to arouse the suspicions of the Mamluks, François and Colin would lodge on the edge of town with Moussa the blacksmith.
The secretary led the visitors back to their horses and indicated the way. Colin mounted, but François, his feet still on the ground, held his horse by the bridle. In the darkness, he made out Federico watching their departure from a small stone balcony.
13
François and Colin reached the blacksmith’s forge just as night was falling. A broad-shouldered man was beating the anvil with huge hammer blows. François hailed him in Moorish, at least the little he remembered from the time when he had shared his student garret with a man from Seville. The blacksmith hastened to respond with a web of words woven from the many customary courtesies, while eyeing the two strangers suspiciously, especially the big one with the warlike demeanor. Impassively, Colin sustained the Saracen’s searching gaze.
“Ask this damned boilermaker if he knows how to shoe horses. Our animals’ shoes have been scraped by the stones!”
Moussa retorted that he was the best blacksmith in the Levant. The two travelers dismounted and entrusted their horses to him.
“Aisha! Aisha!” Moussa yelled.
Amid the reflections projected by the fire of the forge on a shack with whitewashed walls, they saw a low door. The thin figure of a woman dressed in black came through it. She advanced slowly, bent forward, avoid
ing looking at the visitors. Without saying a word and with unexpected strength, she seized the pouches and the goatskins, secured them on her shoulders, forearms, and wrists, then motioned to the two men to follow her inside. The main room was dimly lit by an oil lamp. The tiny jingling of the small coins sewed on the fringe of Aisha’s veil was the only sound she made. Her bare feet made no noise. She held out a surprisingly slender hand, indicating the guest room. François thanked her. She raised her head, and her eyes met his for a split second. In all that darkness, the pallor of her face, the delicacy of her features, and the piercing light of her pupils left the poet speechless. Aisha went out, closing the door behind her. Outside, Moussa was striking his anvil with such force that Colin regretted not agreeing on the cost of the shoeing in advance.
“Two oatcakes and a jug of water for our only sustenance!”
“I still have a few dry almonds left.”
The almonds were the same oblong shape as Aisha’s eyes. François placed them side by side on the surface of his bag. He stared at them for a long time, imagining the rest of the face, the pale cheeks surrounded by small coins.
Even though they were exhausted, Colin and François could not sleep. Colin kept going over the rabbi’s words. He still didn’t trust him. He was convinced that the Jew was up to something. His goodwill toward Christian men of letters was probably a cover. You didn’t fight Rome with books as your only ammunition. All those printing works all over the place had to be arms caches and meeting points. As for Louis XI, he hadn’t sent two cunning Coquillards such a long distance just so that they could bring him back a pile of old books. His library was overflowing with books. And besides, a few clever maxims certainly weren’t going to add much to the glory of France!
François’s ruminations were of quite another kind. The night smells filtering in through the small window mingled with the scent of Aisha. The line of the hills undulated in the moonlight like a hip draped in silk. The wind gently caressed the valleys in order not to wake the sleeping earth from its bed. The burning, feverish, fiercely desired earth. Often ravished, never conquered. For what lover was she still reserving herself? For which chosen one? Around Safed, the countryside fell silent, somnolent in the breeze. The whole night sighed sadly for the heart of a young woman of Palestine.
The oil had burned down in the clay lamp. The isolated howl of a jackal briefly covered the relentless chanting of the cicadas. In the room, the heat was suffocating. Colin and François both decided it might be cooler outside. Moussa was sitting beneath the arbor, dipping into a bowl of olives. The two men sat down next to him. He clapped his hands, and Aisha appeared immediately. He ordered her to bring dates, grapes, and a gourd. As she returned and put down the food and drink, the young woman felt François’s gaze come to rest on her. She gave him a furtive, mischievous glance, and her fingers brushed his hand. Moussa observed this ploy with a stern air.
“A Berber slave,” he said, “a little savage from Kabylia. Not for sale.”
Colin struck up a Burgundian cantilena. His baritone voice made moles and field mice scurry away. François breathed in the night air, stroking the polished, rounded bark of the gourd with languorous gestures that exasperated Moussa.
14
The day had barely risen. The room was still dark. François, who had finally fallen asleep just before dawn, woke abruptly. He saw Colin standing by the door, tense, his sword unsheathed. Shuffled footsteps and curses interspersed with entreaties and moans came from outside. Just as Colin was making a signal to keep quiet, the door burst open and two armed men confronted him. He was at least a head taller than them, and his bellicose air made them hesitate. One of them called in Egyptian for reinforcements. Swords were unsheathed.
“Caliph’s police. You’re under arrest!”
In the courtyard, other Mamluks were waiting. Moussa was on his knees in front of them, begging. Aisha had been chained to the big bellows in the forge. Her torn tunic revealed marks of burns and blows. A terrified grimace distorted her face, which had turned white, as if suddenly aged.
“Cowards, that’s all you are!”
Colin’s voice boomed like thunder. François tugged at his elbows to restrain him.
“Let’s go quietly. It’s the only way to save these people.”
Colin threw down his weapon. Several men immediately rushed at him. François and Colin were tied together and forced to walk by those of the Mamluks already back in the saddle. Others loaded the prisoners’ things on the horses, not without noticing that these were freshly shod.
“You’re lucky. A good artisan deserves to live . . . ”
Moussa was already muttering a thousand formulas of gratitude, but the soldier grabbed Aisha by the hair and winked roguishly at the blacksmith.
“ . . . but not this bitch!”
He lifted Aisha and laid her, bent double like a puppet, across the back of his horse. Moussa waited until the riders had disappeared over the horizon before getting up. Brandishing a callused fist at the sky, he groaned a bitter “May the plague take you!”
From the far end of the great courtroom, his stern voice echoing off the stone walls, the qadi of Nazareth read out the charges and the sentences. François found it hard to understand this foreign tongue uttered with such monotony, as if the legal document was unpunctuated. The qadi raised his eyes and looked at the prisoners for the first time. François thought he detected a thin smile beneath the gleaming mustache. As the guards were about to lead Colin and François to their cell, the qadi signaled to them to wait and addressed the two men directly, in Byzantine Latin.
“The provosts of Acre informed our agents of your arrival. One of them, a Frenchman, recognized your insignia.”
The qadi pointed at the shell-shaped pendants around their necks.
“We have committed no crime, Your Excellency,” François stammered in Moorish.
“Two days ago, an Italian merchant was robbed not far from Safed. The list of stolen items includes a detailed description of certain objects of value, including this one, which we found at the bottom of your bag!”
He brandished the book encrusted with a translucent butterfly given to François by Federico. Stunned, François tried to plead his case but the qadi ordered him to keep silent. Colin was shaking with rage. The qadi put the book down and then, as if forgetting all about the charges, adopted an almost friendly tone.
“I’m told you are skilful with your pen.”
Taken aback, François nodded.
“The emir of Nazareth is a great lover of literature. Your rhymes may amuse him . . .As for your companion, he will provide us with quite another kind of spectacle. Take them away!”
The narrow cell was filled to overflowing. Some thirty prisoners were rotting there: Jews, Arabs, Persians, Turks. Colin and François had to find somewhere to put themselves. Nobody gave up his place to them, or even said a word. As Colin was asking François to translate the qadi’s sentence for him, two guards burst in, beating all those in their way. One of them brandished a whip with which he started hitting Colin at full force. The skin burst, revealing the naked flesh. Blood ran. The prisoners had no right to speak. That was what explained their silence. A filthy old man signaled to them to keep quiet by placing a thin finger on his dry lips. But Colin yelled, insulting his attacker and the caliph and the whole Mamluk Empire. François threw himself at the soldier’s feet and received several blows in his turn. Weary of whipping these vermin, the guards went out again. François heard them laughing in the dark corridor. They did not return until that night, when they let a horde of starving rats out of an old crate. The beasts seemed as terrified as the men. A youth of barely fifteen grabbed hold of one of the bigger rats, twisted its neck, and planted his yellow teeth in the still warm flesh. François vomited. The old man let out a cracked laugh.
All night long, François made an effort to compose, in his head, an Eastern
version of his most famous ballad, the Ballad of the Hanged Men. He was constantly distracted by the ghost of Federico, whose mocking laugh echoed off the walls of the cell. Colin covered his wounds with dry dust and spit, not flinching once.
Little by little, the rats withdrew from the cell in search of food, taking care to swerve to avoid the gluttonous youth. But he was already asleep, his fist clenched, the corners of his mouth stained with black blood. His pale complexion and dark hair made him look both innocent and wild, just like Aisha. Was she also asleep in another corner of the fortress? François preferred not to think about the fate the Mamluks had in store for her.
Nobody knew when morning came. There were no windows here. Only the length of François’s nails indicated to him the relentless passing of the days. Three prisoners had been taken away, and two others had arrived. François was still trying hard to compose his poem. He dreamed of Aisha, of the ladies of days gone by, of the muses. He turned a crack in the wall into a ray of sunlight, the dark and damp wall into a starry sky, wisps of straw on the ground into meadows. The others also seemed to cling to life, even the shriveled old man. He would have loved to know their stories, to know where the youth came from. How long had they been there, these last vestiges of men?
Colin’s wounds became hideously infected. François washed them in warm urine, which gave his companion the opportunity to deploy the complete range of his oaths and curses. The steaming, acid liquid seemed nevertheless to work. After a while, healing began. François scratched the circumference with a twig smoothed at length between his fingers to remove the dirt. Overcoming his own disgust, he squeezed the wounds in the middle to make the pus come out. Colin had stopped grumbling. He watched the gestures of his flea-ridden doctor with what might have been an air of gratitude. François, trying to keep up appearances, smiled nervously.
The Brotherhood of Book Hunters Page 7