The Jerusalem Parchment

by Tuvia Fogel

  “Cursed be the bones of those who calculate the end . . .” mumbled the rabbi to himself.

  Both perfecti blanched at a curse by a Jewish initiate. Yehezkel immediately regretted the thoughtless quotation and laid his hand on Pons’s forearm. “Don’t worry, my friend. It is a curse from the Talmud and only concerns Jews. But why risk disappointment? Surely it is better for everyone to wait and trust God’s plan, isn’t it? Like Isaiah says: ‘Blessed are those who wait for Him.’” The perfecti were silent. Yehezkel tormented his beard as he reflected.

  Here I am, trying to dissuade Cathars from believing in the Age of the Messiah, my faith in which is as solid as rock. Why do I do it? Do I fear that if Christian hopes are stronger than Israel’s, instead of the legitimate King of the House of David their Galilean magician could present himself again?

  Pons changed the subject. “Master Ezekiel, did you hear if the white pig was in Babylon’s camp?”

  “No,” said Yehezkel immediately. “Had he been there, I would no doubt have heard of it.”

  The “white pig” was Domingo de Caleruega, a Castillan monk who’d been trying to convert heretics for almost ten years. The epithet was a mixture of the older Cathars’ hatred for him and the color of his habit, made of the cheapest wool, which turns whitish after two washings. But if truth be told, in the last few weeks fewer and fewer Cathars had been calling Domingo white pig. Since the start of the war he had always been present to help the wounded or stop a burning at the stake.

  Pons was one of the souls pulled back from the edge of darkness by Domingo. Two years earlier, in a theological debate held in Fanjeaux, which had been resolved by an ordeal by fire, he had renounced his heresy. But as often happens to the easily converted, he had later repented and slid back into his family’s heresy. In fact, to show his zeal, he had become a perfectus at an unusually young age. Cathars were used to accepting the rigors of life as a perfectus only on their deathbeds, and his choice was seen as courageous. In his satchel was the reconciliation with the church that he and Domingo signed that day. Since the start of the war, both afraid of meeting the monk and burning to tear up the document before his eyes, Pons asked every refugee he came across if they had seen the white pig.

  An old Cathar, hearing Domingo’s nickname, slammed his fist on the table.

  “Who, that dry canal? Does anyone still believe shitty priests can save their souls? For telling people they could save them when they could do nothing, they’ll be the first to go to the eternal flames in a procession with the white pig at their head! I’d love to see that monk covered in ulcers and crusts, each one crawling with worms and flies!”

  Just then the door creaked open again, and the white pig walked in.

  He was accompanied by Guillaume Claret, his partner from the beginning of the mission. They were barefoot and wore whitish, dirty habits, as full of patches as those of the perfecti.

  “Ego vos benedico,”*12 said Domingo, tracing a sign of the cross in the air.

  “What sortilege are you attempting with that death sign of yours?” shrieked the old man.

  The perfecti stood to face their rival. Yehezkel remained seated. Domingo and Pons looked at each other for a long moment, the tension rising. The monk spoke first. “Pons, Pons,” he murmured, almost weeping. Domingo’s incredibly blue eyes were full of pain.

  Yehezkel noticed their almost frightening intensity. An exaggeratedly ample tonsure contributed to the monk’s striking appearance. His partner, in contrast, had sharper yet anonymous features.

  “You’ve become a perfectus, as I’d feared . . .” continued the monk. Pons’s outer ears began to redden. Then Domingo turned to Yehezkel. Friar and rabbi surveyed each other wearily, like two beasts in the wild weighing their chances of subduing a challenger.

  The old man attacked the monks again. “Away with you, white pig! You’re not welcome in this house!”

  “Are Jews more welcome than Christians in this house?” asked Domingo with a smile.

  “We are all guests in the Hots’ kitchen,” said Pons, “and should behave as such. Brother Domingo, this is Master Ezekiel, who practices the medicine of the Moors in Lunel.”

  Domingo bowed his head. “I am Brother Domingo de Caleruega, canon regular and subprior of the diocese of Osma in Castille. And this is my partner, Guillaume Claret.”

  An elusive smile hovered on his lips. “I’ve had occasion to speak with your brethren, Master Ezekiel, both in my country and in these gloomy, churchless villages, and they often mentioned your name . . .”

  “I hope they were merciful in their judgment,” smiled Yehezkel.

  “They were flattering, even, but judge you they did, as you expected, because like you they wear a blindfold before the light. We, instead, follow the teaching of Christ: ‘Judge not, that you be not judged.’”

  Yehezkel parried with ease. “I’m acquainted with the phrase, and it always perplexed me. First, I don’t see how Jesus thought to bring justice to the world if everyone ceased to exercise judgment. And second,” he added without a trace of irony, “I’m puzzled by the exhortation not to judge others only so as to avoid being judged oneself. I’m ready to be judged for both my words and my actions . . . wasn’t Jesus?”

  The sight of the blind presuming to lead the sighted was more than Domingo could bear. “You blaspheme, rabbi, a sin your people commit every time you open your mouths. Our church says to the arid virtue of the Law: away, whitewashed sepulchre! I ask for compassion, not judgment!”

  Yehezkel confidently landed his thrust. “But my good friar, do you not see that replacing the Law with trust in men’s compassion . . . has only brought the ferocious times we live in?”

  A murmur of approval for the Jew’s unruffled irreverence spread through the heretical kitchen.

  Domingo raised a finger at Yehezkel, blue eyes glinting like steel. “Here is the Jewish arrogance the Fathers speak of; I hear it now. Wherever heresy spreads, I find your rabbis have ‘debated’ the Christians there.” Domingo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was no time or place to threaten heretics and Jews.

  Pons saw where the exchange was heading and had an inspiration. Hoping that the rules of a debate would contain passions, he cried, “I propose a disputatio between the three faiths, here and now!”

  Domingo and Yehezkel mentioned the late hour and the journeys ahead, but in the end the love of verbal struggle and the urge to convert had the better of both. God was present in the Hots’ kitchen and knew who was preaching the Truth. He would make the words of His true messenger triumph, and the souls stumbling off the right path would be saved. The five men exchanged boyish, almost perverse smiles and sat down at the table, surrounded by the heretics, to defend truth against error. Pons suggested that, as in Narbonne the year before, the champion of each faith pose a question to the adversary of his choice that the third party would also have the right to answer. A peasant stepped forward, offering to throw dice to determine who would ask the first question.

  With a grim, Spanish look, Domingo said, “I don’t mind posing my question last.”

  Yehezkel had to admire the monk’s cunning in passing off as humility what was in fact a clear debating advantage. Pons turned to the rabbi. “Put your question to either of us, Master Ezekiel.”

  Domingo waited serenely, his eyes now the steady bluish gray of a steel blade.

  Yehezkel scratched his chin through his beard, eyes lost in the roof-beams. Finally, he said,

  “If you had occasion to speak with other rabbis, Brother Domingo, it was probably because some word in what you call the ‘Old Testament’ made you curious of the Hebrew original. . . Is that not so?”

  The monk seemed to weigh the consequences of the admission. “Well . . . yes, I don’t deny asking the advice of your sages, but only on issues of translation, as you say. My Hebrew, alas, is shamefully poor when compared with your Latin. I must compliment you on how you speak the Holy Tongue, Master Ezekiel. But I don’t see wha
t you’re getting at . . .”

  “I want you to concede that much in the Old Testament is lost if one doesn’t know the meaning of Hebrew words and the rules of the sacred alphabet. God placed secrets in every word and letter of the Torah, so a translation, however much inspired, gives the literal sense only—when that is not corrupted, too. We learn the language of a people to trade with them, but how much better should we learn their language if our purpose is to understand God’s revelation to them!”

  “No, Master Ezekiel, I disagree,” said Domingo. “The Septuagint, as you know, is a translation inspired by the Holy Ghost. Not a comma was different in the seventy papyri, so I venture to say that its Greek is probably closer to the message God wanted to reveal than the original Hebrew itself . . .” Domingo started coughing hoarsely.

  Yehezkel thought the spirits presiding over the dispute must have choked him for pronouncing such a bestiality. He waited, still quietly shocked at the thought of God speaking Greek, and then pulled out his most polished Latin. “Names, Brother Domingo, define the nature, the very essence of people and things. A change of name is a change of destiny. In the Bible, some names change. Abram becomes Abraham, Sarai becomes Sarah, Jacob becomes Israel. The secrets in those changes are not for everyone, and certainly not for those who don’t know the language the Torah was written in. I’ll give you just one example: if you know Hebrew, you know that the prophet Jonah’s name means ‘dove,’ and new levels of exegesis open up to you, like the parallel between Ark and Whale, and much more. But if you don’t know that Jonah means dove, then where are you?”

  Domingo hadn’t known Jonah meant dove. He thought of the symbol of the Holy Ghost, of the three days in the belly of the whale and those Jesus spent in the sepulchre. His soul was uplifted in the euphoria he always felt when his comprehension of Scripture rose to the next level. He thought:

  “Jesus said that Nineveh had repented and been saved, but the Jews, facing a thing greater than Jonah, refused to do so. Now I understand the Fathers who learned Hebrew; one grasps aspects of prophecy that this Jew can’t even begin to understand!” Domingo’s thirst for knowledge overcame his Spanish pride. “I’m grateful to you, Master Ezekiel, for the higher comprehension I reached thanks to the meaning of Jonah’s name. Can you give me another example, but with some connection to heresy and error?”

  Yehezkel was more than ready. “This example is Kabbalah, Brother Domingo, a secret tradition most rabbis would condemn me for divulging, but so be it. The Hebrew letters beit, yod and nun, if written in that order, spell the word bein, which means between. But the same three letters, if written in the order beit, nun, yod, spell the word bnei, which means sons of. But in Kabbalah, if one changes the order of letters in a word, the total value of the word stays the same, so the alternative meaning was also intended. Are you with me?” He was pleased to see everyone hanging from his lips.

  “Now consider the fourth verse in the Bible, ‘and God separated light from darkness.’ That is all that is left in translation, even in the Septuagint, but it’s not everything. The original actually says ‘God separated bein light and bein darkness. It says ‘between’ twice. Why? My teacher, may his light shine for many years, says that one secret meaning is obtained by shifting the letters and turning the two beins into bneis, since this does not change their numerical value.” Yehezkel paused before the punchline.

  “And do you know how the verse reads if we do that, Brother Domingo? ‘And God separated the sons of light from the sons of darkness.’ The secret meaning is that He did so as the second act of creation!”

  The believers erupted in a religious battle cry. Almost every page of their theology defined the universe as an eternal struggle between the sons of light and the sons of darkness. Domingo knew it, too, and had to admire the elegance of the rabbi’s move. After all, he had been the one to ask for an example concerning heresy. He smiled, graciously conceding the round.

  “I recognize the power of the tongue the Bible was written in, Master Ezekiel, but the exegesis of the Fathers who studied Hebrew invariably suffered from Jewish influence. I pray God every day to grant that my reason never proceed against His Truth, and that study never corrupts the purity of my faith.”

  “Ahh, yes . . . study, a dangerous beast!” mocked Yehezkel. “Fear not, good friar, as long as ‘study’ means only Christian theology to you, I guarantee you’ll remain as pure and innocent as a babe. You are known for your erudition, but how could you possibly know that we are in the six hundredth year from the revelation of the Holy Qu’ran to Muhammad, in a cave on Mount Hira? Or that many Jews claim the true Messiah will arrive in three years? What could you know of bar Hiyya’s astronomy, or ibn-Sinna’s medicine? You’re not interested in anyone else’s wisdom, since yours is superior by divine decree. But take my word for it, outside Christendom your ‘erudition’ would make you look downright benighted.”

  Domingo heard him out in silence. The accusation turned a dagger in an old wound. He’d pleaded with Innocent to let him found a monastic order dedicated to studying and preaching. Now those plans, fed by humiliation, grew into a vow. “It is right that I should swear this before heretics and Jews!” he thought. “Now listen to me, rabbi!” His eyes were the bluish lead of stormy clouds. “I shall educate friars to study the sterile wisdom of Aristotle, the Talmud, and the Qu’ran, better to understand the errors of infidels. My preaching knights will lay into the errors of disbelievers with the very ‘reason’ you brandish today, strong in their faith in Christ, protected by their shining armor of knowledge. And a day will come, as Saint Augustine said, when Jews will recognize the enormity of their sin, swallow their pride, and, redeemed at last, adore their victim!”

  Yehezkel was struck by the monk’s determination. “Who knows, Brother Domingo, who knows? Maybe a day will come instead when you Christians, comparing your communities to ours, will feel the desire to know what we believe, instead of breaking your heads over why we don’t believe!”

  “What do you believe? Go ahead, I don’t fear any corruption of the Truth you may pronounce!”

  “We believe, with complete faith, that Christianity and Islam are but the preparation of the world for the coming of the true Messiah, the fruit of the seed that God planted. So if only we were more enlightened, Brother Domingo, we could shake hands like brothers. That day may come, too.”

  Domingo jumped from his stool. “Get back, snake! Don’t you know what it means for us to touch the hand of one of Christ’s executioners, a hand stained with that blood?”

  Yehezkel also stood up. “With our blood! Don’t forget it, friar! A Jewish womb carried your God, Jewish breasts fed him, Jewish wisdom spoke through his words!”

  “And Jewish perfidy nailed him to the Cross! Murderers!”

  “Not true!” A flash of anger lit Yehezkel’s dark eyes. “But even if it was, wasn’t he, on that Cross, raised above all humanity as a symbol of divine mercy?”

  “Well said! The Jew is right!” shouted several Cathars.

  Pons rushed to pour water on the fire. “It’s your turn to set a trap for us, Domingo. I hope you won’t pick on me to avoid the sharp spikes on Master Ezekiel’s armor. . . .” Domingo asked for nothing better than to entrap the wily Jew.

  “Please help my failing memory, Master Ezekiel. What are the words of the prophet whose name you bear about the warning one should give the wicked?”

  Yehezkel thought, “I should have expected this . . .” and then recited, “When I say to the wicked, ‘You will surely die,’ and you do not speak out to dissuade him from his ways, that wicked person will die for his sin, but I will hold you accountable for his blood.”

  “Well, my good rabbi, should we be held accountable for the blood of these heretics for not having warned them, for not speaking out?”

  “Mmh . . . you see, we Jews don’t punish our heretics with the barbarity I’ve witnessed in these lands. For us the heretic is still a Jew, whatever weird doctrine he may profess . . . eve
n if he accepts baptism!”

  “Come now, I’m sure you don’t condemn heresy less harshly than the Church. It would be suicide.”

  Yehezkel smiled. “Elisha ben Abuya, a heretic from a thousand years ago, was a noted sage before losing the right path. The Talmud calls him a ‘destroyer of plantations.’ A harsh censure, you’ll agree.”

  “And a wise one, for believers are indeed a plantation that feeds multitudes if well tended but can be ruined completely by tiny insects or birds. But do tell, of what sort was this Ben Abuya’s heresy?”

  “Er . . . the Talmud is not in the habit of giving details on the nature of heresies . . .”

  For an instant, Domingo’s hard defenses melted away, and he burst out in a hearty laugh. Yehezkel said, “. . . but it is rumored that he was a Manichean, like these friends of mine, or maybe . . . a Christian!”

  “A Christian! Ha! One may as well call adulthood a heretical form of infancy!” jested Domingo.

  Yehezkel said, “Listen. A certain sage collaborated with the Romans and justified himself, saying he was only removing the weeds from the Lord’s vineyard. But Rabbi Yehoshua told him, ‘Let the vineyard’s owner clear the weeds himself!’ Surely those who elect themselves God’s instruments, Brother Domingo, sin with pride. The monks who commit heretics and witches to the fire are falling in a trap laid by Satan. First he blinds justice and then sends his demons to capture the souls not of the possessed, but of their executioners!”

  “Well said, Jew!” shouted a believer. “This one is too good for you, white pig!” cried another.

  Monk and rabbi sat still, avoiding each other’s eyes. Pons quoted the Book of Proverbs.

  “Starting a quarrel is like breaching a dam, so drop the matter before a dispute breaks out.” The combatants nodded, smiling. Pons took advantage of the lowered tension to go outside and relieve himself. Domingo quickly stood up to follow, but Pons stopped him.

  “No, Domingo! I don’t wish to speak with you alone. Not today.”

  When he walked back into the kitchen, Pons heard Pierre’s voice, all of a sudden apparently fearless. “Why keep pretending one can debate murderers? Were you at Béziers three weeks ago, white pig? Were you one of the monks harassing the dying victims to save their souls? Eh?”