Paris

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “How is it the Templars are so rich?” Jacob had asked Baruch.

  “They had huge land grants. For generations. They don’t pay taxes. And they lend money. The king owes them a fortune.”

  “They lend for a fee, then,” Jacob said. “No interest.”

  “Of course,” Baruch replied. “Actually,” he went on, “the Templars are interesting. They lend money. But that’s only part of it. They’re brilliant.”

  “Why?”

  “Look at their building. It’s an impregnable fortress. There’s probably more gold in there than any other building in France. It all got started when they transported bullion out to the Holy Land for the crusaders to use. They kept the money in fortresses out there, too. But that was just the start. Since then, they’ve built fortified bullion stores all over Christendom. So what’s so clever about that?”

  “I suppose then they have bullion ready for any purpose, in any country.”

  “True, but that’s not the point. The point,” said Baruch, “is that when you travel, you don’t have to take a lot of money with you. No armed guards. No fear of getting robbed. You just deposit your bullion with the Templars in London or Paris, get a receipt, and that gives you credit to draw on the Templars’ bullion deposits wherever you’re going. The Templars will charge you a large fee for the service, but it’s worth it. You’ve saved yourself a fortune in security.”

  “Did the Templars invent this?”

  “No. The old merchants around the Mediterranean have been holding credit balances with each other since time out of mind. But the scale of the Templars’ operations is stupendous. They’ve got enough stashed in some of their forts to pay for an army.”

  “They must have to transport bullion themselves, sometimes,” Jacob said.

  “Yes. But who’s going to attack a bullion shipment guarded by the Temple Knights. You’d have to be an idiot. Those bastards fight only to the death.” Baruch chuckled. “Funny, isn’t it: The only knights who always fight to the death are the ones protecting the money.”

  Jacob had nodded and smiled. Yet his mind was in a whirl.

  No doubt his cousin Baruch just thought he was having a chat with a boy who was going to be a physician. But his words were having a much more profound effect than he could have imagined.

  As he’d listened to Baruch discourse on the art of moneylending, it had felt to Jacob as if someone were opening a door in front of him. This was an occupation that would use all his talents. This was the challenge he’d always been looking for. He just hadn’t known it. And with this realization came that wonderful sense of peace that comes to everyone when they find their natural metier. I could do that, he thought. That’s what I want to do.

  And when Baruch had described the huge, international capacity of the Templars’ dealings, he had felt a sense not just of affinity, but of inspiration. It wasn’t only the scale that was fascinating. The efficiency of the operation, the intellectual economy, struck him forcibly. The endless possibilities of a credit system that spread all over Europe seemed to him one of the most beautiful and exciting ideas he had ever encountered. What could be better, what could be more interesting, than to take part in the workings of the universal world of money, the lifeblood of all enterprise, that knows no foolish boundaries, but can flow unimpeded from kingdom to kingdom? Though he did not quite know how to formulate the idea, he had just been given a glimpse of the wonders of finance.

  “Could I come and work for you?” he suddenly asked Baruch.

  “I thought you were going to be a physician,” the big man said in surprise.

  “I don’t think so,” said Jacob.

  “You had better talk to your father.”

  Jacob promised that he would.

  But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He meant to. He was certain what he wanted. But telling his father that he was going to turn his back on his birthright and wanted to work with a man his father didn’t like … It wasn’t so easy.

  The next week he met Baruch in the street.

  “Did you tell your father?” Baruch asked.

  “I’m going to.”

  “You can change your mind, you know.”

  “No. I want to work for you.”

  “I can talk to him if you want.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Don’t leave it to your bar mitzvah.”

  But still he’d put it off. Each time his father smiled at him approvingly, or his mother said, “We’re all very proud of you,” it grew harder to broach the subject. How could he disappoint them all? And as the days went by he began to think that maybe it would be better to get through the business of the bar mitzvah and talk to his father about it afterward.

  And so he’d let it drift, and drift … until the day.

  He’d read well in the synagogue. They were all very pleased with him. That evening there were about twenty people in their house. His parents, their closest friends, the rabbi and Baruch had also been invited.

  Baruch had looked at him questioningly, but Jacob had whispered, “I decided to talk to him after this is over.”

  And everyone was congratulating him, and one of the neighbors’ wives said, “Just look at Jacob’s eyes. You have wonderful eyes, Jacob. Those are real physician’s eyes, just like your father’s.” And another of their friends chimed in, “He’s going to be a wonderful physician.” And someone said to Jacob’s mother, “You must be very proud of him.” And his mother said she was.

  So for a moment, only the woman Cousin Baruch was talking to heard Baruch say: “He isn’t going to be a physician.”

  “What do you mean?” she said, so that several people turned to look. “Of course he’s going to be a physician.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Baruch. “I’m just telling you he doesn’t want to be a physician.”

  Jacob’s mother heard that.

  “What are you talking about, Baruch?” she demanded impatiently. She liked Baruch better than her husband did, because he was her family, but she didn’t like him that much.

  Baruch shrugged.

  “I’m just saying he doesn’t want to be a physician. He wants to work for me. Is that so terrible?”

  “No he doesn’t.”

  “Ask him.” He pointed to Jacob. And everybody looked at Jacob. And Jacob looked back at them, and wished that the ground could open up and swallow him forever.

  “I am very disappointed in you,” his father said later that night. “I am sorry that you don’t want to be a physician, because I think you would be a good one. But to go behind my back … You talk to Baruch, with whom we are not close, before you even talk to your own father. Then you make a mockery of us all. Honor Thy Father and Mother: You break this commandment, on the very day of your bar mitzvah. Shame on you, Jacob. I hardly know whether to call you my son.”

  That had been his first great crime. Even now, the memory of that day made him cringe with shame.

  But in due course, he had started to work for Baruch, and for ten years he had continued with him, until Baruch dropped dead in the middle of an argument with somebody one day. By that time, Jacob had learned the business of moneylending very thoroughly, and he continued on his own. And thanks both to his skill, and to his father’s many friends in the city, he was able to do very well.

  He had married Sarah, and been happy, and started a family.

  So what had possessed him to make the terrible error of judgment, to commit the unspeakable crime that had brought tragedy to his own life, misery to his family, and now the loss of his daughter?

  If one were to seek deep causes, Jacob considered, one could say that it was the Crusades that were to blame.

  Two centuries ago, when the first crusading knights had set out to win back the Holy Land from the Saracens, they’d been successful. They’d taken Antioch. Then Jerusalem itself.

  But it had hardly been a year before the crusading cause had degenerated. A huge, motley army of adventurers and looters had s
wept across Europe in their wake. Finding the Jewish communities in the Rhineland and on the River Danube, they’d robbed and slaughtered them.

  Christian kings, and even the Church, had been appalled.

  But in the decades that followed, another process had slowly begun, and the mood of Christendom had changed. For the huge, unwieldy Moslem empire had not crumbled. It had fought back. And so the long series of Crusades had begun. Some were successful—in Spain, the Moslem Moors were being pushed back. But other Crusades had been disasters.

  Churchmen were puzzled. Why hadn’t God given them victory? Crusaders were frustrated. Everyone looked for scapegoats. And what better scapegoat than the Jewish community, which contained the moneylenders to whom kings, knights and merchants alike owed so much money? Soon, Jews were being accused of all kinds of crimes: even that they sacrificed Christian children.

  In Paris, the Jewish community had occupied a quarter near the royal palace in the middle of the Seine, with a fine synagogue across the water on the Right Bank. In 1182, King Philip Augustus had turned their synagogue into the church of La Madeleine, and for several years the Jews had even had to leave his kingdom. With his city wall to build, and a crusading army to finance, he’d soon recalled them. The Jews of Paris had mostly lived near the northern city wall after that, grudgingly tolerated.

  It hadn’t been until the reign of Philip’s grandson that the next attack had come. But when it did, it was cunning and insidious.

  A Franciscan friar in Brittany named Nicolas Donin claimed that the Talmud not only denied the divinity of Jesus, but also the virginity of his mother, Mary. Soon the pope himself told every Christian king to burn the Talmud. Most of Europe’s monarchs took no notice.

  But pious King Louis IX of France did. The saintly monarch who brought the Crown of Thorns to Paris, built the Sainte-Chapelle and encouraged the dreaded Inquisition was not going to fail in his Christian duty. He burned every copy of the Talmud he could find, and made French Jews wear a red badge of shame.

  Jacob’s grandfather had worn the badge of shame. Yet even so, like most of the Jewish community in Paris, he hadn’t wanted to leave. And Jacob could see why.

  Paris was still one of the greatest cities in Europe, far larger than London. It was an intellectual center. It had a huge trade.

  By the time Jacob was starting to earn a living, things had seemed to be getting a little better. The grandson of saintly King Louis—tall, blond, Philip the Fair—had come to the throne. He claimed to be pious, but he always needed money.

  “Finance my debts,” he told the Jews of France, “and I’ll protect you from the Inquisition.”

  Jacob’s house had been in the rue des Rosiers. It was a pleasant street under the northeastern corner of the city wall. His business was prospering. He was about to get married. It had seemed that fate was smiling upon him.

  Strangely enough, the first sign of trouble had come from the king of England. For the mighty Plantagenets had not been driven from all of France. They still held the rich lands of Gascony, in old Aquitaine. And in 1287, the English king had decided to kick all the Jews out of Gascony. By any standards, this was a distressing event. But at the time it had happened, Jacob had been busy making the arrangements for his wedding day. And besides, he need not concern himself too much with the follies of France’s enemy, the Plantagenet king of England.

  The next year had been one of family loss. Sarah had given birth to a baby boy, but it was clear at once that the baby was sickly, and it was not a shock that it did not last a month. A few months after that, Jacob’s mother had died, very peacefully, and no one was surprised when his father, who was quite lost without her, had followed her before the year was out.

  As a result of these changes, Jacob had suddenly found himself both head of the family, and still childless. He’d felt strangely lonely.

  But then, a twelvemonth later, his little Naomi had been born. From the day of her birth, she’d been a strong baby. He’d been overjoyed. She’d continued to thrive. He was sorry that his parents had not been there to see it, but he faced the future with happiness, and hope.

  Once, just once during those years, there had been a brief reminder that in the medieval world, the dangers of hysteria were never absent.

  One Easter in Paris, a Jew he knew slightly, not an especially pleasant fellow, was suddenly arrested. The crime of which he was accused was serious, however, for he was accused of desecrating the Host.

  A poor woman from a nearby parish claimed that she had brought a wafer to him from her church and that he had attacked it with a knife. Was it the truth? Who knew? But within days the story had grown. The wafer had run with blood. The blood had filled a bath. Then the wafer had flown about the house. Then the Savior Himself had appeared to the Jew’s terrified family. People often had visions, and they were often believed. In this case, a court had found the fellow guilty and, this being a religious crime, he’d been executed.

  Jacob had shaken his head at the folly of it all, but he had not been astonished. One must be careful, very careful, that was all.

  More serious might have been another development from across the sea.

  It had been a July day. Jacob had been walking across to the Île de la Cité, and had caught sight of Henri Renard. He’d waved to him. And been surprised when Renard had hurried to his side and urgently seized his arm.

  “You haven’t heard?” Renard had demanded.

  “Heard what?”

  “Terrible news,” Renard continued. “The Jews of England are all expelled. They’re to leave at once.”

  Jacob had hastened home. By that evening he’d discussed it with the rabbi and a dozen friends.

  “The fact that the king of England strikes the Jews does not mean that Philip of France will want to copy him,” the rabbi pointed out. “We have to wait and see. Besides,” he had added, “what else can we do?”

  By the next day, most of the Paris community had come to the same conclusion.

  But it was then that Jacob’s friend Renard had stepped in. He’d waited only days before he did so. Seeing Jacob in the market of Les Halles, he’d taken him to one side.

  “We have known each other too long for you to take offense,” the merchant began quietly. “So forgive me if I ask you something, Jacob, that I’ve been thinking about ever since the expulsion from Gascony.” He’d paused, embarrassed. “Jacob, my friend, these are such dangerous times that I must ask you: Have you ever thought of converting?”

  “Converting?” Jacob had stared at him in astonishment. “You mean, to Christianity?”

  “It’s hardly unknown.”

  Conversions had certainly happened in Spain. In France they were rarer. A generation ago in Brittany, five hundred Jews had converted all together—though that had been under the threat of death if they didn’t.

  “It would bring you safety,” Renard pointed out quickly. “All the restrictions placed upon Jews would be raised. You could own land, and trade however you pleased. I’d gladly sponsor you for the merchants’ guild,” he added.

  Jacob knew his childhood friend meant to be kind. But he was shocked all the same. He’d shaken his head, and Renard had not raised the subject again.

  And indeed, the Jews of Paris had been left in peace. England remained closed to Jews. As might be expected, the English king soon replaced them with Italian moneylenders, sanctioned by the pope. But Philip the Fair did not follow his example. The Jews of Paris breathed easier.

  For Jacob however, the next years had brought problems of another kind.

  The year after the expulsion from England, Sarah had given birth to another child, a son. But the tiny boy had been sickly and had not lived a week. Eighteen months later she had suffered a miscarriage. And after that, nothing. For some reason his wife had failed to conceive. It seemed that Jacob was not to be blessed with a son.

  He accepted this blow, as he knew he must, but he could not help asking himself sometimes: Why had God singled him
out for this misfortune? What had he done?

  The old rabbi who had failed to impress Jacob’s father had been succeeded by his son, a stocky fellow of about his own age. Naomi and the rabbi’s son were part of a group of children who played together, another reason to keep friendly with him, and so Jacob had gone to consult him. The rabbi hadn’t been much help, though. He found no fault with Jacob’s conduct, and told him: “We must accept what God decides. It may be for a reason you do not know.”

  Was it from that time that the change within him had begun? Jacob himself could not say. There had been no sudden turning away. He’d attended the synagogue exactly as he had always done. But he got little pleasure or comfort from it. He was conscious of a sense that the Lord had somehow turned away from him, but whether this was a temporary trial, like the tribulations of Job, or whether it was something more permanent he had no idea. Occasionally he failed to go to the synagogue and his absence was noted. Yet each night without fail he said his prayers and took comfort from them.

  His greatest joy was Naomi. He doted on her. With her bright eyes and dark curls, she was an enchanting little girl. He taught her the Shema and said it with her every night, as his father had done with him. He would sit with her on his lap and talk to her on all manner of subjects. He taught her to read so that by the age of eight, she could read and write better than most of the Jewish boys of her age.

  He liked to take her about with him, and he showed her the wonders of Paris, including the great churches.

  So he was none too pleased, one evening shortly after Naomi’s eighth birthday, to receive a visit from the rabbi, who’d asked to speak to him alone. Nor was his mood improved by the rabbi’s opening remark: “I’ve come, Jacob, not only for myself, but for some of your friends. For I must tell you there have been complaints. About your daughter.”

  “What kind of complaints?” Jacob kept his voice quiet and even. “Has she done something wrong?”

  “Not at all,” the rabbi answered quickly. “It is not what she has done …” He hesitated a moment. “Jacob, have you ever considered that it may not be seemly for a girl to receive too much instruction?”