The Plague Tales

by Ann Benson

  Three

  Alejandro awoke confused and disoriented in a dark and musty-smelling space. As his head slowly cleared, he cast his gaze randomly around the void, but found nothing on which he could easily focus. The only light came through a thin vertical crack in what he took to be a wall an indeterminate distance away. He groped toward it on hands and knees, and was dismayed at how quickly he reached it. A small, ill-fitting door allowed the teasing sliver of light to come through. Roughly square, the door was just large enough to accommodate him on hands and knees. He could not remember if he had crawled through of his own free will; if not, he thought he must have been shoved through with a good deal of force.

  He stood up, taking care not to rise too abruptly lest he strike his head, for he was still unable to see a ceiling. At his full height he pressed himself against the wall that contained the small door, and began working his way to his right side, keeping his body flat. Slowly he groped his way around in one direction, and finding no corner, he made the assumption that the room was circular. His suspicion was confirmed when he suddenly found himself back at the trapdoor again.

  He dropped to his knees and began to feel the floor. The surface was rough stone, large flat pieces fitted together with narrow gaps between them. He could feel no vegetation growing in the cracks and there was no discernible wetness, which only made him more aware of his great thirst and his immediate inability to satisfy it. His stomach growled, crying out to be filled, and though both sensations were bothersome, he was more concerned with determining the gravity of his situation than with satisfying the immediate needs of his body. He suppressed the distracting feelings of hunger and thirst and concentrated on discovering more about the place in which he was being held captive.

  He lay down on the floor, stretching himself out to his full length with arms extended beyond his head, and found that he could just touch two surfaces. He repeated the same action several more times in different directions, and got the same result. From this he was able to determine the rough size of his enclosure. Then he stood on the very tips of his toes, reached up over his head, and jumped as high as he could. His fingers touched only air.

  It is some kind of pit or tower, he thought, but concluded from the low level of the entering light that he could not be underground. And while the enclosure’s apparent dryness did nothing for his thirst, he knew he would fare better without the dampness that fostered disease in many of the prisoners he’d examined as a student. He would not develop the pleurisy of wet confinement. He was certain that his eyes would soon adjust to the lack of light, but at present he could see very little—if he held his arm at full length away from his body, he could barely see his own hand. He twisted it back and forth in front of himself, feeling the small rush of air created by the movement, but seeing almost nothing. So Alejandro sat down with his back to the wall, eyes wide open, and waited for his vision to improve. Gradually it did, as he’d expected, but there was nothing to see.

  He watched the thread of light at the door carefully, trying to notice any changes, dreading nightfall when he would be in total darkness. The angle of the light entering through the crack did not change, so Alejandro assumed it was not direct sunlight, but diffused light coming through a hall or passageway outside the trapdoor. But as the hours passed it did begin to grow dim, and he resigned himself to many long hours without full use of his senses. It was stunningly quiet in his pit. If this were a prison, he thought, I would surely hear the cries of other inmates.

  By nightfall he could no longer ignore his senses. His parched throat screamed for water, his empty stomach groaned out its misery almost constantly. Sleep eluded him as his mind raced with worries of all the grim possibilities he faced. He recalled with visceral clarity the fate of a man who had been convicted before him of robbing a grave. The magistrate, after consultation with the local clergy, had come up with a logical and fit punishment for the crime: the criminal was buried alive, left to ponder his misdeed as he died in the very setting in which it had been committed. And that criminal had been a Christian. Alejandro could not even imagine what they would do to him, a Jew, for the same offense.

  How can I convince them that my act was not a criminal one, that I only sought knowledge that their pope in his ignorance forbids me to acquire in a more reasonable manner? I have not robbed a grave, but borrowed its occupant for a while. I would have returned him no worse than when he went in originally. Still, he reproached himself for hours on end, not for his deed, but for the stupidity of having been caught. He searched his memory for something he could have done to avoid detection, but found nothing; his capture had been a matter of simple bad luck. His sense of injustice grew stronger as the night passed, and by the time the early threads of light came in through the door cracks, he was filled with grand schemes for saving himself.

  His resolute determination was dashed when the small door was jerked open shortly after dawn, allowing an explosion of bright light to pierce his eyes, forcing him to shield himself from the painful illumination, which by then he craved almost as much as physical sustenance. A bowl of water and one small loaf of hard bread were quickly placed inside, and the door slammed shut again. It all happened so fast that Alejandro was caught completely unprepared. He had a thousand questions to ask of his keeper, but in a flash, the opportunity was gone.

  “Have mercy! Please tell me where I am! For the love of God, allow me a candle …” He desperately wanted a drink, but he knew that he had to plead his case before his keeper got too far away. He shouted his pleas over and over again until it became evident to him that there was no one there to hear him. He sank down on his knees, humbled by his inability to gain the attention of his captor, and downed the pitiful meal, licking the bowl with his dry tongue to gather every precious drop of the water.

  Another whole day and night, he thought, assuming the worst. The thought of another silent, dark, and solitary day filled him with desolation. If he should lose control of himself during this ordeal, he knew that it would not be his body that betrayed him first, for his mind would become so desperate for a vision or a sound that it would begin to invent its own. If it came to that, he was sure he would prefer death to madness. The ultimate indignity was that he lacked even the means to end his own life.

  In the center of a huge salon two men stood facing each other across an ornate oak table. Despite the imposing proportions of the room it was remarkably quiet, an effect of the numerous soft rugs and tapestries with which it was decorated.

  The bishop politely gestured to his guest to take a seat. The elderly Jew bowed slightly in acknowledgment of his host’s invitation, then carefully rearranged his robes and lowered himself into the chair. His posture was stooped, partly from years of bending over account ledgers and record books, and partly, the bishop suspected, from something far more burdensome. Avram’s movements were unsteady, and his voice nearly trembled. The image he presented was not what the bishop had assumed of him from their years of correspondence.

  Bishop John of Aragon had been Monsignor John, newly dispatched to his post by His Holiness Pope John XXII, when Avram Canches was just joining his family’s lending business as his father had ordered him to do. He remembered the bitterness he’d felt on the day when it had been determined that he would not be allowed to pursue what would have been his choice of professions. “Let your brothers work with their hands,” his stern father had said as he led Avram to the ledgers. “Your hands will hold a quill.” He knew it was the reason he had succumbed to his own son Alejandro’s pleas to pursue the study of medicine, despite his own grave doubts about the wisdom of it. He understood now his father’s despotic behavior, and wished that he had found the strength to be so stern with his own son.

  He and Bishop John had exchanged hundreds of letters since that day, all of them regarding the monetary concerns of the Christian Church. In an arrangement that had been hugely beneficial to both men, Avram had guaranteed that the worldly prelate would always have the ca
sh to finance the elaborate rituals that his priests conducted, and had done so with consistent integrity, never voicing his personal opinion that God is not concerned with a man’s clothing or the surroundings in which he worshiped. He was glad to collect his interest, and kept his cynical judgments to himself, and after years of association, Avram had come to feel a sort of wary esteem for the prelate.

  The bishop held a similar favorable opinion of Avram, but was surprised to see before him a man who did not seem capable of conducting his business in the firm manner that had always been Avram Canches’ trademark. They remained silent for a long while, eyeing each other, each redrawing the speculative mental image developed from years of wondering what the other might look like.

  The bishop eventually spoke first. “You are not as I imagined, my friend. I had thought you would tower over me. You are a forceful businessman, and I would have sworn you were a giant.”

  The small, frail man replied, “Eminence, forgive me if I disappoint you. I can only hope that my mental powers have not shrunk with the years, as has my body.”

  “I suspect they remain enormous,” the cleric said, laughing. “Now you must allow me to offer you some refreshment. Your journey was not short, and we are no longer young.”

  The bishop signaled to an acolyte, who returned a few minutes later bearing an ornate silver tray filled with breads, cheeses, and fruits.

  Bishop John blessed the food in Latin as Avram spoke a few words in Hebrew; their eyes met over the candle flame as they simultaneously finished their brief devotions. The bishop then poured two goblets of wine from a silver decanter. He held one up to the candlelight, savoring the rich color of the wine through the glass. Handing it to his guest, he said, “So, Avram, here we are, face-to-face at last after so many letters. I am curious to know your reason for such a long journey.”

  Avram, visibly nervous, did not speak, but fidgeted with the knife, clumsily cutting a chunk of cheese off one of the rounds on the tray before him. Perceiving Avram’s discomfort, the bishop sensed an opportunity to gain an advantage, however small, that might be used to good purpose in the future over his creditor, so he pressed him further, feigning sincere concern for the man’s well-being. “Please, Avram,” he said, “surely you know I am far more than your host at this simple meal. If you have need to speak of difficult matters, do so without fear. You are in the house of God, and you will find acceptance here.”

  Ignoring the pain in his old bones, Avram struggled to assume an air of dignity and strength, and managed to squirm up a little taller in the ornate chair. He thought to himself that it had probably cost the annual tithes of fifty peasants to purchase this masterpiece. He observed as he shifted his position that there were twelve such costly chairs carefully arranged around the table. They might have been a worthwhile expenditure if one could only find some comfort in their seats, the old Jew thought.

  He cleared his throat. “Your Grace,” he began cautiously, “I am sure that your ‘advisors’ have sent word that there has been trouble in our town of Cervere.”

  The bishop eyed Avram suspiciously. How does he know of my spies? he wondered. “Ah, yes, my advisors …” he said deliberately. “I recall hearing that there was a problem of some disruption recently … a grave robbery, was it not?” He knew full well that a Jew had been arrested for robbing the grave of a recently deceased Christian tradesman. The bereaved family was properly outraged and demanded immediate justice. The bishop had not yet been told the details, however; he needed more intelligence about the incident that Avram had laid before him. By coming so soon the Jew had taken away some of the bishop’s usual advantage, and John resolved to express his displeasure to the abbot in Cervere. He felt ill prepared to continue, but did not wish to betray a weak link in his famous network, a network he hadn’t thought the old Jew would even know about. What more does he know, this wily old fox? the bishop wondered.

  “Your Grace,” Avram continued, “I regret to advise you that to my eternal shame, the robber is my son.”

  The warmth drained from the bishop’s face immediately. Neglecting impolitely to excuse himself, he rose up from his chair. Why hadn’t his spies been more specific about this? I should excommunicate the incompetent fool who let this advantage slip from my fingers! he thought angrily. The old Jew was smart indeed to come forward with this admission, for he has deftly undercut me!

  He walked away from the table and stood staring out the window for a moment, his arms crossed, as if protecting himself from some great evil.

  Avram could see that the bishop was angry, but what he could not understand was the reason. Perhaps I have shown myself too soon, he thought. He began to fear that his mission to save Alejandro would fail. Steadying himself against the edge of the table, he creaked to his feet and moved shakily around the table’s edge nearer to his fuming host.

  “My son is a physician, who took the great risk of treating this Christian at the man’s own insistence, even though he knew it is forbidden. The poor man was dying horribly of a wasting disease, and my son made a noble effort to ease the suffering of his final days. He tried all known cures, expending his time on the patient’s behalf. All he took in payment was a shovel. A shovel, Your Grace! He was compelled to examine the man’s body in order to learn the cause of the malady. He does not believe that he has committed a crime.”

  He paused, hoping for a sympathetic response from his adversary, getting only an icy stare. Gathering his composure, Avram continued, “Surely he is not guilty of grave robbery. Had he not been stopped, he would have returned the body to its proper burial place, and was indeed on his way to do so when he was caught. Nothing was taken; the body was intact.”

  “Nevertheless,” John said sternly, his eyes never leaving Avram’s, “even Moses teaches that it is a sin to covet that which belongs to another man. Wise men of all religions have deemed that a man’s body is among his most cherished possessions. How could a crime be greater than stealing the home in which a man’s soul resides during his earthly walk? Why should he be excused from his evil deed, simply for saying he did not himself consider it to be evil? To determine the nature of evil is the privilege of God alone, certainly not that of a lowly Jew.”

  “I admit, Eminence, that Alejandro’s deed was rash and ill considered. We Jews also believe that the body is a sacred gift from God. But he has always thirsted for knowledge. He will stop at nothing to gain it. If anyone is deserving of punishment, it is I for having allowed him to believe that he could live without the humility that is proper for our people. I am old and near the end of my life. I beg you, consider the crime to be mine. Confer his punishment on me instead.”

  The bishop looked at the old man, the unmet friend of many years, now suddenly transformed into an unwanted enemy. He saw a fragile, tired, and defeated soul, damned to eternal fire for his beliefs. He believed himself to have been a protector and sponsor of the Jews in his bishopric; this betrayal of his benign patronage was an outrage beyond all forgiveness. As his eyes burned into Avram’s he hissed, “How dare you allow your son to betray our trust? I have always permitted the Jews of Aragon to live peacefully, in convivencia. His Holiness has entrusted me with the responsibility to carry out his policy of tolerance of the Jews in my dominion. How could you have allowed your son to make me look like such a failure? If I cannot control the Jews in Aragon, your people may find themselves confronted with a less sympathetic keeper!”

  Avram remained silent. So, he thought, he fears losing his power. This was the open wound he needed in order to proceed. Avram knew that he could make the bishop look very good indeed. But I must not waver, he thought, or he will not agree! He changed his demeanor immediately from pleading to reasoning. He stood straighter, and spoke in a firm voice.

  “Your Grace, I am well aware of the favor we Jews have enjoyed under your protection, and we are grateful for our prosperity in your realm. We, too, have made an effort to live in peace with all Christians, in the fervent hope that men of
all faiths might experience the richness of tolerant cooperation.”

  The bishop looked directly at Avram, wondering why his attempt to intimidate him had failed. “Go on,” he said suspiciously. “I am not sure I understand you yet.”

  Avram pulled a thick scroll from one sleeve of his robe. “Eminence, I have brought with me the record of the bishopric’s accounts with the House of Canches. It would be my pleasure to review the accounts with you at this time. Perhaps we can be seated again, and resume our meal. We both have much to ponder, and I, for one, will think more clearly on a full stomach.”

  After a few seconds of wary consideration John gestured to the seat across from his. Avram gratefully sat down again, as did his host. They ate in silence, each one’s mind racing with imaginative schemes for manipulating the other. How much could be gained? How little need be given up? The two men, armed with the wisdom of long lives and rich experiences, prepared to joust as warriors seldom did, their only weapons being their wits. The bishop was suddenly confronted with the glorious possibility of sending to Avignon sums far in excess of what he had told the pope to expect. He would be viewed as an excellent manager, a careful trustee, valuable to His Holiness for his shrewd stewardship of the tithes of Aragon. Avram wondered how much he could demand of the bishop in return for the cancellation of the Church’s vast debt to his family. He would gladly give up this asset in exchange for Alejandro’s life and a chance for him to begin anew in some other place. But the bargain could not simply be limited to Alejandro’s release from prison. Avram would press for his safe passage out of Spain with a trustworthy Christian escort, one who would protect him on the long journey.

  The bishop called the acolyte to clear the table of the meal and asked for more candles. After they were placed in the candelabra and lit, he sent the young acolyte away, and the two old men sat together, ready to conclude their unsavory business.