The Plague Tales

by Ann Benson

  Avram began to recite, almost from memory, the speech he had prepared, should it be God’s will that he needed it. “I have long appreciated Your Grace’s patronage of my family. I am, of course, shamed by the terrible dishonor my son has done to you in failing to respect the repose of your Christian dead. While I am aware that I cannot possibly repay your generosity for allowing us to serve you these years, I would like to give you a small demonstration of my appreciation and esteem.”

  The elderly Jew then pulled open the scroll in front of the bishop to allow him to view the accounts. John studied the entries intently, carefully reviewing the long columns that listed the year of each loan and the amount owed. Some had been settled long ago, but a sobering debt remained unpaid. Even setting aside the interest, and assuming no new debts were to be added to the old, the Church would require several years of healthy tithes just to pay off the principal. Cursing himself, the bishop regretted that he had let the Church’s debt to this shrewd man get so out of hand.

  Avram once again rolled up the scroll and, keeping it just out of the flame’s reach, held it over the candle, making the meaning of his previous statement clear to the watching bishop. “Perhaps it is time for me to reconsider these debts,” he said. “I am sure we could work out an acceptable arrangement.”

  The bishop understood. “My friend, you are too kind. I could not possibly accept your generous offer without a gift of my own to you. Perhaps I can be of service to your family in its time of need.”

  Avram Canches made his proposal, his voice now stronger and more insistent. “My son must be released from his captivity, with guaranteed safe passage to Avignon. He will require an escort, and since I have no influence with your people, I will depend on you to arrange for a suitable guide. It must be someone you know to be completely trustworthy. I will, of course, reward him handsomely for this service.”

  The bishop could not believe his good fortune, and had to make an effort to hide his excitement. These requests were inconsequential, and easily arranged. “And there will be no further demands after this service is rendered?”

  Avram raised himself up to his full height, mustering all the dignity and strength he could find in his weary soul. He looked the bishop straight in the eye and declared boldly, “Your Grace, this service has more value to me than anything else in your power. My son has merely stumbled on a stone in his path. The remission of your impossible debt is a small price to pay for his life.”

  Smiling almost scornfully, Bishop John of Aragon said to Avram Canches, “Then we are agreed to this bargain, Jew. Burn the scroll.”

  They both watched in silence as Avram held the parchment to the flame, filling the room with the nauseating odor of burning flesh, completely in keeping with the ignoble business being transacted therein. When the scroll was completely consumed, Bishop John turned to Avram and said, “I will contact a soldier named Hernandez on your behalf. He has served me well on many occasions. He is a tolerant and patient man, and he will be glad for your employment. But I warn you, when he learns he is to be escorting a renegade Jew, his price may be a drain on your riches.”

  Avram knew that he would ransom his own soul for Alejandro’s freedom. He doubted that even the greediest soldier of fortune could demand what he was capable of paying for his son’s safe passage. “Then, please, Your Grace, in deference to our long history, make a good bargain for me.”

  “I will do my best,” the bishop said. “A messenger will be sent to you at first light. Details of the arrangements will be given to you at that time.”

  Avram bowed slightly as a gesture of his thanks. He bade the bishop good-bye, thinking it sad that they would never have contact again, for the squalid nature of their final exchange had ended their friendship forever. He had, before today, cherished their correspondence. It was a game well played between worthy adversaries, and he would miss it sorely.

  The bishop walked with Avram to the door of the great room, as if to bid him farewell. To Avram’s surprise and disgust he proffered the ultimate insult to the venerable Jew: he held out his ringed hand, waiting for Avram to bow in a supplicant kiss.

  Avram looked at Bishop John in a glower of defiance. He stared down at the proffered hand, wishing he could show his disgust by spitting on it. But even though it would feel like a gift from God to be able to show his scorn, he knew it would do Alejandro no good. He swallowed his revulsion and stooped down, then made the required gesture of supplication. He rose up again, glared for a moment at the bishop, and then walked out.

  The bishop called his acolyte with the pull of a bell cord. The young man entered the room, silently as always, and approached the senior cleric in reverence.

  “Brother, send the cook out to look for that scoundrel Hernandez. No doubt he will know which tavern the rogue frequents.”

  “What shall the cook tell him, your Grace?” the young man asked.

  Bishop John scratched his chin for a moment, lost in an effort to come up with a plausible story. “Hmm,” he said, “with Hernandez one must be careful to make the proper appeal and, of course, provide the proper enticement.” He pondered for another moment, then said, “He is to be told that his services are required for an important journey on behalf of the Church. Tell the cook to hint that the purse will be an unusually fat one. And that I will expect him within the hour.” He waved his hand in dismissal. As the young man bowed his way backward out of the salon, the bishop said, “Send in my scribe at once.”

  The bishop waited for his scribe on his balcony, where he spent a few moments gazing up into the night sky and wondering, as always, at the majesty and mystery of the heavens. What force, he wondered, could summon the strength to propel the sun in its daily journey around Earth? He had heard that there were lands far to the north where at one time of year, the sun never left the sky, and at another time it barely made its presence known. He marveled that the ball of fire could hop so whimsically around the heavens. Surely, he thought, it bounces off God’s very fingertips.

  All too soon he was interrupted by the arrival of his scribe, who, after kissing the bishop’s ring, arranged himself and his writing materials at the long table. The bishop dictated.

  “The bearer of this scroll and his traveling companion are hereby granted safe passage by His Eminence, John, Bishop of Aragon.”

  The scribe handed him the scroll, to which he applied his personal seal. “Now for the next letter,” he said, and began to dictate.

  To the Most Reverend Father Joseph of the Order of St. Francis,

  Brother, I greet you in the name of Christ our Savior. By the grace of God and to His greater Glory, I have negotiated terms of an agreement with the Jew Avram Canches to relieve the Holy Church of its financial obligation to the House of Canches. In appreciation for his kind indulgence, I have agreed to release his son Alejandro, now in your keeping and charged with the heinous sin of grave robbery, into the hands of Señor Eduardo Hernandez, who will present himself to you with my seal. Señor Hernandez will escort the vile young Jew outside our dominion, never again to intrude upon the peace of our region.

  Notify the remaining family of Avram Canches that they are also banished from Aragon, and henceforth forfeit their claim to any interest in businesses located within our bishopric. The family will be required to quit their residence by sunset two days after your receipt of this letter, and any goods or property not disposed of prior to that time shall become the property of the Church, to increase her treasuries for the great work of God our Almighty Father.

  Before releasing the young Jew, you will brand him so that all who see him shall know he is a Jew. He shall never malign Christian society again.

  May God be with you in these important tasks. You do the work of Christ and His Virgin Mother Mary, and God will reward you well.

  John, Bishop of Aragon

  He applied the seal again. The scribe wrote one last letter of introduction, and was dismissed with a blessing. A soft knock was heard not three minut
es after his departure, and the acolyte announced Señor Eduardo Hernandez.

  Again, the light faded, and again Alejandro spent a night of thin sleep. As the first glimmer came through the cracked door frame, he readied himself for the arrival of his miserable meal. Though his body ached with hunger and thirst, it was not the prospect of nourishment that inspired him. Crouching just next to the door, eyes ever on the crack of light, ears searching for the smallest sound, he waited patiently for the return of his keeper. Every few minutes he would stretch one leg, then the other, and shake his arms about to keep himself alert and prepared. He knew that he would have to shield his eyes from the stab of light that would momentarily blind him when the door was finally opened.

  The faintest hint of footsteps sounded, sharpening his senses immediately. As they grew louder, Alejandro’s heart beat nearly out of his chest in anticipation, its heavy pounding almost drowning out the cherished sound. The footsteps stopped, and he heard the bowl being set down outside the door. Cloth rustled, and the latch turned.

  As the door opened, Alejandro brought one hand to his eyes, turning his head away, and blindly groped at the arm that came through the door. He felt the flesh of his captor, its warmth both thrilling and energizing. Then came the inevitable struggle, and he opened his eyes just as the arm pulled back. In the brilliant light, just before the door slammed shut again, he saw that the hand had dropped not a bowl or a crust, but a scroll.

  Ignoring it for the moment, he cried out, “A word, I beg you, just one small word! Please, I beg of you, tell me what is happening to me!”

  There was silence, but he heard no footsteps, so he knew his tormenter was still present. He almost missed the hushed words. “Be silent, or I cannot help you at all.”

  Quickly, Alejandro regained himself and, after wiping his face and nose on his filthy sleeve, responded, “God bless you, sir. I am desperate for knowledge of my situation!”

  The tone of the voice darkened. “I prefer the blessing of my own God, Jew, as well you should. Listen carefully, for there is little time.”

  “Your forgiveness, please,” Alejandro beseeched. “I will do as you say, only please tell me—”

  “Silence!” the speaker hissed. “As you no doubt realize, I have brought a letter. From your father.”

  Alejandro groped around anxiously, finally finding the scroll. He tore off the ribbon hastily, but he could barely see the scribblings on the page. He said desperately to his jailer, “There is so little light; I shall not be able to read it.”

  The priest on the other side of the door paused for a moment. The father had not paid him well enough to provide light as well.

  “Perhaps your God will send you some,” the keeper said, and, laughing cruelly, he slunk away, knowing he would have to return later, when the prisoner was more calm, to give him his daily rations.

  Alejandro sat with his back against the wall, the scroll clutched against his chest, and waited in pained frustration for his vision to adjust again. When he could finally see the thin line of light that came in through the crack in the door, he moved the parchment through its illumination a bit at a time, and the familiar scrawl began to reveal itself. His father had written in a language only a Jew could read, knowing the priest could not decipher it and that another Jew would not betray him with an accurate translation.

  My Son,

  Do not despair, for soon you will be liberated. I have arranged for your safe conduct to Avignon, where the pope’s edict protects Jews from persecution. It is your best hope for survival. The priests will turn you over to a mercenary who will bear a package from me. Its contents will supply your needs for the journey. Guard your health and pray daily for the strength you will need in the coming days. May God protect you until we meet again.

  Your loving father

  Alejandro sat shivering with his back to the wall for the longest time after reading the letter. He tried to calm himself, knowing that his thirst would only be worsened by excessive excitement. As usual, his father was right. He would need to conserve his strength.

  He was still sitting there a short while later when the door was opened again and his food and water set down, and he was left alone in the dark as before to cherish the taste of every crumb of bread and lick the bowl with his parched tongue to take up every last drop of water. He did not bother to make an attempt at escape, nor beg for words, but settled back to wait for his deliverance. He drifted off to sleep.

  Alejandro awoke to a flash of what seemed like blinding light to his deprived eyes. He knew it was only the light let in by the opening of the trapdoor, but it seemed as if the sun itself were bearing down on his eyes with its fullest rays. He heard a voice calling to him, and he crawled quickly to the door, shielding his eyes until they were better acclimated.

  The voice bade him crawl out through the small passage, and he did so gratefully, thinking that his time of rescue had come, eager to breathe some air that had not been fouled with the stench of his own excrement.

  “Stand up, Jew” was the command. He did so, shakily, not yet having his full vision. Suddenly, he was slammed against the wall of the passageway, held in place at the shoulders by two monks. Another pushed his face to one side, exposing the surface of the cheek. It took only a split second for Alejandro to realize that the object rushing toward his face was meant to harm him, but it was enough for him to propel his body upward and loosen the grip of his confiners. Instead of its intended target the hot red brand landed in the middle of his chest, burning a hole right through the fabric of his shirt. He bellowed out a savage scream of pain.

  “The face!” one of the captors said angrily. “We must do it again!”

  But Alejandro, hearing their plan, began to writhe and thrash about so wildly that they could barely hold him. He clawed out like an animal and scratched one of his tormenters savagely on the arm, and the man promptly let go of him. He scrambled back into his cell, crawling like a newborn might wish to, back into the safety of the womb, a place where his captors would not follow.

  The injured monk quickly assessed his wound, and while it was bleeding profusely, he knew it was not dangerous. He got to his feet and picked up the branding iron, thinking to try again, but saw to his disappointment that the red glow had faded. He dropped the evil instrument in disgust and slammed the door to the pit closed. “The chest will have to suffice,” he said.

  Alejandro fell limp as he heard their footsteps echoing down the corridor. He lay there for a seeming eternity, knowing he had been branded, feeling the searing pain of the burn and the raging anger of his humiliation. He was feverish, his entire body covered with clammy sweat in the dank stone room. He felt chilled one moment, and the next as if he were consumed in flames. He thought surely that this was the Christian hell, and he had been sent there as God’s cruel jest. As if they could erase the mark his God had already set upon him, these evil men had felt it necessary to mark him again. He had foiled them this time and kept his face intact, but when they came back, as he was sure they would, they would not find a weak, compliant Jew. He would take them on, subdue them, and make his escape.

  His food was brought again, and he ate like a wounded animal, seething in his desire to avenge this act of unbridled hatred. For two more days he did nothing but Test and eat, building his strength for the time when they would come for him. The yellow ooze that covered the circular wound began to harden into a crusty scab. Alejandro knew he was healing, and thanked God for the continuation of his life. He vowed to heaven that he would not waste it.

  On the third day the door was suddenly opened at a time when he would not ordinarily be receiving food or water, and this time it was left open. The angry young prisoner waited patiently for his eyes to adjust to the light, gathering his determination as he sat in his cell. He peered cautiously upward and saw the silhouette of a crouching man in the passageway outside his cell, and decided to wait before making his move, hoping his new adversary would make some revealing move, show a weakne
ss, or give himself away in some other manner. And when that imperfection showed itself, he would take full advantage of it; he would charge through the open door, and lash out at his captor in the full fury of a young man fighting for his survival.

  The silhouette of the captor’s head appeared in the open door. “Jew? Show yourself,” a voice said.

  He snickered from inside the pit, and thought to himself that he must sound deranged to the man on the other side of the open door. “Come in and find me, you stinking coward.”

  He heard deep laughter coming from outside the door. “You show an astonishing amount of bravery for a captive heathen,” it said.

  “Come in, then, and I will gladly show you just how brave a Jew can be.”

  “You think too much of my abilities, young man,” said the voice. “I cannot see you in the dark. How then can I discern your bravery? One must have bright daylight to see the bravery of a Jew. Come now, have compassion on me, for I am a limited man. Show yourself.”

  Something unraveled inside Alejandro, some thread of sanity that he had managed to maintain in spite of his obstacles. The thread finally let go, and he roared in outrage.

  “Then look at this, you Christian swine!”

  He threw himself through the opening, rolled aside, and rose up quickly, crouching in an animalistic attack stance, ready to pounce on his captor.

  The lone man waiting there laughed at the sorry sight of a ragged and filthy Jew snarling at him like a frightened beast. He slipped aside easily as the pathetic figure leapt at him in total disregard for his obvious advantages. “You will have to try again,” he said, “although I warn you: I am a robust man, and you are no match for me.”

  But Alejandro paid him no attention whatsoever, and blindly charged again. Hernandez grabbed one of his arms, and swung him back around, then grabbed his other arm and squeezed them together behind the young man’s back. Alejandro winced in agony as the burned skin on his chest was forced to spread to accommodate the extreme backward movement of his arms and shoulders. He was still at once, tears streaming down his face, quickly beaten, ashamed of his failure to do harm to his captor.