by Ann Benson
“Eduardo Hernandez at your service, my fine young peacock! And permit me to observe that you do little to dispel the belief that Jews are nothing but animals. Look at you, a pitiful sight, scratching and clawing like a woman!” He blithely spun Alejandro around, and faced him squarely.
“By the grace of God—yours or mine, who can tell?—I am here to escort you out of this hole to safety. I advise you to show me the respect owed to a gentleman of my obvious valor and chivalry.”
Alejandro sank down to his knees, all his energy spent. Hernandez had to support him with his arms to keep him from crashing to the floor and, in doing so, realized how truly filthy Alejandro was. He turned his head away and quickly offered an opinion on Alejandro’s condition. “You smell worse than a French nobleman, a state that will require improvement if I am to escort you all the way to Avignon.” He laughed and said, “Perhaps I shall baptize you. It could do you no harm. Come with me, my fine young gentleman, and let us see to your new life. At least you can begin it in a state of cleanliness. Then we shall be able to see what other attentions you require.”
Out into the blinding daylight they went, Alejandro stumbling along sightlessly, supported with surprising gentleness by the huge Spaniard who had come to rescue him. Hernandez literally threw his captive across the saddle of a waiting horse, then mounted another himself and took the reins of the one carrying Alejandro. They set out at a slow pace, Hernandez watching closely to see that his cargo did not slip off the horse.
A short distance away was a stream in a wooded area, shaded by trees and hidden from view. Hernandez lifted Alejandro off the horse and set him down gently. He immediately began pulling the rags off his body, but when he pulled the shirt up over the younger man’s head, Alejandro cried out, and pulled his arms tightly in against his body.
“Come now, my friend. Modesty is a fine quality in a maiden, but it is wasted in a man!” He tried again to remove the shirt, but Alejandro spoke at last, saying he would remove it himself. He carefully worked off each sleeve, minimizing the pull on his wounded chest, then motioned to Hernandez to lift the remains of his once sturdy but now tattered garment over his head.
Hernandez gasped at the angry red circle just below Alejandro’s neck. “Madre de Dios, young man, what was your crime?”
“I committed no crime” was the quick and angry response. “I am punished for seeking greater knowledge in an effort to improve the lot of all men who suffer needlessly from disease.”
Hernandez recognized the zealot’s fire in his voice. Aha, he thought, so it was this one! He had heard the local uproar over a tradesman’s disinterment, reportedly perpetrated by one of Cervere’s Jews. And although Hernandez thought it best to leave God’s business to God, he could not help but shiver at the thought of the decaying body under the physician’s knife. He peered curiously at the wiry and exotic-looking man who had had the courage to do what he himself would never attempt. Perhaps there is more here than meets the eye, he thought with amusement.
He carefully guided Alejandro to the water’s edge and bade him enter the cool stream. He was lucky to survive that branding! Hernandez thought. He had seen such a burn once before; it had festered to green and yellow, quickly consuming the bodily resources of the victim, who died delirious and screaming for water. He watched Alejandro dip himself in the water, and curiously peeked at his manhood to see the effect of the ritual that was done to all Jewish boys in infancy. Shuddering at the thought, he raised his eyes and noted how carefully the young man cleaned the circular wound on his chest. It caused him obvious pain, for he sucked in his breath and screwed up his face when the water touched the wound.
As he stood dripping in the stream, Alejandro turned toward Hernandez and asked if their supplies included any wine. Hernandez nodded and walked over to the tethered horses, removing a flask from one of the saddlebags. He was surprised to see Alejandro lean his body back and pour the entire contents of the flask over his chest, grimacing as he did so, letting it saturate the crusty circle.
“See here, young man! I am well paid for this duty, but not well enough to sanction your careless waste of good wine!”
The Jew had regained his wits, and said firmly, “I am a physician, and have observed that those wounds treated with ablution in both water and wine heal more quickly and perfectly than those left untreated. If you expect me to die of this injury and thereby lighten your journey, you must rethink your expectation. You will get no such compliance from me. It will do me far more good to wear this wine than to drink it.”
Alejandro strode out of the water, with more strength now, refreshed by the removal of many days’ filth from his body. His tattered rags were not worth burning; it would be a waste of good fuel to bother with them, so he left them in the pile where they had fallen on the bank of the stream.
“I presume that this package contains fresh attire?”
“Indeed, although I obtained it on my own, and know not whether its style will suit you.”
Out came breeches, shirt, stockings, boots, vest, and hat. Alejandro had almost always dressed in the traditional robes of his people, and very rarely wore clothing in the European style. His last venture into stylish clothing at the Cervere well had ended disastrously, leading him to the miserable situation in which he now found himself. He hoped that similar clothing would not have the same disturbing effect on other people.
“Why, Jew, you look almost normal now. One might even call you handsome were it not for your curious hair.”
Alejandro walked to the water’s edge and peered down into the mirroring surface of the calm stream. He was surprised to see that Hernandez did not exaggerate. Except for his sidelocks he looked every bit the modern young European. He was shocked at his own impiety, and quickly stepped away, for it was unthinkable for him to try to look like a Christian.
“I would advise you to cut your hair, for it will only raise the interest of those we meet on our journey. It will be speculated that a Jew in Christian’s clothing is running or hiding from something. This will not make our journey any easier.”
Alejandro was horrified at the thought. “I cannot, for it will signify to other Jews that I dishonor our covenant with God.”
“You will serve your God far better alive than dead, young man. I am paid to deliver you safely to Avignon, and I think you will arrive more safely without those telltale locks. Think again.”
Not wishing to discuss his appearance any further, Alejandro asked for food, and Hernandez brought out a loaf of fresh bread and a hunk of cheese. Alejandro ate ravenously, prompting Hernandez to observe, “You eat as if it would be your last meal, Jew. Have you not known hunger before?”
Looking at his escort with undisguised wariness, Alejandro said, “My family has been fortunate.”
Hernandez grunted. “Aye, I am aware of that.” He handed Alejandro a small bundle wrapped in soft leather. “Your father bade me give you this,” he said. “You are to open it before we begin our journey.”
Stepping away for privacy, Alejandro untied the string that secured the package, gently unfolding each layer of the leather wrapping. There were several objects inside, and he examined each one in turn. The first was a purse of gold coins, more than he had seen at one time in his life. He fingered the disks and let them slip through his hands back into the purse, to enjoy the secure feeling of their weight, but took care not to let Hernandez hear their jingling. He would lack nothing on his journey to Avignon. His father had also sent a prayer shawl, a wickedly sharp knife, and the bishop’s letter of safe passage to Avignon. There were some other personal items of clothing and hygiene, such as a comb and a small vial of oil of clove for toothaches and sore wounds. But most important, his father had sent his book, knowing that it was the most precious of his son’s possessions. Alejandro held it reverently in his hands for a few moments before setting it down.
The last item in the package was another letter, sealed with wax for secrecy. Alejandro broke the seal and carefull
y unfolded the scroll.
My Dear Son,
Things have gone very badly for us. I have arranged your release, hoping that in the future you would contact us here with your whereabouts, but we have been betrayed by the bishop.
When I left him, it had been arranged that you would be safely conducted to Avignon by an escort (with whom you are now traveling if you are reading this letter). I burned the parchment that recorded the bishops’s debt before his very eyes, thereby keeping my part of the bargain we made.
The swine has since ordered that our family must leave Cervere within two days, never to return. We have hastily sold our goods, and Uncle Joachim has bought the remaining debtor accounts from us.
My own spy bribed the bishop’s messenger and reported the contents of his letter. Guard your face, that it is not scarred by the branding iron. Your mother is at her wits’ end over your disfigurement. I have assured her that you will know how to heal yourself, and that disfigurement seems a small matter when compared to death. I hope you are not in pain, or suffering from a festering wound. Take ample care to wash it as you have so many times told me to do.
We will also travel to Avignon. If we arrive safely, we will leave word of our situation with the family of the local rabbi, who will also accept a letter from you to us.
Beloved son, you must understand that you are a hunted man. The family of Carlos Alderón has sworn vengeance upon you for your ungentle uprooting of their patriarch, and rumors are spreading that a renegade Jew is heading for Avignon, so you must conceal yourself. God will not punish you for staying alive. Do what you must to reach Avignon in safety, for there, God willing, we shall be reunited.
Your loving father
He felt a touch on his shoulder. It was surprisingly kind and gentle. “We should depart soon,” he heard Hernandez say.
Alejandro rolled the scroll carefully, knowing he would come to treasure it. After placing the sheathed knife in the top of his boot and the letters in his vest, he retied the package and stowed it in his saddlebag. He mounted the horse, surprising Hernandez with his agility.
“Señor Hernandez,” he said, “I beg you to indulge me for one more task. I am instructed by my father in his letter to deliver a message to the bishop before we depart.”
Hernandez grunted his displeasure, but did not argue with his young employer. He turned his horse in the direction of the palatial monastery, and they proceeded at a fast trot.
Alejandro astonished himself with how quickly he took to riding a horse. It was not his customary practice, for most of his traveling had been done by mule-drawn cart. They rode quickly over the bumpy, dusty roads, and before he knew it, they were at the very monastery where his father had struck the fateful bargain with the bishop.
He leapt off the horse, again surprising himself when he landed on his feet, and gave the reins of his horse to Hernandez, then slipped away toward the door of the monastery. Before entering, he took out his knife and cut off his forelocks, letting them fall where he stood. He watched as the locks of curly black hair drifted to the ground, the last vestige of his attachment to this place and the beloved people of his family and community. As the curls hit the dirt at his feet he became a new man with a new life, and a past he could no longer admit to.
He left them where they landed and walked boldly to the monastery’s massive doors. Alejandro greeted the monk who opened them in Spanish, saying that he had a message for the bishop from one of his creditors and that it must be delivered personally. But the monk said the bishop was in prayer and could not be disturbed.
More likely in bed with a sweet young companion, Alejandro thought to himself, thinking of the stories he’d been told. Taking the letters out of his vest, he showed the monk his safe passage, with the bishop’s, own easily recognized seal, and then the letter written in Hebrew, saying that he alone knew the translation.
Seeing that the bishop’s own hand had granted this man the right to pass, the monk admitted him. He wondered at the contents of the long missal written in the heathen hand delivered by such an unlikely messenger, then decided that it was better left to the bishop to ponder it. He led the young man to the door of the salon, and knocked softly.
“Enter,” said the bishop.
The monk waved him through the great door into the richly appointed room. Alejandro was momentarily awestruck by the grandeur of the furnishings, and looked around in wonder.
The bishop eyed him with suspicion as he studied the room. “Well, young traveler, God be with you. May I be of service?”
“Sir, I have a message of some importance, written here on this scroll.”
“Bring it here, then, and let me see it in the light.”
As Alejandro approached the man, he reached into his vest and retrieved the scrolled letter. He handed it to the bishop, who spent a moment untying the ribbon before he unrolled it.
He looked up at Alejandro with a puzzled look and said, “What joke is this, a message in the heathen script of the Jews?”
“It is a letter of appreciation from your great admirer Avram Canches. He wishes to thank you for your kindness and fair treatment.”
A look of grave fear spread over the man’s face, which pleased Alejandro. The bishop shrank back, knowing he was about to come to harm. Alejandro wasted no time, but pulled the knife out of his boot and plunged it deeply into the chest of the recoiling cleric.
As he regarded the limp form on the floor before him and watched the blood spread over the front of the rich robe, Alejandro wondered how he, a physician and healer, could so calmly end the life of another human being. He had sworn above all to do no harm, and here in this luxurious room he had done the ultimate harm without flinching, and with a complete lack of mercy. He saw himself in a mirror. Who is that imposter? he said silently to his own alien reflection. Taking the scroll from the bishop’s hand, he tucked it into one pocket of his shirt, then wiped the betrayer’s blood from his knife and replaced it in his boot. As quietly as he had entered, he slipped out again, closing the door behind him. With no indication that anything was amiss, he passed through the abbey halls and rejoined Hernandez outside, where they turned their horses to the east and headed toward the road to Avignon.
Four
Janie and Caroline stood at a table in the main laboratory of the Microbiology Department of the British Institute of Science, surrounded by glass and brushed chrome and white plastic laminate. The lab was housed in an old building with old characteristics: high ceilings, tall windows, resident echoes, maybe even a ghost, Janie thought. Awestruck and overwhelmed, they stood in the center of a room that had both the dignified authority of age and the intimidating power of technology. “I’ve never seen anyplace like this,” Janie said. “My God, what I wouldn’t give to play in here for a month.”
The technician who’d summoned them there to look at what he’d found in the last tube of dirt laughed aloud. “Just make sure there’s no one from Biopol looking over your shoulders. And if you’re really going to play, they make you put playclothes on.” He pointed to a nearby rack of biosafe equipment, all of it the same nasty bright green Janie had seen on the Biocops in the airport.
“Not my color,” she said with a grim smile.
“Not anybody’s,” he said, smiling back flirtatiously. “I don’t know who picked it, but they should be tried for conspiracy to commit visual mayhem.”
“Conspiracy to give headaches, at least,” Caroline commented.
The technician was charming in a very urbane and thoroughly British way. “Quite,” he said. “Now, I believe this little tidbit might be of interest to you.” He handed Janie a small piece of fabric, roughly circular, the approximate size of the tube in which he’d found it. “From the shape of it I’d say you sliced right through it when you twisted that tube into the dirt.”
“I’d say it got pushed a bit before the fibers gave,” Janie said. “See these little serrations? It had to have turned a bit in the soil for that to have happened. Th
ere must be a bigger piece down there still.”
As she held the scrap in her hand, all of Janie’s previous shame over absconding with the “illegal” dirt gave way to the excitement of finding something significant in it. “It’s in remarkably good condition,” she said. She measured from the top of the tube to the marker showing where the item had been situated in the tube. “At this depth it could have been deposited more than five hundred years ago, but there’s very little deterioration. Probably because the soil around here is so peaty. It keeps the air out. I bet we won’t look this good when someone digs us up.” She handed the small circle of fabric back to the lab technician. “We’ll have some fun with this when we get back to the States.”
“Would you like to take a quick look at it right now?” he asked.
A list of silent questions popped into her mind. Who put it there? When? Where had it been before landing in its final resting place? She considered all those unknowns and realized that the thrill of deciphering them was what made her forced switch from surgery to forensics seem less horrifying than the other possibilities. Still, Janie hesitated. “Maybe we ought to wait,” she said. “Now that we’ve got all the soil samples we can get right to work on them. I don’t want to get sidetracked by something that’s not really part of the project, although I have to admit it is a nice little find. I might be able to work it into the thesis somehow, but right now I’m more concerned with completing the work that’s already included in it.” She looked directly at the technician. “We’re ready to start the chemistry runs today, if you’ve got the time.” She wanted, without pressuring him, to imply that it wouldn’t break her heart to get a fast start on the lab work.
