The rabbi assumed an affable smile tinged with mischief, which reminded François somewhat of Chartier’s when he had entered his cell all that time ago. The bishop’s aura had been accentuated by the semidarkness, his white alb illuminated by the light of his lantern. Here, it was the blinding rays of the sun that enveloped this other priest with their light, giving him the look of a prophet. But François doubted that he was bringing glad tidings. Gamliel approached and sat down. He poured a little water into a metal tumbler, took a sip then, giving François a penetrating look, told him without further ado that only Colin would be returning to France.
François leapt to his feet, his face red with anger. It was he, not Colin, who had been entrusted with the responsibility for this mission. He had to make sure personally that the cargo arrived safely. Keeping him here in the Holy Land was a scandal, tantamount to taking him hostage! Gamliel firmly rejected these outraged protests. He justified the decision by asserting that it would be inappropriate to repatriate Master Villon simultaneously with his rebellious verses, at a time when Rome would show itself most likely to pursue their author and when Louis XI, in the middle of a military conflict, would be unable to protect him. The orders of the head of the Brotherhood were categorical: Villon was staying.
Gamliel had received instructions to persuade the Frenchman to put off his departure, but was forbidden from using force to do so. Being as stubborn as a mule, Villon would not do what was expected of him if he was threatened. He had to be cajoled. Gamliel suggested amiably that François take up his pen again. In the meantime . . .
Parodying the rabbi’s affable tone, François thanked him humbly, and declared himself flattered that such well-informed book hunters had found him worthy to fight shoulder to shoulder with Horace and Epicurus against stupidity and narrow-mindedness. But Epicurus and Horace were long dead. In their lifetime, nobody would have dreamt of keeping them out of the fray like this. Even as he cursed and protested, François rapidly made his accounts, less and less convinced that this extension of his stay would be as bad as he claimed. Nobody was waiting for him in Paris, apart from Chartier. There was nothing for him there but debts and problems with the law.
Colin too, beneath his angry air, felt less and less upset by the news. Rather than serving as escort to his venerable companion, he had been promoted to head of the expedition and would be in a position to deal directly with the Bishop of Paris, if not with the king himself. He was already thinking about how to take advantage of this godsend.
François continued nevertheless to chafe against the decision, declaring that Gamliel could not keep him here against his will, that it was out of the question for him to write in such conditions, that this new humiliation was the last straw. It was an insult to the crown of France!
Gamliel did not pass up the opportunity that François was offering him on a platter, but immediately took him at his word. “The crown of France,” he said, “considers this arrangement quite judicious, as it has just reiterated to Master Fust.”
François could hardly believe his ears. Louis XI was in league with them! The rabbi would not allow himself to lie about something like that. In the garret in Lyon, the price had already been agreed, the deal concluded between Paris and Jerusalem. Quid pro quo. Villon’s pen in return for Fust’s services. That meant that François had never really risked the gallows! The king had pardoned him in advance. But to what end?
The Brotherhood had kept its part of the bargain. It had acquired a printing works and was now sending the texts that would feed its presses. But François could not work out what he could possibly supply in return. It couldn’t have been to write rondeaus that his monarch had sent him such a long distance—or agreed that these book hunters should keep him prisoner.
He lowered his eyes and stared at the rough wood of the table. An ant was scampering along the paths traced by the veins. It ran here and there, crossing cracks and slits like a skiff braving the waves. It seized a crumb of bread, felt the rancid texture with its mandibles, then set off again at a lively pace. It seemed to be wandering at will. But it was actually working for its queen. Colin crushed the ant with his fist. François jumped, abruptly torn from his daydream. Colin had done it deliberately, to shake him.
François suddenly bent his head, but at the same time gave a thin smile that stretched the skin on his cheeks and made his face taut. Gamliel did not understand the meaning of such a grin. But Colin immediately recognized that wicked look, the look François had always had in the old days, when the whole band had gathered in the evening to prepare their latest robbery. Gamliel sensed nervously that the two Coquillards were talking to each other without saying a word. Colin, with a sardonic gleam in his eye, gently ground the corpse of the ant between his huge fingers and flicked it so that it landed at the rabbi’s feet, while François, who had not moved, continued to stare at the sharp corners of the table, as if the ant were still running across it.
As Gamliel was making an effort to decipher the silent message that the two Frenchmen were slyly giving each other, Federico came into the room, as dapper as ever in his plumed hat, and brandishing a riding whip. He announced that everything was ready. The convoy would reach Acre in less than two days.
31
Brother Paul was scurrying in all directions, waving his censer at arm’s length, filling the courtyard with an acrid odor of cinnamon and burning resin, while with the other hand, he sprinkled mules and people with holy water, muttering wishes and prayers. A windy rumble, the kind that whales made, rose from his breathless chest. Assembled in a corner, the monks watched the prior’s every move, fearing that he might slip and fall on the flagstones, which were still wet with dew. Médard merely shrugged his shoulders, observing that good old Paul had made sure to clear his throat with a few morning glassfuls. In celebration of this glorious day, he even seemed to have doubled the usual dose.
Federico enhanced the ceremony in his own way, favoring those present with an even more extravagant costume than usual. He was dressed in a purple velvet shirt padded at the shoulders and elbows, the stitching camouflaged by elegant embroideries. The sleeves and collar were edged with falsely discreet pale silk flowerets. Three rows of small gold coins emphasized the bulge of the chest. They glinted in the sun and jangled in unison with each movement of the body. The handle of a knife emerged from a lizard-skin sheath hanging from a belt of Spanish leather, studded with nielloed silver. Its belligerent appearance clashed with the rest—a clear warning. The choice of these sartorial eccentricities was far from insignificant. Every detail was carefully considered so as to impress bandits and soldiers, peasants and dignitaries alike.
After a rapid inspection, Federico mounted his horse and gallantly saluted the entourage. Colin, holding his horse by the bridle, approached François. Incapable of giving voice to the mixed feelings they felt, the two men made do with forlorn smiles. Their emotion was all the more intense for being unspoken. Just as Colin turned to mount his horse, François walked abruptly away in the direction of the ramparts, from where he would watch the departure.
Once the convoy had left, the monks returned to their tasks, some to the library, some to the wine press, some to the cowsheds. The courtyard of the cloister was now deserted, apart from Gamliel, who was sitting on a bench at the foot of the bell tower, lost in thought. At his feet stretched the threatening shadow of the belfry cross, its arms spread like the wings of a bird of prey. The rabbi felt his throat tighten. He thought of the little caravan peacefully beginning its journey to the sea. Confident as it was, it was about to face a huge monster with a thousand tentacles.
The power of Rome spread over the world like the shadow of that great cross. It exercised its grip a long way from this monastery and the humble priests who lived in it, the countryside that surrounded it. No Pope had ever trodden the shepherds’ paths that crisscrossed Galilee, or climbed alone, leaning on his crook, the burning hills of Judea, or desc
ended the rocky slopes that led to the Dead Sea. In his palace of marble and porphyry, the Holy Father could follow only the lines of the illuminations in his gospel. There, fine miniatures depicted the suffering of Christ, his blood dripping in watercolor strokes tinged with vermilion. Gamliel, who had never been outside Palestine, imagined the Vatican as a huge fortress. An assault by the Brotherhood suddenly struck him as derisory. It would be crushed like the ant that had been running across the refectory table yesterday.
François and Aisha approached along the dark path that the cross drew in the sand. They noticed the rabbi’s anxious expression, but their arrival seemed immediately to chase away the thoughts tormenting him. Gamliel did not know which comforted him more, Aisha’s innocent smile or François’s wicked grin. He told them he had to return to Safed as soon as possible. He had been summoned to appear before the qadi of Nazareth, of whom he had requested an interview with the intention of allaying the suspicions of the caliphate. And besides, given that the monastery might be subject to a search at any moment, it was more prudent to be far from it. François would set off tomorrow. The head of the Brotherhood had arranged a safe, isolated place for him to stay.
François, who had thought he could stay here with the monks, was taken aback. He did not even ask the name of place to which he would be conducted, or if Aisha would be going with him, especially as she was so excited, it was clear she already knew. She and the rabbi had stopped making any attempt to conceal the fact that they were in league.
In fact, Gamliel continued as if everything was normal, explaining to what extent the period was favorable for a journey. It was just before the Jewish New Year, and the roads would be filled with villagers going to the synagogue, families going to visit their relatives, artisans and workers coming to work on the preparations or to receive rewards and gifts from their employers. A young couple, she disguised as a Jewish fiancée, he as a student of the Talmud, would not attract any attention.
François was unable to suppress a sardonic little laugh. He imagined himself crossing Galilee in a skullcap and caftan, perhaps even a false beard. He saw himself blessing old women, stroking the heads of children, raising his eyes to heaven as if he were in lively conversation with the Almighty, and letting his young bride carry all their baggage. The couple would be escorted for its own safety, Gamliel made clear, but the presence of Aisha was absolutely indispensable thanks to her knowledge of the terrain. She was a child of the Atlas Mountains.
Gamliel gave an amused smile. “After all, the desert holds no secrets for her.”
32
The ship moved away from the coast under full sail. The ramparts of Acre were now nothing but a grey line emphasizing the luminous ocher of the dunes surrounding the city. To the south, Mount Carmel spread its shadow over the sea. Its rounded contours gave it the appearance of a sleeping animal, while further north, steep cliffs, like wild beasts standing on their hind legs, jealously guarded access to Lebanon.
Federico and Colin stood in the prow. A westerly wind struck their faces, providing scant relief from the heat that reigned on deck. Colin was in a jovial mood, delighted to be leaving the Holy Land at last. He had never felt at ease there. Imbued with the teachings of the priests, he had expected to feel Christ’s compassion, to get closer to God, or at least to find some answers. He had been up and down the roads of Galilee, traveled the length of the Jordan, and trodden the paving stones of Jerusalem, believing that they would lead somewhere. He had looked everywhere for clues. But how to find his way in that jumble of temples and ruins, of tribes and clans, of prophecies and legends? Who on earth could he ask to show him the right path in those alleys filled with ghosts, ragged children, wretched vagabonds, priests, and nomads? And what questions to ask them? And so he was leaving empty-handed. He couldn’t wait to be back in his sweet France. He took the sea air deep into his lungs, as if a garrote had been removed from his throat, then turned back for a moment, pleased to see the shoreline fade and vanish in the distance.
Federico was also inhaling the air. It swelled the foremast with a healthy, alert vigor that seemed like a good omen. The vessel glided nimbly over the waves, barely swaying. He looked out to the open sea, face to the wind, eyes burning, lips stung by the sun and the salt.
33
From the height of the papal throne, Paul II listened attentively to the reading of the dispatches. The members of the College sat on the terraced benches that faced each other on either side of the council chamber. In the center of the nave, lit by a ray of sun, a young priest stood reciting the latest news in a neutral voice. He related developments in the violent fighting in Savoy, informed them of the state of health of the Bishop of Liège, described the horrible punishment inflicted on the heretics in Seville, and went through a financial report from Palermo, without any emotion disturbing his monotonous delivery. Nobody dared utter a word. The Pope did not tolerate any interruption. He never pronounced on any subject before he had heard this dull list of the day’s events to the end. The young orator did not classify his announcements either by chronological order or by order of importance, content merely to read them one after the other without pause or transition. So it was between a message from the Bishop of Rouen, alarmed by the precarious situation in France, and an account of the costs of repairing the palace in Avignon, that the missive from the Archdeacon of Nazareth concerning a possible Jewish plot against Rome was presented.
A slight murmur rose from the benches of bishops and archbishops. The word “Jew,” even when uttered as part of a banal communiqué, never failed to cause a certain stir. But now their eminences were confronted with another term, just as troubling and filled with mystery: “Invisible Jerusalem.” But the young priest had already moved on to something else: suggestions for the menu and floral decorations of the All Saints meal.
The Holy Father seemed to make little of these accusations coming from the Holy Land. Isolated and idle, the Archdeacon of Nazareth no doubt wanted to make a good impression. Under close watch from the Mamluks, he had proved himself incapable of recruiting local spies and saboteurs with a view to a new crusade. He could not even raise the funds necessary to maintain the basilica in Bethlehem. Claiming to be bled dry by the caliphate, his flock did not pay their tithes. Did he really think he could distinguish himself by revealing a grim conspiracy, which, even if it existed, was almost certainly the work of a handful of upstarts? Rome would only give credence to such stories when it saw a fleet of Hebrew ships sailing to attack the coast of Italy, or the Jewish quarter of some city taking up arms rather than bowing and scraping.
Paul II inquired rather about the progress of the armies of the nobles opposed to Louis XI, disappointed to learn that they were making no progress at all, held back not by the regiments of the crown, but by stupid internal divisions. Charles the Bold, Jean of Bourbon and René of Anjou were disputing the throne before they had even conquered it. The legate in Avignon was warning against a victory by Louis XI, fearing that it would involve a de facto annexation of the Comtat. As for the French clergy, it was only to be expected that it would submit to its victorious young monarch much more willingly than to the spiritual head of the Church, who, although quite venerable, was already old and lacked a firm hand.
Since the fall of Byzantium, the influence of the Papacy had continued to decline. Only the Iberian peninsula and a few Italian principalities still saw Rome as the capital of Christendom. Paul II was increasingly isolated. By fighting the humanists with all the aggressiveness of a zealot, he had lost the respect of the Sforzas and the Medicis. His nuncios reproached him for the luxury with which he surrounded himself while at the same time, from one council or synod to the next, reducing their budgets and their privileges. Ever since the clandestine republication of the seditious writings of John Wycliffe and Jan Hus, an unhealthy wind of reform had been blowing through the German, English, Czech, and Dutch dioceses, as well as everywhere that the Inquisition did not have
a grip as strong as in Italy or Spain. In Paris, Guillaume Chartier did not even reply to the injunctions ordering him to forbid the opening of new printing works within his bishopric. And now the Holy Father, in no way worried by a devilish plan of the Jews to undermine his power, was busying himself choosing the food and ornaments for the forthcoming Papal receptions.
What the cardinals did not know was that, although the Pope seemed to be paying no attention to the warnings of the Archdeacon of Nazareth, it was not out of nonchalance. Quite the contrary. He secretly maintained the hope that they would be confirmed, seeing them as an unhoped for opportunity to restore his image. The announcement of a satanic plague coming from Judea would inflame the ardor of the faithful much more than the oft-repeated accusations of anathema and ritual murder. In fighting the diabolical forces of a secret Jerusalem, Rome would present itself as the last bastion of the faith. It would again be able to unite all the Catholic kings around it.
As one of his counselors spoke of the severe measures to be taken against the reformist bishops, Paul II was thinking about the best way to spread the rumor of a Jewish conspiracy. He even thought to make the task of the conspirators easier in order for the threat to take on the required scope. Pleased with this stratagem, he dismissed the College with a brief sign of the cross. Indignant, the prelates slowly left the chamber, continuing their discussions in low voices. Their reproving murmurs buzzed through the galleries until they were lost in the distance, covered by the drafts blowing in through the large windows looking out on St. Peter’s Square.
The Supreme Pontiff sat motionless, sunk in the thick cushions of his canopied chair. He sent his chamberlain to fetch the chief of the guard. The huge chamber with its marble walls stretched in front of him, empty, silent. Paul II thought about God. He imagined the Almighty, sitting up there amid the stars, gazing out at the universe. Did He feel as alone as the Pope?
The Brotherhood of Book Hunters Page 14
