Head bowed, Colin hurtled down the stairs and rushed outside. He started running at top speed through the deserted streets. He had finally had his revenge. It was now the Florentine’s turn to learn what prison was like.
44
Aisha was sad. François was neglecting her, absorbed in his reading for nights on end, composing homilies and fake commentaries all day long, his pen between his teeth. He would wink at her tenderly from time to time, and when he took her, just before dawn, it was with passion, but then he would lie down beside her, exhausted, without a caress, without saying anything. This silence weighed on her. Mute priestess of the desert that she was, she suddenly needed words, soft words. But she hesitated to be the first to speak. For if François’s silence upset her so much, it was not because she doubted his love. It was because she knew that he was hiding something from her. And in addition, he had started drinking again.
Aisha had the feeling she had failed in her mission. She was to have been the rope that kept François tied. With Colin gone, she should have become his confidante. That was what Gamliel had been counting on anyway. In return for her services, he had promised to set her free. The fact was, she was as much of a hostage here as François. But he had never been a slave. So why was he working so hard and so unflinchingly for the Brotherhood?
Every Monday, a messenger took away the drafts. He would return the following Monday, out of breath from riding, with Gamliel’s comments and corrections, the passages to be refined or rewritten. The rabbi crossed out words, deleted passages, scrawled over the pages, and François grumbled, his nostrils flaring. He had always spoken frankly, always said what he had on his mind. But Gamliel was trying to teach him the magic of what was not said, the power of insinuation, the secret sword thrusts of rhetoric. François was trying hard to learn how to use them, because it was with their own weapons that he hoped to vanquish his enemies. Those here, and those in Rome and Paris, all the zealots and schemers who thought they could make him bow down before them. So, in his writings against dogma, he now refrained from asserting anything specific, giving the censors nothing to grab hold of. He sowed doubt, implied, made conjectures, retracted them, attempted a brief attack then again beat a retreat, leaving the reader puzzled, dissatisfied, but forever shaken in his most deeply held convictions. A doubt sowed on the wind bears more seed in men’s minds than a truth dug in the ground. That at least was what Gamliel believed—and what he should be left to believe.
Whatever Jerusalem and the Medicis might think, it was the poets who would bring about change, not the scholars and the metaphysicians. The humanists were merely popes of a new kind, pontificating just as much, just as eager as the clergy to obtain faculty chairs and incomes for life. Master Villon could not say if the times to come would be better or worse, just that they would be lacking in shadowy corners in which to take shelter from the excess of light, and therefore lacking in poetry. No rosy future would bring salvation other than the one it was enough to grasp right now.
So if he wanted to save poetry, it was now that he must act.
Aisha put a platter of almonds and dried fruits down on the table. A thin ray of sunlight penetrated the cave. Eviatar was nervously pacing up and down. The Frenchman was drunk again. He had emptied two gourds of date wine. Eviatar brusquely pulled a half-empty jar from François’s hands, tipping over the platter of fruit. François leapt to his feet, his face red with anger, forcing Eviatar to take a step back. As if by magic, a knife appeared in the young man’s hand. Eviatar did not carry this weapon in a sheath but at the top of his sleeve, just inside the elbow. All he had to do was shake his forearm for it to slide down to his wrist. François knew well the piercing glare his rival now threw at him. He had seen that gleam in the eyes of more than one adversary. After all this dissecting of ancient texts and old parchments with him, he had forgotten that this studious young man was an accomplished warrior, always on the alert. The whistle of air brushed against his cheek. The knife came to rest in a hanging gourd. A stream of fermented nectar immediately gushed out and dripped down the wall. François turned. The gourd was bleeding like a gutted rabbit. Aisha, who had feared the worst, laughed nervously and applauded. François had drunk enough for today.
Eviatar sat down, a calm smile on his lips. He was delighted that François had finally lost his temper. It was not pernicious commentaries on the Gospels or nicely written pamphlets that the book hunters hoped to obtain from Villon by keeping him so conspicuously on a leash. They expected him to champ at the bit, to defy them. Unlike Fust or Chartier, Ficino or Gamliel, Villon had no ties. He was the only one who could play the game as an irregular. Sooner or later, he would strike out on his own. The head of the Brotherhood was counting on his impetuous nature, certain that, when the moment came, Villon would release an arrow that could come from no other bow than his own. A solitary arrow that Rome could not trace back to its origins as easily as a mass volley from Florence or Jerusalem.
Eviatar feared that this stratagem might blow up in the faces of those who had devised it. Above all, although he found it hard to admit this, he felt pity for this poor fellow whom everyone was manipulating for their own ends. If he disappointed, nobody would come to his rescue. And as for Aisha, what would become of her once her services were no longer needed?
The sound of footsteps cut these questions short. Eviatar ran to the cave entrance. The Essene shepherd from Qumran was clambering up the slope with the help of his crook. As soon as he reached the threshold, he began talking and gesticulating excitedly. Eviatar translated, informing François of Federico’s arrest. He added that the news had taken more than three weeks to arrive, brought in relays by carrier pigeon. Federico may already have succumbed to the torture.
François found it hard to imagine the dapper merchant chained to some horrible instrument of torture. He would surely find a way out.
“That rascal has more than one trick up his sleeve. And he’s a damn good liar.”
Eviatar repeated François’s words to the Essene, thinking they might calm him. But the shepherd responded curtly, throwing a stern glance at François. Eviatar turned pale. He was so disconcerted that he could not immediately translate. When he spoke at last, he himself seemed incredulous. The guardian of Qumran knew Federico well. He had often given him shelter. He came here to study the Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic texts hidden in the surrounding caves. Every morning, he got up for prayer, wearing a large shawl and phylacteries, then went to purify himself in the wadis that lined the Dead Sea, as ordered by the Holy Torah.
45
Bent over his desk, his nose almost touching the paper, a scribe transcribed each of the questions asked by the inquisitors. Ignoring the tortured man’s screams, he scribbled a little cross to note that no reply had been forthcoming. Three priests were present at the interrogation, observing the prisoner’s reactions with a resigned air: they were going to have to be patient. After each cry or contortion, they conferred briefly in low voices, then signaled to the torturer whether he should inflict more pain or observe a pause.
Federico was tied to a rough wooden chair. Facing him, in full sight, a panoply of pliers, mallets, needles glittered in the torchlight. Hot coals were burning inside an iron cauldron supported by a tripod. The torturer moved slowly. He heated a pair of pincers until they were white-hot, calmly contemplating the dancing flame that caressed the metal. When he took them out, they were steaming. He brandished them for a moment in the air as if he were undecided, then, taking his time, examined the different parts of the body. Each of the limbs he looked at in turn was already burning with anguish. Then for a long time he trailed the pincers over his victim’s skin, without touching it completely, moving from the thighs toward the chest, then, all at once, closed the instrument over the right nipple and squeezed tightly, without moving or batting an eyelid, his eyes aimed vaguely at the far end of the cell. The flesh immediately melted with a great hiss. Galvanized by the pain, F
ederico began shaking compulsively. A hot current ran through his veins. His brain was about to explode. In spite of the terrifying smell of burning flesh, he could smell the stronger stench of alcohol emanating from his torturer’s toothless mouth, the only sign that the man was even human. Even in the throes of torment, his body arched, his head thrown back, Federico tried to stay fixed on the brute, to look into his glassy eyes and curl his lips in a kind of complicit smile, as if both of them were on the same side. The torturer gently released his grip then disappeared from his field of vision. He returned with a bucket and planted himself in front of Federico, awaiting further instructions. After a moment, a jet of icy water struck the prisoner’s face to stop him fainting. Federico knew that the sufferings he was enduring at present were only a prelude. He tried to draw strength from every spasm of his muscles, to find courage in the most secret crannies of his soul.
One of the inquisitors stood up. He was holding a thick volume, which he leafed through distractedly as he approached. Reaching the wooden chair, he slammed the book shut and showed it to his colleagues, by the light of the cauldron, then to Federico. The binding bore the Medici coat of arms surrounded by a motto in Hebrew. The gilding on the arms shone in the middle of the cover. Its familiar glitter comforted him, and he clung to it like a drowning man to a piece of flotsam. The monk spat on the emblem. As Federico was laboriously getting his breath back, he heard a metallic sound. A bar ending in a stamp in the shape of a cross was being dipped in the coals.
46
Archbishop Angelo reached out his hand so that his visitor could kiss the huge sapphire he wore on his finger, then languidly put his arm back on the embroidered cushion that lay on the armrest. Having muttered the appropriate blessing, he inquired after the health of Pietro de’ Medici, expressing surprise that he should have sent his son rather than handling such an important matter in person. Lorenzo professed some feeble excuses, explaining that, following the death of Francesco Sforza, his father had to ensure the rapid transmission of powers in order to safeguard the interests of the two families, the Sforzas and the Medicis, especially as regarded the maritime trade in Genoa, the factories in Milan, and the various trading posts they ran together.
The archbishop invited the young lord to sit closer. Holding his wrists with a somewhat embarrassing softness, he politely asked for news from Florence. Lorenzo answered patiently. It was not for him to bring the conversation around to the reason for his being here in Rome, nor to withdraw his arm from the prelate’s affectionate grip. Taking the young man by the elbow, Angelo drew him toward the library, where Lorenzo was afraid he might make more urgent advances. But as soon as they entered the book-lined room, the archbishop pointed to a work placed in open view on a pedestal table. Lorenzo immediately recognized the gilded arms of his family and the kabbalistic signs surrounding it. The book definitely came from his grandfather’s private collection. Ever since his youngest years, he had seen Cosimo de’ Medici lovingly classifying his books. But he was unaware of the significance of that emblem. It was the archbishop who now explained it to him. Only volumes coming from a Florentine bookseller named Federico Castaldi bore that undoubtedly strange mark. And all of them had been strictly forbidden by the Vatican.
In its clemency, and out of respect for the memory of Cosimo, the Council would have turned a blind eye to this indiscretion. Unfortunately, the Inquisition had just uncovered a serious conspiracy being fomented by the Jews against Christendom. Federico Castaldi had been arrested and was being tortured at this very moment. The inquisitors suspected him of being in the pay of a mysterious brotherhood based in Jerusalem. There was a strong possibility that his confession would implicate the Medicis in this sordid business. Especially as their famous protégé, Marsilio Ficino, regularly obtained his supplies from this Federico. Many of the works he had acquired from him bore the famous coat of arms combined with the Hebrew motto of the sworn enemies of Rome. It went without saying that the repercussions of a trial would oblige the Church to take up a position and show firmness in applying the verdict. Ficino would risk the stake, and his accomplices, excommunication.
Lorenzo tried to keep calm, merely knitting his brows. But it was obvious that he was nervous, which led Monsignor Angelo to soften his tone. In order not to tarnish the noble name of the Medicis, he suggested handing the prisoner over to the Florentine authorities so that they themselves could continue the interrogation and assume publicly the defense of the faith. This proof of allegiance was indispensable if they hoped to persuade the inquisitors not to arrest Ficino, thus avoiding the embarrassment his imprisonment would cause his distinguished patrons.
Lorenzo refused to be intimidated by this barely concealed threat. He knew that the archbishop was expecting to be remunerated for his intercession. A large donation would suffice. But the Vatican also had to be compensated. Only too happy to have the Medicis by the throat, the Pope would be implacable in his demands. Indeed, Angelo now announced that His Holiness would not be content with a cash ransom. It so happened that the Jews had long had possession of a document whose rightful place, according to the Holy Father, was in Rome. It contained the minutes of the interview between Jesus and the high priest of the Temple before the latter handed him over to Pontius Pilate. Christ had used the few hours he spent with Annas to dictate a plea intended to prove the rest of the Jewish community innocent. By assuming full responsibility for his actions, he had saved his people from terrible reprisals. But, in addition to this confession, Jesus had dictated to Annas his last wishes, a kind of testament that was none other than Christ’s final message to his human brothers.
Crusaders and Templars had tried several times to lay their hands on this text, searching Jerusalem from top to bottom, taking hostages, threatening to set the Jewish quarters on fire. In vain. The Church had even considered handing back some of the sacred ornaments of the Temple, brought to Rome by Titus to celebrate his triumph over the Hebrew revolt. But, up until now, the Vatican had not known with whom to negotiate. Scattered to the winds, divided up into a swarm of different communities, the Jews had no king and no ministers. But now the opportunity had presented itself to negotiate with a group that was able to make decisions. The book hunters of Palestine, since they were attacking Rome, could clearly be considered the opposing side with which to begin possible talks. And above all, they had ambassadors of renown, the Medicis, through whom the two parties could negotiate.
Lorenzo doubted that Jerusalem would agree to pay such a high price to get its eminent allies out of trouble. After all, the Medicis were sufficiently powerful to look after themselves. Relations between Rome and Florence had always been uneasy, sometimes tense, but never openly hostile. Lorenzo wondered therefore why the archbishop was choosing to play such a card. Was it because the Holy See suddenly felt strong enough to go on the offensive? Or else so threatened that it had to resort to blackmail?
The young man knelt and promised to return promptly with an answer. The archbishop kissed him fervently on the forehead by way of farewell.
Escorted by two novices, Lorenzo walked down the long corridor that led out of the basilica. He thought of Federico, and prayed that he would hold out. He had always sensed that there existed some kind of private complicity between his grandfather and this Federico. While quite young, sitting quietly in a corner of the great library, he had often been present at their long conversations. Whenever they looked at books, the two men almost forgot his presence. Cosimo, usually so authoritarian, would speak in a soft, almost childish voice, express joy at the sight of each binding, wonder at each stroke of calligraphy, declaim aloud passages from The Iliad or Aesop’s Fables, describe spellbound the details of an engraving. He knew that his grandson was watching and listening, but he pretended to be unaware of the fact. He wanted to communicate his passion to Lorenzo without imposing it on him, inviting him tacitly to come and join him in this wonderful world of ink and paper. Sometimes, Cosimo and Federico would l
ower their voices and whisper secretively, their expressions suddenly serious. Federico’s visits were always surrounded with mystery, with magic. He would disappear for months on end, and the announcement of his return would delight Cosimo, who would leave all his other business to receive the bookseller and whisper solemnly in his grandson’s ear, “He’s just back from the Holy Land!”
Once outside, Lorenzo peered at the buildings lining the great square. In which one did the Inquisition have its torture chambers? He listened carefully. The chirping of sparrows echoed off the walls, horses’ hooves struck the cobbles, and the bells of St. Peter’s pealed out, drowning the cries of the tortured.
47
The dim light of the oil lamps barely lit the cave. The Essene shepherd remained in the entrance, nervous, turning sometimes to peer into the darkness. Inside, Gamliel and Eviatar were sitting at the little table that served as a desk. François stood, wondering if he should kneel or even prostrate himself. He was shaking with emotion. Aisha was sitting on the ground, struck dumb without being quite sure why. She could simply feel the intensity of the moment. And François’s panic.
It was Eviatar who opened the iron box and took out the precious manuscript. Unsure how to handle it with the required solemnity, he held it at arm’s length like an offering. Gamliel untied the reed cord surrounding the parchment. He was content with a brief examination, then tied the cord again without saying a word. Eviatar immediately put the scroll back in the box, relieved at having passed the test.
The Brotherhood of Book Hunters Page 19
