“We’ll have to wrap it in dry cloths, crumpled and not too clean, in order not to arouse curiosity.”
François was astounded. Gamliel had not even given him the chance to touch the manuscript. François gazed at the box, dismayed to see such a relic treated like a common package. And above all to learn that it was going to be used as a bargaining counter.
“That’s a high price to pay for your friendship with the Medicis.”
“It’s a moral commitment, Master François. And a way of gaining time. The manuscript will take more than three weeks to reach Italy by sea. In the meantime, we—”
“In the meantime, surrendering it is a dangerous admission on your part.”
“But it is also proof of our strength. The Church has always dreaded Annas’s minutes being made public before it was able to study their contents.”
“Well, now, it knows who has them. Perhaps even where they are!” François’s features tensed in an exasperated grimace. “Such a profanation will justify a call for a crusade. Or reprisals against the Jews. The last words of Christ cannot be the object of a deal, or the stakes in a trial of strength.”
“Unless they again save our people from the anger of Rome.”
François fell silent. A tear ran down his cheek. Was the Savior to be crucified a second time? And was he, François, another Judas?
Gamliel wrapped the box in the cloths prepared by Eviatar. The fringes of the material were frayed. Everything was clumsily held in place with hemp string. The package was innocuous enough not to arouse the suspicions of the customs officers or the envy of the sailors. Monks dressed in the habit of their order would undertake the journey, without an escort. The rabbi said he had chosen excellent candidates, reliable emissaries who spoke several languages and, although having a humble demeanor, would know how to conduct themselves in society, men with enough self-assurance to defy both the tricks of brigands and the traps of the Papal court.
François knew that several monks from the monastery spoke fluent Italian, as well as the ecclesiastical Latin current in the Holy See. Unlike Paul, who was a simple country priest, most came from good families. Among them were younger sons of the nobility, sons of merchants, ruined burghers. All the same, he was surprised that the Brotherhood should entrust such a mission to Christian monks, rather than to its book hunters, who were better trained and certainly more loyal to the cause.
Gamliel whispered the names of the emissaries in Eviatar’s ear.
The young man’s reaction was immediate. “Does the commander of the Brotherhood approve this choice?”
“Absolutely.”
This laconic reply brooked no discussion. Eviatar nonetheless sensed a hint of unease in the rabbi’s voice.
Gamliel regretted having to lie. But how to admit that he was in no position to obtain his chief’s agreement? The latter would no doubt never have allowed him to play for such high stakes. Let alone use Gentiles to do so. Nevertheless, Gamliel had no choice. Nobody must know that the commander of the Brotherhood was currently rotting in the jails of the Inquisition.
His presence in Italy was indispensable. A figure of the stature of Cosimo de’ Medici would never agree to deal with an underling. And he fully expected the general from Jerusalem to lead the operation in person and aid him on the ground, first in Italy, then in France.
“Have you any other questions?”
Eviatar made him up his mind. He handed the wrapped package to the rabbi. As soon as Gamliel had left the cave, François fell to the ground and crossed himself twenty times. Feeling helpless, he imagined these monks from Galilee, with their tonsures, their sandals still filthy from their long journey, prostrating themselves in front of the Pope and his cardinals, extracting the Testament of Christ from an old bag. Aisha had never seen François like this, on his knees with his hands joined in prayer. She turned to Eviatar, who did not seem surprised by such fervor. He had never doubted that, under the cover of his great quarrel with heaven, Villon had private conversations with the angels and their Lord—if only to pester them. Aisha did not know if Eviatar, standing there frozen, was also praying at that moment. Impossible to say. The Jews prayed on their feet.
François stood up and walked to the entrance of the cave. In the distance, against a background of the silvery shimmer of the Dead Sea, he made out the figure of Gamliel advancing amid the stones with a confident step, moving through a beam of moonlight, his package under his arm.
48
Drowning in cushions, the archbishop spoke in a honeyed voice, weighing each word, feigning indecisiveness. Lorenzo sat on a pouffe, clearly impatient. He was not disposed to bother overmuch with the customary niceties or to discuss conditions. The archbishop’s hesitations irritated him. The Medicis had been sufficiently generous to be able to expect a quick end to this regrettable business. After all, the last words of the Lord certainly did not lend themselves to backstage maneuvers! But Angelo would not let go. He was afraid of being duped by these crafty Florentines. Pietro de’ Medici was much too clever to pay such a high price for a promise that the Pope would probably never keep. The only concrete favor he was certain of obtaining was the freeing of Federico. In itself, that hardly justified such generosity.
Of course, the Brotherhood was demanding that the Pope commit himself to mounting no further crusades. If the Vatican did not honor this clause, the text of the precious document would be made public. Dozens of booksellers were holding themselves in readiness to spread it. But how did Lorenzo plan to prove that the Brotherhood would not carry out its threat anyway? Could he vouch for them? That was why the archbishop was continuing to be difficult. But things were becoming urgent. Federico was refusing to swallow a single drop of water, and spat out everything his jailers stuffed down his throat. The archbishop feared losing badly if the prisoner took his own life. He had already tried several times.
Lorenzo swore on the Holy Bible, with unconcealed emotion and obvious sincerity, that the Medicis had no interest in cheating. To do so would run the risk of public opprobrium, which the Pope would be only too happy to stir up. Just like the Holy Father, Lorenzo’s father was not in favor of an open conflict from which neither the Vatican nor Florence would emerge unscathed. He much preferred to keep to this discreet and amicable arrangement.
Such candor touched Angelo, who demanded nonetheless to know what guarantees of authenticity those scoundrels in Judea intended to provide the Church’s experts. The most eminent scholars in Christendom would have to examine the manuscript before Rome could finalize the exchange. Lorenzo reassured Angelo on this point. Annas’s notes had been handed over to pious servants of God who dreaded their disclosure as much as the Pope, monks from the Holy Land who had assumed responsibility for bringing them. They were doubtless already sailing for Genoa.
Tired of the archbishop’s incessant questions, Lorenzo stood up, threw a purse full of crowns on the episcopal divan, and abruptly left the room. Angelo quickly counted the gold coins, sniggering as he did so. These diplomatic negotiations were completely superfluous. In reality, the Pope’s orders left no room for maneuver. Obtain the precious manuscript at all costs. Promise the Jews what they wanted. They certainly wouldn’t be taking it with them to paradise.
The sun was setting. A last ray of light set the lace curtains ablaze, flooding the room with patches of red that slowly climbed the walls and faded on the ceiling. The archbishop sent for his secretary. It was by candlelight that he dictated a short letter informing the Holy Father of the outcome of his conversation with Lorenzo. Having dispatched it, he wrote a request for an investigation into the status of the Jews of Spain, who seemed to be doing remarkably well.
49
Two monks hurtled down the alleyways leading to the harbor. One, tall and slender, walked with his neck craned, while the other, who was shorter, huddled beneath his hood. They scurried between the stalls of fish, the barrels of oil, the c
rates of dates, ignoring the whores who teased them by crying “Bless me, my father,” pulling on the brown material of their habits, and asking them what they were hiding under there, much to the amusement of the provosts and sailors walking along the seawall. Angrily, the first monk suddenly grabbed a clerk who was laughing uproariously.
“Are you baptized, my son?”
Without waiting for an answer, he threw the unfortunate fellow in the water, amid the garbage that floated on the waves, then rose to his full height as if to say, “Does anybody else want a turn?” His companion tightened the strap of his bag, fearing a brawl. But sea dogs and mercenaries, usually not very respectful of the skullcap, responded with reverence. The big monk’s resolute air discouraged any threatening moves. This humble servant of God didn’t need sermons to convince people.
Brother Martin continued on his way in a dignified manner. Brother Benoît hurried after him, waddling somewhat as if his side hurt. Wedged at the bottom of his canvas bag, the precious box kept shaking about and knocking against him. His rope sandals skidded on the cobbles made shiny by dirt. The hemp of his habit scraped his skin. Why run like this? The ship would not set sail for several hours. It had barely started loading. Bundles lay heaped on the ground, in the shade of the pulleys. A sailor was greasing the helm. Another was dozing in the shade of the foremast. More alert, the first mate stood at the top of the gangway. The monks hailed him loudly and slipped him a few coins to ensure that he would take good care of them during the crossing.
Brother Benoît felt slightly dizzy when, after he had been pushed onboard by Martin, the ground fell away beneath his feet, pulled like a carpet by the indolent movements of the sea. Sadly, he turned to look back at the hills of Galilee. He had not had time to bid them farewell as he would have liked. It had all happened in a rush, a whirlwind of preparations and last-minute instructions, giving him no opportunity to put his thoughts in order. Should he be grateful for the honor the Brotherhood was doing him? The trust shown him by the rabbi of Safed? Or else feel sorry at being the unfortunate person chosen to hand over the Savior’s words to the bigwigs and schemers of the Vatican, whom he had always despised? Before leaving, he had knelt in the courtyard of the cloister for Brother Paul to bless him. Overcome with emotion, the prior had hugged him in his big arms and whispered, low enough for Gamliel not to hear him, “Don’t forget! You are the envoy of God. Not of the rabbi . . . ”
But it wasn’t the Lord that Benoît was thinking about as he tried one last time to glimpse the ridge line vanishing into the heat haze. Martin knew that perfectly well. But he said nothing, also gazing at the horizon, thinking of the domes in St. Peter’s Square and how terrified he would be, finding himself alone among the cardinals and nuncios who were waiting for him so anxiously. But wasn’t this what he had always wanted? This test? This confrontation?
Several sailors approached, respectfully took their hats off, and asked for a blessing for the journey. The two monks made signs of the cross over their bare foreheads and muttered a few pater nosters.
When the sailors had gone back to work, Martin turned suddenly to his companion with an embarrassed look on his face. “I have a confession to make, my dear Benoît.”
Benoît, worried at hearing Martin stammer like this, lowered his hood and looked at the young monk apprehensively. The other remained on his guard, as if ready to dodge a fist.
“I’m listening, Martin.”
“It’s . . . It’s about Aisha.”
Brother Martin did not know how to announce the news. He made sure that nobody could hear them. “She isn’t being kept as a hostage, Master François. It’s because of her condition . . . ”
Brother Martin hesitated. François grabbed his arm.
“Speak, Eviatar.”
“She’s expecting a child.”
50
Master Ficino stood by the window, bathed in the gentle light of the Florentine autumn, watching patiently as, below, the pilgrims washed their feet at the fountain in the patio. Birds were dancing on the coping, pecking at the crumbs of rancid oatcake that the two travelers had just dropped as they turned out the pockets of their habits. A student brought fresh linen and canvas slippers, then picked up the worn sandals with a frankly disgusted air that made the strangers smile. The younger of the two monks gaily sprinkled himself with cold water. His companion stood back slightly for fear of being splattered, moistening just his fingers. During all this time, he did not let go of his bag, moving it from one shoulder to the other, holding the strap between his teeth when he wanted to have his hands free. This one must be Brother Benoît, Ficino told himself. He had been expecting someone more imposing, with a sterner demeanor. But the book hunters’ emissary could easily pass for a simpleton. He had a smile that was amiable enough, although a touch stupid and slightly askew. Nonetheless, Ficino refrained from judging Brother Benoît by his appearance. He had been told that beneath this somewhat disarming exterior was concealed a fine soul and a great scholar. In any case, Ficino could not help but admire the courage demonstrated by anyone who would agree to carry out such a perilous mission.
While the student led the visitors to the kitchens to eat and drink, Ficino cleared his work table of the manuscripts cluttering it, straightened his chair, and dusted off his sleeves, as if he were about to receive a visit from some eminent people.
When Benoît and Martin appeared at last in the doorway, he stood up to greet them. The two monks stood there open-mouthed, ignoring their host’s formulas of welcome. Their wide-open eyes traveled along rows of books with spotless bindings, wandered amid scrolls of parchment tied with ribbon, and came to rest here and there on scientific and medical instruments. There were as many rarities here as in Brother Médard’s cellar, but no locks or bars. Stepladders and lecterns were an invitation to nose around and freely consult any work without an ill-tempered dwarf barring the way with his club. This was the famous Platonic Academy, founded by Cosimo, to be used by any curious mind in search of knowledge.
Behind Ficino’s desk, several books lay faceup. All bore the Medici coat of arms surrounded by a motto in Hebrew. Ficino let his guests stand there stunned for a moment, then addressed Benoît, assuming that the novice who was with him was an assistant, unaware that the tall, pale-cheeked fellow was there to keep the other in check.
“You know Master Federico, I presume.”
“I have only met him three times. An excellent bookseller . . . ”
“And a great friend.”
“A cunning fellow, anyway. I’m surprised he was so easily caught.”
Ficino, somewhat chilled by this remark, cut short the pleasantries. “May I?”
The monk handed over his bag, heaving a sigh of relief as he freed his neck from the strap. Throughout the journey, he had not once let the precious package out of his reach, endlessly touching it, opening and closing it, wedging it beneath his head while he slept, gripping it with both hands as he walked. Liberated from this burden, he collapsed with exhaustion on a chair. Accumulated fatigue seized his limbs.
Ficino untangled the cloths and string, then opened the iron box and carefully took out the manuscript. As director of the Platonic Academy, he had examined a great many extremely rare books, restored valuable volumes acquired by Cosimo, studied originals from the times of Plato, Horace, and Virgil, translated treatises dating from the era of Ptolemy, but he could never have imagined holding a sacred text like this in his hands. He read the first lines apprehensively. They were indeed minutes. Each paragraph began with the words “I say,” “I ask,” or “Yeshua answers,” “Yeshua says.” The document was signed by Annas. At the bottom, it bore the high priest’s seal. The wax was cracked and blackened like dried blood. A shudder ran through Ficino’s body. Next to the seal, there was another signature, traced in a confident hand, in Hebrew. That of Annas’s interlocutor.
Overcoming his agitation, Master Ficino resumed
his reading. He read out loud, slowly, in a drone, punctuating each sentence with an admiring sway of the head, breaking off at times as if dazzled by too bright a light. There was such wisdom here, such humanity, such enlightenment. Everything that needed to be said had been said, in a few words, and for all time.
“What’s written right here? My eyes betray me.”
“I’m sorry, master. I can’t read Aramaic.”
“You haven’t read these minutes, then?”
“My opinion is of little importance.”
Ficino was somewhat surprised by this admission. And by this lack of curiosity. Eviatar, too, had always been astonished that François had never asked to know the contents of the holy document he had in his keeping. It was as if he were afraid, as if reading it would have been not an act of faith, but a sacrilege. But François had been adamant. He did not want to know anything of the last words of Jesus.
It was already far into the night by the time Ficino finished reading Annas’s minutes. He found the parchment in remarkably good condition, too much so in fact. The Pope’s scholars were likely to be suspicious of such a state of preservation. Lit by a lantern, Ficino bent over his large desk. He lightly scratched the hide with a bone rasp, puffed on the fine shavings to blow them away, and sprinkled the marks left by the rasp with a fine grey ash-like powder. Eviatar watched his slightest gestures, holding the sheets well stretched, fearing that the old scholar’s trembling hands might waver. Craning his neck to see better, he read and reread the sacred text while Ficino worked. The language was perfect, if a little cold, the handwriting elegant and confident. It was that of a high priest. But it was the words of Christ that overwhelmed him, simple, almost ordinary words. They troubled him all the more in that a Jew was not supposed to trust them. Let alone succumb to them. As for Ficino, he was unable to conceal his emotion, and had to force himself to hold back his tears for fear that they might fall on the holy manuscript.
The Brotherhood of Book Hunters Page 20
