The Elixir of Immortality

by Gabi Gleichmann

  THE FOLLOWING DAY the army began its march against Galicia, the next step in the king’s campaign to extend the frontiers of Portugal northward. That night despite his fatigue Baruch lay wide awake in the darkness. He gazed up at the stars of Galicia and for the first time in months had thoughts of his father. He remembered all the Sabbaths he had entirely neglected since leaving home. He heard the neighing of horses and the mumbled words of soldiers talking in their sleep. His heart held neither doubt nor apprehension at the prospect of the next morning’s battle, his first experience of combat. He felt a deep certainty that everything would turn out as destiny required. For hours during the course of the night he was graced by the murmuring of ancient owls. Baruch felt that the wise old birds were announcing the dawning of his great day.

  THE BATTLE BEGAN promptly at nine o’clock that morning on the broad meadow outside the city of Pontevedra. Afonso Henriques relied on the combat skills of his swift cavalry. Sitting high in the saddle on his war stallion, he felt invulnerable. He searched for sight of his army standing in position for attack, but the sun was hidden behind the mountain and a mist hovered like a veil of white over the meadow. Everything seemed strange and distant.

  The king drew his new sword. It was a magic sword, one that only the combined force of ten men could lift. Afonso Henriques knew the secrets of his blade; he knew exactly how to hold it so that the leaden weight of it would rest light as a feather upon the hand and the edge would slice cleanly through even the hardest stone. He was not the only one to have this knowledge. The creator of the magic sword, master smith Martes, had often been fairly tipsy at work in the smithy and in that condition he would babble indiscreetly.

  OPPOSITE THE PORTUGUESE stood a few sparse groups of Galician foot soldiers in miserable condition. As trumpets sounded the order to attack, Afonso Henriques went galloping toward the enemy, eager to strike terror into the poorly equipped Galicians. Above all he wanted to try the magic power of his new sword. His impulse to ride ahead of his troops proved not terribly prudent, for as he approached the Galician soldiers an arrow struck him in the chest just above the right lung. The king fell from his stallion, breaking a bone and cracking several ribs. He roared, not in pain—for he felt none yet—but in rage. His horse galloped away. Suddenly the mist lifted and the Portuguese troops fell into confusion. The soldiers’ courage evaporated when they saw their king on the ground. As if paralyzed, the panic-stricken Portuguese fixed their eyes on the spectacle of a squad of Galician soldiers running toward Afonso Henriques.

  In contrast, Baruch immediately perceived the danger and without hesitation raced onto the battlefield to assist the king. Though short of height, he scampered forward and reached the king before the Galicians did. He cast a hasty glance at the enemy soldiers with their obstinate weather-beaten peasant faces. Six of them were coming down upon him, weapons drawn. Baruch took hold of the king’s heavy sword, lifted it from the field with a sudden effort, and parried the first Galician blow. The clash of metal was accompanied by a sound like that of a striking clock as he sliced the enemy from top to toe. He killed two more Galicians. The sword caught the first one in the neck muscles just where they connected to his broad shoulders and then it pierced straight through the yielding tissues of the second Galician’s torso. The three remaining Galicians were seized by panic and began to run back toward their camp. Baruch made certain that he had put all of his adversaries to flight. At this, a dozen Galician soldiers notched their bows and shot at Baruch, but the arrows fell to the ground short of him. Baruch felt wrapped in a protective power and knew that nothing could hurt him. He lifted the king and carried him to safety.

  Afonso Henriques’s chest wound made him feverish and caused him dreadful pain. He was bleeding profusely and hovered between life and death. Baruch realized that the Portuguese were standing there like statues. He bellowed at the soldiers an order to attack the enemy and fight for their king. He was astonished by the authority of his own voice. As if to excuse the harshness of his words of command, he added in a lower voice, for he felt pity for the enemy soldiers he knew would certainly die, “Be merciful to the Galicians, for they too are human beings.”

  Then he made a poultice of leaves carefully chosen from the supply of preserved medicinal herbs he had earlier tucked carefully into his knapsack. With his knife he opened the wound in the king’s chest and pressed the dark red petals into it.

  ———

  AFTER THE GALICIAN SURRENDER, a wagon drove across the battlefield collecting fallen soldiers of the army of Afonso Henriques. The losses of that day amounted to about twenty archers and foot soldiers, a handful of knights, and an insignificant number of horses from the van. For the most part the remains in the wagon consisted of little more than chunks of flesh and rags. On top of them lay a horribly mutilated body, that of the nearsighted Raimundo.

  Raimundo’s death was a heavy blow for Baruch. Most painful of all was the fact that he had never had the opportunity to say farewell to his friend.

  WHEN AFONSO HENRIQUES had regained his forces, his chronicler and retainer, Osbernus, told him of the selfless intervention of the little Jew. As a devout Catholic, the king had no high opinion of the Jews—quite the contrary. He had imbibed with his mother’s milk the conviction that those Christ-killers are cowardly and treacherous. All his life Afonso Henriques had spat upon Jews and tortured them. “He who kicks a Jew kicks the devil,” he would often say. But now he was confronted with a dilemma. The young Jew was no soldier; he wasn’t even a fully developed man. He had no position, no possessions; there was nothing impressive about him; he was nothing. But even so, this same Jew had risked his own life to save that of the king. And the Jew had demonstrated superhuman force when he took up the magic sword and drove off the enemy. Furthermore, he was invulnerable to arrows. And then the Jew had sat next to him, day and night, watching over him and healing his wounds.

  Afonso Henriques’s experience of a long life on the battlefields had taught him to honor men capable of demonstrating true strength and valor in the face of death. For a moment he entertained the speculation that the little Jew might be a fiend from hell. He discussed the matter with Osbernus. The English priest, who had taken a liking to Baruch and was pleased to have him around, assured the king this was not the case. The king promptly forgot his misgivings. Because he respected valor and appreciated strong, effective action, he resolved to overlook the fact that Baruch was a Jew. The king called for his rescuer and in the presence of his closest retainers praised him for his courage and decisiveness. The little Jew was also granted a generous reward.

  WHEN THE KING RETURNED in triumph to Lisbon, great crowds of people congregated at the palace to hail him. Afonso Henriques relished the glory and the sweet taste of his power. Soon, however, unpleasant news reached his ears. A trusted servant reported with carefully chosen words that during the ruler’s absence Antunes, the court physician, had been casting longing glances at the youngest of the royal mistresses, a Moorish girl of indescribable beauty, and without the slightest inhibition the girl had responded to his wooing. The king cast a doubtful look at the servant. He was reluctant to credit the report, for he knew that the physician, of all people, had to know how much she meant to him, this most favored daughter of the defeated caliph. Afonso Henriques summoned another loyal servant, who duly gave an account of the burning looks and the powerful attractions that had filled the luminous summer evening. He summoned yet another retainer, who also vouched that Antunes and the Moorish girl had conducted themselves improperly. The king was now certain. His nostrils flared, scenting a betrayal that he should have suspected long ago.

  THE DECEITFUL CONDUCT of the physician and the royal mistress infuriated Afonso Henriques. And he had cause even more dire than a mere flirtation in his court to fill his heart with wrath. The thing that really set his blood boiling was the matter of Costa and Benvindo.

  The brothers were men of matchless skill, bold knights who had performed great feats fo
r the king in many of his wars. In recognition of their services, Afonso Henriques had appointed them to his Privy Council and granted them vast estates outside Mafra, on lands taken from the Moorish enemy. He had rewarded them with showers of gold and raised them from poverty to riches. Endlessly arrogant and avaricious, Costa and Benvindo cut the wages of their knights. Turning bitterly against the unscrupulous brothers, several of the generals brought their grievances to the king. They all expected Afonso Henriques to receive their complaints and reproach the brothers for tarnishing their reputations with greed. But because of the ongoing campaign in Galicia the king felt that the time was not right to punish them.

  The king was generally of the opinion that as the ruler he was obliged from time to time to demonstrate his authority without mercy, to terrify his subordinates so that none of them would get the idea a conspiracy might go unpunished if he happened to be away at the wars. He considered Costa and Benvindo too valuable to send to the gallows. That being the case, he decided to have his physician and his mistress executed for high treason. His principal objective was to demonstrate to the rest of the people the inevitable consequences of disloyalty to the king.

  Afonso Henriques immediately summoned his council and sent a special convocation to Costa and Benvindo. Then he sent six armed soldiers to fetch the Moorish girl and Antunes to a hearing. The temperature at court immediately rose.

  THE YOUNG MISTRESS was impeccably dressed in the fashion of respectable Moorish women of the time. She appeared before the king, bowed deeply to him, and immediately perceived from his stern expression that something had displeased him. When the charges were read out, she stood there petrified, weeping and sobbing, unable to catch her breath and incapable of choking out even a syllable.

  Afonso Henrique concluded that by her silence the young woman—her name was Fatima—had confirmed her guilt, for otherwise she would certainly have replied to the accusations. It made no difference whether she had been led astray by the physician or she herself had initiated the flirtation. She was guilty and had to be condemned.

  Since Afonso Henriques was an ardent partisan of stern punishments, he had her walled up alive without food or drink behind the stones of a narrow palace hallway. People say that even several centuries later on moonlit nights one could plainly hear Fatima sobbing and weeping through the thick walls.

  ANTUNES THE PHYSICIAN did his best to make a good impression. He held himself straight and tall and denied the crime. He could not understand how anyone in the world might have misinterpreted his courteous behavior toward a young woman suffering from serious health problems who had requested his professional opinion.

  “These spiteful rumors spread about me by certain individuals are absurd and odious fabrications,” he maintained. “There’s an evil-minded conspiracy seeking to tarnish my name and to blacken me personally. Such informers should be punished for their mendacity. Your Grace is the noblest man in Portugal. In his wisdom, the King knows very well that he can place no credence in those who spread false rumors.”

  Afonso Henriques listened, frowning in distaste. He had no illusions about the matter; every feature of Antunes’s deceitful face revealed that the physician was lying. Before rendering a formal verdict he turned to the council and fastened his gaze on the brothers Costa and Benvindo. He spoke.

  “When a subordinate is disrespectful, lies, steals, lusts after the king’s mistress or commits unchastity with her, it is not a sign of insanity. It is a sign of treason, and the punishment for that grave offense is death.”

  He paused briefly, waiting for any reactions. But no one said a word; they all remained silent. He then commanded the whole court and every member of the council to attend the torture session the following morning, for it would be an unforgettable and highly entertaining experience.

  THE BLOOD-SOAKED TORTURE chamber in the cellars of the palace was chilly, dark, and damp, with enormous columns and tiny openings in lieu of windows. The air was filled with evil smells and the atmosphere was oppressive. At one end of the chamber a fire was flickering in a brazier. Around the flames was assembled a group of men, members of the council, some of them in knightly apparel and others in the expensive garments of the nobility. They appeared absorbed in earnest discussion, whispering emphatically to one another. The ladies of the court, robed in somber garb appropriate to the serious occasion, stood along the wall and seemed about to faint with terror.

  The chief executioner, a muscular man with a pale face and straggling dark hair, reminded Baruch of an ox—strong, clumsy, and a bit simpleminded. In his dark clothing he radiated menace.

  Afonso Henriques sat on a throne by the entrance. With cold calculation he scanned the room and then appeared satisfied. It was clear that nothing would please him more that morning than to see Antunes bleed, scream, and die. A huge mastiff lay growling beside him. To his left, behind a rickety desk, Osbernus the chronicler recorded everything in the chamber as it occurred.

  Baruch stood close at the king’s right hand, staring at the floor. He dreaded the torture session that lay before them. Nothing in his short life had prepared him to endure the spectacle of torture, and the prospect filled him with deep apprehension. He would forever remember every detail of the proceedings.

  The king expected that the sight of the torture chamber would have shaken the serene attitude of his physician, but Antunes still held his head high. Either he was a man of great courage or else he was hoping for a miraculous lastminute reprieve.

  Since Afonso Henriques had explicitly ruled out any mercy for such a serious crime, the head executioner began the torture by stabbing out the physician’s eyes. The executioner’s pasty cheeks became even paler as he set to work. He appeared almost to feel pity for his victim. Antunes’s forehead glistened with sweat and a stream of urine darkened his trousers, but he made no sound of complaint as his eyeballs were dug from their sockets.

  Then a second executioner proceeded to cut open arteries in the physician’s arms. Dark sticky blood was collected in a bowl. The physician’s blood seeped out of his scrawny body only very slowly and the torturer had to let more from his thighs to put an end to his life. As this proceeded, those present could hear faint gagging and groaning from deep in the throat of the dying Antunes.

  Though it was cold in the cellar, Baruch was bathed in sweat as he witnessed the executioner’s craft in action. He almost did not hear the king’s command to mix the physician’s blood with an herbal mixture to produce a medicine as an antidote to treason.

  With a sweeping blow of a sword a third henchman separated the dead physician’s head from his body. The head was affixed to the sharp end of a pole and carried away by a platoon of soldiers to be planted on a hill outside Lisbon. Then the king invited all members of the council and the court to the festival hall for a meal of bread, cheese, and wine. The assembly cast themselves upon the food like a pack of wolves.

  “This is a fine and tasty meal,” commented Afonso Henriques and added with a scornful laugh, “Especially when one’s appetite has been whetted with blood.”

  PRODUCING AN HERBAL EXTRACT to forestall treason was an undertaking that required the cleverness of a magician. Baruch was frightened to death. He knew all too well that he lacked both the knowledge and the experience to produce such a potion. He also knew full well the likely consequences of failure: He would be dispatched immediately to the executioners in the cellar of the castle. His experience of the torture chamber provided his imagination plenty of food for thought and cast him into gloom. He dared trust no one, for Osbernus the English priest had warned him that secrets shared often turned into rumors that spread quickly through the court. He took refuge in prayer.

  In a large copper vessel he blended the coagulated blood with various herbs he knew to have curative powers. He added two quarts of cold water and stirred the mixture over a low fire with a gentle continuous motion for three days and three nights. He didn’t close an eye for the entire period. Once this was accomplish
ed, he tasted the reddish liquid. His cheeks flushed and burned as he swallowed a sip. It was intensely bitter.

  BARUCH COULD SCARCELY CONCEAL his nervousness when it was time to present the antidote to treason. Afonso Henriques and his whole council had assembled in the castle’s most spacious hall. Leaning against the wall were the brothers Costa and Benvindo, who appeared somewhat uneasy. Osbernus the chronicler was also there. He glanced anxiously at Baruch, well aware of the arbitrary and capricious nature of the king.

  Cardinal Berenguer opened the session with the reading of a text about Pope Damasus I, celebrated that day on the calendar of saints. A moment of silent prayer followed. Then it was time for Baruch to offer up the magic herbal remedy.

  He had scarcely begun to speak when an impatient Afonso Henriques interrupted him. “I am sure that the whole council agrees that this highly important remedy should be tested by the boldest men among us. Costa and Benvindo, step forward.”

  The brothers’ faces became even more thoughtful. Costa’s eyes narrowed to a squint. Benvindo opened his mouth but found no words. They reluctantly approached Baruch and without a word they tasted the liquid. Then they knelt before the king.

  A murmur passed through the members of the council. Before anyone could speak, Afonso Henriques ordered the rest of the lords to approach Baruch and to partake. There was a deathly silence. They all knew that they had no choice but to comply.

  With trembling hands Baruch gave each member of the Privy Council a spoonful of the herbal extract. It was evident that none of them cared for the bitter taste of it; each grimaced in distaste. But they obediently swallowed the red liquid and knelt before the king.