by Katz, Yoram
For a moment that lasted forever he groped inside, until finally his fingers hit a hard object. Extending his hand as far inside as he could, he managed to get a grip on it and pry it out. He then looked at the object in his hand. It was a small, leather-bound cylindrical package. Yaakov did not know what was inside but knew it was valuable. It must have been, because a few years before, Rabbi Yitzhak Ben Shmuel, pupil and follower of the great Ramban himself, made him swear to find a safe hiding place for it and keep its existence a secret. He quickly shoved the small package into his pants. Next, he proceeded to his desk, opened a drawer and retrieved a cloth bag, which he tucked under his belt. He then rushed back through the corridor to the synagogue. Breathing heavily, he flung open the synagogue doors leading to the street, and his heart almost burst with fright when he bumped into a bearded Saracen warrior who was standing outside.
Yaakov froze in his place, paralyzed with fear.
The soldier, unnerved by Yaakov’s sudden appearance in the empty alley, hesitated, perhaps initially mistaking the bearded Jew for a Saracen. It took him a few seconds to regain his senses before he raised his curved sword in the air and cried “Alla Hu Akbar!” – “God is the greatest!”
Yaakov resigned himself to his fate. He tried to cry out the traditional Jewish prayer ‘Shema Yisrael!’ – ‘Hear, oh Israel!’, however, the words refused to leave his mouth. He just stared at the warrior and waited, numbed with terror, for the blow to land.
But what he now saw was incomprehensible.
The Saracen’s arm, which was making its way up, fist clutching sword, suddenly detached from its body. The arm and sword completed a short arc on their way up, separated, and then fell down slowly, landing on the cobblestones at Yaakov’s feet. The Saracen’s face contorted, transformed into a horror mask. He turned his head to stare at the stump, where his right arm used to be, and which now spurted blood like a fountain. His mouth opened in a scream of ultimate pain.
But no sound came out. At one stroke, the Saracen’s head disappeared, removed by a mighty blow of a sword. The headless body collapsed onto the cobbled ground, and the bearded head immediately followed, hitting the stone and rolling, until it stopped at the feet of the terrified Yaakov, it finally resting next to the severed, bleeding arm.
Yaakov thought he was going to faint.
Only now he noticed the huge knight towering over the lifeless corpse. The knight’s garments, visible through his mail, had once been white, but were now soiled with blood. The man though, looked calm and unafraid. Amidst the blood stains that covered the white robe, Yaakov noticed the Red Cross of a Templar knight.
The knight was looking straight at him. The probing gray-blue eyes burned into Yaakov’s brain, and he knew he would never forget them, as long as he lived.
“Run away, Jew, save yourself,” said the man in French. “You were just given your life back. If you value it, run to the port and try to get out of here.”
The Templar retraced his steps and disappeared into a crossing alley. A moment later he came back running past Yaakov, who was still planted in his place, shocked and trembling. The knight was now carrying upon his shoulders a dangling, lifeless body, seemingly an injured comrade. He turned west and disappeared in another alley.
Yaakov stood there, still shaken, for a few minutes longer, staring at the point where his savior had disappeared. He then shook himself free of his paralysis and started running in the opposite direction, towards the port.
* * *
The port was in chaos. Throngs of people, most of them civilians, shoved and jostled their way onto the docks, trying to secure a place for themselves and for their dearest on one of the crowded vessels. Some ships belonged to the various Christian communities of the city, and Yaakov knew he could not hope to board them, but there were some ship owners who took the opportunity to make a profit and sold passage to the highest bidders. On one of those ships, the ‘Sea Falcon’, Yaakov identified Roger de Flor, a well-known character in Acre.
De Flor was a Sicilian of dubious reputation, an adventurer and a hired captain in the Templars' service. He was now standing at the entrance to the gangway of a small ship, bargaining with a group of people. Yaakov had no time to wonder. Roger had never been an owner of a ship of any kind, but he must have confiscated one of the vessels at anchor, to seize a once-in-a-lifetime business opportunity. Many men and women were already standing on the deck, having paid for their lives in gold and jewelry. Yaakov pushed his way to the front of the line. The Sicilian had just finished bargaining with the man before him and was now turning to Yaakov.
De Flor looked at Yaakov contemptuously. His eyes scanned him from head to toe. “What do you want, Jew?” he growled. “The prices here are not something the likes of you can afford.”
Yaakov pulled out the small leather purse, opened it and showed its contents to Roger. The eyes of the Sicilian widened in surprise and greed. He grinned. “Well, well… who would have believed… a wretched, stinking Jew like you… but this is fine with me. Money, my friend, has no smell.” Yaakov handed him the purse, and Roger stepped back, clearing the passage to the gangway for him, while taking off his hat and bowing mockingly. “Come aboard, Jew,” he said. “You will be my guest of honor.”
Many people were already crowding the deck, anxiously eyeing each joining passenger. It was becoming overcrowded, causing great discomfort on board. Even worse, the excess weight was causing the ship to sink below its high waterline.
The ‘Sea Falcon’ was dangerously overloaded.
4. Pascal de Charney - Normandy, April 19th, 1798
Cavalry Captain Pascal de Charney jumped off the saddle and entrusted the harness in the hands of good old Georges. He ran up the stairway leading into the entrance of the big house, skipping two steps at a time, and stormed inside. The familiar smell was welcoming. ‘It is so good to be home again’, he thought, ’even if only for a very short visit.’ Entering the large lobby, Pascal noticed from the corner of his eye a small figure rushing down the big stairway descending from the upper floor. In seconds, she was flying into his arms with screams of joy, and he barely managed to catch her. With her little arms, she clung to his neck, covering his face with her kisses.
“Pascal, I am so glad you are here. You look amazing in uniform. I wore my new dress especially for you, and I must show you Jacques, my new cat…”
Pascal burst into laughter. His little sister was a force of nature and a never-ending source of exploding energy. “Just a moment, Arlette, let me take a good look at you.” He placed her gently on the floor and the eight-year-old instantly burst into a short jig, which she ended by spinning on her toes like a ballet dancer. Having concluded her piece, she bowed ceremoniously, putting a serious expression on her pretty face.
“How cute you are…” he started saying, but seeing the dark cloud descending on her face, he immediately corrected himself. “I meant… how beautiful you are and how dazzling this dress looks on you.”
The small face beamed at him, and he stroked her head. She gripped his hand. “Papa is waiting for you inside,” she said and promptly pulled him after her, running in the direction of the main sitting room. “Papa, Papa, he has finally arrived. He is here!”
The man sitting in the armchair with his back to them closed the book he was reading, laid it on the table and rose to his feet. Roland de Charney was a tall, well-built, impressive man, with penetrating gray-blue eyes, who looked older than his fifty-seven years. He looked at Arlette, and a flicker of a smile appeared for a second in his otherwise stern eyes. To be sure, his youngest daughter was a spoiled brat, but she was also the most beautiful, most charming and smartest girl in the world, and he absolutely adored her. She was the last gift he received from his beloved wife who did not survive the difficult labor and died at birth, eight years before. Little Arlette was a beam of light in the life of this taciturn man.
“Pascal, my son…”
“Papa…”
The two me
n embraced. “Arlette, please leave us,” said Roland.
“But, Papa…”
“Arlette!”
The little girl sensed the severity in his voice and with her well-tuned instincts knew better than to challenge her Papa when he was like that. In a cheeky display of resentment, she turned on her heels and left the room in thundering silence, holding her head up high in defiance. The two men smiled and then took a long look at each other.
“It is so good to see you, Papa.”
“A cavalry officer in the army of the Republic… I am proud of you, my son.”
Pascal was very pleased to hear these words coming from his revered father, with whom words of praise were a rare commodity. “How is Henry? Have you heard from him?” He asked. Henry was his younger brother, who had joined the army the previous year.
“Henry is doing very well at the Officers’ Academy,” said Roland proudly. “He finished third in his class this year. He wants to be an artillery officer.”
“Just like my commander, General Napoleon Bonaparte.” Pascal was smiling.
“Well, do tell me about this young Corsican general. Have you met him?”
“Oh, Papa, he is a true leader.” Pascal did not try to hide his admiration. “You should see how the soldiers adore him, and the officers too. He is small in stature, but in this small body lives the mind of a Caesar. The army will follow him through fire and hell, I can tell you that.”
A spark flickered in the gray-blue eyes of his father. “Caesar? May I remind you that we are proud to be living in the Republic of France? You must remember that day, when we went to Paris to see King Louis XVI lose his head in the town square. We sacrificed a lot to liberate France from tyrants, and we had better honor this sacrifice.” Roland de Charney was a republican at heart.
Pascal realized his mistake. “Of course, Papa, what I meant was that Napoleon Bonaparte is the Republic’s greatest general, perhaps the greatest the French people ever had, and I am proud to serve under his command. And, yes, I did meet him once in person. It was after a successful assault exercise I led at the head of my cavalry company, which the general had been watching from a nearby hill. After the exercise had ended, he rode down the hill and approached me. Papa, my knees started wobbling, and I lost my tongue, but this great man simply smiled at me and said: ‘Excellent performance, Captain de Charney; that was some mighty charge you led there. With officers like you, I can ride confidently into battle.’ Papa, never in my life had I experienced such elation as I did at that moment! I knew I would follow him anywhere. And to think this great man is twenty-nine years old, only five years my senior! He had his first glorious victory over the English in Toulon just five years ago, when he was my age, and since then he managed to defeat the mighty Austrian empire and force the world to come to terms with the French Republic and respect it! Papa, this man is already a living legend, and he is a French citizen, who will lead the Republic to greatness and glory.”
“We shall see about that,” the older man shook his head skeptically. “History teaches us that people in such powerful positions must be made of unique stuff, if they are not to end up tyrants. Look at what happened to Robespierre, a man we all admired and a personal friend of your general. Before long, he was transformed from a champion of civil rights into a maniac and power-hungry mass murderer.”
“Papa, when you get to know the general, you’ll understand we have a Frenchman of a new kind in him.”
“Frenchman, Pascal? The fact that a Corsican now embodies the hopes of the New France must be a manifestation of history’s strange sense of humor. Just thirty years ago, I was a young major in the French army which invaded Corsica. The Corsicans never considered themselves French. They fought like lions over their island, I will give them that, but they were killing French soldiers. They were killing my soldiers! I was wounded in the battle of Ponte-Nuovo myself. I almost died there!”
“Papa, France of today is different from the France of thirty years ago. Today we are a republic of freedom, equality and brotherhood. The fact that a Corsican can become a citizen and a general is a tribute to this spirit and a demonstration of the great and just principles of our revolution.”
The eyes of the old lion fired up. Pascal’s words angered him. “Principles of our revolution, indeed! Let me remind you, young man, that these principles were worded by a bunch of secular men, with not one god-fearing man amongst them. Whoever coined ‘Liberté, égalité, fraternité’, forgot to refer to God and Christ. What is the point of this display of humanly love and brotherhood, when it comes with no recognition in the grace of God? It is no wonder that this revolution has turned against its chief designers and sent them to the guillotine. Note my words, my son; God will punish us for forsaking him.”
Pascal bowed his head to avoid meeting his father’s ferocious glare. This recurring theme always came up when they were discussing politics. Uttering such words in revolutionary France was dangerous, sometimes even fatal, and only someone like Roland de Charney could afford to speak like that. Pascal had long ago learned that his father was different - a strange political creature in revolutionary France. To be a devoted republican and a devout Christian was an improbability, if not a contradiction, and yet, Roland de Charney was just that. Pascal still remembered very well that day, January 21st 1793, or Flavius 2nd of year 1 of the revolution, when his father took him to Paris to watch the execution of Louis XVI, the hated monarch. The spectacle of the King mounting the stage in front of the mocking masses was burned into his brain. A huge roar erupted when the guillotine blade fell, and the naked head of the king rolled into the basket. When the sordid, bloody object was displayed by the executioner to the blood-thirsty crowd, the roar rose even higher, almost deafening him. The whole scene left a profound impression on young Pascal.
At the time, he did not feel joy or elation. If anything, he mostly fought the need to throw up. He was also watching his father. Surrounded by a shouting, gloating mob, Papa kept silent. He was a soldier and a revolutionary who never hesitated to shed blood, his or others’, for a worthy cause. But the sight of blood and death never brought him joy. Roland, who came from a noble family, was never really part of the masses, and on that glorious day, he remained aloof amidst the sea of cheering mob. Yet, Pascal saw great satisfaction in his eyes.
His father laid a hand upon his shoulder. “Remember this moment, my son,” he said. “Many generations henceforth, historians will still speak of it as one of the defining moments in the history of mankind.” He paused to take a deep breath and Pascal was astonished to see how excited his usually stoic father was. “It is not just the Republic and the end of monarchy that we are celebrating here. Today a circle has been closed and divine justice done. For this, I give praise to the Lord.”
Pascal admired him, but he knew his father belonged to a different era. Modern Frenchmen did not look approvingly upon religion, considering it a tool for suppressing the masses in the service of monarchy and tyranny. The revolutionary ideology disapproved of religion and, to a certain extent, tried to replace it. Churches were closed down and a new calendar starting at the beginning of the revolution was introduced, with no references to religious holidays. Roland could not accept the attitude towards religion that the revolution had brought and never bothered hiding his views. Pascal always feared that his father’s unconventional views would one day prove to be his ruin in the combustible political climate of revolutionary France. Pascal himself was brought up as a Catholic, but the state of mind in the New France did not pass him by. He was not sure anymore in his belief in God and Christ, but knowing his father he never expressed his doubts.
Papa was definitely an eccentric.
Even weirder was the fact that Roland, a devout Catholic, had always detested the papacy. When Pope Pious VI’s condemnation of the revolution was made public, the older de Charney spoke openly against the pope. This earned him an excommunication from the Church and eternal suffering in hell. Nevertheless, this
did not seem to shake the confidence of the tough old man in himself and in his faith.
Roland enjoyed a well-respected standing as an ex-nobleman and a glorious ex-officer who, in spite of his origin, had supported the Republic and the revolution from the start. He did that by using family funds as well as organizing and leading the revolutionary forces in Normandy. This was at a time when others with similar background were fighting for the hated monarch or had fled the country. The revolutionaries, who fondly dubbed him ‘The people’s nobleman’, honored him like the hero that he was and allowed him to keep his property and estate. Nevertheless, Roland rejected with contempt suggestions of some of his new friends to hide his noble origin in order to be more identified with the common people. “I am proud of who I am and of what I did for the revolution and for the French people. However, I am also very proud of my ancestry,” he used to say and no one would argue with the stiff-necked patriot.
* * *
Roland poured a big glass of Bordeaux and offered it to his son. He then poured one for himself and sank into his chair, pointing to the divan opposite him. Pascal seated himself, and the two sipped their wine in silence.
“Pascal,” Roland put down his glass. “I have my connections inside the Directory[v]. I know what is happening and where you are headed. I know that the little Corsican is soon to sail at the head of an expeditionary force of 30,000 soldiers to Egypt, to seize it from the Muslim Mamluks.”
The Mamluks were originally white slaves of Caucasian or Balkan descent, bought as children and trained by the Egyptian rulers to serve them as soldiers. In time, they exceeded their Arab masters in ability, industry and determination and took over the country. The Mamluks were the ones who, at the end of the 13th century, ended the crusaders’ 200 year presence in the Holy Land. In the beginning of the 16th century, the Mamluks surrendered to the Ottoman Turks, but lately, they had risen to power again in Egypt and were treating their Turk masters with defying disrespect.
