by Katz, Yoram
“Thank god, everybody’s healthy. Esther is pregnant.”
“With the sixth one?”
“It’s the seventh, actually.”
“Is that so? Well, nobody can blame you for not obeying ‘be fruitful, and multiply’…”
“It’s a big Mitzvah[xviii],” beamed Aryeh. “And what about you, cousin? Still hovering among the flowers? Isn’t it time for you to build a home?”
“’To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven’[xix],” quoted Luria. “My time will come. I am still waiting for the woman of my dreams.”
“But you already had her!” exclaimed Aryeh. “Every man would have been blessed with a woman like your Ella. Intelligent, sharp, beautiful too… How the hell did you let her go?”
He noticed the pain in his cousin’s face and got hold of himself. “Well, never mind,” he sighed. “But don’t you wait too long. Meanwhile, why don’t you come with me today to Safed, stay the Sabbath with us and grow stronger in your faith? You can take a lesson in the Talmud, or warm yourself in the light of Kabbalah on the Rashbi’s tomb. There is a lesson for beginners with the famous Rabbi Goren on Sunday – a tremendous experience.”
If there was something Luria could not stand in the new incarnation of his cousin, it was his incessant attempts at saving his soul. “Perhaps we will do that one day,” he said quickly, “but not in the coming few weeks. I am very busy these days.”
Aryeh grimaced. “Ah, you are busy… but not with the things that really matter. I used to be like you until ten years ago, but I returned to my roots, and God be praised, I also discovered the light of Kabbalah. It is important we remember that our family name stands for something.”
The Holy Ari (Hebrew acronym for the “Devine Rabbi Yitzhak”), or in his full name Rabbi Yitzhak Ben Shlomo Luria Askenazi, lived in the 16th century. He was the head and inspiration of the Safedi Kabbalist community and the founder of a new method in Kabbalah that carried his name – Lurianic Kabbalah.
“And what other business brings you to Haifa,” Luria tried desperately to change the subject.
“I have some community business to take care of and some shopping I have been postponing for some time. So when you called, I decided that meeting my young cousin is a great excuse for doing all those things, which I have been delaying for weeks now. After all, having already mentioned the name, you are a Luria too.”
Yossi Luria groaned inside. His diversion failed.
“You know,” said Aryeh. “My Bar Mitzvah assignment, back in the old days, was the construction of our family tree. My research then got me four generations back. Well, lately I have been seized by a passion to resume this research, and I now have some new tools at my disposal. A few years ago, I met this old man in Safed. He must be over a hundred, yet his memory is sound and sharp as if he was forty, and he also has a lot of documents in his possession. The man is a living encyclopedia of the history of Safed, I am telling you, and with his help, I have been collecting new pieces of information. I believe we are descended from the Holy Ari, and I will soon complete our family tree and prove it.”
“Just a moment.” Luria seized the opportunity to lead the conversation to where he wanted it. “Talking about Safedi history, there is this subject I wanted to discuss with you. I need your help, Aryeh.”
The door opened, and Noga entered with two cups of coffee. She placed them on the table and left. The two men sipped their coffee, enjoying the hot, bitter liquid for a while. Aryeh fixed his questioning eyes on his cousin over the brim of his cup. “I am listening.”
During the following fifteen minutes or so, Luria told his cousin all he knew about the Jewish girl from Safed of more than 200 years ago. Aryeh listened intently, occasionally interrupting with questions, which his cousin did his best to answer, until at last Aryeh was satisfied. “So you want to know who this mysterious Rivka was.”
“I do. Indeed.”
“Forgive me for asking, but why does it matter to anybody, who this girl, whom some gentile officer fancied over 200 years ago, was?”
“That’s a good question,” admitted Luria. "I asked my client the very same one. She claims that she is investigating her family history, and that it may also somehow contribute to her thesis.”
“And what do you think?”
“What she says is not totally unreasonable. She might well be telling the truth. Yet, she is a woman, and a Frenchwoman at that, and I do not presume to understand her way of thinking.”
“And might she not be telling the truth?”
“I think she is telling the truth, but I am not sure she is telling the whole truth. You will be surprised to know how many clients hide information from the investigator they have hired. They think they can control it, but usually when you start illuminating the darkest corners with a floodlight, all the demons come out screaming. So we’ll wait and see.”
Aryeh smiled. “So I am to be your floodlight.”
“In your case, I’ll settle for a flashlight.” The two burst into laughter, and for a short moment, thirty years faded away, and they were once again two kid cousins, friends and fellow conspirators, planning their next prank in a Safedi neighborhood.
Aryeh glanced at his watch. “Dear cousin,” he said, “I have to go now. Your story is interesting, and you have given me a considerable challenge. Give me a few days to see what I can do. I’ll call you.”
He stood up. The two shook hands, and Yossi Luria escorted his cousin to the door.
13. The Templar Fort - Acre, May 22nd, 1291
De Severy and Gaudin, who insisted on delaying his departure until the last moment, sat together with the other three commanders in the situation room. The siege was on and the besieged were in bad shape, with the number of casualties rising on an hourly basis.
Mark de Tramelay concluded his situation review. Besides the mounting casualties, the siege machines had started to exact their toll on the walls. The sky was black with arrows shot at the defenders, and everybody was busy extinguishing the fires lit by burning missiles, shot from powerful mangonels.
Louis de Clairvaux reported more about the engineering forces of the enemy, who were making preparations for digging under the fort walls, like they had done before to the city walls. The atmosphere in the room was tense and grim.
“We will not be able to survive here much longer,” said Pierre solemnly. “Louis, what are the chances of evacuating some of the people by sea?”
Louis shook his head. “We can send a few. Most of the vessels have caught fire, and under the prevailing circumstances, we cannot repair them. There are two or three seaworthy vessels left.”
Pierre turned to de Caffran. “Any message from the Sultan?”
The knight shook his head. “I am still trying to establish a communication channel, but with no success so far.”
“So be it,” said de Severy. “Death does not scare us. If we are destined to die, what better death could we wish for, than in the ranks of the soldiers of the Lord, in His battle against these devilish heretics? But we will make them pay dearly. We must decide, brothers, whether to keep fighting from inside the fort as long as we can, or direct one last, concentrated attack outside the walls and exact from them a final, ultimate price in blood. Mark?”
“If we can save lives, we must do that,” said de Tramelay. “We have women and children who fled into the fort for protection and, besides, we had better spare the lives of our valiant brothers, so we can come back next year to free the Holy Land. If we cannot do that, I prefer a final crushing surprise attack. It will be a glorious, honorable death. Coming generations will derive inspiration from it.”
De Caffran nodded his concurrence. “Our food and ammunition supplies are limited. As time drags on, we will get weaker. It is better to concentrate all we have into one fist of might and strike hard, even if we perish with it, like Samson in his time!”
De Clairvaux stood up. “The idea of a final strike is valiant,�
� he addressed his comrades, “but I have a better one. Our good brother here has mentioned Samson as an inspiration and I would like to take this one step further. Let us set a trap for them inside the fort. Let them break in and then fall upon them, literally, too. Let us take the steps needed to have the walls of the castle crush down upon them. This way, we’ll take with us the largest number of these Saracen dogs. This will be our glorious interpretation of Samson’s example!” He passed his gaze around. “And what an interpretation that will be, my brothers,” he added passionately and sat down, his words resonating across the hall.
‘Well, this is Louis de Clairvaux’, thought Pierre to himself. ‘Always ready with a fresh and original idea.’ He smiled bitterly. What a brilliant commander was growing here. What a pity that he would be dead in a few days. “What do you think of this idea, Mark?”
Mark rose to speak, but before he could open his mouth, there was a loud knock on the door. The knights looked at each other. Who was daring disturb a meeting of the high command? Another knock and the door opened. A tall sergeant in his black surcoat burst in and stood at attention.
“What is it, sergeant?” snapped de Severy. “What is so urgent that cannot wait until the end of the meeting of the high command?”
“Pardon me, sir,” said the sergeant in awe. “The east gate is reporting two enemy officers under a white flag. They demand to see the Marshall.”
The five knights exchanged glances.
“Bring them in here,” ordered de Severy.
* * *
The two young Saracen officers stepped into the room, their colorful embroidered uniforms distinguishing them from the knights in their white surcoats with the Red Cross at the front. They bowed their heads politely and so did the five knights. One of the guests addressed de Caffran in Arabic.
De Caffran answered him, and then turned to the Marshall. “This officer is a man of honor,” he declared. “He saved my life two weeks ago, when we went to negotiate with the Sultan and the crazy bastard tried to kill us on the spot. He says he has come to offer us generous terms in the name of the Sultan.”
“Tell him I am listening.”
The Mamluk made a short speech in Arabic. De Caffran answered and it evolved into a dialog, after which de Caffran addressed the Marshall again. “The Sultan is offering us safe passage to Cyprus. He is willing to spare us all, knights, sergeants, soldiers, civilians…” Guillaume paused for a second. “He has only one condition.”
De Clairvaux grimaced. “What is this condition?” asked de Severy.
“They demand that one hundred of their troops enter the fort and watch over the evacuation.”
Pierre de Severy frowned. “I do not like this at all. They must trust us to evacuate in peace and order. Tell him I give the Sultan my word.”
More exchanges in Arabic. “This is a condition set by the Sultan himself,” said de Caffran.
“This is totally unnecessary,” snapped the Marshall. “It may spark off needless tensions. Who can guarantee that these soldiers will not provoke us?”
Guillaume addressed the Saracen, and was answered in a few brief sentences. “He is saying this is a non-negotiable condition made personally by the Sultan. The Sultan will vouch for our safety but will not compromise. This is his one and only offer, and he demands that we take it or leave it as a package.”
“We’ll need some time to fix the damaged vessels.”
“He knows, and even offers to help us if necessary.”
“I have no need for his help,” growled the Marshall. “Tell him that we have to take counsel. They are invited to wait in the adjacent room.”
De Caffran translated, and the two officers bowed and left the room.
“The time for decision has come, brothers,” stated de Severy. “I tend to accept this offer and save the lives of our men.”
Gaudin nodded his approval.
“I do not like their demand of admitting one hundred barbaric Saracens inside the fort,” interjected Louis de Clairvaux. “Nothing good will come of it.”
De Severy turned to de Caffran. “Guillaume, what do you think? Can we insist on rejecting this condition?”
De Caffran thought a while before answering. “I think the conditions are fair and, anyhow, I do not think these emissaries have any mandate to compromise. As I see it, we have no choice but to take the risk.”
The Marshall turned his gaze to Mark de Tramelay. “I, too, am worried,” said Mark. “We shall have to watch these savages carefully, but I agree with Brother Guillaume. We have no choice.”
“Well, then it is decided,” concluded de Severy.
* * *
At dawn, one hundred Mamluk soldiers, under the command of one of the Sultan’s most trusted emirs, arrived at the northeastern gate. Pierre de Severy and Thibaud Gaudin observed them from one of the towers. The Marshall signaled the officer of the gate to let them in and the Saracens marched inside.
The two knights turned on their heels and returned to the situation room, where the other three commanders were already waiting. The Marshall asked for a situation report, and they proceeded to discuss the planned evacuation from the fort. De Clairvaux estimated it would take two days to repair the vessels in order to set sail to Cyprus. Only two ships were presently seaworthy and help might be required from Cyprus, which would have to be negotiated with the Sultan. Mark reported on the supplies and the situation of the wounded, and Louis presented an alternative fighting plan, “in case the Sultan goes back on his word.” Almost an hour passed, with the five absorbed in the discussion of the grueling and grim tasks ahead, when de Severy suddenly raised his hand. In the silence that fell over the room, they could hear an uproar somewhere outside.
At that moment, there was a knock at the door. One of the sergeants burst inside, obviously agitated, and stood at attention. “What is it, sergeant?” asked the Marshall.
“The Saracens…” the sergeant took a deep breath. “They are… misbehaving. They have no honor...”
“What have they done?” asked Thibaud.
“They… they have molested Christian women and desecrated them… children too…”
The five knights appeared shocked. “Uncivilized, boorish heretics,” cried Louis, his face turning red. “One just cannot trust these dogs.”
The small party left the room. Outside, in the court of the fort, a ruckus was in progress. They found a big mass of knights and soldiers surrounding the Saracens, some of whom were already lying dead on the ground. Seeing the Marshall and Gaudin approach, the crowd fell silent.
“What happened here?” asked de Severy, turning to one of the knights.
“The pagan dogs assaulted women and children, molesting and forcing themselves upon them. Christian women were desecrated.”
The emir, the commander of the Saracen force, waved his scimitar and yelled something.
“What is he saying?” Pierre turned to de Caffran.
“He demands to execute all who have touched his soldiers and threatens a terrible punishment at the hands of the Sultan.”
“Does he have anything to say about his soldiers’ behavior?”
De Caffran translated. Once more, the emir yelled angrily and waved his sword. “He says he owes no explanations to infidels. He demands that we turn in to him those who have raised their hands against his soldiers, or else we shall all die a horrible death.”
“Is that so?” de Severy was usually a cool-tempered man but now, he knew, all red lines had been crossed. The game was over. He looked at Gaudin. Thibaud nodded, and the Marshall turned to de Clairvaux.
“Louis, order your men to put these dishonorable infidels to the sword,” he said tersely and turned to Gaudin. “Thibaud, my brother, the time has come. Board your ship and leave. Take with you as many women and children as you can.” He turned back to de Clairvaux. “As soon as the ships disappear below the horizon, cast the bodies of the dogs beyond the walls of the fort as an offering to the Sultan.” The Marshall then t
urned on his heels and left without a further word.
* * *
All knew that the dice had been cast and that there was no turning back. Vessels were hastily patched as much as was possible and citizens were sent away from the small pier near the fort, in the hope they would make it to Sidon. Thibaud left with them. The knights and soldiers, under Pierre de Severy and Louis de Clairvaux, were preparing their welcome for the Saracens in the expected battle of the next day.
Nobody slept that night.
But when dawn broke, there was only eerie silence around. The expected attack was not forthcoming. Then, two Saracen emissaries appeared at the gate under a white flag. Guillaume de Caffran went out to meet them and returned after a few minutes.
“The Sultan knows what happened yesterday at the fort and is expressing regret at the behavior of his soldiers,” he told de Severy, who was waiting for him inside. “He is suggesting a meeting with you for re-offering of terms.”
The Marshall contemplated this for a while. “Do you believe him?” he asked. “Don’t you think this is a trap?”
Guillaume fixed his gaze on his commander and comrade and then lowered his eyes. “Honestly, sir, I do not know what to believe anymore.”
About an hour later, the fort gates opened and four Templar knights, headed by Pierre de Severy and Guillaume de Caffran, rode out. Many knights and men crowded the walls to watch them. The four riders advanced until they reached the Sultan’s entourage, where they dismounted their horses. The moment the men placed their feet on the ground, they were seized by Mamluk soldiers and brought to their knees in front of the Sultan. The stunned knights on the walls watched from afar, as one after the other, their commanders and comrades were beheaded, their heads rolling in the dust at the Sultan’s feet.
The Sultan Al-Ashraf Khalil did not tarry anymore. He ordered his engineers to resume their digging under the foundations of the fort. Within one day, cracks and breaches appeared in the walls, and the Sultan sent 2,000 Mamluk soldiers into the fort to finish off the job.
