by Jean Gill
If the list were ever used, the al-Andalus Jews would see just one more instance of Christian persecution against them and his own community would believe they were guilty and deserved it. Everyone would accept it. Apart from a few mothers, wives and sisters of course, and that could not be helped. He might even be able to raise support for the bereaved. If it came to pass. He would make this list to protect his community, who would be none the wiser. But Yahweh would know and could judge him no more harshly than he judged himself.
Set-faced and alone in his Inner Sanctum, Raavad unlocked a wooden chest, reached below the garments neatly folded there and carefully took out a package of oiled sailcloth, which hid and protected a book. He placed this with care on his desk and opened it with the familiarity of one who could go straight to a favourite passage. He read and re-read a verse, nodded at its wisdom, then replaced the book in its hiding-place.
Narbonne was no longer a safe place and he must think again as to where such a treasure would be out of harm’s way. His son-in-law, Abraham ben David in Nîmes? No, if Narbonne had troubles it was likely that Nîmes and all of Provence had the same or worse. Further afield? There were possibilities. But how to get it there? So far, he had confided in no-one but he was increasingly afraid that, if something happened to him, the book might fall into the wrong hands. Or just be destroyed by accident. Would Yahweh let the book burn? That was another question a young man might ask. Abraham ben Isaac knew perfectly well that earthly fires were more predictable than divine miracles.
Like the wise man he was, Raavad postponed the decision until he could see his options more clearly. Instead, he turned his attention to the business of the day. If the Lady of Narbonne valued him highly, it was not for his learned interpretation of the Torah, it was for his contribution to the life-blood of her city and for his freedom as a Jew to do what she could not, as a Christian. So now he must think about loans, percentages and number of years for repayment, factoring in the insecurity of the city and the impact of the Crusade. It was a very very large sum of money that he was being asked to find, and quickly. That too should be part of the calculation. When the servant announced a visitor, Abraham ben Isaac was ready for the man who entered, cloaked and ordinary.
‘My Lord Dragonetz,’ Raavad greeted him. ‘Please, sit down.’ While the tall, young soldier removed his cloak and took the stool offered, the Moneylender took the chance to observe his customer. His garb was in the usual garish colours of his people but Raavad had learned from his mistakes that this popinjay appearance didn’t imply the brain of a bird. He deplored the showy taste and their need to wear their wealth on their sleeves but it was useful professionally, enabling him to glean information about his clients.
He smoothed his own black robes and tried to read the other man’s face. Loose black curls gave a typically Christian impression of girlish softness but the jaw and cheekbones, however fine, were strongly delineated and carried just a slight shadow from his fashionable shaven look. His skin showed traces around the chin and cheeks of adolescent ravages, weathered into rugged character. When he returned Raavad’s gaze, his eyes were clear black, calm and deep as a mill-pond.
One more advantage of Raavad’s long business experience was that he knew how to vary his tactics according to his client. Generally, Christians hated haggling whereas Jews and Moors would have felt cheated if they didn’t. Dragonetz, however had seen the world and might either be more entrenched in his own culture or more open-minded, depending on his own nature. Some men liked to build up to a loan with discussion of the weather and others preferred their business brief and to the point. Let the game commence, thought Raavad, making first move. ‘A thousand solidi is a lot of money…’ he left the implications dangling.
‘And you’re not going to waste my time by telling me first that you can’t get hold of so much, then that because it will be difficult I must pay even more for the privilege, and then finally you will give me terms and we will either take five minutes or ten hours to agree. So, shall we take all that as read, you give me fair terms, I agree them and we both leave the room happy men.’
So, someone who liked to be in control, a man who knew what he wanted and who preferred to be direct. At least on this occasion. But Raavad was not one to be pushed anywhere he didn’t want to go. ‘Forgive me, my Lord,’ he looked anywhere but at Dragonetz and wrung his hands in the manner he knew that Christians found annoying, ‘but as the risk is mine, so is the need for certain questions… and of course if you prefer to discuss your business with other,’ he paused ‘ - men of affairs, then that is your right and we can still part - how did you put it? - two happy people. I keep my money and you are saved the tedium of discussing business with me.’
To his surprise, Dragonetz grinned. ‘Touché,’ he acknowledged. ‘You know very well that if I am here, it is because I have been turned down by the Lady Ermengarda and the Abbey or because I didn’t ask them.’
‘And?’ prompted Raavad.
‘The latter.’
‘Because?’
The tiniest hesitation. ‘In truth,’ Raavad nodded encouragement, knowing the phrase often preceded a lie or a sin of omission, and Dragonetz continued, ‘I would prefer ties of money interest to returning a quarter of my produce each year.’
Now this was becoming intriguing. ‘Forgive me again, but this is beyond my experience in a Christian. However polite you may be - and I find it surprising just how polite people wanting money can be! - surely you feel the distaste that is proper at the very thought of usury!’ He could not help the downturn of his mouth in bitterness at the thought of the double standards, a reminder of his problems, and his grip on the wings of his stool tightened.
‘I am here to put myself in debt,’ Dragonetz said quietly. ‘This I do freely to make a dream come true that I have long held, to enable a project that is practical and will make money but is beyond my capital and I have told you I would rather render interest to you each year than produce to someone else. I have seen worse than usury in the Holy Land and if I am here it is because your reputation for a fair - if hard - bargain is known in Narbonne. I have no doubt there are those who shear a sheep till it bleeds and if I’m mistaken in you, then I bid you good-day.’ He reached for his cloak but was stayed by a gesture from Raavad.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, this time meaning it. ‘I have to judge what manner of man you are and I’m sure you understand that I need to know what the loan is for.’
The younger man leaned forward, his brows knitted in irritation at having to explain himself. ‘My project is a mill on the Aude. I already own the land and the river rights and I need to acquire workers, to build it and to run it.’
‘How practical - a woollen mill! You are not the first to see the potential of the fleecing business and you are right, there are big profits to be had. I was expecting something more out of the ordinary, I must admit, but a mill will do well.’
‘But you see, I am ordinary.’ Dragonetz looked straight into Raavad’s eyes with the gaze of an honest man who, when he does lie, is very convincing indeed.
‘Yes, yes,’ Raavad rubbed his hands again, ‘a mill will do very well indeed. And now for security. You can show me the land rights?’
Dragonetz fished in the folds of his cape, pulled out a scroll and passed it to Raavad without comment. The money-lender unrolled it, skimmed the Latin phrases to find what he was looking for, ‘the area bordered by the land of Sgnr de Craboulesto the north, Sgnr de Floralys to the south and Sngr de Mandirac to the west, all river rights within that boundary.’ He checked the signatures. ‘A pretty piece of land, my Lord and you are getting in at the start, while the industry is still new. Yes, yes. So we have some choices for security,’ He rolled up the scroll and returned it to Dragonetz. ‘The easiest one is for your father to under-write your loan.’
The sudden flush beneath the swarthy skin gave Dragonetz’ response before he put it into words. ‘No. This is between you and me, not between me and my
father, nor you and my father.’
‘A pity, a pity. That would have been so easy. There is no question that my Lord Dragon has the wherewithal.’
‘My project will pay for itself.’
‘Indeed, indeed.’ Raavad gave the impression of thinking carefully, having in fact made his mind up before the interview as to what he wanted. He had of course known about the land purchase and guessed at the mill but there was something missing here. What you don’t know today, he told himself, might bite you tomorrow, but he knew he would find out nothing more and his instinct was to conclude the affair. For suitable profit and security of course. ‘The security must be the land itself, Lord Dragonetz. You will understand that, for a sum of this kind, my brethren are digging deep in their pockets, very quickly, and can only do so if they, in turn are offered security, so my conditions are these - one,’ he ticked them off, ‘that in the event of non-payment of dues, the land itself is forfeit; two, that the dues shall be a payment of 15% in six months’ time, on - let me see.’ He consulted a chart. ‘The Kalends and Nones of October will be on a Sunday, so that’s no good for you, the Ides will be on the Sabbath, so that’s no good for me, but the Kalends of November will be a Wednesday, which is perfect. And then thereafter there will be an annual payment of 15%; and three, that the contract shall be drawn up by my scribe, duly signed and witnessed.’
Dragonetz too gave the appearance of reflecting and Raavad looked down to hide the approval in his own eyes. His feeling that this was a young man who had learned the game was confirmed when Dragonetz offered, ‘10% annually and we are in accord.’
Hesitating just enough to make them both feel happy with the outcome, Raavad agreed, ‘Done!’ and accepted the knight’s hand in his own. This strange new practice of shaking hands was taking hold - before long it might even be tenable in a court of law. What was the world coming to!
In the time it took for the scribe to draw up the contract and for it to be signed, matters were concluded and Dragonetz left with a second scroll to add to the first. Raavad watched him go, wondering why such a man would speak of a mill project with barely contained passion, as if he were realising the dream of a lifetime rather than joining the ranks of Narbonne’s well-padded land-owners. Dragonetz was an adventurer; where exactly was the adventure in sheep? Abandoning the mystery, Raavad ordered a servant to let in his next client, who had been patiently waiting in the next room, where he had heard every word of the previous interview, which was as it should be given that he had paid very highly for the privilege. Raavad sighed. Another client whose religion forbade usury and who was very very keen to talk about money with a Jew.
‘Welcome al-Hisba al-Andalus. Come in and sit down,’ he told the Moor.
After a couple of hours organizing a stone-mason and a carpenter, who were willing to begin work straight away, Dragonetz was only too pleased to have the distraction of an hour in the music room ahead of him. The ‘room’ was an alcove in one of the Palace halls, giving a sense of seclusion, some pretty acoustics and a window onto the street, but in sight of those either passing through or themselves finding a corner for conversation. Al-Hisba and Estela were already settled, discussing the tuning of the mandora, when he arrived and Dragonetz gave the barest greeting and let them continue. He sat on the window-seat, closed his eyes and let the two voices make melodies in his head instead of words. Sweet and true mingled with baritone, spring and autumn, the present and the past. He had started to fit new words to the duet in his head when he realised that sweet and true had become sharp and insistent.
‘Are we boring you, my Lord Dragonetz?’ asked Estela.
He opened his eyes and stretched out his legs, focusing completely on this unexpected, unwanted apprentice, who was glaring at him. ‘I want to teach you everything I possibly can,’ he told her simply and saw the irritation dissolve. ‘Do you want to learn or to be a table decoration?’
For answer she picked up the mandora, teeth gritted. ‘Al-Hisba has been showing me how they do it differently in al-Andalus.’ She strummed a few chords conventionally then marred the harmony with dissonance, which moved again to harmony as she played, her slim fingers curling and flexing, stroking the strings as if a cat’s fur or a man’s skin. Her cascade of black hair had been bound in a long plait that swung over her right shoulder. Her forehead shone high and clear as she concentrated on her instrument, no need of shaving her hairline or other artifice to accentuate her looks.
‘And how would you use that?’ asked Dragonetz.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Let al-Hisba play so you can listen,’ and this time the alien sequence was transformed even further with a hiccup in the rhythm. ‘Shut your eyes,’ Dragonetz told Estela. ‘And tell me what you hear.’
‘A perfect fourth,’ replied Estela.
‘So you were schooled in music. Forget your schooling. What do you hear?’
Al-Hisba repeated his performance. ‘A dispute,’ Estela murmured uncertainly, then with more conviction, ‘plates dropped in the kitchen.’ She flushed and her eyes flew open. ‘I’m sorry, that was so stupid, it just came to me and I don’t know why.’
He rewarded her with one of his rare laughs. ‘And I heard the clash of swords. So we have slightly different experiences of disputes but if I heard this music in my head, it would need a disagreement in the lyric.’
‘Oh yes,’ she had caught up with him now and the words came tumbling out, ‘and I’d write the moment where the Lord caught his Lady a-bed with the young hired man, and there would be the clash of swords and then the next passage - play it for me, al-Hisba, please, like you did before, the harmony afterwards, yes, that would be the harmony afterwards in the story, order restored.’
‘Husband and wife happily reconciled,’ he teased.
‘But how could that be?’ Another golden look came his way. ‘No, they must both die of course.’
‘Naturally,’ he agreed, ‘the husband and wife.’
‘Now you’re just testing me! No, the husband must kill the lover, who will not apologise, and the wife will not say she loves her husband better, so he must kill her too, and order is restored. The harmony tells us that this is beautiful.’
‘Of course,’ he concurred, still twinkling, ‘if a little painful all round. Do you think it might have been more enjoyable if the hired man and the wife had concealed their amour successfully?’
Her brow furrowed. ‘Then there would be no story and now,’ she accused him ‘you are just teasing me. I am telling you how to write songs,’ she realised.
Al-Hisba had slipped into one of Dragonetz’ melodies, the one that had been used to mark Aliénor’s arrival in Narbonne.
‘Sing it for me,’ he told her gently and then he shut his eyes again, caressed by a voice and his imagination. And then he made her work. What was she doing trilling like a bird at dawn? Why was she breathing in between ‘his’ and ‘heart’? Couldn’t she hear that it turned the words to nonsense? Why was she singing the beginning as if doom was at hand? What emotion had she saved for the end? Estela took it all, did it again and again, worked until she was getting worse instead of better and then Dragonetz produced a flute and a tambour and while he took on the flautist’s role, al-Hisba played his wild Moorish rhythms and Estela was told ‘Play! Like a child would play! Just have fun!’ The lesson finished with the two men on their feet, skipping and dancing to the mad music that reached wilder and wilder crescendos until Estela admitted defeat and banged one last chord. ‘Enough, I can’t keep going any more.’
But Dragonetz was still twirling like a top. He took his lips off the flute long enough to say, ‘You heard her al-Hisba. We win!
Al-Hisba shook his tambour dramatically above his head, drumming the side to a climax and then dropped it in front of him, bowing his head, so that only the flute played on. ‘You win, my Lord.’
One last high note, sustained to the last of his breath, and Dragonetz too stopped. ‘I do, don’t I!’ he crowed and the
n realized that their antics had attracted the attention of a growing number of onlookers, one of whom was rustling her skirts towards the musicians.
‘My Lord Dragonetz, how entertaining!’
‘Lady Sancha,’ Dragonetz returned, drawing ragged breaths. Now, there was a lady who had not only just shaved her hairline but had also dyed the hair above it, a bilious yellow.
‘May I sit and listen?’
‘Sadly, my jongleurs lack stamina and are a great disappointment to me.’ Dragonetz shook his head in his great disappointment.
‘Then, my Lord Dragonetz, I shall have to make do with just you,’ Sancha delivered an arch death sentence to his afternoon and pulled up a stool.
‘My pleasure, my Lady,’ was the chivalrous reply as Dragonetz kissed her hand. All he could hear was a discord on a mandora accompanied by a girl’s low giggle. He shut his eyes. Water, cool and clear, a mountain stream with snow still in it.
‘Oh, my Lord,’ fluted Sancha as he straightened from a moment too long over her hand. Dragonetz looked past Sancha to where Estela stood, straight and slim, waiting to take her leave, her eyes dancing and her face still flushed from their enthusiastic music-making.
‘Tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘Be here.’
She dropped a respectful curtsy. ‘My Lord.’ The barest flick of her eyes towards Sancha. ‘I am full of admiration for your stamina.’
