The Brotherhood of Book Hunters Read online

  Cosimo de’ Medici’s instructions, even though uttered from his deathbed, were categorical. More than that, they were his last will, his testament: to save the painting and the clandestine manuscripts he had been hiding in the cellars of the Platonic Academy. The mission would not be at all easy, but fortune smiled on the young merchant when a decree from Lorenzo II, known as the Magnificent, made Florence a veritable protectorate for the Jews. Not only did Lorenzo lift all the humiliating prohibitions against the Jews of Florence but in addition, running counter to Papal censorship, he exhorted scholars to once again take up the study of Talmudic works, Judeo-Arab treatises on medicine, and even the kabbalah. The universities of Bologna and Parma openly ordered copies of the works of rabbis, exegeses composed in the Jewish quarters of Toledo and Prague or drawn up by the schools of Tiberias and Safed. Under the auspices of Lorenzo the Magnificent and with money from the faculties, including the Platonic Academy, as well as Cosimo de’ Medici’s secret funds, the young book hunter was able to fit out a ship for the Holy Land. Using as a pretext the purchase of Hebrew works of renown, he was in fact transporting, among the rare volumes bequeathed by Cosimo to the monastery, the final writings of the recalcitrant Cardinal de Cues, the secret notes of the philosopher Marsilio Ficino on the Corpus Hermeticum, an Eastern treatise on zero, and a painting by Filippo Brunelleschi, all banned by the apostolic censors.

  In Cosimo de’ Medici’s library, the young man had feverishly noted down the information he was to provide Brother Médard’s mysterious sponsors as to the immense significance of these clandestine works. “The moment has come,” Cosimo had concluded laconically before dismissing him. “Tell them they can launch the offensive.”

  Cosimo had waited serenely for the end, surrounded by his collections, mixing his last breath with the smell of the books, going to join their authors in the world where the mind of man at last roams amid the spheres, talks with the angels, and smiles for no reason in the austere shadow of the gods. It was in death that he achieved his lifelong ideal, to be a uomo universale.

  The news of another expected death has sent shock waves through Christendom: that of Pope Pius II, just after his final attempt to raise a crusade. The troops he had recruited in Mantua and Ancona had merely pillaged a few small towns and massacred some hundred infidels. In April, another abortive crusade left thirty bodies in the alleys of the ghetto of Krakow before breaking up in chaos. Had the Christians lost Jerusalem forever?

  The Holy Land was now nothing but a confused jumble of outcasts and fallen adventurers. Educated priests preferred to obtain a small diocese in Anjou or the Rhineland rather than a bishopric in Palestine. European monarchs saw no interest in raising armies to conquer a devastated land infested with epidemics and noxious air. Even the Emir of Judea dreamed only of being relieved of his wretched post and returning to the luxury of Alexandria or Baghdad. He cursed the hordes of pilgrims endlessly landing on the coasts, the vast caravans crossing the country in the opposite direction, toward the ports, the relentless movements of nomads fleeing famine and drought. The penitents’ donkeys, the merchants’ camels, the peasants’ goats had finally devoured what little green had still remained to cover the shame of the soil, the nakedness of the rock, the ugliness of the loose stones. This territory ruled over by a Mamluk governor was merely an inextricable intermingling of roads and tracks, a way station trapped between two worlds, East and West. Its epic battlefields had been abandoned to the weeds. The tombs of prophets and knights and Roman centurions were rotting in the sun. Only Jews and poets still turned toward Jerusalem, like the last remaining clients of a brothel who still pay their respects to the ageing madam. Most in fact had never even seen this city whose praises they sang so stoutly. And as the good whore that she was, she gave herself to all the symbols, all the rhymes, all the hopes, all the priests and all the soldiers, unflinchingly pocketing the wages of misfortune and poverty. And yet those few poets continued to venerate her with their convoluted odes and those few Jews predicted that she would be reborn from the ashes. For them, the destiny of Jerusalem was not carved in wars but in texts, in the Scriptures. She was a city not so much built of stone and bricks as fashioned out of words and dreams.

  8

  Leaning on the edge of the ramparts that protected the cloister, François and Colin watched the convoy arrive. They made out the bright colors of the plume crying amid the russet of the ripe corn, standing out against the brown of the carts, breaking the sobriety of the landscape with their city insolence.

  At the foot of the hill, the monks unloaded the wagons then carried the packages on their backs up the steep path leading to the monastery. The Mongol sentries had taken up their positions on the roofs, the bell tower, and the turrets. The arrival of the book merchant seemed to have sharpened the Mamluks’ vigilance. One of the guards thought he had seen a scout prowling around the cloister. Or was it only a poacher?

  The dashing stranger emerged from the undergrowth, and reached the promontory. He walked confidently, barely out of breath, as if he were on his way to a ceremonial dinner. His laced boots slid over the rubble, but he did not stumble. He glanced rapidly in the direction of Colin and François, pretending not to see them, perhaps blinded by the light. When he reached the gate, he doffed his spectacular hat and bowed low to the prior. Then he took a keg from his bag, sprang the lid with his knife, emptied the contents—which smelled of brandy—and, from a false bottom, extracted a casket filled with gold and silver coins.

  “For your books.”

  In the refectory, before sitting down, Brother Paul introduced the newcomer. For supper, the Italian had donned a fleece-lined housecoat in warm colors. The garment, artfully unbuttoned, gave a glimpse of a silk shirtfront as well as an area of muscular, hairy chest. Ostentatious as it was, this touch of vanity was nevertheless in good taste. The proud young peacock knew how to display his fabulous finery with a certain grace. As for his hats, each was more extravagant than the last. For the moment, he was wearing a broad black velvet cap such as master painters wore in their studios. To the rim of it, he had pinned a carnelian cameo showing the bust of a Roman lady. A genuine archeological find dating from the era of Marcus Aurelius, the hard stone was set amid baroque pearls, the work of a Viennese silversmith. From it ran a line of gold that intertwined with the ancient courtesan’s hair. Finally, to emphasize his august attire, he wore high-heeled shoes that raised him at least ten inches off the ground, forcing François to crane his neck.

  François, who did not normally bother overmuch with the dictates of etiquette, nevertheless put on a good show. Even though he feigned roughness and often behaved boorishly, a strange aura emanated from his hangdog face. Beneath his old tricorn there shone a mocking light, underlined by the discreet, wry smile that never left his lips. Nobody had ever known if this grin was natural or affected, sardonic, disenchanted, or a mere defect of birth.

  The Italian quickly looked François up and down, trying immediately to decipher that fixed pout with its mixture of bravado and frankness, a good dose of suffering cut with a dash of goodness, whose secret depths he sensed at once. He had expected to find an arrogant, self-centered rebel. He discovered a man who was natural, who wore no mask—there were few such men in Florence these days. He bowed, gracefully held out his hand, and introduced himself.

  “Federico Castaldi, Florentine merchant and agent of Master Cosimo de’ Medici.”

  Now it was François’s turn to examine the newcomer’s features. He was surprised and incredulous. Were all these unexpected links with the Medicis merely the scattered ramifications of a great dynasty or else the meshes of a net that was gradually closing?

  “What good wind brings you to the Holy Land, Master Villon?”

  “Contrary winds. Zephyrs of escape and trade winds of fortune.”

  The two men exchanged almost conspiratorial glances. Federico, who hated dubious scholars and proud geniuses, found Villon re
markably pleasant for a fashionable author. And François, who could not stand pedants or the overprecious, sensed that the Florentine was a lot more perceptive than he pretended to be. Was he playing the powdered puppet as a mere merchant’s trick or a deeper disguise?

  Federico next observed Colin, who was noisily stuffing himself. His rough-hewn, imposing bulk, his bulging biceps, his heavily scarred face inspired fear at first. But his wide-open eyes, like those of a dim-witted little boy, soon won people over. Playing on this mixture of wildness and innocence, it was he who kept the guards occupied or cajoled the clerks while the Coquillards emptied church coffers and bailiffs’ desks. Their finest coup dated from just before Christmas 1456. Five hundred gold crowns plucked as easily as a sheaf in a cornfield. Colin had stood by the entrance to the chapel of the Collège de Navarre, gesticulating, pontificating, joking, with the wardens looking on incredulously, while inside Tabarie and François had broken into the office.

  At the end of the meal, the Florentine ceremoniously handed a book to François. The binding still smelled of alum. The covers were studded with silvery flowers from the stalks of which emerged thin gilded threads applied with a trimmer. In the middle, embedded in the leather itself, a real butterfly spread its translucent wings. The back of the book, slightly marbled, was encrusted with plantlike patterns in mother-of-pearl. The threads were lined with salamander skin and the boards with lizard scales. The smooth waxed covers showed that nobody had ever looked inside the book. François carefully opened the lock with its finely chiseled arabesques. Inside, he found only empty pages, of an excellent texture, much softer than those obtained in a vat. He admired every detail. It was obvious that the talents of several master craftsmen had gone into the work.

  “Allow me to give it to you. For the ballads you have not yet written.”

  Caught off guard, François stammered some formal words of gratitude, suspecting nevertheless that such a tribute was not disinterested. A shrewd merchant like Federico did not dispense such generous gifts without some ulterior motive. Had he himself had not done the same to lure Johann Fust? What was this Florentine merchant, whose acquaintance he had made only a few moments earlier, hoping to obtain from him?

  Noticing François’s embarrassment, Federico merely gave him a broad smile. He seized a bottle whose exaggerated curves, the red seals surrounding the neck, the small bubbles blown into the glass itself, promised a choice beverage. Expertly pulling the cork out with his teeth, he poured a few substantial glassfuls. As the connoisseur that he was, François breathed in the aroma, getting ready to praise the color, the body, the flavor. But the Italian abruptly withdrew, summoned by Brother Médard whose hairless chin had appeared suddenly amid the plates and pots.

  On the table, the wings of the butterfly glittered in the light of the oil lamps. François again examined the immaculate binding, the embossing applied with both confidence and finesse. The unusual style of the ornamentation skilfully combined the sharp lines of the insect with the light curves of the gilt around it. Just like the Aramaic lettering he had seen around the Medici coat of arms.

  9

  A solitary chandelier hung from the ceiling. Brother Médard carefully laid out his inventory books and pencils. Federico took his seat on the other side of the desk, the precious packages at his feet. Although they were alone in the chapel, the two men spoke in low voices.

  “You certainly know how to toady. Master Villon was genuinely touched. Have you read his works, then?”

  “Not a line, my dear Médard. All I know is that—”

  “One moment, please,” the dwarf muttered as he started writing. “On this twelfth day of June, 1464 . . . various consignments . . . provenance . . . Federico . . . Castaldi . . . in his capacity as . . . articles . . . There. First entry?”

  “Three manuscripts from the hand of Bishop Nicholas of Cusa, also known as Cusanum, concerning the composition of the universe. From algebraic deductions and observation of the skies, it has apparently been established that, and I quote, terra non est centra mundi . . . It seems there are thousands of stars and planets hovering in the ether. We are merely a grain of sand in the midst of that vastness.”

  Brother Médard gave a start, almost falling off his stool. “You can’t solve the mystery of Creation with an abacus,” he growled.

  “My most Catholic lord Medici thinks the papacy has become trapped in the swamps of dogma. It persists in following Aristotle for fear of shaking beliefs that ensure it the blind submission of its flock. It even rejects zero, which both Arabs and Jews use without in any way losing faith in their God.”

  “Zero? Neither Pythagoras nor Euclid needed that phantom number. They established the world on solid foundations, not on a fortune-teller’s symbols!”

  “How can an empty, worthless number threaten the Almighty?”

  Federico took a painting from the rough cloths in which it was wrapped. He arranged the five wooden panels on the floor to reconstruct a fresco. Médard was reassured at first. He saw the pale hands of a Madonna, then the rosy-cheeked features of the child Jesus, his head duly crowned with a halo. Behind them, a stone colonnade stood out against the landscape in the background. You could see a blue river winding toward low hills. Trees, painted in astonishing detail, contrasted with a sky filled with hazy clouds. An ancient mausoleum stood on the summit of a plateau. In spite of the Madonna’s gleaming robe and the strong colors of the central scene, your eyes plunged into the distance, abandoning the holy characters to wander amid hills and valleys. You felt a kind of dizziness. The Virgin and her child seemed to be sitting quite close to you, but it was the clouds and the trees, their hues at once smooth and deep, that led you into their strange world, and you stopped seeing the mother and son. You sensed them the way you would sense a presence, but your eyes were elsewhere, flowing with the river among the hills, engrossed in little brushstrokes that perfectly echoed the grain of the wood. The division of the panels added to the artifice, leaving it to the eye to weave the very texture of the space and the light. The religious scene was merely a pretext.

  This work by the painter and architect Brunelleschi had briefly adorned the baptistery of Florence Cathedral. It had been hastily removed before its creator could suffer the wrath of his sponsors and remained for a long time hidden in the cellars of the Medicis. Only Master Verrocchio was able to see it and teach its secrets to his apprentices. At this very moment, one of his pupils, named Leonardo, had been given the task of mastering this new way of depicting the universe, this other way of seeing, known as perspective.

  “Trompe-l’œil, that’s all it is. Does it make the Madonna any holier?”

  Federico put away his notes and concentrated on establishing the inventory. In any case, the monk’s voice didn’t count. The final decision was taken elsewhere, by his masters. They would only affix their mysterious mark to the Medici coat of arms if they approved Cosimo’s choices. It was then up to them to decide whether they confined them to a library or disseminated the contents. Otherwise, Federico would have to take back the rejected books and paintings and sell them at the back of his shop as mere curiosities.

  The consignment went on late into the night. The merchant opened the cases, held out the manuscripts one by one, without saying another word, yawning with exhaustion. The dwarf kept writing, looking offended but not daring to open his mouth. Author, title, date, author, title, date . . . Until the early hours of the morning.

  10

  Even before the first light of dawn, the coachmen were busy, checking the horses’ harnesses, inspecting the straps on the mules, kicking the wheels.

  Brother Paul had received marching orders on behalf of the emissaries of the King of France. The date of their first interview with one of the Medicis’ discreet allies had been fixed. They were expected in Safed. The way there was strewn with pitfalls. Saracens and Turkish brigands dispatched many a lost traveler to the other life, and disea
ses and noxious air took care of the rest. The hospitals set up by the various orders were overflowing with the dying and the wounded. Mamluk squads had been seen in the vicinity. Brother Paul did not know the reason for these patrols but such troop movements were common. Whether pale-faced knights or dark-complexioned mercenaries, the conquerors of this land were doomed to be constantly on the lookout.

  The prior had decided to add François and Colin to Federico’s convoy, which would be stopping at Safed and Tiberias to pick up supplies of Hebrew works for the Italian universities. It would not arouse suspicion. After all, it was carrying nothing but books. If it was stopped, the soldiers could easily be bribed.

  François and Colin plunged their heads into the drinking trough, then shook their soaked hair like dogs. Colin donned a thin leather cabasset that flattened his skull. François put on his crumpled tricorn. They could already feel a burning wind on the backs of their necks. Federico appeared in the doorway of the refectory, lit by a first ray of sun. Clad in all his gleaming finery, he waddled like a court favorite on his way to a ball. Dazzled, the Mongol sentries stood aside to let him pass, unwittingly forming a comical guard of honor. Brother Paul, suddenly stern, whispered a few words in his ear. Federico nodded and half knelt to receive the prior’s blessing. He dusted off his sleeves, and, with the help of a ribbon, tied his hair behind his neck. Throwing a satisfied look at the men and the horses, he gave the order to leave.

  It was going to be a very hot day. A leaden light poured down on the arid plain, the motionless shrubs that no breeze stirred. In the distance, a solitary sparrow hawk soared. Distorted by heat haze, the countryside seemed to scowl. The bad-tempered shadow of a cloud splashed the line of the horizon then spread its grey stain over the ocher blanket of the fields. The riders went more quickly, abandoning the monks to their precinct of stone.