The Brotherhood of Book Hunters Page 9

  “While we have no guarantee of yours!”

  The two Frenchmen were hardly in a position to demand anything. They could not return home empty-handed without risking the gallows and as long as they stayed here, lost and destitute, their fate depended on Gamliel’s goodwill. The secretary did not therefore take the trouble to respond. He clapped his hands, and two Mongols appeared, supporting Aisha. Wild-eyed, she flashed a reproachful glare at François and Colin. Her body bore the marks of the abuse she had endured.

  “The poor thing has been harshly treated. It’s best if she doesn’t go back to Safed. She won’t be well received there. Whether or not she was raped by the guards, she’ll be seen as defiled.”

  François clutched his crumpled hat in his clumsy hands. He leaned toward Aisha and kissed her fingers. She leapt back in terror. François turned to Gamliel’s secretary. Defiled or not, he refused to abandon her to her fate. Colin threw François a disapproving glance. A woman was bound to bring trouble down on their heads. Unconcerned by what would befall this slave, the secretary decided he would hear no more. He was hoping to expedite his task as quickly as possible.

  “Take off those rags. Two Mongols will wear your prison grab in order to create a diversion. They’ll leave for Safed this evening. Here are fresh clothes and shoes.”

  “I’m sick and tired of all your precautions!” roared Colin.

  The secretary remained calm. “We have to be careful. Not because of the Mamluks. The Vatican has agents in Nazareth. They must have had wind of your arrival in the Holy Land.”

  “Have you forgotten that I have the support of the Bishop of Paris?”

  “But what rabbi would trust the Bishop of Paris?”

  François grabbed hold of Colin’s arm before he could knock the wretched fellow out. Taking several steps back, the secretary pointed at a tall thin man leaning against a tree, wearing torn and frayed pirate breeches and with a red scarf tightly knotted around his skull. Two big toes, the nails black, poked out of the ends of worn boots that looked as if they had seen better days—and a better owner. He was kneading a piece of straw between two rows of carious teeth.

  “Djanoush will be your guide. On the roads, a nomad attracts less attention. His mission is to take you to the Holy Sepulcher. From there, we’ll take over.”

  At a signal from the secretary, Djanoush approached, two donkeys tied to his horse. Colin refused the bridle the gypsy held out to him. Djanoush insisted. Colin cursed. Djanoush lost his temper. All this lasted a while.

  “Let’s just gratefully accept,” François said.

  “I’m not going to ride through Galilee on a donkey!”

  “Our Lord did.”

  “This one’s all lopsided, I’ll take the other one.”

  The secretary watched helplessly as the scene unfolded. These two foreigners were constantly squabbling over trifles. They never talked about anything serious, not even their mission. And they drank too much wine. The King of France must be a poor monarch indeed. You just had to look at his emissaries. And yet Rabbi Gamliel gave them a good deal of respect. He even claimed that they had been sent by Providence. It was to make sure of this that he had put them to such a hard test. He saw their coming here to Judea as a sign from God. As for Master Federico, he had been certain they would pull through.

  “My master has obtained permission for the gate of the Holy City to be opened to you.”

  “Any camel driver can go through those gates any day of the week!”

  “Not this gate.”

  “Which gate is that, then?”

  The Jew looked Colin and François up and down one last time, increasingly irritated by their insolence. “The gate to the secret Jerusalem.”

  17

  Colin almost fell backwards as he mounted his donkey. His legs were so long, they touched the ground on either side of the poor animal. Refusing François’s help, Aisha nimbly mounted behind Djanoush. Guided by the gypsy, the survivors at last said goodbye to the dungeons of Nazareth and reached the shelter of the first orchards. Colin held himself tensely on his donkey, grimacing whenever one of his bruises played up. François trotted cheerfully along, breathing in the air with its scents of prickly pear and wild lemon.

  It was the hottest part of the day, and there was not a soul in sight. In the fields, the flocks seemed abandoned while shepherds and dogs slumbered in the shade of the olive trees. When the sun began to sink, granting a last caress of light to the surrounding hills, it was not replaced by any beneficial coolness.

  For a while, Djanoush led them along the ridge road, then started down the steep slope that led to Lake Tiberias. Making his way through the undergrowth, a young shepherd was following the riders. He suddenly crouched behind a bush. Then, once he was sure that the gypsy had turned due south, he leapt to his feet and ran off like a hare to go and inform Suleyman.

  Slowly advancing across the still burning scrubland, through ravines over which darkness was spreading, Djanoush at last reached a promontory from which the outline of the lake could be seen in the distance. His traveling companions gazed down at the fabled landscape in silence. A sparrow hawk hovered, describing broad circles, weaving his flight in the invisible weft of the sky, patrolling the sheet of water in search of prey. The Sea of Kinnereth, as the Hebrews called it, stretched as far as the horizon, lined with wild rushes and willows. The white domes of Tiberias glittered on the western shore. To the east, the grim mass of the Golan rose into the clouds, covering the tranquil waters with its threatening shadow. Opposite, in the distance, where the haze of the lake gave way to a sand-filled mist, Judea began.

  When night had fallen, the men rested by a fire, sitting cross-legged. Weak and shivering, Aisha kept her distance. François gave her the piece of wool that protected his donkey’s back from the rough leather of the saddle. Djanoush, taking care not to scare her away, placed a goatskin canteen on the ground.

  François poked the fire with part of a branch. The blaze of the burning leaves reminded him of Master Federico’s gaudy attire. The Florentine’s devilish laughter taunted him in the crackling of the dead wood. He kept trying to understand the reason for that denunciation, in which Gamliel had evidently been complicit. The clear purpose of their stay in the Mamluk jail had been to put Colin and François at the rabbi’s mercy. It was an outrageous insult to Louis XI. All the same, it seemed that the negotiations would continue as planned. That was why François suspected Gamliel of having had some other purpose than merely to intimidate him. He thought about his journey, from Rue Saint-Jacques to Genoa, from Acre to the monastery in Galilee and to Safed, and above all about this ride that was now taking him across the Holy Land, toward Jerusalem. This long route had not been drawn up at random. François even wondered if Aisha’s sudden appearance on his path was as fortuitous as it seemed.

  From the market stalls of Tiberias to the farms of the Jordan valley, Djanoush and Colin left a trail of petty thefts in their wake. They stole hens, eggs, cloves of garlic, peppers hanging in the doorways of barns, and, for Aisha, fresh linen drying in the sun. François was surprised that, in spite of their misdeeds and their shabby appearance, none of the patrols had seen fit to stop them. They were known to rob pilgrims and wandering peddlers at every opportunity. He told himself there was probably nothing to fear from the Mamluks as long as they had no idea why he was here. Unless Djanoush was in league with them. As recently as the day before yesterday, Colin had surprised the gypsy in conversation with two soldiers who had quickly disappeared at his approach. The incident had left him puzzled, but little by little the road wiped out any lingering resentment.

  François had no idea by what marvels of gesture, raucous laughter, and pokes of the elbow Djanoush and Colin managed to make themselves understood to each other. They spoke about knife blades and the training of horses, boot leather and bare-knuckle fighting. They compared scars and gashes like connoisseurs,
feeling each other’s biceps with mutual appreciation. To fill the silence of gestures and grimaces, they laughed, clicked their tongues, let out cries, constantly hailed each other: Hey, Januch! Hey, Colino!

  Whenever the animals grew tired, Djanoush and Colin walked nimbly in front. François and Aisha trailed behind, avoiding each other and yet coming closer according to the rules of a secret game. A wink forced the adversary to look down, a timid touch provoked a quiver, a flower gently picked was accepted without a smile. Having previously been courted by the awkward young peasants of Safed, Aisha now discovered the ardor of a gallant’s attentions, at once gentler and more masculine. Her mountain girl vanity, her sometimes melancholy eyes, her delicate gestures, which the rigors of slavery had not withered, all disarmed François, veteran of the boudoirs and seducer of consenting prey that he was. The game was an unequal one. François doubted, hesitated, sighed. He took care not to commit any blunder, whereas Aisha, innocent and wild, had never been so sure that she was liked. She trod the hot earth, feeling, for the first time, mistress of her own fate.

  On the third day, the little group reached Beit She’an. Reluctant to enter the town, access to which was guarded by sentries of the watch, Djanoush led his companions to a caravan that was just then bypassing the ramparts. The line of camels and beasts of burden stretched to the horizon, raising a huge cloud of dust. The cries of the people, the lowing of the animals, the hammering of hundreds of hooves, the jingling of the harnesses made an almighty din. Nobody even noticed the four newcomers joining the procession.

  The camel drivers had the slanting eyes and weather-beaten skin of men from Asia, while their slaves, tied together by ropes, seemed to come from the four corners of the earth. François looked in amazement at the spices and silks, the studded chests stowed on the embroidered saddles of the dromedaries, the sumptuous cloaks of the merchants as they swayed from side to side on mules adorned with charms and multicolored tufts.

  From a promontory, a Mamluk detachment watched the column. François thought he saw an officer point at Aisha and snigger. Turning red, the girl lowered her head and stared obstinately at the ground.

  François looked intently at the landscapes he passed through, wishing he could shatter the silence of this country. He heard it sometimes whispering in the rustle of the foliage, calling to him with a beating of wings, urging him on with a gust of hot wind. But he did not understand what it was telling him. He listened to the travelers talking, praying, yelling around him, in Syriac or Hindi or Phoenician. Did one of them speak the mysterious language that was still unknown to him?

  Aisha rode close by. She moved with ease, her indolent figure swaying as the road twisted, her black hair floating in the heat haze, as if she were letting herself be cradled by a music that she alone could hear. Her eyes peered into the scrub, lingering sometimes on a heap of stones, coming to rest on the tracks of an animal, rising suddenly to look at the branch of an almond tree. She seemed to see many things that escaped François, as if the language of the brambles and the sand were familiar to her.

  François gazed at the orchards stretching at the foot of the hills, the slopes’ streaked vines and, higher up, the brown rock of a cliff, trying as of now to see this land through other eyes. Those of Aisha.

  At dawn on the fifth day, Djanoush broke away from the caravan, which continued on its way to the port of Jaffa. He turned left, into a ravine that wound in all directions through the arid rock. It was the dry bed of a wadi. With each bend, its walls grew increasingly bare, until all vegetation faded away in discouragement, as if the thorny bushes had at last realized that this bottleneck led nowhere. But Djanoush followed its twists and turns with confidence. He only emerged after several hours, forcing the horses to climb a steep slope covered with fallen rocks, which rolled down beneath the animals’ hooves. At the top, the gypsy, half asleep on his exhausted horse, pointed to a plateau in the distance, ablaze with blinding light. On it, a line of fortifications could be made out through the haze. Hoarse with fatigue, Djanoush almost whispered, “Yerusalem . . . ”

  18

  The narrow alleys twisted in front of them. Furtive figures scurried along the walls. The few children to be seen outside were lame or scrawny with rickets. They played in the dirt, yelling in Arabic, in Hebrew, in Armenian, in Greek. The older ones insulted a pompous-looking passing soldier, then ran off through the courtyards, yelling. The younger ones stood huddled in a doorway, busy torturing a skinny cat. Odors and noxious air whirled through the dark, stifling alleys. The stone of the houses was crumbling, the slates on the roofs were cracked, the few windows were like gaping holes. The sky, glimpsed stubbornly between two gutters, was higher here than elsewhere. At the corner of a covered street, a peasant woman in a plaited hat was kneeling in front of a heap of peppers covered with flies. Disheartened, the visitors followed Djanoush through this gray maze of poverty and neglect.

  Bells began ringing out. The gypsy moved faster now, guided by the pealing of the bells, and came out onto a small esplanade where hens frolicked. He tied the animals to a stone boundary. A monk descended from a ladder, a bundle of straw over his shoulder. As soon as he saw the strangers, he threw the bundle to the ground, quickly dusted his habit, rubbed his hands, and, assuming a dignified air, muttered a few words of welcome in bad Latin.

  “Come, this is the tomb of Christ.”

  The travelers obeyed meekly, going in through a rusty gate, stumbling in the gloom, making their way amid the dark recesses of the chapels, the lecterns and pews, past walls laden with blunt-edged stelae, candlesticks without rings, silver censers, frescoes filled with angels and ghosts. François and Colin kept crossing themselves devoutly. Something undefined had entered their bodies. Their eyes peered greedily into the dark nave. He was here, somewhere, in the middle of the spiders’ webs and the spent candles: the son of God. They looked for Him in a ray of light falling through a stained-glass window, in the gleam on the gilded frame of a triptych, in the curve of the arches. He must be here. They called to Him from the depths of their souls, hungry for His love. The monk had already reached the sepulcher and was muttering hymns. Colin held himself as stiffly and numbly as if he had just been knighted. François knelt, hands joined, and gathered his thoughts, but found himself unable to pray. He thought about Aisha, whom he was trying in vain to pursue, and about Jesus, whom he was trying in vain to hold on to.

  Until he came to this sepulcher, François had not thought he was pursuing a specific aim. He did not care about Chartier’s schemes, Gamliel’s stratagems, or the interests of the kingdom. He had seen his mission merely as an excuse to roam far and wide. But now he saw the hand of fate in it. And perhaps an end to his wandering. The Holy Land had been awaiting him forever. Its strange landscapes were slowly enclosing him in their folds just like the enchanted letters embracing the Medici coat of arms. François was sure he had come all this way to fulfill a sacred duty. As he bent to meditate, he saw his own face reflected in the silver border around the tomb. An icy breath touched his cheek, like a whisper. He pressed his ear to the tombstone as if the Savior were going to whisper to him the answer he had come looking for. But just as he managed at last to imbue himself with the holiness of the place, the strange, almost complicit intimacy that suddenly linked his fate as a rebel, a man condemned to death, with that of Jesus, two men, their faces hidden beneath large hoods, entered the basilica and signaled to him and Colin to follow them.

  The two guides strode ahead, leaving no choice other than to scamper hurriedly after them. They went along winding passages, cut through backyards, and crossed vegetable gardens to throw off any possible pursuer. The greyness of the houses, the black holes of the doorways and windows, the sullen air of the sky took on an ever more sinister appearance as they entered the entrails of the city.

  At a crossroads, one of the strangers turned right, ordering Djanoush and Aisha to follow him. François intervened. Not knowing in which la
nguage he would be understood, he grimaced and gesticulated, holding Aisha back by the sleeve. Colin came to the rescue, fists at the ready. Djanoush brought up the rear, brandishing his knife. The first man threw back his hood, revealing a Mongol’s shaved head. He held himself in a strange position, his knees slightly bent, his arms raised to his chest, his open hands quite­ vertical, fingers together, as slender as blades. He twisted suddenly on one foot and struck Djanoush on the wrist with the other. The gypsy let out a roar of pain, and his knife went flying. The Mongol immediately resumed his former position, ready to leap at Colin, but his associate intervened and now also uncovered his head.

  “Be reasonable, Master Villon, I beg you.”

  François froze, astounded to see Brother Paul’s courteous smile. He held Aisha close to him. “This woman has suffered enough!”

  “And you intend to protect her, do you?”

  It was Colin who replied to the prior’s sarcasm. “What do you fear from this slave girl? That she might turn his head? In that case, you’re too late!”

  The monk looked closely at Aisha, then at François. The Frenchman’s openly stubborn air bore witness to a resolve that the prior found not unpleasing. If they ran into any trouble, the presence of a woman might prove useful, whether she served as a decoy, as bait, or quite simply as a bargaining counter. Above all, the girl provided an excellent way of putting pressure on François.

  “She can wait outside, she’ll be well guarded.”

  Brother Paul dismissed Djanoush, slipping a few crowns into his hand. The gypsy took his leave with a brief nod of the head. The Mongol gave him back his knife, pushed him forward, and showed him the way. The prior took the opposite direction.

  François followed, Aisha clinging to his arm. With a shrug, Colin brought up the rear.