The Brotherhood of Book Hunters (11 page)

The
qadi
, on the other hand, seemed well-disposed. François remembered that nonchalant, almost amused, strangely benevolent pout. It was the condescending pout sometimes adopted by those who have the power of life and death over others. As during the first audience, the
qadi
neither raised his head nor spoke until he had given the documents spread in front of him a proper examination. He pointed out a paragraph to the officer, who nodded briefly in agreement.

“You fought well, infidel.”

Ignoring Colin's hate-filled glare, the
qadi
continued to grin ambiguously. The officer stood to attention, devoid of expression. Both seemed determined to stick to the caricatures they embodied, as if, while assuming their roles, they were at the same time satirizing them.

“The reward offered by the provosts of Acre for your capture is paltry. It barely covers the expenses of procedure and detention that you have cost the caliphate. This big fellow would make a good galley slave. But you? Take them away.”

Once the prisoners had gone, the
qadi
turned to the officer. “The ransom was paid this morning by Gamliel of Safed. Why would a rabbi untie his purse like that?”

“Jews, Christians, what does it matter? They're all unbelievers, venerable
qadi
. That's what unites them.”

“I beg you, Suleyman, spare us that sanctimonious rot.”

The officer rose to his full height, towering over the
qadi
with his warlike build, covering him with his threatening shadow. The
qadi
, still seated, remained imperturbable. The mutual disdain Egyptian officials and Mamluk soldiers had for each other was like a thread of hatred, one on which the whole of the caliphate balanced, a thread somehow firmer than one woven from feelings of warmth.

“These people share a certain affinity for books, Your Excellency.”

“Nothing too reprehensible in that, as long as they don't undermine the teachings of the Holy Qu'ran.”

The
qadi
stroked his beard pensively. Most of the carrier pigeons being intercepted in Jerusalem, Safed or Tiberias were carrying messages concerning the purchase and sale of books. These smuggling activities did not bother the police at all as long as they took their cut. The unexpected visit of the two Frenchmen, though, suggested that more vigilance was required. According to the provosts of Acre, they were notorious brigands. But during their incarceration, the two foreigners had not behaved like common criminals. They had appeared surprised, not to say shocked, at their arrest. No normal prisoner protested like that. That a rabbi from Safed should have stood bail for them so readily was equally troubling. In any case, the
qadi
of Nazareth was firmly convinced that this was much more than a simple case of receiving stolen goods. Rather than torture the two Frenchmen, he planned to let them go on their way to see where they led. So far, they had not taken the usual pilgrim routes. They had followed an itinerary that only someone who knew all the paths in the region could have supplied them with. Their journey through the Holy Land was clearly not innocuous. The
qadi
reflected for a moment then, without deigning to look up at Suleyman, ordered him to have the suspects followed.

F
rançois and Colin were led to the gates of the fortress and expelled without further ado. Gamliel's secretary was sitting in the shade of an olive tree close by the ramparts, waiting for them. He stood up to greet them, then pulled on a linen cloth to reveal a platter laden with food.

“
Shalom
, gentlemen.”

While Colin and François threw themselves on the smoked poultry, oatcakes, and dried fruit, the Jew opened a bottle of wine with all the dexterity of a trained steward.

“My master has had excellent news from Jerusalem.”

“Your master has brought us enough bad luck,” Colin growled back.

As François undertook to explain the reason for so much anger, the rabbi's secretary listened to him with a distracted, almost amused expression, indifferent to the flush of rage on Colin's face. Federico's betrayal seemed not to surprise him at all.

“Your bravery is highly praiseworthy. You passed this test with a distinction that does you honor.”

François and Colin were stunned. Such a denunciation overstepped the mark. It might have cost them their lives. What malicious pleasure did these people take in mortifying the king's emissaries in this way? François even wondered if the
qadi
of Nazareth, whose clemency he found hard to fathom, had not also been complicit in this charade.

“We had to make sure of your loyalty,” the secretary continued in a neutral, disenchanted tone, as if bored by the thankless mission with which his master had entrusted him.

“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.”

C
olin 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.