The Brotherhood of Book Hunters (14 page)

The young man continued, giving a broad outline of the operation for the guidance of François and Colin. He described the campaign phase by phase, citing the principal works chosen by Cosimo and Gamliel, the names of the printers and peddlers who supported the cause, the cities to be targeted as a matter of priority. This was an all-out offensive. Colin feared its extent.

“It isn't only the Pope you're attacking by inflaming minds in this way, but the whole of Christendom!”

“Do you fear for your faith? Isn't it strong enough? I bless every opportunity to put mine to the test.”

The acerbic tone in which the young man had retorted sent a chill through François. It would be much harder to escape the clutches of these people, he thought, than those of Chartier or Louis XI.

To win them over, Gamliel reminded them that the Medicis, who were fervent Catholics, had unreservedly subscribed to the Brotherhood's plans. In any case, it was not up to Colin to debate the strategy, merely the methods, should Paris decide to join Florence and Jerusalem in this adventure.

François grasped the opportunity to inquire about the conditions the book hunters were laying down. He was convinced that they were expecting a repeal of the decrees banishing the Jews from France. In Tuscany, the Brotherhood had obtained a reduction in the taxes imposed on the Jewish community as well as greater freedom of movement for peddlers and traders. In exchange, prominent Jews had committed themselves to financing the purchase of presses, hiring binders and copyists, providing accommodation for agents who had come from the Holy Land to prepare the operation. But Gamliel was not demanding anything like that from the French. He did not even require an exemption from the wearing of the
rouelle
, a piece of yellow material that the few Jews in the kingdom had to sew on the front and back of their clothes. This surprised François, given the risks they were incurring.

“If the secret is discovered, your brothers will be the first to suffer the wrath of Rome.”

François was taken aback by the rabbi's brief reply, the sudden curtness of his voice, mixed with a certain arrogance, which echoed the insolence of the young man who had responded to Colin.

“The gates of Zion have always been open to them.”

In fact, Gamliel had only one request: the king of France had to guarantee that, during his reign, no new crusade would be undertaken. François found it hard to hold back a sardonic smile. Louis XI's promises were worthless. But Gamliel kept going, boldly asserting that noncompliance with this clause would result in serious consequences.

François and Colin could hardly believe their ears. They exchanged amused winks. To curtail their sarcasm, Gamliel told them of the advantage the Brotherhood had gained from the conquest of Byzantium, just ten or so years ago. It was its soldiers, hired as sailors and mapmakers, who had sabotaged the Venetian ships that had moored off Constantinople to challenge the Turkish fleet. In return, the sultan was now granting his protection to those Jews who, fleeing persecution, were trying to get to the Holy Land. The situation of some Jewish communities was in fact becoming increasingly worrisome, especially in England and Spain. Foreseeing the possibility of a massive exodus to the East, Jerusalem had promised to help the Turkish ruler chase the Mamluks out of Palestine.

Of course, François told himself, there was a good deal of bravado in the rabbi's words. The stratagems Gamliel had just mentioned did not surprise him. Spies and informers always behaved in the same way. Even though Louis XI's secret police were well known for their efficiency, François had frequently eluded the traps they had set for him. So these sycophants couldn't teach him anything. In fact, he was planning to teach them a lesson they wouldn't forget in a hurry.

One aspect of what Gamliel said, however, did surprise François: not so much the scale of the mission as its significance. It was a fateful turning point, which had nothing to do with military conquest or even political maneuvering. The book hunters had been waiting a long time for the right moment, for a sign, to go into action. The fall of Byzantium had been that unmistakable sign. It had marked the end of a dark and terrible era. All they had to do now was give that era the final deathblow.

 

In the shop, Aisha was busy looking through the closet the old antiques dealer had opened to distract her, stroking the satin gowns, plunging her hands into chests filled with trinkets, sniffing the perfume bottles one by one. From time to time, she would pin a brooch to her chest or put on an embroidered shawl, then go and look at herself in a large Venetian mirror, putting on the airs of a princess, giggling with surprise. She strutted and sang to herself as the old man watched indulgently. She turned and whirled amid the gleam of the crystal vases, the glitter of the amulets, the sheen of copper. Her partner in this imaginary dance had a face without eyes or nose, merely a strange half smile. She was surprised by her own choice, still refusing to admit it. She kept asking other partners to dance with her—tall, brown-skinned young men, nimble athletes whose muscles glistened with sweat, sweet, tender-eyed Adonises—but somehow he always stepped in ahead of them, with his crumpled tricorn on his head, and took her hand.

B
rother Paul, who had dozed off, now woke with a start, almost falling off his chair. A huge fellow, his face cross-hatched with gashes, his left eye covered with a leather patch, had just burst into the room. He walked around the table, went up to a thin, patrician-looking old man in a beige tunic with blue stripes, and whispered something in his ear. Although this austere figure listened attentively, there was no reaction to betray what he was feeling. He responded briefly, inaudibly, but it was clear that he was giving orders. The man with the gashes responded with a military salute and went out as abruptly as he had come in. The patrician-looking individual at last deigned to inform the gathering as to the reason for this interruption. Gamliel translated immediately.

“The Mamluks have surrounded the esplanade.”

“The gypsy betrayed us!” cried Colin.

Brother Paul seemed surprised. How could Djanoush have eluded the vigilance of the Mongol who had been escorting him out of the city? The prior threw a reproachful look at Gamliel. The rabbi had assured him of the gypsy's loyalty. His tribe had been living in Safed for decades and hated the Mamluks, who constantly mistreated them. The news saddened François and Colin, who had grown fond of Djanoush.

 

The blind old man gave a start and pricked up his ears. Furtive, hurried steps could be made out scampering over the flagstones of the little square. Standing right up against the shutters, he heard a voice whisper, “Aisha. Aisha?”

The girl froze. She looked at the antiques dealer out of the corner of her eye. The old man quietly opened his desk drawer and took out a dagger. Terrified, Aisha rushed to the door, sprang the latch, and rushed outside, hurling herself straight into the arms of the soldier who had just whispered her name. Startled, the man did not know what to say. Emerging from the semidarkness, Suleyman planted himself between the soldier and the young slave.

“It's here, it's here!” said Aisha weeping.

Suleyman immediately entered the shop with his men. They spread out, swords in their hands, smashing the vases, overturning the furniture, stooping to avoid volleys of arrows and knife thrusts. They fought duels with the dancing shadows of the Greek statues, the porcelain dragons, and even a Gascon suit of armor. Several threw themselves to the floor. When they looked up, they saw nothing but their own reflections in a mirror from India or Turin. Just as one halberdier was about to assail the belly of a stuffed crocodile, a barked order from Suleyman put an end to the attack. Behind him, crouching in a corner, Aisha heaved a sigh of relief. There was not a soul in sight. The old man had disappeared.

The attackers searched the shop from top to bottom. No partition sounded hollow, no chink revealed a trapdoor, no lever gave access to a secret passage. In his rage, Suleyman slapped Aisha, but could get nothing from her. She raved, talking of witchcraft, pointing to a thick wall covered with a Persian tapestry, swearing she had seen Brother Paul and his protégés walk right through it like ghosts. The soldiers tore down the tapestry. Their hatchets rained down on the wall, but barely scratched the rock. Suleyman ordered them to stop. He struck Aisha even harder. How could this wall lead to a corridor or a tunnel? It opened onto emptiness. It was the back of the cliff that rose sheer above the Kidron.

The soldiers hurriedly collected jewels and items of silverware, throwing everything willy-nilly into a large canvas sack, then set fire to the hangings. Suleyman was the first to leave, holding Aisha firmly by the arm. He looked around the esplanade, ill at ease, sensing an invisible presence.

The flames rose quickly. Dolls and papier-mâché masks twisted and shriveled. A wax figurine melted to a brown teardrop that ran slowly over its little wooden plinth. The pages of a psalter rose like imploring arms, bubbles of boiling ink forming on the parchment and sliding over it before exploding into tiny crackles. A bronze Pegasus galloped one last time through the smoke, its varnish trickling in gray-green beads of sweat over its taut back, its muscles rippling in the vapors of the fire, freed at last from their metal yoke, its throat contracted in a mute whinny. At last it vanished in a whirlwind of soot.

Exasperated, Suleyman screamed the order to retreat. Much to the annoyance of his sergeant, he left Aisha behind. She was of no more use to him. She had been forced to obey in order to spare Moussa, whom Suleyman threatened to have impaled at her first slip. The small pieces of material she had hung on the branches or stuck between the bricks of the houses had led here, confirming the
qadi
's suspicions beyond the shadow of a doubt. He had only left her alive to disconcert the adversary, especially Villon.

The Mamluks plunged into the alleys that lined the square. There, they recovered their horses and set off eastward at a gallop, in the direction of the valley of Kidron, the only other possible escape route.

The esplanade was now deserted. Aisha approached the ruins of the shop. She bent over the embers, her eyes wandering amid the still burning rubble. A hand took hers, gently, so gently it was as if she had felt nothing. But she let herself be led. After a few steps, the other hand let go. Hesitantly, Aisha straightened up. It was dark. The Mongol lit a candle, then passed in front of her to show her the way.

A
t dawn, Suleyman and his men crisscrossed the valley of the Kidron, slashing through the bushes with pickaxes and striking the rock with the pommels of their swords, while the Bedouins looked on in terror. Shepherds drove their flocks toward the sun-drenched slopes, women vegetable sellers emerged from their shacks to go to market, and ragged children ran after the riders, yelling at the tops of their voices, delighted with this spectacle so early in the morning.

The horses kicked and snorted, sensing the nervousness of their riders, who were whipping them mercilessly. As it galloped, the detachment almost knocked down a beggar who happened to be in their way. Suleyman's stallion reared, and its hoof sent the poor fellow sprawling. Suleyman followed this up by landing the man an angry lash of the whip. Startled, the beggar stared for a moment as the officer spurred his mount and charged straight ahead. The rest of the patrol followed, bypassing the unfortunate man, not without spitting to their right to protect themselves from the evil eye. As soon as the Mamluks had vanished in a cloud of dust, the beggar laboriously picked himself up. He whistled in the direction of the undergrowth. Three ragged figures appeared and came to meet him. Just like him, they wore filthy headbands rolled around and around like
cheches
. Even Aisha.

 

Confident that Brother Paul would make sure the two Frenchmen arrived safe and sound, Rabbi Gamliel decided to leave Jerusalem as soon as possible. The ship on which Federico planned to leave would set sail in a few days, with the precious texts that would make Rome yield. Gamliel would have liked François and Colin to join the expedition. The Brotherhood having decided to meet Guillaume Chartier's demands, there was nothing more for Louis XI's two emissaries to do here.

The rabbi walked in the shadow of the gibbets that lined the ramparts of the holy city near the Damascus gate. He walked faster, trying not to look up at the hanged men rotting in the sun. He held his nose. A swarm of flies buzzed around a blackened corpse. Further on, at the foot of a gallows, a widow was waving a straw broom to chase away the crows, which flew off then immediately returned to the attack. Gamliel approached and murmured the prayer for the dead. The woman held out her hand. He favored her with an offering. She was young. Her beloved's dislocated body swayed at the end of the rope, muscles tense as if he were still struggling. A bright red patch in sharp contrast to the greyness of the walls attracted the rabbi's attention. The morning light forced him to squint. He found it hard to make out the dead man's features. Only the red cloth could be distinguished clearly. Gamliel let out a groan of distress when he recognized the gypsy's scarf.

A
slight breeze caressed the courtyard. Leaning on the coping of the well, Federico supervised the loading of the wagons. Brother Médard hopped up and down and stamped his feet, pulling on the string around the packages and yelling at the muleteers, reprimanding these limbs of Satan for having tied them so badly. Federico dabbed at his cheeks with a handkerchief soaked in water, then continued reading the inventory. The manuscripts would only be wrapped at the last moment. They were sleeping in the cellar of the chapel. It was quite another arsenal that Brother Médard was currently busy putting in crates. Molds of fake patents, lead seals imitating those of the censors, fonts of characters with slight defects that would make it impossible to identify printers like Fust whose fonts were known to the inquisitors, acids to age the ink, tanks and sieves perforated with signs of the dolphin or the lyre with which the sheets would be watermarked in order to cover their tracks. All the crates in this consignment bore the Medici coat of arms surrounded by kabbalistic signs. The arms testified to the support of powerful protectors while the lettering in Hebrew would distract the attention of customs guards and men-at-arms, launching them on a trail that led a long way from Italy or France, beyond the seas, to the Holy Land, where they had no authority or power.