The Brotherhood of Book Hunters (25 page)

The archbishop invited the young lord to sit closer. Holding his wrists with a somewhat embarrassing softness, he politely asked for news from Florence. Lorenzo answered patiently. It was not for him to bring the conversation around to the reason for his being here in Rome, nor to withdraw his arm from the prelate's affectionate grip. Taking the young man by the elbow, Angelo drew him toward the library, where Lorenzo was afraid he might make more urgent advances. But as soon as they entered the book-lined room, the archbishop pointed to a work placed in open view on a pedestal table. Lorenzo immediately recognized the gilded arms of his family and the kabbalistic signs surrounding it. The book definitely came from his grandfather's private collection. Ever since his youngest years, he had seen Cosimo de' Medici lovingly classifying his books. But he was unaware of the significance of that emblem. It was the archbishop who now explained it to him. Only volumes coming from a Florentine bookseller named Federico Castaldi bore that undoubtedly strange mark. And all of them had been strictly forbidden by the Vatican.

In its clemency, and out of respect for the memory of Cosimo, the Council would have turned a blind eye to this indiscretion. Unfortunately, the Inquisition had just uncovered a serious conspiracy being fomented by the Jews against Christendom. Federico Castaldi had been arrested and was being tortured at this very moment. The inquisitors suspected him of being in the pay of a mysterious brotherhood based in Jerusalem. There was a strong possibility that his confession would implicate the Medicis in this sordid business. Especially as their famous protégé, Marsilio Ficino, regularly obtained his supplies from this Federico. Many of the works he had acquired from him bore the famous coat of arms combined with the Hebrew motto of the sworn enemies of Rome. It went without saying that the repercussions of a trial would oblige the Church to take up a position and show firmness in applying the verdict. Ficino would risk the stake, and his accomplices, excommunication.

Lorenzo tried to keep calm, merely knitting his brows. But it was obvious that he was nervous, which led Monsignor Angelo to soften his tone. In order not to tarnish the noble name of the Medicis, he suggested handing the prisoner over to the Florentine authorities so that they themselves could continue the interrogation and assume publicly the defense of the faith. This proof of allegiance was indispensable if they hoped to persuade the inquisitors not to arrest Ficino, thus avoiding the embarrassment his imprisonment would cause his distinguished patrons.

Lorenzo refused to be intimidated by this barely concealed threat. He knew that the archbishop was expecting to be remunerated for his intercession. A large donation would suffice. But the Vatican also had to be compensated. Only too happy to have the Medicis by the throat, the Pope would be implacable in his demands. Indeed, Angelo now announced that His Holiness would not be content with a cash ransom. It so happened that the Jews had long had possession of a document whose rightful place, according to the Holy Father, was in Rome. It contained the minutes of the interview between Jesus and the high priest of the Temple before the latter handed him over to Pontius Pilate. Christ had used the few hours he spent with Annas to dictate a plea intended to prove the rest of the Jewish community innocent. By assuming full responsibility for his actions, he had saved his people from terrible reprisals. But, in addition to this confession, Jesus had dictated to Annas his last wishes, a kind of testament
 
that was none other than Christ's final message to his human brothers.

Crusaders and Templars had tried several times to lay their hands on this text, searching Jerusalem from top to bottom, taking hostages, threatening to set the Jewish quarters on fire. In vain. The Church had even considered handing back some of the sacred ornaments of the Temple, brought to Rome by Titus to celebrate his triumph over the Hebrew revolt. But, up until now, the Vatican had not known with whom to negotiate. Scattered to the winds, divided up into a swarm of different communities, the Jews had no king and no ministers. But now the opportunity had presented itself to negotiate with a group that was able to make decisions. The book hunters of Palestine, since they were attacking Rome, could clearly be considered the opposing side with which to begin possible talks. And above all, they had ambassadors of renown, the Medicis, through whom the two parties could negotiate.

Lorenzo doubted that Jerusalem would agree to pay such a high price to get its eminent allies out of trouble. After all, the Medicis were sufficiently powerful to look after themselves. Relations between Rome and Florence had always been uneasy, sometimes tense, but never openly hostile. Lorenzo wondered therefore why the archbishop was choosing to play such a card. Was it because the Holy See suddenly felt strong enough to go on the offensive? Or else so threatened that it had to resort to blackmail?

The young man knelt and promised to return promptly with an answer. The archbishop kissed him fervently on the forehead by way of farewell.

 

Escorted by two novices, Lorenzo walked down the long corridor that led out of the basilica. He thought of Federico, and prayed that he would hold out. He had always sensed that there existed some kind of private complicity between his grandfather and this Federico. While quite young, sitting quietly in a corner of the great library, he had often been present at their long conversations. Whenever they looked at books, the two men almost forgot his presence. Cosimo, usually so authoritarian, would speak in a soft, almost childish voice, express joy at the sight of each binding, wonder at each stroke of calligraphy, declaim aloud passages from
The
Iliad
or Aesop's
Fables
, describe spellbound the details of an engraving. He knew that his grandson was watching and listening, but he pretended to be unaware of the fact. He wanted to communicate his passion to Lorenzo without imposing it on him, inviting him tacitly to come and join him in this wonderful world of ink and paper. Sometimes, Cosimo and Federico would lower their voices and whisper secretively, their expressions suddenly serious. Federico's visits were always surrounded with mystery, with magic. He would disappear for months on end, and the announcement of his return would delight Cosimo, who would leave all his other business to receive the bookseller and whisper solemnly in his grandson's ear, “He's just back from the Holy Land!”

Once outside, Lorenzo peered at the buildings lining the great square. In which one did the Inquisition have its torture chambers? He listened carefully. The chirping of sparrows echoed off the walls, horses' hooves struck the cobbles, and the bells of St. Peter's pealed out, drowning the cries of the tortured.

T
he dim light of the oil lamps barely lit the cave. The Essene shepherd remained in the entrance, nervous, turning sometimes to peer into the darkness. Inside, Gamliel and Eviatar were sitting at the little table that served as a desk. François stood, wondering if he should kneel or even prostrate himself. He was shaking with emotion. Aisha was sitting on the ground, struck dumb without being quite sure why. She could simply feel the intensity of the moment. And François's panic.

It was Eviatar who opened the iron box and took out the precious manuscript. Unsure how to handle it with the required solemnity, he held it at arm's length like an offering. Gamliel untied the reed cord surrounding the parchment. He was content with a brief examination, then tied the cord again without saying a word. Eviatar immediately put the scroll back in the box, relieved at having passed the test.

“We'll have to wrap it in dry cloths, crumpled and not too clean, in order not to arouse curiosity.”

François was astounded. Gamliel had not even given him the chance to touch the manuscript. François gazed at the box, dismayed to see such a relic treated like a common package. And above all to learn that it was going to be used as a bargaining counter.

“That's a high price to pay for your friendship with the Medicis.”

“It's a moral commitment, Master François. And a way of gaining time. The manuscript will take more than three weeks to reach Italy by sea. In the meantime, we—”

“In the meantime, surrendering it is a dangerous admission on your part.”

“But it is also proof of our strength. The Church has always dreaded Annas's minutes being made public before it was able to study their contents.”

“Well, now, it knows who has them. Perhaps even where they are!” François's features tensed in an exasperated grimace. “Such a profanation will justify a call for a crusade. Or reprisals against the Jews. The last words of Christ cannot be the object of a deal, or the stakes in a trial of strength.”

“Unless they again save our people from the anger of Rome.”

François fell silent. A tear ran down his cheek. Was the Savior to be crucified a second time? And was he, François, another Judas?

Gamliel wrapped the box in the cloths prepared by Eviatar. The fringes of the material were frayed. Everything was clumsily held in place with hemp string. The package was innocuous enough not to arouse the suspicions of the customs officers or the envy of the sailors. Monks dressed in the habit of their order would undertake the journey, without an escort. The rabbi said he had chosen excellent candidates, reliable emissaries who spoke several languages and, although having a humble demeanor, would know how to conduct themselves in society, men with enough self-assurance to defy both the tricks of brigands and the traps of the Papal court.

François knew that several monks from the monastery spoke fluent Italian, as well as the ecclesiastical Latin current in the Holy See. Unlike Paul, who was a simple country priest, most came from good families. Among them were younger sons of the nobility, sons of merchants, ruined burghers. All the same, he was surprised that the Brotherhood should entrust such a mission to Christian monks, rather than to its book hunters, who were better trained and certainly more loyal to the cause.

Gamliel whispered the names of the emissaries in Eviatar's ear.

The young man's reaction was immediate. “Does the commander of the Brotherhood approve this choice?”

“Absolutely.”

This laconic reply brooked no discussion. Eviatar nonetheless sensed a hint of unease in the rabbi's voice.

Gamliel regretted having to lie. But how to admit that he was in no position to obtain his chief's agreement? The latter would no doubt never have allowed him to play for such high stakes. Let alone use Gentiles to do so. Nevertheless, Gamliel had no choice. Nobody must know that the commander of the Brotherhood was currently rotting in the jails of the Inquisition.

His presence in Italy was indispensable. A figure of the stature of Cosimo de' Medici would never agree to deal with an underling. And he fully expected the general from Jerusalem to lead the operation in person and aid him on the ground, first in Italy, then in France.

“Have you any other questions?”

Eviatar made him up his mind. He handed the wrapped package to the rabbi. As soon as Gamliel had left the cave, François fell to the ground and crossed himself twenty times. Feeling helpless, he imagined these monks from Galilee, with their tonsures, their sandals still filthy from their long journey, prostrating themselves in front of the Pope and his cardinals, extracting the Testament of Christ from an old bag. Aisha had never seen François like this, on his knees with his hands joined in prayer. She turned to Eviatar, who did not seem surprised by such fervor. He had never doubted that, under the cover of his great quarrel with heaven, Villon had private conversations with the angels and their Lord—if only to pester them. Aisha did not know if Eviatar, standing there frozen, was also praying at that moment. Impossible to say. The Jews prayed on their feet.

François stood up and walked to the entrance of the cave. In the distance, against a background of the silvery shimmer of the Dead Sea, he made out the figure of Gamliel advancing amid the stones with a confident step, moving through a beam of moonlight, his package under his arm.

D
rowning in cushions, the archbishop spoke in a honeyed voice, weighing each word, feigning indecisiveness. Lorenzo sat on a pouffe, clearly impatient. He was not disposed to bother overmuch with the customary niceties or to discuss conditions. The archbishop's hesitations irritated him. The Medicis had been sufficiently generous to be able to expect a quick end to this regrettable business. After all, the last words of the Lord certainly did not lend themselves to backstage maneuvers! But Angelo would not let go. He was afraid of being duped by these crafty Florentines. Pietro de' Medici was much too clever to pay such a high price for a promise that the Pope would probably never keep. The only concrete favor he was certain of obtaining was the freeing of Federico. In itself, that hardly justified such generosity.

Of course, the Brotherhood was demanding that the Pope commit himself to mounting no further crusades. If the Vatican did not honor this clause, the text of the precious document would be made public. Dozens of booksellers were holding themselves in readiness to spread it. But how did Lorenzo plan to prove that the Brotherhood would not carry out its threat anyway? Could he vouch for them? That was why the archbishop was continuing to be difficult. But things were becoming urgent. Federico was refusing to swallow a single drop of water, and spat out everything his jailers stuffed down his throat. The archbishop feared losing badly if the prisoner took his own life. He had already tried several times.

 

Lorenzo swore on the Holy Bible, with unconcealed emotion and obvious sincerity, that the Medicis had no interest in cheating. To do so would run the risk of public opprobrium, which the Pope would be only too happy to stir up. Just like the Holy Father, Lorenzo's father was not in favor of an open conflict from which neither the Vatican nor Florence would emerge unscathed. He much preferred to keep to this discreet and amicable arrangement.