The Brotherhood of Book Hunters (26 page)

Such candor touched Angelo, who demanded nonetheless to know what guarantees of authenticity those scoundrels in Judea intended to provide the Church's experts. The most eminent scholars in Christendom would have to examine the manuscript before Rome could finalize the exchange. Lorenzo reassured Angelo on this point. Annas's notes had been handed over to pious servants of God who dreaded their disclosure as much as the Pope, monks from the Holy Land who had assumed responsibility for bringing them. They were doubtless already sailing for Genoa.

Tired of the archbishop's incessant questions, Lorenzo stood up, threw a purse full of crowns on the episcopal divan, and abruptly left the room. Angelo quickly counted the gold coins, sniggering as he did so. These diplomatic negotiations were completely superfluous. In reality, the Pope's orders left no room for maneuver. Obtain the precious manuscript at all costs. Promise the Jews what they wanted. They certainly wouldn't be taking it with them to paradise.

The sun was setting. A last ray of light set the lace curtains ablaze, flooding the room with patches of red that slowly climbed the walls and faded on the ceiling. The archbishop sent for his secretary. It was by candlelight that he dictated a short letter informing the Holy Father of the outcome of his conversation with Lorenzo. Having dispatched it, he wrote a request for an investigation into the status of the Jews of Spain, who seemed to be doing remarkably well.

T
wo monks hurtled down the alleyways leading to the harbor. One, tall and slender, walked with his neck craned, while the other, who was shorter, huddled beneath his hood. They scurried between the stalls of fish, the barrels of oil, the crates of dates, ignoring the whores who teased them by crying “Bless me, my father,” pulling on the brown material of their habits, and asking them what they were hiding under there, much to the amusement of the provosts and sailors walking along the seawall. Angrily, the first monk suddenly grabbed a clerk who was laughing uproariously.

“Are you baptized, my son?”

Without waiting for an answer, he threw the unfortunate fellow in the water, amid the garbage that floated on the waves, then rose to his full height as if to say, “Does anybody else want a turn?” His companion tightened the strap of his bag, fearing a brawl. But sea dogs and mercenaries, usually not very respectful of the skullcap, responded with reverence. The big monk's resolute air discouraged any threatening moves. This humble servant of God didn't need sermons to convince people.

Brother Martin continued on his way in a dignified manner. Brother Benoît hurried after him, waddling somewhat as if his side hurt. Wedged at the bottom of his canvas bag, the precious box kept shaking about and knocking against him. His rope sandals skidded on the cobbles made shiny by dirt. The hemp of his habit scraped his skin. Why run like this? The ship would not set sail for several hours. It had barely started loading. Bundles lay heaped on the ground, in the shade of the pulleys. A sailor was greasing the helm. Another was dozing in the shade of the foremast. More alert, the first mate stood at the top of the gangway. The monks hailed him loudly and slipped him a few coins to ensure that he would take good care of them during the crossing.

Brother Benoît felt slightly dizzy when, after he had been pushed onboard by Martin, the ground fell away beneath his feet, pulled like a carpet by the indolent movements of the sea. Sadly, he turned to look back at the hills of Galilee. He had not had time to bid them farewell as he would have liked. It had all happened in a rush, a whirlwind of preparations and last-minute instructions, giving him no opportunity to put his thoughts in order. Should he be grateful for the honor the Brotherhood was doing him? The trust shown him by the rabbi of Safed? Or else feel sorry at being the unfortunate person chosen to hand over the Savior's words to the bigwigs and schemers of the Vatican, whom he had always despised? Before leaving, he had knelt in the courtyard of the cloister for Brother Paul to bless him. Overcome with emotion, the prior had hugged him in his big arms and whispered, low enough for Gamliel not to hear him, “Don't forget! You are the envoy of God. Not of the rabbi . . . ”

But it wasn't the Lord that Benoît was thinking about as he tried one last time to glimpse the ridge line vanishing into the heat haze. Martin knew that perfectly well. But he said nothing, also gazing at the horizon, thinking of the domes in St. Peter's Square and how terrified he would be, finding himself alone among the cardinals and nuncios who were waiting for him so anxiously. But wasn't this what he had always wanted? This test? This confrontation?

Several sailors approached, respectfully took their hats off, and asked for a blessing for the journey. The two monks made signs of the cross over their bare foreheads and muttered a few pater nosters.

When the sailors had gone back to work, Martin turned suddenly to his companion with an embarrassed look on his face. “I have a confession to make, my dear Benoît.”

Benoît, worried at hearing Martin stammer like this, lowered his hood and looked at the young monk apprehensively. The other remained on his guard, as if ready to dodge a fist.

“I'm listening, Martin.”

“It's . . . It's about Aisha.”

Brother Martin did not know how to announce the news. He made sure that nobody could hear them. “She isn't being kept as a hostage, Master François. It's because of her condition . . . ”

Brother Martin hesitated. François grabbed his arm.

“Speak, Eviatar.”

“She's expecting a child.”

M
aster Ficino stood by the window, bathed in the gentle light of the Florentine autumn, watching patiently as, below, the pilgrims washed their feet at the fountain in the patio. Birds were dancing on the coping, pecking at the crumbs of rancid oatcake that the two travelers had just dropped as they turned out the pockets of their habits. A student brought fresh linen and canvas slippers, then picked up the worn sandals with a frankly disgusted air that made the strangers smile. The younger of the two monks gaily sprinkled himself with cold water. His companion stood back slightly for fear of being splattered, moistening just his fingers. During all this time, he did not let go of his bag, moving it from one shoulder to the other, holding the strap between his teeth when he wanted to have his hands free. This one must be Brother Benoît, Ficino told himself. He had been expecting someone more imposing, with a sterner demeanor. But the book hunters' emissary could easily pass for a simpleton. He had a smile that was amiable enough, although a touch stupid and slightly askew. Nonetheless, Ficino refrained from judging Brother Benoît by his appearance. He had been told that beneath this somewhat disarming exterior was concealed a fine soul and a great scholar. In any case, Ficino could not help but admire the courage demonstrated by anyone who would agree to carry out such a perilous mission.

While the student led the visitors to the kitchens to eat and drink, Ficino cleared his work table of the manuscripts cluttering it, straightened his chair, and dusted off his sleeves, as if he were about to receive a visit from some eminent people.

When Benoît and Martin appeared at last in the doorway, he stood up to greet them. The two monks stood there open-mouthed, ignoring their host's formulas of welcome. Their wide-open eyes traveled along rows of books with spotless bindings, wandered amid scrolls of parchment tied with ribbon, and came to rest here and there on scientific and medical instruments. There were as many rarities here as in Brother Médard's cellar, but no locks or bars. Stepladders and lecterns were an invitation to nose around and freely consult any work without an ill-tempered dwarf barring the way with his club. This was the famous Platonic Academy, founded by Cosimo, to be used by any curious mind in search of knowledge.

Behind Ficino's desk, several books lay faceup. All bore the Medici coat of arms surrounded by a motto in Hebrew. Ficino let his guests stand there stunned for a moment, then addressed Benoît, assuming that the novice who was with him was an assistant, unaware that the tall, pale-cheeked fellow was there to keep the other in check.

“You know Master Federico, I presume.”

“I have only met him three times. An excellent bookseller . . . ”

“And a great friend.”

“A cunning fellow, anyway. I'm surprised he was so easily caught.”

Ficino, somewhat chilled by this remark, cut short the pleasantries. “May I?”

The monk handed over his bag, heaving a sigh of relief as he freed his neck from the strap. Throughout the journey, he had not once let the precious package out of his reach, endlessly touching it, opening and closing it, wedging it beneath his head while he slept, gripping it with both hands as he walked. Liberated from this burden, he collapsed with exhaustion on a chair. Accumulated fatigue seized his limbs.

Ficino untangled the cloths and string, then opened the iron box and carefully took out the manuscript. As director of the Platonic Academy, he had examined a great many extremely rare books, restored valuable volumes acquired by Cosimo, studied originals from the times of Plato, Horace, and Virgil, translated treatises dating from the era of Ptolemy, but he could never have imagined holding a sacred text like this in his hands. He read the first lines apprehensively. They were indeed minutes. Each paragraph began with the words “I say,” “I ask,” or “Yeshua answers,” “Yeshua says.” The document was signed by Annas. At the bottom, it bore the high priest's seal. The wax was cracked and blackened like dried blood. A shudder ran through Ficino's body. Next to the seal, there was another signature, traced in a confident hand, in Hebrew. That of Annas's interlocutor.

Overcoming his agitation, Master Ficino resumed his reading. He read out loud, slowly, in a drone, punctuating each sentence with an admiring sway of the head, breaking off at times as if dazzled by too bright a light. There was such wisdom here, such humanity, such enlightenment. Everything that needed to be said had been said, in a few words, and for all time.

“What's written right here? My eyes betray me.”

“I'm sorry, master. I can't read Aramaic.”

“You haven't read these minutes, then?”

“My opinion is of little importance.”

Ficino was somewhat surprised by this admission. And by this lack of curiosity. Eviatar, too, had always been astonished that François had never asked to know the contents of the holy document he had in his keeping. It was as if he were afraid, as if reading it would have been not an act of faith, but a sacrilege. But François had been adamant. He did not want to know anything of the last words of Jesus.

 

It was already far into the night by the time Ficino finished reading Annas's minutes. He found the parchment in remarkably good condition, too much so in fact. The Pope's scholars were likely to be suspicious of such a state of preservation. Lit by a lantern, Ficino bent over his large desk. He lightly scratched the hide with a bone rasp, puffed on the fine shavings to blow them away, and sprinkled the marks left by the rasp with a fine grey ash-like powder. Eviatar watched his slightest gestures, holding the sheets well stretched, fearing that the old scholar's trembling hands might waver. Craning his neck to see better, he read and reread the sacred text while Ficino worked. The language was perfect, if a little cold, the handwriting elegant and confident. It was that of a high priest. But it was the words of Christ that overwhelmed him, simple, almost ordinary words. They troubled him all the more in that a Jew was not supposed to trust them. Let alone succumb to them. As for Ficino, he was unable to conceal his emotion, and had to force himself to hold back his tears for fear that they might fall on the holy manuscript.

At dawn, he at last put it away, placing it in a splendid casket that he then wrapped in a piece of purple velvet with golden fringes. No more old cloths or iron boxes. But still the same bag, eaten away by sea salt and yellowed by the dust of the roads, in order not to attract attention. The old master thanked the novice who had assisted him during the night.

“Are you ready to do your duty, Brother Martin?”

“It is too late to turn back.”

“Then all we can do is pray.”

The two men knelt. Ficino turned to Brother Benoît to invite him to join them in this moment of meditation. But the good monk was asleep, snoring like an old cat, arms dangling, lips curled in a blissful smile. He was dreaming of a child who would soon be born in a godforsaken corner of Palestine, a bastard he might never see if his plan failed.

 

By now the sun had appeared over the line of roofs, tinging the slates with a coppery light, gilding the domes with its fiery halo, striking the glittering pavement as if beating it on an anvil. After that night filled with shadow and mystery, Eviatar and François felt reinvigorated. The glorious weather immediately chased away all doubts and anxieties.

The envoys from the Holy Land donned their patched habits and rope sandals. François carefully wedged the package with pieces of coarse parchment, hardened by time, crumpled and rolled into balls, so that the casket, in being shaken about, should not hurt his loins. Eviatar wondered where François had found these scraps of hide with their faded ink, which gave off a disgusting smell of mildew, At least they were unlikely to attract pickpockets.

Master Ficino walked his guests to the doors of the Academy. The student from the day before appeared, as haughty as ever, looking the monks up and down scornfully.

“Conduct these good souls to the palace. The duke's men are waiting for them there to take them to Rome.”

The pilgrims resumed their journey. François walked behind Eviatar and the guide, his head up, admiring the flower-filled balconies, the statues embedded in the house fronts, the frescoes adorning the pediments. He strolled like a carefree pedestrian, his bag over his shoulder. After a few steps, he stopped. A shriveled piece of parchment was sticking out of the bag. He stuffed it back in with his hand, making the dried-up material crack. Occupied thus in arranging old pieces of hide that swelled the canvas of his bag, he looked like a beggar adjusting his rags. Ficino watched him from a distance, somewhat put off by these pranks. But it was the sardonic smile that Brother Benoît gave him before disappearing around the corner of the street that completely shook his confidence.