The Brotherhood of Book Hunters (6 page)

Brother Paul's booming voice put an end to this unusual encounter. The archer immediately lowered his weapon, but François remained on his guard, knife in hand.

The prior apologized. It was the commotion from the chapel that had alarmed the sentry. And Brother Médard's yells.

“A sentry?”

Brother Paul tried to reassure François. “And a monk. In his way. In his spare time, he helps our scribes to transcribe the teaching of a great sage he calls the Buddha. His forefathers fought beside our Crusaders. Even today, many of his countrymen can be found in Syria, Lebanon, and Persia. They are highly prized for their skill with horses.”

François let his gaze wander around the perimeter walls. They were pierced with arrow slits. There was no doubt about it. This place, bucolic in appearance, was a disguised fort. And defended by Mongol mercenaries to boot!

 

Barely awake, Colin kicked his straw mattress away and cursed Villon, Guillaume Chartier, Louis XI, and God the Father. The bites of mosquitoes, the deafening song of the cicadas, and the ringing of bells had deprived him of a good night's sleep. He couldn't wait to leave this flea-ridden monastery, this cloister where the vapors of the summer heat fermented as if at the bottom of a vat of grapes. He felt trapped. Why should he rot here? What riled Colin most was his own stupidity. He had let himself be taken in by the magic of the words “Holy Land,” “Galilee,” “Jerusalem,” by the mystery this land kept hidden beneath its stones, by the wind that blew differently here than elsewhere. Oh, yes, that wind was so hot, it roasted your ass! Colin hated the heat, the harsh, almost blinding light, the smell of burning sand that had been oppressing him since his arrival. Not to mention the food, which was too spicy, pickled in olive oil or dried in the sun.

Brother Paul burst into the refectory, followed by François, and took Colin's arm. He understood his irritation, his desire to bolt for it as soon as possible.

“A little patience, Master Colin. We are awaiting the arrival of a visitor who is very eager to make your acquaintance.”

T
he Mamluk soldiers inspected the convoy. Three wagons pulled by mules. The first two overflowed with trinkets, glass jewelry, and wooden statuettes of saints. In the third, less heavily laden, were provisions, carters' tools, a few books and a religious painting. The young Florentine merchant who was leading the expedition wore impeccable, richly embroidered clothes. A plume of long colored feathers hung on the side of his hexagonal hat. A leather strap knotted around his neck kept this extravagant headgear aloft. Beneath it sheltered a haughty, impassive face, typical of a Latin gentlemen. From his hand, with its slender, well-tended fingers, covered with huge rings, he negligently dropped a small purse then, without waiting, saluted the soldiers and signaled to the muleteers to continue on their way. In spite of his courtier's attire, he nimbly remounted his horse with its glossy coat and bridle overloaded with pom-poms and bells. Astounded, the Mamluks followed the convoy with their eyes for a long time. They could still make out the flaming hues of the plume striping the austere ocher of the fields before disappearing into the groves lining the valley. It was only then that, out of sight beyond a bend in the road, the young merchant briefly dabbed the rivulets of sweat flooding his face and neck.

He felt a keen sense of relief when at last he sighted the welcoming hump of the hill, the blunt tip of the old bell tower, the great rusty cross rising into the sky. It had taken enormous stamina and determination to get here. The war between the Venetians and the Turks had made the crossing more perilous than usual. On the Aegean Sea, the frail brigantine had somehow forced its way through fighting ships, Greek and Ottoman corsairs, Saracen pirates. Every time a sail was spotted in the distance, the captain would abruptly change course, and even threaten to turn back. But returning to Florence would have been just as hazardous, and the wind was unfavorable.

Cosimo de' Medici's instructions, even though uttered from his deathbed, were categorical. More than that, they were his last will, his testament: to save the painting and the clandestine manuscripts he had been hiding in the cellars of the Platonic Academy. The mission would not be at all easy, but fortune smiled on the young merchant when a decree from Lorenzo II, known as the Magnificent, made Florence a veritable protectorate for the Jews. Not only did Lorenzo lift all the humiliating prohibitions against the Jews of Florence but in addition, running counter to Papal censorship, he exhorted scholars to once again take up the study of Talmudic works, Judeo-Arab treatises on medicine, and even the kabbalah. The universities of Bologna and Parma openly ordered copies of the works of rabbis, exegeses composed in the Jewish quarters of Toledo and Prague or drawn up by the schools of Tiberias and Safed. Under the auspices of Lorenzo the Magnificent and with money from the faculties, including the Platonic Academy, as well as Cosimo de' Medici's secret funds, the young book hunter was able to fit out a ship for the Holy Land. Using as a pretext the purchase of Hebrew works of renown, he was in fact transporting, among the rare volumes bequeathed by Cosimo to the monastery, the final writings of the recalcitrant Cardinal de Cues, the secret notes of the philosopher Marsilio Ficino on the
Corpus Hermeticum
, an Eastern treatise on zero, and a painting by Filippo Brunelleschi, all banned by the apostolic censors.

In Cosimo de' Medici's library, the young man had feverishly noted down the information he was to provide Brother Médard's mysterious sponsors as to the immense significance of these clandestine works. “The moment has come,” Cosimo had concluded laconically before dismissing him. “Tell them they can launch the offensive.”

Cosimo had waited serenely for the end, surrounded by his collections, mixing his last breath with the smell of the books, going to join their authors in the world where the mind of man at last roams amid the spheres, talks with the angels, and smiles for no reason in the austere shadow of the gods. It was in death that he achieved his lifelong ideal, to be a
uomo universale.

 

The news of another expected death has sent shock waves through Christendom: that of Pope Pius II, just after his final attempt to raise a crusade. The troops he had recruited in Mantua and Ancona had merely pillaged a few small towns and massacred some hundred infidels. In April, another abortive crusade left thirty bodies in the alleys of the ghetto of Krakow before breaking up in chaos. Had the Christians lost Jerusalem forever?

The Holy Land was now nothing but a confused jumble of outcasts and fallen adventurers. Educated priests preferred to obtain a small diocese in Anjou or the Rhineland rather than a bishopric in Palestine. European monarchs saw no interest in raising armies to conquer a devastated land infested with epidemics and noxious air. Even the Emir of Judea dreamed only of being relieved of his wretched post and returning to the luxury of Alexandria or Baghdad. He cursed the hordes of pilgrims endlessly landing on the coasts, the vast caravans crossing the country in the opposite direction, toward the ports, the relentless movements of nomads fleeing famine and drought. The penitents' donkeys, the merchants' camels, the peasants' goats had finally devoured what little green had still remained to cover the shame of the soil, the nakedness of the rock, the ugliness of the loose stones. This territory ruled over by a Mamluk governor was merely an inextricable intermingling of roads and tracks, a way station trapped between two worlds, East and West. Its epic battlefields had been abandoned to the weeds. The tombs of prophets and knights and Roman centurions were rotting in the sun. Only Jews and poets still turned toward Jerusalem, like the last remaining clients of a brothel who still pay their respects to the ageing madam. Most in fact had never even seen this city whose praises they sang so stoutly. And as the good whore that she was, she gave herself to all the symbols, all the rhymes, all the hopes, all the priests and all the soldiers, unflinchingly pocketing the wages of misfortune and poverty. And yet those few poets continued to venerate her with their convoluted odes and those few Jews predicted that she would be reborn from the ashes. For them, the destiny of Jerusalem was not carved in wars but in texts, in the Scriptures. She was a city not so much built of stone and bricks as fashioned out of words and dreams.

L
eaning on the edge of the ramparts that protected the cloister, François and Colin watched the convoy arrive. They made out the bright colors of the plume crying amid the russet of the ripe corn, standing out against the brown of the carts, breaking the sobriety of the landscape with their city insolence.

At the foot of the hill, the monks unloaded the wagons then carried the packages on their backs up the steep path leading to the monastery. The Mongol sentries had taken up their positions on the roofs, the bell tower, and the turrets. The arrival of the book merchant seemed to have sharpened the Mamluks' vigilance. One of the guards thought he had seen a scout prowling around the cloister. Or was it only a poacher?

The dashing stranger emerged from the undergrowth, and reached the promontory. He walked confidently, barely out of breath, as if he were on his way to a ceremonial dinner. His laced boots slid over the rubble, but he did not stumble. He glanced rapidly in the direction of Colin and François, pretending not to see them, perhaps blinded by the light. When he reached the gate, he doffed his spectacular hat and bowed low to the prior. Then he took a keg from his bag, sprang the lid with his knife, emptied the contents—which smelled of brandy—and, from a false bottom, extracted a casket filled with gold and silver coins.

“For your books.”

 

In the refectory, before sitting down, Brother Paul introduced the newcomer. For supper, the Italian had donned a fleece-lined housecoat in warm colors. The garment, artfully unbuttoned, gave a glimpse of a silk shirtfront as well as an area of muscular, hairy chest. Ostentatious as it was, this touch of vanity was nevertheless in good taste. The proud young peacock knew how to display his fabulous finery with a certain grace. As for his hats, each was more extravagant than the last. For the moment, he was wearing a broad black velvet cap such as master painters wore in their studios. To the rim of it, he had pinned a carnelian cameo showing the bust of a Roman lady. A genuine archeological find dating from the era of Marcus Aurelius, the hard stone was set amid baroque pearls, the work of a Viennese silversmith. From it ran a line of gold that intertwined with the ancient courtesan's hair. Finally, to emphasize his august attire, he wore high-heeled shoes that raised him at least ten inches off the ground, forcing François to crane his neck.

François, who did not normally bother overmuch with the dictates of etiquette, nevertheless put on a good show. Even though he feigned roughness and often behaved boorishly, a strange aura emanated from his hangdog face. Beneath his old tricorn there shone a mocking light, underlined by the discreet, wry smile that never left his lips. Nobody had ever known if this grin was natural or affected, sardonic, disenchanted, or a mere defect of birth.

The Italian quickly looked François up and down, trying immediately to decipher that fixed pout with its mixture of bravado and frankness, a good dose of suffering cut with a dash of goodness, whose secret depths he sensed at once. He had expected to find an arrogant, self-centered rebel. He discovered a man who was natural, who wore no mask—there were few such men in Florence these days. He bowed, gracefully held out his hand, and introduced himself.

“Federico Castaldi, Florentine merchant and agent of Master Cosimo de' Medici.”

Now it was François's turn to examine the newcomer's features. He was surprised and incredulous. Were all these unexpected links with the Medicis merely the scattered ramifications of a great dynasty or else the meshes of a net that was gradually closing?

“What good wind brings you to the Holy Land, Master Villon?”

“Contrary winds. Zephyrs of escape and trade winds of fortune.”

The two men exchanged almost conspiratorial glances. Federico, who hated dubious scholars and proud geniuses, found Villon remarkably pleasant for a fashionable author. And François, who could not stand pedants or the overprecious, sensed that the Florentine was a lot more perceptive than he pretended to be. Was he playing the powdered puppet as a mere merchant's trick or a deeper disguise?

Federico next observed Colin, who was noisily stuffing himself. His rough-hewn, imposing bulk, his bulging biceps, his heavily scarred face inspired fear at first. But his wide-open eyes, like those of a dim-witted little boy, soon won people over. Playing on this mixture of wildness and innocence, it was he who kept the guards occupied or cajoled the clerks while the Coquillards emptied church coffers and bailiffs' desks. Their finest coup dated from just before Christmas 1456. Five hundred gold crowns plucked as easily as a sheaf in a cornfield. Colin had stood by the entrance to the chapel of the Collège de Navarre, gesticulating, pontificating, joking, with the wardens looking on incredulously, while inside Tabarie and François had broken into the office.

 

At the end of the meal, the Florentine ceremoniously handed a book to François. The binding still smelled of alum. The covers were studded with silvery flowers from the stalks of which emerged thin gilded threads applied with a trimmer. In the middle, embedded in the leather itself, a real butterfly spread its translucent wings. The back of the book, slightly marbled, was encrusted with plantlike patterns in mother-of-pearl. The threads were lined with salamander skin and the boards with lizard scales. The smooth waxed covers showed that nobody had ever looked inside the book. François carefully opened the lock with its finely chiseled arabesques. Inside, he found only empty pages, of an excellent texture, much softer than those obtained in a vat. He admired every detail. It was obvious that the talents of several master craftsmen had gone into the work.