Witness Testimony recorded by Lucien
THE RIVER PORT AT CARCASSONA
Abrahe Iudio: a Jew; age thirty-three;
wine merchant from Aragón; trading
at the port on the Aude River
ood evening. I take it you are not here to trade in wine, but in souls, yes? I will listen, if you like, though I am not from Carcassona, nor France. Sí, sí, Carcassona is the French king’s now. I’ve traded here since I was a boy with my father, and he, since he was a boy with his father. What he’d say to see the mighty towers of Carcassona fall from the hands of the Counts of Trencavel!
Sí, I am a Jew, but I can listen to your preaching. Any learned man is worth hearing, and who needs enemies? Aragón, she is becoming a place where no Jew can afford to annoy his neighbors. You are one of the Dominicans, sí? And Dominic, he was a Castilian. That makes us all neighbors.
It is only a joke. Of course no inquisitor could be neighbor to a Jew.
You come from Tolosa? Can I offer you a pitcher to quench your thirst? You must be weary after your travels. No, put your money away.
I? I have been here four days now, this trip. Two more, and I depart for home.
Certainly, I have my licenses and papers. The port master knows me. I pay my tariffs.
Have I seen a young lady?
Good Sir Monk? Preacher, then. Good Sir Preacher, hundreds pass by every day. Young ladies in great state, and poor girls in rags. Carcassona’s towers beckon to them all.
I am a newly married man, Sir Preacher Monk. My young wife is la niña de mis ojos.
A girl alone, of gentle birth? A runaway? Poor creature. Her family must be very much afraid. She has no more family? May the good God keep special watch over the poor frightened stranger, and may those she meets be kind, and think of their own sisters.
Is she one of your Albigensian heretics, as the French call them? No. A Catholic? How, then, a danger to believers? She is young to have offended God. God is patient, and with the young, always patience is needed.
The river? My lodgings are by the riverside. I take my raft along the Aude from Narbona.
If I gave wine to every beggar who couldn’t afford it, I wouldn’t last long in trade. Bread? Do I look like a baker? Who said I gave her bread and wine? If it was Pedro Rodrigues, he can stick his head in a barrel. He’s so drunk, he can’t tell waking from dreaming.
Who told you?
My wife told you.
She is quick-witted, my wife. She remembers things I forget. Well, so it is, now that I recall it. A girl did pass by here. I took pity on her. She seemed so hungry, and thin. It was nothing to offer her some food. Any decent soul would. As I remember it now, my wife gave her an apple for her journey.
Which way did she go?
Now let me think. That way.
Sí, it was that way. South, along the river, toward the Pirenèus Mountains. And now, excuse me. Time I gathered up my crates and made my journey back.
Sí, I did say I’d leave in two days’ time, but the weather’s changing. The climate can turn treacherous in conquered Provensa, and when it does, I want to be far from here.