Alejandro awoke confused and disoriented in a dark and musty-smelling space. As his head slowly cleared, he cast his gaze randomly around the void, but found nothing on which he could easily focus. The only light came through a thin vertical crack in what he took to be a wall an indeterminate distance away. He groped toward it on hands and knees, and was dismayed at how quickly he reached it. A small, ill-fitting door allowed the teasing sliver of light to come through. Roughly square, the door was just large enough to accommodate him on hands and knees. He could not remember if he had crawled through of his own free will; if not, he thought he must have been shoved through with a good deal of force.
He stood up, taking care not to rise too abruptly lest he strike his head, for he was still unable to see a ceiling. At his full height he pressed himself against the wall that contained the small door, and began working his way to his right side, keeping his body flat. Slowly he groped his way around in one direction, and finding no corner, he made the assumption that the room was circular. His suspicion was confirmed when he suddenly found himself back at the trapdoor again.
He dropped to his knees and began to feel the floor. The surface was rough stone, large flat pieces fitted together with narrow gaps between them. He could feel no vegetation growing in the cracks and there was no discernible wetness, which only made him more aware of his great thirst and his immediate inability to satisfy it. His stomach growled, crying out to be filled, and though both sensations were bothersome, he was more concerned with determining the gravity of his situation than with satisfying the immediate needs of his body. He suppressed the distracting feelings of hunger and thirst and concentrated on discovering more about the place in which he was being held captive.
He lay down on the floor, stretching himself out to his full length with arms extended beyond his head, and found that he could just touch two surfaces. He repeated the same action several more times in different directions, and got the same result. From this he was able to determine the rough size of his enclosure. Then he stood on the very tips of his toes, reached up over his head, and jumped as high as he could. His fingers touched only air.
It is some kind of pit or tower, he thought, but concluded from the low level of the entering light that he could not be underground. And while the enclosure’s apparent dryness did nothing for his thirst, he knew he would fare better without the dampness that fostered disease in many of the prisoners he’d examined as a student. He would not develop the pleurisy of wet confinement. He was certain that his eyes would soon adjust to the lack of light, but at present he could see very little—if he held his arm at full length away from his body, he could barely see his own hand. He twisted it back and forth in front of himself, feeling the small rush of air created by the movement, but seeing almost nothing. So Alejandro sat down with his back to the wall, eyes wide open, and waited for his vision to improve. Gradually it did, as he’d expected, but there was nothing to see.
He watched the thread of light at the door carefully, trying to notice any changes, dreading nightfall when he would be in total darkness. The angle of the light entering through the crack did not change, so Alejandro assumed it was not direct sunlight, but diffused light coming through a hall or passageway outside the trapdoor. But as the hours passed it did begin to grow dim, and he resigned himself to many long hours without full use of his senses. It was stunningly quiet in his pit. If this were a prison, he thought, I would surely hear the cries of other inmates.
By nightfall he could no longer ignore his senses. His parched throat screamed for water, his empty stomach groaned out its misery almost constantly. Sleep eluded him as his mind raced with worries of all the grim possibilities he faced. He recalled with visceral clarity the fate of a man who had been convicted before him of robbing a grave. The magistrate, after consultation with the local clergy, had come up with a logical and fit punishment for the crime: the criminal was buried alive, left to ponder his misdeed as he died in the very setting in which it had been committed. And that criminal had been a Christian. Alejandro could not even imagine what they would do to him, a Jew, for the same offense.
How can I convince them that my act was not a criminal one, that I only sought knowledge that their pope in his ignorance forbids me to acquire in a more reasonable manner? I have not robbed a grave, but borrowed its occupant for a while. I would have returned him no worse than when he went in originally. Still, he reproached himself for hours on end, not for his deed, but for the stupidity of having been caught. He searched his memory for something he could have done to avoid detection, but found nothing; his capture had been a matter of simple bad luck. His sense of injustice grew stronger as the night passed, and by the time the early threads of light came in through the door cracks, he was filled with grand schemes for saving himself.
His resolute determination was dashed when the small door was jerked open shortly after dawn, allowing an explosion of bright light to pierce his eyes, forcing him to shield himself from the painful illumination, which by then he craved almost as much as physical sustenance. A bowl of water and one small loaf of hard bread were quickly placed inside, and the door slammed shut again. It all happened so fast that Alejandro was caught completely unprepared. He had a thousand questions to ask of his keeper, but in a flash, the opportunity was gone.
“Have mercy! Please tell me where I am! For the love of God, allow me a candle …” He desperately wanted a drink, but he knew that he had to plead his case before his keeper got too far away. He shouted his pleas over and over again until it became evident to him that there was no one there to hear him. He sank down on his knees, humbled by his inability to gain the attention of his captor, and downed the pitiful meal, licking the bowl with his dry tongue to gather every precious drop of the water.
Another whole day and night, he thought, assuming the worst. The thought of another silent, dark, and solitary day filled him with desolation. If he should lose control of himself during this ordeal, he knew that it would not be his body that betrayed him first, for his mind would become so desperate for a vision or a sound that it would begin to invent its own. If it came to that, he was sure he would prefer death to madness. The ultimate indignity was that he lacked even the means to end his own life.
In the center of a huge salon two men stood facing each other across an ornate oak table. Despite the imposing proportions of the room it was remarkably quiet, an effect of the numerous soft rugs and tapestries with which it was decorated.
The bishop politely gestured to his guest to take a seat. The elderly Jew bowed slightly in acknowledgment of his host’s invitation, then carefully rearranged his robes and lowered himself into the chair. His posture was stooped, partly from years of bending over account ledgers and record books, and partly, the bishop suspected, from something far more burdensome. Avram’s movements were unsteady, and his voice nearly trembled. The image he presented was not what the bishop had assumed of him from their years of correspondence.
Bishop John of Aragon had been Monsignor John, newly dispatched to his post by His Holiness Pope John XXII, when Avram Canches was just joining his family’s lending business as his father had ordered him to do. He remembered the bitterness he’d felt on the day when it had been determined that he would not be allowed to pursue what would have been his choice of professions. “Let your brothers work with their hands,” his stern father had said as he led Avram to the ledgers. “Your hands will hold a quill.” He knew it was the reason he had succumbed to his own son Alejandro’s pleas to pursue the study of medicine, despite his own grave doubts about the wisdom of it. He understood now his father’s despotic behavior, and wished that he had found the strength to be so stern with his own son.
He and Bishop John had exchanged hundreds of letters since that day, all of them regarding the monetary concerns of the Christian Church. In an arrangement that had been hugely beneficial to both men, Avram had guaranteed that the worldly prelate would always have the cash to finance the elaborate rituals that his priests conducted, and had done so with consistent integrity, never voicing his personal opinion that God is not concerned with a man’s clothing or the surroundings in which he worshiped. He was glad to collect his interest, and kept his cynical judgments to himself, and after years of association, Avram had come to feel a sort of wary esteem for the prelate.
The bishop held a similar favorable opinion of Avram, but was surprised to see before him a man who did not seem capable of conducting his business in the firm manner that had always been Avram Canches’ trademark. They remained silent for a long while, eyeing each other, each redrawing the speculative mental image developed from years of wondering what the other might look like.
The bishop eventually spoke first. “You are not as I imagined, my friend. I had thought you would tower over me. You are a forceful businessman, and I would have sworn you were a giant.”
The small, frail man replied, “Eminence, forgive me if I disappoint you. I can only hope that my mental powers have not shrunk with the years, as has my body.”
“I suspect they remain enormous,” the cleric said, laughing. “Now you must allow me to offer you some refreshment. Your journey was not short, and we are no longer young.”
The bishop signaled to an acolyte, who returned a few minutes later bearing an ornate silver tray filled with breads, cheeses, and fruits.
Bishop John blessed the food in Latin as Avram spoke a few words in Hebrew; their eyes met over the candle flame as they simultaneously finished their brief devotions. The bishop then poured two goblets of wine from a silver decanter. He held one up to the candlelight, savoring the rich color of the wine through the glass. Handing it to his guest, he said, “So, Avram, here we are, face-to-face at last after so many letters. I am curious to know your reason for such a long journey.”
Avram, visibly nervous, did not speak, but fidgeted with the knife, clumsily cutting a chunk of cheese off one of the rounds on the tray before him. Perceiving Avram’s discomfort, the bishop sensed an opportunity to gain an advantage, however small, that might be used to good purpose in the future over his creditor, so he pressed him further, feigning sincere concern for the man’s well-being. “Please, Avram,” he said, “surely you know I am far more than your host at this simple meal. If you have need to speak of difficult matters, do so without fear. You are in the house of God, and you will find acceptance here.”
Ignoring the pain in his old bones, Avram struggled to assume an air of dignity and strength, and managed to squirm up a little taller in the ornate chair. He thought to himself that it had probably cost the annual tithes of fifty peasants to purchase this masterpiece. He observed as he shifted his position that there were twelve such costly chairs carefully arranged around the table. They might have been a worthwhile expenditure if one could only find some comfort in their seats, the old Jew thought.
He cleared his throat. “Your Grace,” he began cautiously, “I am sure that your ‘advisors’ have sent word that there has been trouble in our town of Cervere.”
The bishop eyed Avram suspiciously. How does he know of my spies? he wondered. “Ah, yes, my advisors …” he said deliberately. “I recall hearing that there was a problem of some disruption recently … a grave robbery, was it not?” He knew full well that a Jew had been arrested for robbing the grave of a recently deceased Christian tradesman. The bereaved family was properly outraged and demanded immediate justice. The bishop had not yet been told the details, however; he needed more intelligence about the incident that Avram had laid before him. By coming so soon the Jew had taken away some of the bishop’s usual advantage, and John resolved to express his displeasure to the abbot in Cervere. He felt ill prepared to continue, but did not wish to betray a weak link in his famous network, a network he hadn’t thought the old Jew would even know about. What more does he know, this wily old fox? the bishop wondered.
“Your Grace,” Avram continued, “I regret to advise you that to my eternal shame, the robber is my son.”
The warmth drained from the bishop’s face immediately. Neglecting impolitely to excuse himself, he rose up from his chair. Why hadn’t his spies been more specific about this? I should excommunicate the incompetent fool who let this advantage slip from my fingers! he thought angrily. The old Jew was smart indeed to come forward with this admission, for he has deftly undercut me!
He walked away from the table and stood staring out the window for a moment, his arms crossed, as if protecting himself from some great evil.
Avram could see that the bishop was angry, but what he could not understand was the reason. Perhaps I have shown myself too soon, he thought. He began to fear that his mission to save Alejandro would fail. Steadying himself against the edge of the table, he creaked to his feet and moved shakily around the table’s edge nearer to his fuming host.
“My son is a physician, who took the great risk of treating this Christian at the man’s own insistence, even though he knew it is forbidden. The poor man was dying horribly of a wasting disease, and my son made a noble effort to ease the suffering of his final days. He tried all known cures, expending his time on the patient’s behalf. All he took in payment was a shovel. A shovel, Your Grace! He was compelled to examine the man’s body in order to learn the cause of the malady. He does not believe that he has committed a crime.”
He paused, hoping for a sympathetic response from his adversary, getting only an icy stare. Gathering his composure, Avram continued, “Surely he is not guilty of grave robbery. Had he not been stopped, he would have returned the body to its proper burial place, and was indeed on his way to do so when he was caught. Nothing was taken; the body was intact.”
“Nevertheless,” John said sternly, his eyes never leaving Avram’s, “even Moses teaches that it is a sin to covet that which belongs to another man. Wise men of all religions have deemed that a man’s body is among his most cherished possessions. How could a crime be greater than stealing the home in which a man’s soul resides during his earthly walk? Why should he be excused from his evil deed, simply for saying he did not himself consider it to be evil? To determine the nature of evil is the privilege of God alone, certainly not that of a lowly Jew.”
“I admit, Eminence, that Alejandro’s deed was rash and ill considered. We Jews also believe that the body is a sacred gift from God. But he has always thirsted for knowledge. He will stop at nothing to gain it. If anyone is deserving of punishment, it is I for having allowed him to believe that he could live without the humility that is proper for our people. I am old and near the end of my life. I beg you, consider the crime to be mine. Confer his punishment on me instead.”
The bishop looked at the old man, the unmet friend of many years, now suddenly transformed into an unwanted enemy. He saw a fragile, tired, and defeated soul, damned to eternal fire for his beliefs. He believed himself to have been a protector and sponsor of the Jews in his bishopric; this betrayal of his benign patronage was an outrage beyond all forgiveness. As his eyes burned into Avram’s he hissed, “How dare you allow your son to betray our trust? I have always permitted the Jews of Aragon to live peacefully, in convivencia. His Holiness has entrusted me with the responsibility to carry out his policy of tolerance of the Jews in my dominion. How could you have allowed your son to make me look like such a failure? If I cannot control the Jews in Aragon, your people may find themselves confronted with a less sympathetic keeper!”
Avram remained silent. So, he thought, he fears losing his power. This was the open wound he needed in order to proceed. Avram knew that he could make the bishop look very good indeed. But I must not waver, he thought, or he will not agree! He changed his demeanor immediately from pleading to reasoning. He stood straighter, and spoke in a firm voice.
“Your Grace, I am well aware of the favor we Jews have enjoyed under your protection, and we are grateful for our prosperity in your realm. We, too, have made an effort to live in peace with all Christians, in the fervent hope that men of all faiths might experience the richness of tolerant cooperation.”
The bishop looked directly at Avram, wondering why his attempt to intimidate him had failed. “Go on,” he said suspiciously. “I am not sure I understand you yet.”
Avram pulled a thick scroll from one sleeve of his robe. “Eminence, I have brought with me the record of the bishopric’s accounts with the House of Canches. It would be my pleasure to review the accounts with you at this time. Perhaps we can be seated again, and resume our meal. We both have much to ponder, and I, for one, will think more clearly on a full stomach.”
After a few seconds of wary consideration John gestured to the seat across from his. Avram gratefully sat down again, as did his host. They ate in silence, each one’s mind racing with imaginative schemes for manipulating the other. How much could be gained? How little need be given up? The two men, armed with the wisdom of long lives and rich experiences, prepared to joust as warriors seldom did, their only weapons being their wits. The bishop was suddenly confronted with the glorious possibility of sending to Avignon sums far in excess of what he had told the pope to expect. He would be viewed as an excellent manager, a careful trustee, valuable to His Holiness for his shrewd stewardship of the tithes of Aragon. Avram wondered how much he could demand of the bishop in return for the cancellation of the Church’s vast debt to his family. He would gladly give up this asset in exchange for Alejandro’s life and a chance for him to begin anew in some other place. But the bargain could not simply be limited to Alejandro’s release from prison. Avram would press for his safe passage out of Spain with a trustworthy Christian escort, one who would protect him on the long journey.
The bishop called the acolyte to clear the table of the meal and asked for more candles. After they were placed in the candelabra and lit, he sent the young acolyte away, and the two old men sat together, ready to conclude their unsavory business.
Avram began to recite, almost from memory, the speech he had prepared, should it be God’s will that he needed it. “I have long appreciated Your Grace’s patronage of my family. I am, of course, shamed by the terrible dishonor my son has done to you in failing to respect the repose of your Christian dead. While I am aware that I cannot possibly repay your generosity for allowing us to serve you these years, I would like to give you a small demonstration of my appreciation and esteem.”
The elderly Jew then pulled open the scroll in front of the bishop to allow him to view the accounts. John studied the entries intently, carefully reviewing the long columns that listed the year of each loan and the amount owed. Some had been settled long ago, but a sobering debt remained unpaid. Even setting aside the interest, and assuming no new debts were to be added to the old, the Church would require several years of healthy tithes just to pay off the principal. Cursing himself, the bishop regretted that he had let the Church’s debt to this shrewd man get so out of hand.
Avram once again rolled up the scroll and, keeping it just out of the flame’s reach, held it over the candle, making the meaning of his previous statement clear to the watching bishop. “Perhaps it is time for me to reconsider these debts,” he said. “I am sure we could work out an acceptable arrangement.”
The bishop understood. “My friend, you are too kind. I could not possibly accept your generous offer without a gift of my own to you. Perhaps I can be of service to your family in its time of need.”
Avram Canches made his proposal, his voice now stronger and more insistent. “My son must be released from his captivity, with guaranteed safe passage to Avignon. He will require an escort, and since I have no influence with your people, I will depend on you to arrange for a suitable guide. It must be someone you know to be completely trustworthy. I will, of course, reward him handsomely for this service.”
The bishop could not believe his good fortune, and had to make an effort to hide his excitement. These requests were inconsequential, and easily arranged. “And there will be no further demands after this service is rendered?”
Avram raised himself up to his full height, mustering all the dignity and strength he could find in his weary soul. He looked the bishop straight in the eye and declared boldly, “Your Grace, this service has more value to me than anything else in your power. My son has merely stumbled on a stone in his path. The remission of your impossible debt is a small price to pay for his life.”
Smiling almost scornfully, Bishop John of Aragon said to Avram Canches, “Then we are agreed to this bargain, Jew. Burn the scroll.”
They both watched in silence as Avram held the parchment to the flame, filling the room with the nauseating odor of burning flesh, completely in keeping with the ignoble business being transacted therein. When the scroll was completely consumed, Bishop John turned to Avram and said, “I will contact a soldier named Hernandez on your behalf. He has served me well on many occasions. He is a tolerant and patient man, and he will be glad for your employment. But I warn you, when he learns he is to be escorting a renegade Jew, his price may be a drain on your riches.”
Avram knew that he would ransom his own soul for Alejandro’s freedom. He doubted that even the greediest soldier of fortune could demand what he was capable of paying for his son’s safe passage. “Then, please, Your Grace, in deference to our long history, make a good bargain for me.”
“I will do my best,” the bishop said. “A messenger will be sent to you at first light. Details of the arrangements will be given to you at that time.”
Avram bowed slightly as a gesture of his thanks. He bade the bishop good-bye, thinking it sad that they would never have contact again, for the squalid nature of their final exchange had ended their friendship forever. He had, before today, cherished their correspondence. It was a game well played between worthy adversaries, and he would miss it sorely.
The bishop walked with Avram to the door of the great room, as if to bid him farewell. To Avram’s surprise and disgust he proffered the ultimate insult to the venerable Jew: he held out his ringed hand, waiting for Avram to bow in a supplicant kiss.
Avram looked at Bishop John in a glower of defiance. He stared down at the proffered hand, wishing he could show his disgust by spitting on it. But even though it would feel like a gift from God to be able to show his scorn, he knew it would do Alejandro no good. He swallowed his revulsion and stooped down, then made the required gesture of supplication. He rose up again, glared for a moment at the bishop, and then walked out.
The bishop called his acolyte with the pull of a bell cord. The young man entered the room, silently as always, and approached the senior cleric in reverence.
“Brother, send the cook out to look for that scoundrel Hernandez. No doubt he will know which tavern the rogue frequents.”
“What shall the cook tell him, your Grace?” the young man asked.
Bishop John scratched his chin for a moment, lost in an effort to come up with a plausible story. “Hmm,” he said, “with Hernandez one must be careful to make the proper appeal and, of course, provide the proper enticement.” He pondered for another moment, then said, “He is to be told that his services are required for an important journey on behalf of the Church. Tell the cook to hint that the purse will be an unusually fat one. And that I will expect him within the hour.” He waved his hand in dismissal. As the young man bowed his way backward out of the salon, the bishop said, “Send in my scribe at once.”
The bishop waited for his scribe on his balcony, where he spent a few moments gazing up into the night sky and wondering, as always, at the majesty and mystery of the heavens. What force, he wondered, could summon the strength to propel the sun in its daily journey around Earth? He had heard that there were lands far to the north where at one time of year, the sun never left the sky, and at another time it barely made its presence known. He marveled that the ball of fire could hop so whimsically around the heavens. Surely, he thought, it bounces off God’s very fingertips.
All too soon he was interrupted by the arrival of his scribe, who, after kissing the bishop’s ring, arranged himself and his writing materials at the long table. The bishop dictated.
“The bearer of this scroll and his traveling companion are hereby granted safe passage by His Eminence, John, Bishop of Aragon.”
The scribe handed him the scroll, to which he applied his personal seal. “Now for the next letter,” he said, and began to dictate.
To the Most Reverend Father Joseph of the Order of St. Francis,
Brother, I greet you in the name of Christ our Savior. By the grace of God and to His greater Glory, I have negotiated terms of an agreement with the Jew Avram Canches to relieve the Holy Church of its financial obligation to the House of Canches. In appreciation for his kind indulgence, I have agreed to release his son Alejandro, now in your keeping and charged with the heinous sin of grave robbery, into the hands of Señor Eduardo Hernandez, who will present himself to you with my seal. Señor Hernandez will escort the vile young Jew outside our dominion, never again to intrude upon the peace of our region.
Notify the remaining family of Avram Canches that they are also banished from Aragon, and henceforth forfeit their claim to any interest in businesses located within our bishopric. The family will be required to quit their residence by sunset two days after your receipt of this letter, and any goods or property not disposed of prior to that time shall become the property of the Church, to increase her treasuries for the great work of God our Almighty Father.
Before releasing the young Jew, you will brand him so that all who see him shall know he is a Jew. He shall never malign Christian society again.
May God be with you in these important tasks. You do the work of Christ and His Virgin Mother Mary, and God will reward you well.
John, Bishop of Aragon
He applied the seal again. The scribe wrote one last letter of introduction, and was dismissed with a blessing. A soft knock was heard not three minutes after his departure, and the acolyte announced Señor Eduardo Hernandez.
Again, the light faded, and again Alejandro spent a night of thin sleep. As the first glimmer came through the cracked door frame, he readied himself for the arrival of his miserable meal. Though his body ached with hunger and thirst, it was not the prospect of nourishment that inspired him. Crouching just next to the door, eyes ever on the crack of light, ears searching for the smallest sound, he waited patiently for the return of his keeper. Every few minutes he would stretch one leg, then the other, and shake his arms about to keep himself alert and prepared. He knew that he would have to shield his eyes from the stab of light that would momentarily blind him when the door was finally opened.
The faintest hint of footsteps sounded, sharpening his senses immediately. As they grew louder, Alejandro’s heart beat nearly out of his chest in anticipation, its heavy pounding almost drowning out the cherished sound. The footsteps stopped, and he heard the bowl being set down outside the door. Cloth rustled, and the latch turned.
As the door opened, Alejandro brought one hand to his eyes, turning his head away, and blindly groped at the arm that came through the door. He felt the flesh of his captor, its warmth both thrilling and energizing. Then came the inevitable struggle, and he opened his eyes just as the arm pulled back. In the brilliant light, just before the door slammed shut again, he saw that the hand had dropped not a bowl or a crust, but a scroll.
Ignoring it for the moment, he cried out, “A word, I beg you, just one small word! Please, I beg of you, tell me what is happening to me!”
There was silence, but he heard no footsteps, so he knew his tormenter was still present. He almost missed the hushed words. “Be silent, or I cannot help you at all.”
Quickly, Alejandro regained himself and, after wiping his face and nose on his filthy sleeve, responded, “God bless you, sir. I am desperate for knowledge of my situation!”
The tone of the voice darkened. “I prefer the blessing of my own God, Jew, as well you should. Listen carefully, for there is little time.”
“Your forgiveness, please,” Alejandro beseeched. “I will do as you say, only please tell me—”
“Silence!” the speaker hissed. “As you no doubt realize, I have brought a letter. From your father.”
Alejandro groped around anxiously, finally finding the scroll. He tore off the ribbon hastily, but he could barely see the scribblings on the page. He said desperately to his jailer, “There is so little light; I shall not be able to read it.”
The priest on the other side of the door paused for a moment. The father had not paid him well enough to provide light as well.
“Perhaps your God will send you some,” the keeper said, and, laughing cruelly, he slunk away, knowing he would have to return later, when the prisoner was more calm, to give him his daily rations.
Alejandro sat with his back against the wall, the scroll clutched against his chest, and waited in pained frustration for his vision to adjust again. When he could finally see the thin line of light that came in through the crack in the door, he moved the parchment through its illumination a bit at a time, and the familiar scrawl began to reveal itself. His father had written in a language only a Jew could read, knowing the priest could not decipher it and that another Jew would not betray him with an accurate translation.
My Son,
Do not despair, for soon you will be liberated. I have arranged for your safe conduct to Avignon, where the pope’s edict protects Jews from persecution. It is your best hope for survival. The priests will turn you over to a mercenary who will bear a package from me. Its contents will supply your needs for the journey. Guard your health and pray daily for the strength you will need in the coming days. May God protect you until we meet again.
Your loving father
Alejandro sat shivering with his back to the wall for the longest time after reading the letter. He tried to calm himself, knowing that his thirst would only be worsened by excessive excitement. As usual, his father was right. He would need to conserve his strength.
He was still sitting there a short while later when the door was opened again and his food and water set down, and he was left alone in the dark as before to cherish the taste of every crumb of bread and lick the bowl with his parched tongue to take up every last drop of water. He did not bother to make an attempt at escape, nor beg for words, but settled back to wait for his deliverance. He drifted off to sleep.
Alejandro awoke to a flash of what seemed like blinding light to his deprived eyes. He knew it was only the light let in by the opening of the trapdoor, but it seemed as if the sun itself were bearing down on his eyes with its fullest rays. He heard a voice calling to him, and he crawled quickly to the door, shielding his eyes until they were better acclimated.
The voice bade him crawl out through the small passage, and he did so gratefully, thinking that his time of rescue had come, eager to breathe some air that had not been fouled with the stench of his own excrement.
“Stand up, Jew” was the command. He did so, shakily, not yet having his full vision. Suddenly, he was slammed against the wall of the passageway, held in place at the shoulders by two monks. Another pushed his face to one side, exposing the surface of the cheek. It took only a split second for Alejandro to realize that the object rushing toward his face was meant to harm him, but it was enough for him to propel his body upward and loosen the grip of his confiners. Instead of its intended target the hot red brand landed in the middle of his chest, burning a hole right through the fabric of his shirt. He bellowed out a savage scream of pain.
“The face!” one of the captors said angrily. “We must do it again!”
But Alejandro, hearing their plan, began to writhe and thrash about so wildly that they could barely hold him. He clawed out like an animal and scratched one of his tormenters savagely on the arm, and the man promptly let go of him. He scrambled back into his cell, crawling like a newborn might wish to, back into the safety of the womb, a place where his captors would not follow.
The injured monk quickly assessed his wound, and while it was bleeding profusely, he knew it was not dangerous. He got to his feet and picked up the branding iron, thinking to try again, but saw to his disappointment that the red glow had faded. He dropped the evil instrument in disgust and slammed the door to the pit closed. “The chest will have to suffice,” he said.
Alejandro fell limp as he heard their footsteps echoing down the corridor. He lay there for a seeming eternity, knowing he had been branded, feeling the searing pain of the burn and the raging anger of his humiliation. He was feverish, his entire body covered with clammy sweat in the dank stone room. He felt chilled one moment, and the next as if he were consumed in flames. He thought surely that this was the Christian hell, and he had been sent there as God’s cruel jest. As if they could erase the mark his God had already set upon him, these evil men had felt it necessary to mark him again. He had foiled them this time and kept his face intact, but when they came back, as he was sure they would, they would not find a weak, compliant Jew. He would take them on, subdue them, and make his escape.
His food was brought again, and he ate like a wounded animal, seething in his desire to avenge this act of unbridled hatred. For two more days he did nothing but Test and eat, building his strength for the time when they would come for him. The yellow ooze that covered the circular wound began to harden into a crusty scab. Alejandro knew he was healing, and thanked God for the continuation of his life. He vowed to heaven that he would not waste it.
On the third day the door was suddenly opened at a time when he would not ordinarily be receiving food or water, and this time it was left open. The angry young prisoner waited patiently for his eyes to adjust to the light, gathering his determination as he sat in his cell. He peered cautiously upward and saw the silhouette of a crouching man in the passageway outside his cell, and decided to wait before making his move, hoping his new adversary would make some revealing move, show a weakness, or give himself away in some other manner. And when that imperfection showed itself, he would take full advantage of it; he would charge through the open door, and lash out at his captor in the full fury of a young man fighting for his survival.
The silhouette of the captor’s head appeared in the open door. “Jew? Show yourself,” a voice said.
He snickered from inside the pit, and thought to himself that he must sound deranged to the man on the other side of the open door. “Come in and find me, you stinking coward.”
He heard deep laughter coming from outside the door. “You show an astonishing amount of bravery for a captive heathen,” it said.
“Come in, then, and I will gladly show you just how brave a Jew can be.”
“You think too much of my abilities, young man,” said the voice. “I cannot see you in the dark. How then can I discern your bravery? One must have bright daylight to see the bravery of a Jew. Come now, have compassion on me, for I am a limited man. Show yourself.”
Something unraveled inside Alejandro, some thread of sanity that he had managed to maintain in spite of his obstacles. The thread finally let go, and he roared in outrage.
“Then look at this, you Christian swine!”
He threw himself through the opening, rolled aside, and rose up quickly, crouching in an animalistic attack stance, ready to pounce on his captor.
The lone man waiting there laughed at the sorry sight of a ragged and filthy Jew snarling at him like a frightened beast. He slipped aside easily as the pathetic figure leapt at him in total disregard for his obvious advantages. “You will have to try again,” he said, “although I warn you: I am a robust man, and you are no match for me.”
But Alejandro paid him no attention whatsoever, and blindly charged again. Hernandez grabbed one of his arms, and swung him back around, then grabbed his other arm and squeezed them together behind the young man’s back. Alejandro winced in agony as the burned skin on his chest was forced to spread to accommodate the extreme backward movement of his arms and shoulders. He was still at once, tears streaming down his face, quickly beaten, ashamed of his failure to do harm to his captor.
“Eduardo Hernandez at your service, my fine young peacock! And permit me to observe that you do little to dispel the belief that Jews are nothing but animals. Look at you, a pitiful sight, scratching and clawing like a woman!” He blithely spun Alejandro around, and faced him squarely.
“By the grace of God—yours or mine, who can tell?—I am here to escort you out of this hole to safety. I advise you to show me the respect owed to a gentleman of my obvious valor and chivalry.”
Alejandro sank down to his knees, all his energy spent. Hernandez had to support him with his arms to keep him from crashing to the floor and, in doing so, realized how truly filthy Alejandro was. He turned his head away and quickly offered an opinion on Alejandro’s condition. “You smell worse than a French nobleman, a state that will require improvement if I am to escort you all the way to Avignon.” He laughed and said, “Perhaps I shall baptize you. It could do you no harm. Come with me, my fine young gentleman, and let us see to your new life. At least you can begin it in a state of cleanliness. Then we shall be able to see what other attentions you require.”
Out into the blinding daylight they went, Alejandro stumbling along sightlessly, supported with surprising gentleness by the huge Spaniard who had come to rescue him. Hernandez literally threw his captive across the saddle of a waiting horse, then mounted another himself and took the reins of the one carrying Alejandro. They set out at a slow pace, Hernandez watching closely to see that his cargo did not slip off the horse.
A short distance away was a stream in a wooded area, shaded by trees and hidden from view. Hernandez lifted Alejandro off the horse and set him down gently. He immediately began pulling the rags off his body, but when he pulled the shirt up over the younger man’s head, Alejandro cried out, and pulled his arms tightly in against his body.
“Come now, my friend. Modesty is a fine quality in a maiden, but it is wasted in a man!” He tried again to remove the shirt, but Alejandro spoke at last, saying he would remove it himself. He carefully worked off each sleeve, minimizing the pull on his wounded chest, then motioned to Hernandez to lift the remains of his once sturdy but now tattered garment over his head.
Hernandez gasped at the angry red circle just below Alejandro’s neck. “Madre de Dios, young man, what was your crime?”
“I committed no crime” was the quick and angry response. “I am punished for seeking greater knowledge in an effort to improve the lot of all men who suffer needlessly from disease.”
Hernandez recognized the zealot’s fire in his voice. Aha, he thought, so it was this one! He had heard the local uproar over a tradesman’s disinterment, reportedly perpetrated by one of Cervere’s Jews. And although Hernandez thought it best to leave God’s business to God, he could not help but shiver at the thought of the decaying body under the physician’s knife. He peered curiously at the wiry and exotic-looking man who had had the courage to do what he himself would never attempt. Perhaps there is more here than meets the eye, he thought with amusement.
He carefully guided Alejandro to the water’s edge and bade him enter the cool stream. He was lucky to survive that branding! Hernandez thought. He had seen such a burn once before; it had festered to green and yellow, quickly consuming the bodily resources of the victim, who died delirious and screaming for water. He watched Alejandro dip himself in the water, and curiously peeked at his manhood to see the effect of the ritual that was done to all Jewish boys in infancy. Shuddering at the thought, he raised his eyes and noted how carefully the young man cleaned the circular wound on his chest. It caused him obvious pain, for he sucked in his breath and screwed up his face when the water touched the wound.
As he stood dripping in the stream, Alejandro turned toward Hernandez and asked if their supplies included any wine. Hernandez nodded and walked over to the tethered horses, removing a flask from one of the saddlebags. He was surprised to see Alejandro lean his body back and pour the entire contents of the flask over his chest, grimacing as he did so, letting it saturate the crusty circle.
“See here, young man! I am well paid for this duty, but not well enough to sanction your careless waste of good wine!”
The Jew had regained his wits, and said firmly, “I am a physician, and have observed that those wounds treated with ablution in both water and wine heal more quickly and perfectly than those left untreated. If you expect me to die of this injury and thereby lighten your journey, you must rethink your expectation. You will get no such compliance from me. It will do me far more good to wear this wine than to drink it.”
Alejandro strode out of the water, with more strength now, refreshed by the removal of many days’ filth from his body. His tattered rags were not worth burning; it would be a waste of good fuel to bother with them, so he left them in the pile where they had fallen on the bank of the stream.
“I presume that this package contains fresh attire?”
“Indeed, although I obtained it on my own, and know not whether its style will suit you.”
Out came breeches, shirt, stockings, boots, vest, and hat. Alejandro had almost always dressed in the traditional robes of his people, and very rarely wore clothing in the European style. His last venture into stylish clothing at the Cervere well had ended disastrously, leading him to the miserable situation in which he now found himself. He hoped that similar clothing would not have the same disturbing effect on other people.
“Why, Jew, you look almost normal now. One might even call you handsome were it not for your curious hair.”
Alejandro walked to the water’s edge and peered down into the mirroring surface of the calm stream. He was surprised to see that Hernandez did not exaggerate. Except for his sidelocks he looked every bit the modern young European. He was shocked at his own impiety, and quickly stepped away, for it was unthinkable for him to try to look like a Christian.
“I would advise you to cut your hair, for it will only raise the interest of those we meet on our journey. It will be speculated that a Jew in Christian’s clothing is running or hiding from something. This will not make our journey any easier.”
Alejandro was horrified at the thought. “I cannot, for it will signify to other Jews that I dishonor our covenant with God.”
“You will serve your God far better alive than dead, young man. I am paid to deliver you safely to Avignon, and I think you will arrive more safely without those telltale locks. Think again.”
Not wishing to discuss his appearance any further, Alejandro asked for food, and Hernandez brought out a loaf of fresh bread and a hunk of cheese. Alejandro ate ravenously, prompting Hernandez to observe, “You eat as if it would be your last meal, Jew. Have you not known hunger before?”
Looking at his escort with undisguised wariness, Alejandro said, “My family has been fortunate.”
Hernandez grunted. “Aye, I am aware of that.” He handed Alejandro a small bundle wrapped in soft leather. “Your father bade me give you this,” he said. “You are to open it before we begin our journey.”
Stepping away for privacy, Alejandro untied the string that secured the package, gently unfolding each layer of the leather wrapping. There were several objects inside, and he examined each one in turn. The first was a purse of gold coins, more than he had seen at one time in his life. He fingered the disks and let them slip through his hands back into the purse, to enjoy the secure feeling of their weight, but took care not to let Hernandez hear their jingling. He would lack nothing on his journey to Avignon. His father had also sent a prayer shawl, a wickedly sharp knife, and the bishop’s letter of safe passage to Avignon. There were some other personal items of clothing and hygiene, such as a comb and a small vial of oil of clove for toothaches and sore wounds. But most important, his father had sent his book, knowing that it was the most precious of his son’s possessions. Alejandro held it reverently in his hands for a few moments before setting it down.
The last item in the package was another letter, sealed with wax for secrecy. Alejandro broke the seal and carefully unfolded the scroll.
My Dear Son,
Things have gone very badly for us. I have arranged your release, hoping that in the future you would contact us here with your whereabouts, but we have been betrayed by the bishop.
When I left him, it had been arranged that you would be safely conducted to Avignon by an escort (with whom you are now traveling if you are reading this letter). I burned the parchment that recorded the bishops’s debt before his very eyes, thereby keeping my part of the bargain we made.
The swine has since ordered that our family must leave Cervere within two days, never to return. We have hastily sold our goods, and Uncle Joachim has bought the remaining debtor accounts from us.
My own spy bribed the bishop’s messenger and reported the contents of his letter. Guard your face, that it is not scarred by the branding iron. Your mother is at her wits’ end over your disfigurement. I have assured her that you will know how to heal yourself, and that disfigurement seems a small matter when compared to death. I hope you are not in pain, or suffering from a festering wound. Take ample care to wash it as you have so many times told me to do.
We will also travel to Avignon. If we arrive safely, we will leave word of our situation with the family of the local rabbi, who will also accept a letter from you to us.
Beloved son, you must understand that you are a hunted man. The family of Carlos Alderón has sworn vengeance upon you for your ungentle uprooting of their patriarch, and rumors are spreading that a renegade Jew is heading for Avignon, so you must conceal yourself. God will not punish you for staying alive. Do what you must to reach Avignon in safety, for there, God willing, we shall be reunited.
Your loving father
He felt a touch on his shoulder. It was surprisingly kind and gentle. “We should depart soon,” he heard Hernandez say.
Alejandro rolled the scroll carefully, knowing he would come to treasure it. After placing the sheathed knife in the top of his boot and the letters in his vest, he retied the package and stowed it in his saddlebag. He mounted the horse, surprising Hernandez with his agility.
“Señor Hernandez,” he said, “I beg you to indulge me for one more task. I am instructed by my father in his letter to deliver a message to the bishop before we depart.”
Hernandez grunted his displeasure, but did not argue with his young employer. He turned his horse in the direction of the palatial monastery, and they proceeded at a fast trot.
Alejandro astonished himself with how quickly he took to riding a horse. It was not his customary practice, for most of his traveling had been done by mule-drawn cart. They rode quickly over the bumpy, dusty roads, and before he knew it, they were at the very monastery where his father had struck the fateful bargain with the bishop.
He leapt off the horse, again surprising himself when he landed on his feet, and gave the reins of his horse to Hernandez, then slipped away toward the door of the monastery. Before entering, he took out his knife and cut off his forelocks, letting them fall where he stood. He watched as the locks of curly black hair drifted to the ground, the last vestige of his attachment to this place and the beloved people of his family and community. As the curls hit the dirt at his feet he became a new man with a new life, and a past he could no longer admit to.
He left them where they landed and walked boldly to the monastery’s massive doors. Alejandro greeted the monk who opened them in Spanish, saying that he had a message for the bishop from one of his creditors and that it must be delivered personally. But the monk said the bishop was in prayer and could not be disturbed.
More likely in bed with a sweet young companion, Alejandro thought to himself, thinking of the stories he’d been told. Taking the letters out of his vest, he showed the monk his safe passage, with the bishop’s, own easily recognized seal, and then the letter written in Hebrew, saying that he alone knew the translation.
Seeing that the bishop’s own hand had granted this man the right to pass, the monk admitted him. He wondered at the contents of the long missal written in the heathen hand delivered by such an unlikely messenger, then decided that it was better left to the bishop to ponder it. He led the young man to the door of the salon, and knocked softly.
“Enter,” said the bishop.
The monk waved him through the great door into the richly appointed room. Alejandro was momentarily awestruck by the grandeur of the furnishings, and looked around in wonder.
The bishop eyed him with suspicion as he studied the room. “Well, young traveler, God be with you. May I be of service?”
“Sir, I have a message of some importance, written here on this scroll.”
“Bring it here, then, and let me see it in the light.”
As Alejandro approached the man, he reached into his vest and retrieved the scrolled letter. He handed it to the bishop, who spent a moment untying the ribbon before he unrolled it.
He looked up at Alejandro with a puzzled look and said, “What joke is this, a message in the heathen script of the Jews?”
“It is a letter of appreciation from your great admirer Avram Canches. He wishes to thank you for your kindness and fair treatment.”
A look of grave fear spread over the man’s face, which pleased Alejandro. The bishop shrank back, knowing he was about to come to harm. Alejandro wasted no time, but pulled the knife out of his boot and plunged it deeply into the chest of the recoiling cleric.
As he regarded the limp form on the floor before him and watched the blood spread over the front of the rich robe, Alejandro wondered how he, a physician and healer, could so calmly end the life of another human being. He had sworn above all to do no harm, and here in this luxurious room he had done the ultimate harm without flinching, and with a complete lack of mercy. He saw himself in a mirror. Who is that imposter? he said silently to his own alien reflection. Taking the scroll from the bishop’s hand, he tucked it into one pocket of his shirt, then wiped the betrayer’s blood from his knife and replaced it in his boot. As quietly as he had entered, he slipped out again, closing the door behind him. With no indication that anything was amiss, he passed through the abbey halls and rejoined Hernandez outside, where they turned their horses to the east and headed toward the road to Avignon.