Brother Paul, who had dozed off, now woke with a start, almost falling off his chair. A huge fellow, his face cross-hatched with gashes, his left eye covered with a leather patch, had just burst into the room. He walked around the table, went up to a thin, patrician-looking old man in a beige tunic with blue stripes, and whispered something in his ear. Although this austere figure listened attentively, there was no reaction to betray what he was feeling. He responded briefly, inaudibly, but it was clear that he was giving orders. The man with the gashes responded with a military salute and went out as abruptly as he had come in. The patrician-looking individual at last deigned to inform the gathering as to the reason for this interruption. Gamliel translated immediately.
“The Mamluks have surrounded the esplanade.”
“The gypsy betrayed us!” cried Colin.
Brother Paul seemed surprised. How could Djanoush have eluded the vigilance of the Mongol who had been escorting him out of the city? The prior threw a reproachful look at Gamliel. The rabbi had assured him of the gypsy’s loyalty. His tribe had been living in Safed for decades and hated the Mamluks, who constantly mistreated them. The news saddened François and Colin, who had grown fond of Djanoush.
The blind old man gave a start and pricked up his ears. Furtive, hurried steps could be made out scampering over the flagstones of the little square. Standing right up against the shutters, he heard a voice whisper, “Aisha. Aisha?”
The girl froze. She looked at the antiques dealer out of the corner of her eye. The old man quietly opened his desk drawer and took out a dagger. Terrified, Aisha rushed to the door, sprang the latch, and rushed outside, hurling herself straight into the arms of the soldier who had just whispered her name. Startled, the man did not know what to say. Emerging from the semidarkness, Suleyman planted himself between the soldier and the young slave.
“It’s here, it’s here!” said Aisha weeping.
Suleyman immediately entered the shop with his men. They spread out, swords in their hands, smashing the vases, overturning the furniture, stooping to avoid volleys of arrows and knife thrusts. They fought duels with the dancing shadows of the Greek statues, the porcelain dragons, and even a Gascon suit of armor. Several threw themselves to the floor. When they looked up, they saw nothing but their own reflections in a mirror from India or Turin. Just as one halberdier was about to assail the belly of a stuffed crocodile, a barked order from Suleyman put an end to the attack. Behind him, crouching in a corner, Aisha heaved a sigh of relief. There was not a soul in sight. The old man had disappeared.
The attackers searched the shop from top to bottom. No partition sounded hollow, no chink revealed a trapdoor, no lever gave access to a secret passage. In his rage, Suleyman slapped Aisha, but could get nothing from her. She raved, talking of witchcraft, pointing to a thick wall covered with a Persian tapestry, swearing she had seen Brother Paul and his protégés walk right through it like ghosts. The soldiers tore down the tapestry. Their hatchets rained down on the wall, but barely scratched the rock. Suleyman ordered them to stop. He struck Aisha even harder. How could this wall lead to a corridor or a tunnel? It opened onto emptiness. It was the back of the cliff that rose sheer above the Kidron.
The soldiers hurriedly collected jewels and items of silverware, throwing everything willy-nilly into a large canvas sack, then set fire to the hangings. Suleyman was the first to leave, holding Aisha firmly by the arm. He looked around the esplanade, ill at ease, sensing an invisible presence.
The flames rose quickly. Dolls and papier-mâché masks twisted and shriveled. A wax figurine melted to a brown teardrop that ran slowly over its little wooden plinth. The pages of a psalter rose like imploring arms, bubbles of boiling ink forming on the parchment and sliding over it before exploding into tiny crackles. A bronze Pegasus galloped one last time through the smoke, its varnish trickling in gray-green beads of sweat over its taut back, its muscles rippling in the vapors of the fire, freed at last from their metal yoke, its throat contracted in a mute whinny. At last it vanished in a whirlwind of soot.
Exasperated, Suleyman screamed the order to retreat. Much to the annoyance of his sergeant, he left Aisha behind. She was of no more use to him. She had been forced to obey in order to spare Moussa, whom Suleyman threatened to have impaled at her first slip. The small pieces of material she had hung on the branches or stuck between the bricks of the houses had led here, confirming the qadi’s suspicions beyond the shadow of a doubt. He had only left her alive to disconcert the adversary, especially Villon.
The Mamluks plunged into the alleys that lined the square. There, they recovered their horses and set off eastward at a gallop, in the direction of the valley of Kidron, the only other possible escape route.
The esplanade was now deserted. Aisha approached the ruins of the shop. She bent over the embers, her eyes wandering amid the still burning rubble. A hand took hers, gently, so gently it was as if she had felt nothing. But she let herself be led. After a few steps, the other hand let go. Hesitantly, Aisha straightened up. It was dark. The Mongol lit a candle, then passed in front of her to show her the way.