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Authors: C.C. Humphreys
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heavy brows now flicking around the room, seeking Gianni’s, seeking to avoid them as well, to not antagonize with a stare. Gianni let them move around, making his own neutral, keeping them fixed on those circling before him, until, like a butterfly finally settling on a flower, the Jew was staring back at him. His lips started to move, a hum coming into his throat; finally a sound escaped.
‘What …?’ He broke off, remembering what that word had produced before.
‘Please …’ He tried again, stopping when Gianni tipped his head to the side, smiled, a parody of attention.
‘No, go on. I’d like to hear what you have to say.’
‘Dear sir, young master’ – the words came out in a rush now, as if too long stoppered – ‘I am sure we can settle this … this problem between us. There’s no need … no need for anyone else to be hurt. My people will pay, they will give you anything you want, however much you want, you only need ask, you only …’
Gianni’s hand raised slowly, politely. ‘You believe we are thieves? That we want the jewels you carry?’
The Jew cleared his throat. ‘Well, I know how it is. Debts, life so expensive for a young man. If you owe anything to any of my people, if the interest is too high, I … I feel sure we could …’
The hand rose again. ‘Debts are owed. But not in gold. Repayment demanded. But not of interest.’
‘Then what, sir? What debt do I owe? I will pay it, I assure you. I will pay.’
‘Oh, I know you will.’ Gianni was slowly rising from his seat. ‘You will pay everything you have, for the greatest debt in the world. For did you not murder Our Lord?’
The change in the man’s demeanour was not the one Gianni had expected. Instead of growing terror, a veil seemed to draw across his face.
‘Ah.’ The old Jew sighed.
‘“Ah?” Is that all you can say? Can you deny it, Jew?’
‘Would it help me if I did? Has it ever helped my people before? If we admit it, you kill us. If we deny it, you kill us. Death is the only thing we get from you.’
‘Your people?’ Gianni brought his face close. ‘Shall I tell you something about your people? Shall I tell you a secret?’ His voice dropped to a whisper and he pressed his mouth close to the other’s ear. ‘My mother was one of you.’
He pulled back, so he could see the reaction, the little hope that would spring up there. It was always the same. He liked it when men died with a little hope. It made it harder for them.
The hope was there, in the hand raised toward him, clutching at his doublet, in the eyes.
‘Your mother’s blood is your blood. Her faith is your faith. Inside here … here’ – his fingers tapped at Gianni’s chest – ‘you are one of us.’
Gianni waited, savoured. When he spoke his voice was gentle.
‘If you can show me where the Jew within me lives – be it in my spleen, in my liver, in my very heart – I would take this knife and I would cut it out, though I die as I cut. But I don’t need to do that, because I have been saved by Christ’s love. All I need do is return that love to him every day.’
In the man’s eyes, the hope was replaced by something else. The younger man sensed what it was, even as the wrinkled hand dropped and grasped the handle of Gianni’s knife at his belt, even as Gianni’s hand closed over his. The Jew was old, but his wrists were strong and he had courage. He had pulled the knife up and out, lunged high, the point nipping Gianni’s ear before he could force it up and away, bending him back over the table, using his weight, his height, his youth. He rested there with just enough pressure to hold against the old man pushing up.
‘Pay the debt,’ Gianni said and, twisting, he pushed the dagger home.
The old man cried out then, something Hebrew, a curse, a prayer perhaps. Then the blood rushed to his throat, choking further words.
Gianni slumped back into the chair, staring at the twitching body on the table, while the sound
‘What …?’ He broke off, remembering what that word had produced before.
‘Please …’ He tried again, stopping when Gianni tipped his head to the side, smiled, a parody of attention.
‘No, go on. I’d like to hear what you have to say.’
‘Dear sir, young master’ – the words came out in a rush now, as if too long stoppered – ‘I am sure we can settle this … this problem between us. There’s no need … no need for anyone else to be hurt. My people will pay, they will give you anything you want, however much you want, you only need ask, you only …’
Gianni’s hand raised slowly, politely. ‘You believe we are thieves? That we want the jewels you carry?’
The Jew cleared his throat. ‘Well, I know how it is. Debts, life so expensive for a young man. If you owe anything to any of my people, if the interest is too high, I … I feel sure we could …’
The hand rose again. ‘Debts are owed. But not in gold. Repayment demanded. But not of interest.’
‘Then what, sir? What debt do I owe? I will pay it, I assure you. I will pay.’
‘Oh, I know you will.’ Gianni was slowly rising from his seat. ‘You will pay everything you have, for the greatest debt in the world. For did you not murder Our Lord?’
The change in the man’s demeanour was not the one Gianni had expected. Instead of growing terror, a veil seemed to draw across his face.
‘Ah.’ The old Jew sighed.
‘“Ah?” Is that all you can say? Can you deny it, Jew?’
‘Would it help me if I did? Has it ever helped my people before? If we admit it, you kill us. If we deny it, you kill us. Death is the only thing we get from you.’
‘Your people?’ Gianni brought his face close. ‘Shall I tell you something about your people? Shall I tell you a secret?’ His voice dropped to a whisper and he pressed his mouth close to the other’s ear. ‘My mother was one of you.’
He pulled back, so he could see the reaction, the little hope that would spring up there. It was always the same. He liked it when men died with a little hope. It made it harder for them.
The hope was there, in the hand raised toward him, clutching at his doublet, in the eyes.
‘Your mother’s blood is your blood. Her faith is your faith. Inside here … here’ – his fingers tapped at Gianni’s chest – ‘you are one of us.’
Gianni waited, savoured. When he spoke his voice was gentle.
‘If you can show me where the Jew within me lives – be it in my spleen, in my liver, in my very heart – I would take this knife and I would cut it out, though I die as I cut. But I don’t need to do that, because I have been saved by Christ’s love. All I need do is return that love to him every day.’
In the man’s eyes, the hope was replaced by something else. The younger man sensed what it was, even as the wrinkled hand dropped and grasped the handle of Gianni’s knife at his belt, even as Gianni’s hand closed over his. The Jew was old, but his wrists were strong and he had courage. He had pulled the knife up and out, lunged high, the point nipping Gianni’s ear before he could force it up and away, bending him back over the table, using his weight, his height, his youth. He rested there with just enough pressure to hold against the old man pushing up.
‘Pay the debt,’ Gianni said and, twisting, he pushed the dagger home.
The old man cried out then, something Hebrew, a curse, a prayer perhaps. Then the blood rushed to his throat, choking further words.
Gianni slumped back into the chair, staring at the twitching body on the table, while the sound
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