Read Online The Brotherhood of Book Hunters by Howard Curtis, Raphaël Jerusalmy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Howard Curtis, Raphaël Jerusalmy
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another word, yawning with exhaustion. The dwarf kept writing, looking offended but not daring to open his mouth. Author, title, date, author, title, date . . . Until the early hours of the morning.
10
E ven before the first light of dawn, the coachmen were busy, checking the horsesâ harnesses, inspecting the straps on the mules, kicking the wheels.
Brother Paul had received marching orders on behalf of the emissaries of the King of France. The date of their first interview with one of the Medicisâ discreet allies had been fixed. They were expected in Safed. The way there was strewn with pitfalls. Saracens and Turkish brigands dispatched many a lost traveler to the other life, and diseases and noxious air took care of the rest. The hospitals set up by the various orders were overflowing with the dying and the wounded. Mamluk squads had been seen in the vicinity. Brother Paul did not know the reason for these patrols but such troop movements were common. Whether pale-faced knights or dark-complexioned mercenaries, the conquerors of this land were doomed to be constantly on the lookout.
The prior had decided to add François and Colin to Federicoâs convoy, which would be stopping at Safed and Tiberias to pick up supplies of Hebrew works for the Italian universities. It would not arouse suspicion. After all, it was carrying nothing but books. If it was stopped, the soldiers could easily be bribed.
François and Colin plunged their heads into the drinking trough, then shook their soaked hair like dogs. Colin donned a thin leather cabasset that flattened his skull. François put on his crumpled tricorn. They could already feel a burning wind on the backs of their necks. Federico appeared in the doorway of the refectory, lit by a first ray of sun. Clad in all his gleaming finery, he waddled like a court favorite on his way to a ball. Dazzled, the Mongol sentries stood aside to let him pass, unwittingly forming a comical guard of honor. Brother Paul, suddenly stern, whispered a few words in his ear. Federico nodded and half knelt to receive the priorâs blessing. He dusted off his sleeves, and, with the help of a ribbon, tied his hair behind his neck. Throwing a satisfied look at the men and the horses, he gave the order to leave.
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It was going to be a very hot day. A leaden light poured down on the arid plain, the motionless shrubs that no breeze stirred. In the distance, a solitary sparrow hawk soared. Distorted by heat haze, the countryside seemed to scowl. The bad-tempered shadow of a cloud splashed the line of the horizon then spread its grey stain over the ocher blanket of the fields. The riders went more quickly, abandoning the monks to their precinct of stone.
An air of freedom blew over their cheeks. The horses galloped, intoxicated by the light, tearing joyfully across the gilded brambles, cutting through the clouds of midges, shaking their loads from side to side as the terrain changed. The water lapped gaily in the gourds. François inhaled the scent of the scrub and let his eyes wander over the eroded curves of the plateaus, the winding roads, the paths trodden by the apostles, the valleys where the prophets were buried, at last discovering the Holy Land. He allowed it to permeate him. At first, he looked avidly for signs, inscriptions on the pediment of some temple. There was not even a milestone. Only stony tracks that seemed to lead nowhere. And yet this land was whispering a vague message in his ear, a secret from deep in the soul. He sensed intuitively that it had been waiting for him forever.
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When night fell, Federico looked for a place to camp. Fabulous Galilee offered only the shelter of meager undergrowth. Emaciated pines, skeletal cypresses, and dwarf oaks barely concealed the horses. The moon was in its first quarter. Federico decided not to light a fire. The men sat down in the gloom, their whispers mingling with the mournful howling of jackals. François
10
E ven before the first light of dawn, the coachmen were busy, checking the horsesâ harnesses, inspecting the straps on the mules, kicking the wheels.
Brother Paul had received marching orders on behalf of the emissaries of the King of France. The date of their first interview with one of the Medicisâ discreet allies had been fixed. They were expected in Safed. The way there was strewn with pitfalls. Saracens and Turkish brigands dispatched many a lost traveler to the other life, and diseases and noxious air took care of the rest. The hospitals set up by the various orders were overflowing with the dying and the wounded. Mamluk squads had been seen in the vicinity. Brother Paul did not know the reason for these patrols but such troop movements were common. Whether pale-faced knights or dark-complexioned mercenaries, the conquerors of this land were doomed to be constantly on the lookout.
The prior had decided to add François and Colin to Federicoâs convoy, which would be stopping at Safed and Tiberias to pick up supplies of Hebrew works for the Italian universities. It would not arouse suspicion. After all, it was carrying nothing but books. If it was stopped, the soldiers could easily be bribed.
François and Colin plunged their heads into the drinking trough, then shook their soaked hair like dogs. Colin donned a thin leather cabasset that flattened his skull. François put on his crumpled tricorn. They could already feel a burning wind on the backs of their necks. Federico appeared in the doorway of the refectory, lit by a first ray of sun. Clad in all his gleaming finery, he waddled like a court favorite on his way to a ball. Dazzled, the Mongol sentries stood aside to let him pass, unwittingly forming a comical guard of honor. Brother Paul, suddenly stern, whispered a few words in his ear. Federico nodded and half knelt to receive the priorâs blessing. He dusted off his sleeves, and, with the help of a ribbon, tied his hair behind his neck. Throwing a satisfied look at the men and the horses, he gave the order to leave.
Â
It was going to be a very hot day. A leaden light poured down on the arid plain, the motionless shrubs that no breeze stirred. In the distance, a solitary sparrow hawk soared. Distorted by heat haze, the countryside seemed to scowl. The bad-tempered shadow of a cloud splashed the line of the horizon then spread its grey stain over the ocher blanket of the fields. The riders went more quickly, abandoning the monks to their precinct of stone.
An air of freedom blew over their cheeks. The horses galloped, intoxicated by the light, tearing joyfully across the gilded brambles, cutting through the clouds of midges, shaking their loads from side to side as the terrain changed. The water lapped gaily in the gourds. François inhaled the scent of the scrub and let his eyes wander over the eroded curves of the plateaus, the winding roads, the paths trodden by the apostles, the valleys where the prophets were buried, at last discovering the Holy Land. He allowed it to permeate him. At first, he looked avidly for signs, inscriptions on the pediment of some temple. There was not even a milestone. Only stony tracks that seemed to lead nowhere. And yet this land was whispering a vague message in his ear, a secret from deep in the soul. He sensed intuitively that it had been waiting for him forever.
Â
When night fell, Federico looked for a place to camp. Fabulous Galilee offered only the shelter of meager undergrowth. Emaciated pines, skeletal cypresses, and dwarf oaks barely concealed the horses. The moon was in its first quarter. Federico decided not to light a fire. The men sat down in the gloom, their whispers mingling with the mournful howling of jackals. François
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