The Brotherhood of Book Hunters by Howard Curtis, Raphaël Jerusalmy Read Free Book Online Page B

and cursed Villon, Guillaume Chartier, Louis XI, and God the Father. The bites of mosquitoes, the deafening song of the cicadas, and the ringing of bells had deprived him of a good night’s sleep. He couldn’t wait to leave this flea-ridden monastery, this cloister where the vapors of the summer heat fermented as if at the bottom of a vat of grapes. He felt trapped. Why should he rot here? What riled Colin most was his own stupidity. He had let himself be taken in by the magic of the words “Holy Land,” “Galilee,” “Jerusalem,” by the mystery this land kept hidden beneath its stones, by the wind that blew differently here than elsewhere. Oh, yes, that wind was so hot, it roasted your ass! Colin hated the heat, the harsh, almost blinding light, the smell of burning sand that had been oppressing him since his arrival. Not to mention the food, which was too spicy, pickled in olive oil or dried in the sun.
    Brother Paul burst into the refectory, followed by François, and took Colin’s arm. He understood his irritation, his desire to bolt for it as soon as possible.
    â€œA little patience, Master Colin. We are awaiting the arrival of a visitor who is very eager to make your acquaintance.”

7
    T he Mamluk soldiers inspected the convoy. Three wagons pulled by mules. The first two overflowed with trinkets, glass jewelry, and wooden statuettes of saints. In the third, less heavily laden, were provisions, carters’ tools, a few books and a religious painting. The young Florentine merchant who was leading the expedition wore impeccable, richly embroidered clothes. A plume of long colored feathers hung on the side of his hexagonal hat. A leather strap knotted around his neck kept this extravagant headgear aloft. Beneath it sheltered a haughty, impassive face, typical of a Latin gentlemen. From his hand, with its slender, well-tended fingers, covered with huge rings, he negligently dropped a small purse then, without waiting, saluted the soldiers and signaled to the muleteers to continue on their way. In spite of his courtier’s attire, he nimbly remounted his horse with its glossy coat and bridle overloaded with pom-poms and bells. Astounded, the Mamluks followed the convoy with their eyes for a long time. They could still make out the flaming hues of the plume striping the austere ocher of the fields before disappearing into the groves lining the valley. It was only then that, out of sight beyond a bend in the road, the young merchant briefly dabbed the rivulets of sweat flooding his face and neck.
    He felt a keen sense of relief when at last he sighted the welcoming hump of the hill, the blunt tip of the old bell tower, the great rusty cross rising into the sky. It had taken enormous stamina and determination to get here. The war between the Venetians and the Turks had made the crossing more perilous than usual. On the Aegean Sea, the frail brigantine had somehow forced its way through fighting ships, Greek and Ottoman corsairs, Saracen pirates. Every time a sail was spotted in the distance, the captain would abruptly change course, and even threaten to turn back. But returning to Florence would have been just as hazardous, and the wind was unfavorable.
    Cosimo de’ Medici’s instructions, even though uttered from his deathbed, were categorical. More than that, they were his last will, his testament: to save the painting and the clandestine manuscripts he had been hiding in the cellars of the Platonic Academy. The mission would not be at all easy, but fortune smiled on the young merchant when a decree from Lorenzo II, known as the Magnificent, made Florence a veritable protectorate for the Jews. Not only did Lorenzo lift all the humiliating prohibitions against the Jews of Florence but in addition, running counter to Papal censorship, he exhorted scholars to once again take up the study of Talmudic works, Judeo-Arab treatises on medicine, and even the kabbalah. The