LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

never turned his head, never met his glance. The Jew was more prudent than the Christian, in refusing to betray their old friendship by even the slightest sign to the sharp, suspicious eyes of the mob. Nathaniel Ben Solomon, however, turned his frightened face toward the priest once or twice before the group of prisoners and guards rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

      It required another half hour, and the arrival of more soldiers to guard the Jewish quarter, before the last of the crowd finally dispersed, ending the immediate danger of riot and massacre.

      * * * *

      Don Felipe sought out Fra Guillaume that same night, to find him dozing over books and wine in his study closet. The single candle, although of wax, cast too little light for the younger man’s eyes, let alone old “Fray Potbelly’s,” to have scanned the letters of tiny print swimming over the quarto pages. Don Felipe guessed that the open books were for show…though for whose benefit? That of the angels?

      “We must—You must demand authority in this case, my brother!” the Ordinary began after minimal formalities of greeting.

      “How can I, friend? They are unbaptized Jews, are they not?”

      “And for that very reason, the secular arm will make short work of them, hoping to stave off general riot.”

      “Well?” Fra Guillaume hiccuped softly. “Would that not be better than to see all our poor Jews slain in a body?”

      “But they are innocent, my brother! Is it not acting the part of Annas and Caiaphas and Pontius Pilate, this allowing of two men to be slain even to save the multitude?”

      “Young priest, young priest.” Sighing heavily, Fra Guillaume shook his head and swallowed more wine. “Even admitting your argument, we can do nothing. We must leave this thing to the secular arm. I know—most of the city knows, and it is hardly to your credit—that this Gamaliel Ben Joseph is your friend. But he remains unbaptized, for all that he is your friend and you his. Over the unbaptized, neither the Holy Inquisition nor the bishops’ courts can claim any jurisdiction, unless there is some question of proselytism, and there can be no such question here. This is murder, pure and simple. Ritual or not, and even if it is some false ritual, it is theirs alone, as long as they were never baptized. We can do nothing.”

      Dismayed to hear even Fra Guillaume seemingly ready to consider the thought that Jews might have done it, Don Felipe suggested, “We could find two or three New Christians, and arrest them. That would make it apostasy, giving us the right to investigate, and allowing Gamaliel Ben Joseph and Nathaniel Ben Solomon to be released.”

      Again Fra Guillaume shook his head. “Quiet your young blood, my friend. Not only would such a trick be more unjust than allowing your friend and his host to suffer, it would never cause the secular arm to release them. We would simply widen the net, make new victims to join them. And do you accuse me of playing the part of Annas and Caiaphas?”

      “But you could hold them for a year or two, then quietly release them…”

      “Do you truly think that this furor over our new little Holy Child will die away as quickly as that?” The Dominican gave a great belch and rubbed his middle as if it pained him. “Or that old Fray Potbelly is likely to outlive it? Our Lord alone knows who is likely to replace me here! No, friend, leave them to the secular arm and let us not make an evil matter still more evil.”

      “But…”

      “Moreover…I grieve to point this out to you, my friend…but can you truly be sure of the innocence of this Gamaliel Ben Joseph?”

      Finding his breath, Felipe protested, “Never once, brother—never once, in all my boyhood years in Alhama de Karnattah, where we lived side by side, Christian and Jew and Moslem mingled together—never once did the Jews ever do such a deed! If not there, why here?”

      Fra Guillaume rubbed his tonsure. “It may mean nothing save that the Moors, in their own realm, could keep their Jews under tighter rein. Go home, my friend, and leave it in God’s hands and the alcalde’s. We can do nothing.”

      Don Felipe rose shakily to his feet. “I can appeal to the Justicia!”

      The inquisitor shrugged. “As you will, provided only that you attempt no further demands of poor old Fray Potbelly. You may, perhaps, even find the Justicia willing to hear your friend’s case. I would not, however, do anything more to remind either him or the people that Gamaliel Ben Joseph is your friend. A word to the wise… Now go, Felipe, and leave me in peace. This is, after all, a holy night.”

      * * * *

      Holy night or none, it was far from peaceful for the bishop’s Ordinary. Sporadically he would succeed in calming his soul, reach the jumping-off place into sleep…only to have the prickle of some flea startle him awake with thoughts of how much worse the bed vermin must be where Gamito lay this night. In some secret cell of the alcalde’s, surely; for Rodrigo de la Paz, being a reasonably just magistrate, would not risk two Hebrew prisoners in the common jail, among Christian cutthroats, now when mob feeling ran so high.

      Don Felipe reached the dawn of Easter Monday haggard and heavy with vague guilt for suffering in luxury while others suffered in hunger and filth…his guilt all the heavier in that he would not willingly have traded his luxury for their squalor and discomfort. He made an unaccustomed attempt to read his Divine Office, but laid it down when the words danced meaningless and dry between his eyes and his brain. He heard the day’s first Mass, and it woke no devotion, but rather parched the desert of his soul still drier. He sat to break his fast, and might as well have still eaten the hardest of Lenten fare, for all that he took double the sauce.

      As he rose from table, thinking to seek out the alcalde himself in the time remaining before High Mass, his servant brought him word that someone waited to see him.

      “Who is it, Gubbio?”

      “One Fray Bartomeu, the priest of Santa Maria near the north gate. Franciscan, by his habit. You may remember his face, master. As for his name, I had to ask it myself. He begs to see you in private.”

      Don Felipe sighed. “Cannot it wait?”

      “Master! Do you ask a simple layman to judge on the urgency of priestly matters? I suspect, by the set of his round old shoulders, that he may want you to hear his Confession.”

      “A Franciscan? Confess to a secular?”

      Eying the table, Gubbio made one of his Italian shrugs. “Yes, that is strange to me, also. Why come so far, and then stop short of the bishop himself? Well, I may be mistaken.”

      “I will see him at once,” Don Felipe decided. “In my closet.” Pretending not to observe his servant pocketing a sausage, the young priest passed into the little room, smaller even than Fra Guillaume’s, that served him for study and rare private audiences.

      Fray Bartomeu arrived without loss of time—an elderly monastic, creased of face and comfortable of waistline. God grant, thought Don Felipe, that he has not come seeking to draw the bishop’s office still deeper into their everlasting Franciscan squabbles between Conventuals and Observants! Not at this time… Aloud, he courteously requested his visitor to be seated.

      The Franciscan sat, appeared to ponder for the length of an Ave, and said at last: “I would make my Confession.”

      Thinking that once again Gubbio had guessed shrewdly, Don Felipe asked, “Shall we go into church?”

      Fray Bartomeu shook his head. “Not at this time. Not with the hour of High Mass fast approaching, and the place crowded.”

      “As you will.”

      “Shall I begin?”

      Felipe thought, Yes! old man—begin and end and let us be done with all this! Aloud, he said courteously, “Whenever you are prepared, brother.”

      “I last confessed on this Saturday morning just past, to prepare myself for the holy feast. On Saturday afternoon…” Fray Bartomeu’s voice fell still lower… “Pedro Choved

Скачать книгу