Free The Brotherhood of Book Hunters by Howard Curtis, Raphaël Jerusalmy

calling to him. He felt it. And for quite another mission.
    Colin, who was used to these lyrical flights, especially when François had been drinking, stood up without saying a word, his own response being to piss noisily on the undergrowth and the sand. And on this damned country.

11
    T he afternoon was already well under way by the time the convoy began its climb toward Safed, roasting up there in the sun. The line of roofs shimmered slightly, giving the town a dreamlike appearance. The horses struggled up the last part of the ascent until their hooves struck the burning stones of the alleys. Here, there were no inns or taverns. No good Catholics either. The shadows of wretched-looking Muslims and Jews glided past the blue and green house fronts, thus painted to ward off the evil eye. There being little to pillage, the Mamluks were nowhere to be seen. Their detachments were content to patrol the outskirts and bivouac in open country, close to water sources and farms. Even the Church did not deign to favor this place with a monastery or a shrine. And yet this isolated town, devoid of the luxury that gave the cities of the East their reputation, was home to a number of important figures whose spiritual influence spread beyond the sea. Jews everywhere, hiding from the Inquisition or missing an appointment with their landlords, would hasten to their quarters in Seville or Prague to gather in a clandestine place of study. There, one of their people would be waiting for them impatiently in order to read aloud a missive, an instruction or a commentary newly arrived from Safed. Each word was drunk in like a comforting potion, each turn of phrase was applauded as if it were an exceptional acrobatic feat. It was as if the scholars of the Holy Land had come to recite them in person, their shoes still coated with sand, their eyes shining with the sun. Could such a peaceful, isolated town really conceal such wisdom?
    Â 
    Women and children watched the riders pass by with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. François smiled at them, but Colin sat stiff and erect, like a marshal inspecting his troops. Two old Jews with long beards were chatting on a stone bench beneath a palm tree whose branches were laden with dates and moths. They abruptly fell silent as the convoy approached. One of them seemed ready to leap to his feet and run away. The other, wrapped tightly in his caftan, ignored the strangers, muttered some psalm or other, and dozed off, his head propped on his chest.
    At the end of the main street stood an imposing building that blazed white in the sun. Federico was the first to enter. Muleteers and carters waited outside, watering the animals. Inside the house, all was bright. The high walls were painted in bluish hues of a pastel lightness. The waiting room was lit with brass lamps from which hung brightly-colored amulets. On the floor, ceramic flagstones covered with arabesques vied with multicolored rugs. In the patio stood a sweet-smelling fig tree. The secretary led the visitors to a small room furnished with a table and four wooden chairs. He announced that the rabbi would be joining them shortly. Federico explained to François and Colin that Rabbi Gamliel Ben Sira was a highly respected figure, rather like a cardinal, and that it was a rare honor for them to be granted an audience with him. Rabbi Gamliel was a renowned scholar who corresponded with scientists in Nuremberg, professors in Turin, doctors in Amsterdam. He directed one of the most reputable academies in the Jewish world. In addition to that, every morning he dispensed cures and advice to the poor people of the region.
    The rabbi made his entrance through a low door. As the door stood open, François glimpsed a study with a small inlaid Damascus desk piled high with manuscripts and scrolls of parchment.
    â€œ
Shalom
, welcome.”
    Their host’s easy demeanor surprised François. He had been expecting a bearded old man, a patriarch with a