Return to Paradise (Torres Family Saga) (3 page)

      
“We have campaigned the length and breadth of Italy together. I hold him as dear as a brother.” The marques' eyes did not waver.

      
Benjamin decided on a desperate gamble. “What if I were to tell you I have friends within the city walls who would welcome me and my brother?” He held his breath beneath the scrutiny of those unnerving black eyes.

      
Suddenly Pescara gave a sharp bark of laughter. “So, you were shipwrecked with the wrong army! Yet you speak Castilian like a Sevilliard.” He shot a quick glance at the Argonese and said, “Wait outside and repeat nothing of what you have just heard or it is worth your life, Alonso.”

      
The soldier bowed smartly and did as he was ordered. Pescara waited a moment and studied Benjamin, then said softly. “Jews. You are Jews, are you not?”

      
“
Marranos
is the epithet of preference, according to my father. I plan never to set foot in the country of his birth.”

      
Pescara nodded. “Having no other way to save his life, I will trust my eyes and let you take your brother to Marseilles. Tend him well, Physician. What is your name? In case I am ever fallen ill while journeying through Provence again,” he added with wry humor.

      
“Torres. Benjamin Torres, from his Imperial Majesty's colony of Española,`' Benjamin replied.

      
The general bowed smartly. “Tell Rigo I wish him well in his new life. But if he tires of it, he can rejoin me in driving Frenchmen from Italy.” He quickly ordered quill and ink, then wrote a pass for Benjamin and Rigo. After handing it to the physician, he quit the hovel and issued orders for escorts to carry Captain de Las Casas and obey his physician.

      
Benjamin carefully instructed the litter bearers who carried Navaro from the Imperial encampment. As they walked slowly past the filthy, ragged besiegers he studied their faces, grizzled German mercenaries, young Argonese drummer boys, haughty Castilian noblemen. All listened with rapt attention as Pescara's voice carried across the warm autumn air.

      
“My children, the Marseillaise have spread a fine feast for their visitors these past weeks. If you are aching to sup in paradise tonight go forward with Bourbon. If, like me, you have no such craving, follow me back to the plains of Lombardy, for it is ripe for plucking!” The murmurs of approval drowned out any lingering dissent from Bourbon's Provencals.

* * * *

      
Isaac Torres felt every one of his seventy-nine years as he stood over the unconscious man, studying his features with a mixture of dismay and amazement. “Tis like a mirror image caught in a dimly lit room.”

      
“There can be no doubt he is my brother,” Benjamin said softly. “When he regains consciousness you will mark the Torres eyes.”

      
“
If
he regains consciousness. He burns with fever. Perhaps twould be as well if he did not recover.” At his great-nephew's look of horror, the old man placed a gnarled hand on his shoulder gently and said, “I know he is Aaron's son, but you yourself have said it. He was raised by Spanish Christians, a lower-class family, doubtlessly superstitious, illiterate—”

      
“He was well spoken and I found books in his pack. He is not uneducated or ignorant,” Benjamin said heatedly.

      
“Given his upbringing, I have no doubt he has a fervent hatred for all Jews,” Isaac countered.

      
“He is of Jewish blood himself. Once he learns of it, how can he hate it?” Benjamin argued reasonably.

      
Isaac shook his head. The thick, iron-gray hair of middle age had now given way to snowy, thinning locks, but his wizened face was still strong, bluntly chiseled and shrewd. His keen blue eyes, the only feature that he shared with his handsome brother's children, fastened compassionately on Benjamin. “You are so like your grandfather of blessed memory, for whom you are named. He was always inclined to optimism. I, on the other hand, having been a politician for too long, am a realist. Navaro might well not greet the news of his Jewish heritage with any measure of joy. He is a mercenary, a hired assassin, one of the rabble who have laid waste to all of Provence. Like locusts they again invade Italy.”

      
“Our father was a soldier in the Moorish wars. He, too, fought for the Spanish monarchy.”

      
“And look at his reward! His parents, brother and sister burned at the stake by the Holy Office, the rest of the family fortunate to escape Castile and take uncertain refuge here in Marseilles. This man was raised by the sword—the Christian sword. Best beware, Benjamin, that he does not turn it on you.”

      
“I know he is bitter. He thinks Papa deserted him, but I can convince him of the truth—how Papa searched for him, never abandoned hope. You know what finding him will mean to my father, Uncle Isaac? It would break his heart if Navaro died when we finally have found each other.”

      
Isaac threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “All I can do is caution you. We shall just have to—”

      
A sharp rapping on the door to the large bedchamber interrupted him. Isaac had the servant enter. Bowing before the master, he said, “His honor, Judah Toulon, and the Lady Miriam are below.”

      
Benjamin's eyes lit a brilliant blue. “Miriam! It has been months since last we met. Weeks since I received a letter.”

      
Isaac chuckled. “At first light this morning I sent them word of your safe arrival. I knew how worried Judah and your beloved have been since the shipwreck. Tis a miracle you were not drowned. Go, reassure your betrothed that you are safe.”

      
Benjamin turned a worried eye on Navaro once more. “Perhaps I will ask her opinion about treating his wound and fever. She has read some old Arabic and Hebrew commentaries that are in disagreement with Galen about how to proceed.” He addressed the servant, saying, “Watch over my brother, Paul. Call me if he becomes restive. I will return shortly.”

      
“You cannot go much longer without sleep or you will tend no one. Go and assure Miriam that you are indeed safe and well, then get some rest. I will have your betrothed prescribe for him in your stead. She, too, is a
magister
” Isaac said as they walked across the thick Turkish carpet to the open door.

      
Benjamin's haggard face was alight with mirth. “And I know how much stock you set by 'doctoresses,'” he replied with mock gravity.

      
“I will never understand why a sensible man like Judah Toulon allowed his daughter to journey to Padua to study medicine,” Isaac said, shaking his head.

      
“Perhaps because she is his only child and he, like me, dotes on her to distraction,” Benjamin said glibly, as he began to descend the wide stone stairs, several paces ahead of his elderly great-uncle.

      
Isaac only chuckled at the impetuosity of youth and followed sedately.

      
Miriam's wide gray eyes took in the unshaven, gaunt face of her beloved as she rushed into his embrace. Her father stood back, looking past the young couple toward Isaac.

      
“Oh, Benjamin, we feared you drowned when word came the ship was lost in the storm! How ever did you get through the Imperial lines?” Miriam asked, making a swift inventory of his appearance. Although obviously exhausted and disheveled by the harsh elements, he seemed otherwise unharmed.

      
“Tis a long tale, quite amazing really, for we had safe conduct through their forces from General Pescara himself,” Benjamin said. “The army is on its way back to northern Italy. The siege is lifted.”

      
“Praise be to God,” Judah intoned.

      
Isaac proceeded across the shiny pink marble floor of the vast entry hall and greeted Judah Toulon formally. Longtime business competitors, they found themselves now joining in cooperative ventures more frequently as their families were soon to be joined through the marriage of Benjamin and Miriam. “Come, Judah. Let us leave these young people to discuss how they have survived their months apart. Only yesterday, I received word that one of your ships from the Sublime Porte had arrived safely in the harbor.”

      
“How do you always seem to learn things so quickly? Yes, yes,” Judah said, ignoring his own rhetorical question as the two men strolled toward a large open room where a servant awaited them with fruit and wine. ”I have bolts of the most exquisite cloth of gold tissue, even rare spices—sweet saffron and savory pepper...”

      
As the voices of the two old men faded, Miriam reached up and touched Benjamin's face with her long, slim fingertips. “Oh, Benjamin, I was truly frightened.”

      
“You have never been frightened of anything in your life,” Benjamin remonstrated as he took her in his arms and gave her a most thorough kiss.

      
After a moment, she gently but firmly freed herself. “You are exhausted and in need of rest.”

      
“And this is too public a place. Come,” he cajoled, pulling her by the hand.

      
Together they walked toward the library, which was their own special place to talk in private. Once inside Benjamin poured two goblets of watered wine and handed her one. “I have something I must tell you,” he said, both grave and exultant at the same time.

      
Miriam's wide mobile mouth curved up as she sipped delicately and replied, “Why is it I knew you and Uncle Isaac were holding something back from Father?”

      
“I have found my brother Navaro!”

      
Her eyes rounded in amazement. “The...the half-caste boy that vanished in the Indies before you were born? Here?”

      
“He was with the Imperial army.” Benjamin quickly related the details of his shipwreck and subsequent treatment of Pescara's captain, ending with their arrival at the Torres city house the previous evening.

      
“Twas a wonder the night watch did not kill you,” Miriam said tightly, horrified at Benjamin's near brush with death.

      
“I used my best Provencal, believe me, but twas the retreating lines of the whole Imperial army that swayed them to open the gates.” His face, too, turned sober as he added, “His wound is grave, Miriam. I fear he may not survive.”

      
“How can you be so certain this Rodrigo de Las Casas, a Spaniard, is your brother?” she asked skeptically.

      
“Come,” he said, setting down his goblet and taking her hand. “I will show you.”

      
When they entered the sick room at the end of the long hallway on the second floor, Benjamin dismissed Paul and then took a heavy silver candelabra from the table by the door. He crossed the room to where Rigo lay in a drugged sleep and drew back the bed hangings.

      
Miriam's gasp echoed in the still, cold silence as she stared at Rigo's face, then at Benjamin's.

      
“Now you can see why I do not doubt,” he said softly. “Even the eyes, Miriam, are Torres eyes, so very blue in that swarthy face.”

      
Just then the subject of their perusal moaned in his sleep. Miriam reached out and touched his brow with professional detachment, then moved her fingertips deftly to feel the pulse in his neck. “He is burning with fever. You have given him something to make him rest calmly.”

      
“Tincture of poppy juice—more than I prefer to use, but the wound is still open and I fear to have him start bleeding afresh with thrashing. I need your help Miriam,” he said earnestly. “That woman who was gored by the wild boar during a hunt last year.”

      
“The Comtesse De Blois? I was summoned to her villa miles outside the city. Twas a wonder she survived; it took them so long to fetch me.”

      
“You told me you sewed the slash, much as one might mend a ripped tunic—I believe those were your exact words?”

      
“Yes, but that was my patient, a woman who was injured in a hunting accident. I know nothing of battlefield injuries except what I have read from Hippocrates and the Arabs. The usual method of cauterizing in extreme wounds is to seal off bleeding with boiling oil.”

      
“Which kills more men than it saves,” he said forcefully.

      
“You spent too much time talking with that insane Swiss, Theophrastus Von Hohenheim, when you visited Basle,” she admonished.

      
“He prefers to be called Paracelsus,” he corrected. “But I have had none of his experience treating battle wounds. He says to use wet, cool compresses and let the area drain so the body can cleanse itself and heal. But that only works if the wound opening admits of healing. This one is as long as my hand and—”

      
“And you want me to stitch him as I did the countess? I do not know, Benjamin,” she said uncertainly.

      
“I know it has not been done—”

      
“Of a surety not by a woman on a man!” Miriam replied vehemently. Her practice had always been rigidly restricted to female patients, even though she had attended the same lectures and had viewed the same anatomical dissections on male and female cadavers as had the male students at Padua.

      
“The comtesse recovered fully, did she not?” At her nod of acquiescence, he persevered. “Please, Miriam, this is my brother and I need your help. You are a fine physician and a better surgeon than I.”

      
“Only because I was born female and forced to practice embroidery as a child,” she scoffed.