The Kabbalist (7 page)

The taste of victory is
intoxicating. I find it hard to express my emotions and the pride I feel as a
son of the French Republic, facing the primitive savages of this land, who are
not even brave enough to stand up and fight.

After I had taken care
of my men, I found some time to relax and write this letter to you. Strangely
enough, at this rare moment of respite between battles, I find myself yearning
for a certain woman in Safed, whom I wonder whether I ever get to see again.

Long Live the Republic,

Your loving son,

Pascal de Charney

*    *    *

Luria finished reading and
raised his head. His eyes met Jeanne’s. “I must admit that history was never my
specialty,” he said, “but this reads like an adventure novel. And all this
happened not far from here… this is fascinating.”

Jeanne smiled. “History
is basically a collection of life stories, and when it involves places we know
or people we feel related to, it becomes personal, and then it is even more
fascinating. This is also the main reason for me being here – to discover my
family’s part in this story.” She fell silent for a moment, her eyes remaining
on him.

“Before we go on,” she
added. “I would like you to read an English translation of another letter, a
short one this time.” She handed him a printed sheet of paper.

Luria put down the stack
of sheets he was holding, took the new one and started reading.

*    *    *

Prairial 29
^th
,
Year 7 of the French Republic,

(June 17
^th
,
1799)

Cairo.

My honored sir,

Your son, Pascal de
Charney, was killed on Floreal 21
^st
(May 10
^th
, 1799),
while
leading his soldiers in the attack on the walls of Acre. He died with honor and
without pain, a death any soldier would have wished for himself.

I have had the honor of
personally knowing both you and Pascal. Your son, like you, was an excellent
officer who showed exceptional bravery and his commanders expected him to go
far.

Your loss touches my
heart. It is a terrible moment when we have to part from a loved one, but I
assure you that you can be very proud of Pascal.

As a soldier to a
veteran soldier of France and the revolution, I cannot tell you more than you
already know about life, death and honor.

I weep with you and can
only hope that you will find some solace in the friendship I will always have
for you, and in the honor I will always have for the memory of your brave son.

Yours respectfully,

Napoleon Bonaparte

*    *    *

Luria looked up. “A truly
majestic letter; was it really written by Napoleon?”

“Definitely; I have the
original. It is in his handwriting and bears his signature. Napoleon had an
exceptional capacity for expressing himself in writing, as well as in speech.
It was one of the qualities which made him such a great leader.”

“Very impressive.”

Luria was thinking. The
200-year-old story of the French Officer was exciting, yet the private
investigator in him felt uneasy. He could not pinpoint what it was, but
something in de Charney's letter felt odd. He mused a bit longer but failing to
focus, decided to repress this thought for the time being. He will have to
return to it later.

And there was something
else, something which personally connected him to the story. “Did you know that
I grew up in Safed?” He asked.

Jeanne was genuinely
surprised. “Is that so?”

“Yes. My family has roots
in Safed, going hundreds of years back.”

Jeanne’s eyes widened.
“No, no, I did not know that,” she said in wonder. “This is incredible. It is
as if fate has brought us together and now you, too, are part of this story!
This is amazing!” her enthusiasm and excitement were contagious.

“Well,” Laughed Luria,
“I am a skeptic by nature and for me it is also a professional asset. I am not
good at all with fate or faith, but this certainly gives me a special interest
in this case.”

Jeanne kept silent, but
her eyes told him that she saw things differently. ‘Well, this is fine with
me’, he thought. ‘Women have a weak spot for romance and mystery. This is
probably why she is here anyway, and I am OK with that.’ He smiled. “Well,
then, what is the task that you have in mind for me?”

“I believe you have
already guessed it by now,” replied Jeanne. “Pascal spent a short while in
Safed. It seems that during this short time, he formed a special relationship,
maybe even a romantic one, with a young local Jewish woman…”

‘Here we go...’ Luria
made a mental sigh. ‘Women…’

“This is the reason I
am here. I want you to trace this woman and her family.”

Luria expected that,
yet… “Please forgive my tactlessness, but besides the historical background,
this aspect of the story sounds like a teenage girls’ novel material. Why does
it really matter to you what happened between a cavalry officer, granted he was
family, and a Jewish girl he saw for a week, more than 200 years ago? Is it
just romanticism?”

The smile vanished from
the blue eyes. Jeanne was angry, but even anger became her. “You are a man and
you understand nothing,” she snapped. “First, this is my family’s history and I
am intrigued. Besides, I also believe this story will develop and provide a new
dimension to my thesis. You may call it female intuition, if you will.”

Luria doubted that.
‘But does it really matter?’ he thought. ‘This is a job, and it sure beats
following adulterous husbands… and there is this dazzling client…’ For now this
would do.

“Well,” he said, “female
intuition is one thing I could never argue with, so let us get to work. What
have we got here, then? 1799, a young cavalry officer called Pascal de Charney
and a young Jewish girl from Safed called Rivka. Is that it?”

“Pretty much so.”

“Are there any more
letters mentioning her? Is there any additional material that may shed some
light upon their relationship or her background?”

“No,” said Jeanne, and
Luria thought she hesitated for an extra split of a second. “This is all there
is.”

Luria had his own intuitions,
and they were telling him otherwise, but this was not the right time. “Well,”
he said, “this task falls more in the domain of a historian than in that of a
private eye, but I’ll see what I can do. First, I would like to ask you to
leave with me copies of the two letters.”

Jeanne hesitated. “This
material is very sensitive from a family perspective and besides, this is a
historical source that I plan to be the first to publish.”

“Well, Jeanne,” said
Luria, “if I am to work on this case, you must trust me. I’ll keep the letters
in my office safe, and I solemnly promise I am not going to publish an academic
essay that will compete with yours. And, anyway, these are not the originals.”

Jeanne’s smile made him
forget Srur, Porat and the rest of the scum who populated his world. “OK,” she declared,
“I believe you.”

“So, we are left only
with the issue of fees,” noted Luria and she smiled. “And then, of course,
we’ll have to find out which type of food you like and when you are free for
dinner.”

T
he sun was setting.
Pierre de Severy stood alone in a room overlooking the city, gazing at the
turmoil below. The tidings from the battlefield have been going from bad to
worse. After Guillaume de Beaujeu’s death, the situation kept escalating. The
Hospitaller Marshal, Matthew de Clermont,
who
led another failed attack to recapture the Accursed Tower, fell in battle, too.
The Saracens were all over town, annihilating almost everybody they ran into,
with the lucky ones shackled and taken to the pens, later to be sold as slaves.
Total chaos reigned when a huge crowd tried to board the last few ships.
Thousands were left on the piers. For most of them, these were their last
hours.

When the sun
disappeared, strange silence fell over the defeated city. The flickering red of
burning fires all around town made the place look like hell on earth. Pierre
found himself wandering in a different world, trying to detach himself from the
disaster surrounding him. For a moment, he convinced himself that this was just
a nightmare, and that he could will himself to snap out of it and everything
would return to normal, but then came a knock on the door, and he was thrown
back into the harsh reality.

Thibaud Gaudin, the
treasurer, Guillaume de Caffran, Mark de Tramelay and Louis de Clairvaux, the
senior Templars still alive, walked quietly inside. Their seemingly calm faces
concealed the storm raging in their hearts. Pierre signaled them to sit down
around the table in the middle of the room. The four dropped heavily into their
chairs, staring at their leader. The silence in the room spoke a thousand
words.

“The situation is grave,”
said Pierre at last. “The walls, as you all know, were breached this morning
and the heretics are in control of the city. Thousands were killed and not all
citizens were able to flee in ships. The Knights Hospitaller were beaten and
defeated, and those of them who were not slain ran for their lives. The
Hospitaller Fort fell to the Saracens and de Villiers, the Hospitaller Grand
Master, was wounded and dragged by his men to be evacuated on one of their
ships. King Henry and his soldiers have escaped to Cyprus as well.”

He waited a moment to
see the impression of these grim words on his subordinates. Not a muscle moved
in their faces, and Pierre noted to himself with satisfaction, that he could
not have found better comrades in the company of whom he would wish to end his
life.

“We are the last warriors
in Acre to face the Saracens,” he said. “We have our small pier, and perhaps we
may receive some provisions and help by way of the sea…” He paused for a
second, realizing that he did not really believe what he had just said. No help
was coming and he knew it, but he had to preserve a glimmer of hope in the hearts
of these brave men. “But I will not conceal from you the severity of the
predicament we are in. I summoned you here to decide our course of action at
this critical time… perhaps the most crucial the Kingdom of Jerusalem has ever
known since the liberation of the Holy Land.” He turned to Mark. “Captain of
the Guard, please report the status of personnel in the fort.”

De Tramelay passed his
gaze around before speaking. “We have in the fort about 200 knights, 150 of
whom are fit, and about 400 sergeants and soldiers, out of whom 300 are fit. There
are also about 200 civilians who have found shelter with us, most of them women
and children. About sixty of them are able-bodied men who can fight.”

“Our chances of
survival are slim,” observed Pierre, “but we must protect the civilians first.”
He turned to de Caffran, who had been a member of the delegation to the Sultan
Al-Ashraf Khalil two weeks before. “Guillaume, what are the chances for an
honorable agreement with the Sultan?”

De Caffran thought a
while. “We can try,” he said cautiously, “but we will have to fight first. The
Sultan is drunk with victory now. Only when he understands that we are willing
to fight to the end and can inflict heavy casualties upon him, will he be
persuaded to offer us honorable terms.”

Louis de Clairvaux
could not restrain himself anymore and jumped to his feet. He was the youngest
in the room and the most hot-tempered. Despite his young age, he had already
won himself a reputation of a fearless knight and a revered leader of men.
“Damn the Sultan and his Saracen fiends,” he shouted in anger. “Brothers, if we
are to die here, let us take him with us and as many of his heathen officers
and men as we can. The Kingdom of Jerusalem lives and our brothers will be back
to avenge us. Let us fight to the death, I say, and not grovel to the infidel
dogs.”

De Severy signaled him
to sit down and the young man slammed furiously into his chair. Pierre gave him
a severe look, concealing the affection he felt for the youthful commander. He
was once like that, but now he had to assume the responsibility for the lives
of hundreds of people, and the years had turned him into a sober and
cool-tempered commander. “Mark?” he turned again to the Commander of the Guard
for his assessment. De Tramelay was a man whose judgment Pierre had learned to
value.

“We must be prepared to
wield our arms and fight,” said Mark quietly. “If an honorable offer arrives
from the Sultan, let us discuss it and if not… we’ll take him and many of his
men with us.”

“Thibaud?”

Thibaud Gaudin nodded
his agreement with his comrades. De Severy passed his gaze over all four of
them. He thought for a while. “Very well,” he said at last, “we will fight. I
believe the siege will be upon us within hours. Mark, you handle the civilians.
See how they can be effectively recruited into the ranks of your men. Louis,
you shall prepare the defense plan. Also, check how many vessels we still have,
which can sail from our small pier if necessary. Guillaume, you will take over
the logistics. Check our food and ammunition reserves and the viability of
operating the west pier for receiving supplies. In addition, try to open a
communication channel to the Sultan. We shall meet here again in two hours with
your reports and discuss our readiness for battle.” The four stood up.

De Severy raised his
hand. “
Non nobis Domine, non nobis, sed nomine tuo, da gloriam
." His
four comrades repeated after him.

Pierre signaled Thibaud
to stay. The other three turned and left the room, each to his assignment. The
two knights were left alone, facing each other.

“Thibaud, my brother,” said
Pierre after a long silence, “Providence has placed us sinners in the hardest
of trials. Jerusalem fell 100 years ago to Saladin, and now goes Acre. If we
lose the Holy Land, our glorious Order will lose its
raison d'être,
and
that can well be the beginning of its end. Someone will have to shoulder the
great task of picking up the pieces and saving the Order. Our late Grand Master
was the one most fitting for this undertaking, but a treacherous arrow pierced
his heart and took him away from us. It is now for you and me to share the
burden. I gave it much thought during the last few hours, and I realized that
between the two of us, you are the one with the capacity and political connections.
You are much more suitable than me to lead the Order from darkness into light
again, and redefine the mission of the
Poor Fellow-Knights of Christ and the
Temple of Solomon
. And, who knows, maybe you will be able to persuade the
Church to recruit new armies to rescue the Holy Land from the claws of the
barbaric heretics and restore its glory.”

Tears came to Gaudin’s eyes,
and he lowered his head, unwilling to expose his weakness.

“I am the Marshall, the
military commander. I am the soldier,” continued Pierre. “I will lead our men
into battle and will strive to provide us all with an honorable death, after we
send many Saracens to their graves. We will set an example for generations to
come. You should be Grand Master and do your duty.”

Thibaud raised his
head. “My place is here at your side, Pierre my brother. We shall fight this
battle together, even if it is the last.”

De Severy smiled
bitterly. “You must preserve your life. You are our hope, and you must get out
of here alive.”

“But you are mistaken,
brother. You are the stronger and better man. You are the one who should save
us.”

Pierre shook his head.
“Who is strong? What is good? Who can tell which of us is stronger or better?
It does not mean a thing. The only thing that matters now is saving the Order,
and for this specific task God awarded you with better skills than He awarded
me.”

Thibaud kept silent for
a moment, dazed, and then abruptly shook himself out of it, as if he had just
remembered something. “And… where… and where is the…” His voice quivered and
the unfinished sentence was left hanging in the air.

“It was my first
concern,” said de Severy. “I wanted to deliver it into your hands, but you were
away in the midst of battle. I did not know whether or when you were coming back,
and I did not want to take unnecessary risks. I placed it in the hands of one
of our most valiant knights, Philippe de Charney, with instructions to deliver
it to the next Grand Master. He will guard it with his life. Philippe boarded a
galley a few hours ago, and he is on his way to Cyprus. You will meet him
there. It is supposed to be a source of strength. I know you will put it to
good use.”

Gaudin shook his head
in disagreement. “My good brother, you are asking too much of me. How can I
live with the knowledge that I deserted you and my other brothers in the face
of the enemy? Who will respect me or listen to me afterwards?”

Pierre de Severy
recalled the similar argument made by de Charney a few hours before and smiled.
He felt very proud. ‘Lord’, he thought, ‘How lucky I am to live and die with such
people by my side!’ He took a few steps forward. “Thibaud, my brother, time is
short and we must not talk too much. You know I am right. Had you not returned
safe and sound from battle, I would have loaded this task upon my less fitting
shoulders. But, praise God, He extended some mercy to us and protected you. You
are the chosen one, and now I can assume the simpler task, and burden you with
the harder one. Please, save the Order, brother. Only you can do it!”

The two embraced and
then de Severy took a step back and got down on his knees. “Let us pray, my
brother.”

Thibaud Gaudin knelt by
his side.