CHAPTER 4
Rahab set down his heavy bag of swatches and mopped his face. The fierce sun had turned last night’s storm-rain into hazy humidity. The climb was long and steep from the narrow streets of the Tsiyonim Quarter to the cooler heights where the Belcastel mansion overlooked the sweltering city. He had no wish to appear hot and sticky before Schimeon’s most illustrious clients. He had gone to the baths early this morning, but the heat of high summer and the weight of the bag had sent sweat trickling down his body, undoing his efforts.
After Jaufré d’Orbiel’s public accusation, Schimeon had fully expected Lord Berengar to cancel the wedding contract – yet that very morning, a message had arrived confirming the afternoon’s appointment.
A servitor led Rahab through a hall hung with tapestries, shields and antlered hunting trophies to a door which led out into a terraced garden.
Two young women were sitting in an arbour heavy with creamy honeysuckle, sipping wine from goblets of fine, translucent glass; Lord Berengar was leaning over them. They were laughing together.
Rahab paused a moment, entranced by this summer idyll. They seemed so idle, so carefree, the girls in their loose silks, pale as marguerites, their chatter floating like distant music into the cicada-whirring air.
Then Lord Berengar glanced up and saw him.
‘Good-day to you, Rahab.’
Rahab bowed his head in greeting but kept his eyes on the terrace paving, studying a crack through which a creeping plant had emerged. Always be polite, Schimeon had advised him – but never obsequious or fawning. Maintain your dignity – but remember your place.
‘Lia and I couldn’t agree on the materials for our wedding clothes, Alissende,’ said Lord Berengar, ‘so you must act as arbiter.’
‘Bring him to the solar!’ cried Lady Alissende, leaping up. ‘He can spread the materials out on the big table.’
To Rahab’s relief, the solar was cool after the intense heat of the sunlit garden. He began to unwrap his bundle and shook out square after square of fabrics: brocades, velvets, silks.
‘What a rich shade …
‘Tawny, like a fox.’
The girls eagerly picked up each swatch in turn, exclaiming over the dyes, whilst Berengar stood, arms folded, slightly aloof from their deliberations as though it were beneath his dignity to involve himself in women’s matters.
‘What about this pearl silk?’ Alissende handed it to Lia.
Lia stroked the silk against her cheek. ‘It feels so light. Like thistledown.’
‘Might I suggest matching the pearl with an overskirt of the gold-threaded lily brocade?’ Rahab placed the two fabrics in her hand and laid a third, a velvet of pale gold, beside them.
‘Oh, yes. Look, Berengar. What do you think of these?’ She held them up so that he could see the colours against her skin.
‘Mmm. But maybe the velvet is too heavy?’
Rahab cleared his throat. ‘I understand the marriage is to take place in the autumn. The winds can blow cold across the mountains.’
‘You see?’ Lia said. ‘Your tailor thinks of everything.’
‘And for you, sieur, this darker velvet, honey and burnt umber … or the new shade they are calling Dragon’s Blood?’
Rahab drew out another two swatches to set against the ones Lia had chosen, displaying his wares with the flourish of a marketplace conjuror.
‘These richer shades will complement the colour of your hair, sieur.’
Berengar frowned, flicking critically between the two swatches.
‘Which do you prefer, Lia?’
‘I think he’s right,’ Lia said, smiling up at him. ‘The darker colours suit you very well.’
‘If the sieur would be so good as to let me assist him in removing his tunic, I’ll take some preliminary measurements …’
Rahab expertly eased the tunic from Berengar’s shoulders, and unwinding a length of notched string from his pocket, stretched it from the nape of Berengar’s neck to his waist, from shoulder to wrist, counting notches under his breath and making notes with a piece of chalk.
‘Hola!’ A voice rang out in the courtyard below. ‘Is the Sieur de Belcastel at home?’
Rahab started and dropped his chalk; he recognised that voice with its strong singer’s resonance: Jaufré d’Orbiel.
Berengar flung open the window and called down into the courtyard.
‘Here, Jaufré! We’re choosing our wedding clothes. Come up and help us in our choice!’
Alissende flew to the window and cried out, ‘Yes, do come up and help us!’
Rahab shrank back into the shadows. The last person in all Arcassanne he wanted to meet this afternoon was Jaufré d’Orbiel.
‘Comte Aymon has summoned us,’ Jaufré called. ‘Be at the Palace within the hour.’
Berengar closed the window and turned back to Lia. ‘Did you hear? The Comte himself! It must be a matter of some importance.’
‘More important than our wedding plans?’ Lia said acidly.
Why was Aymon summoning the Hawks? Had they discovered new evidence to incriminate the Tsiyonim? Rahab, flustered, could no longer concentrate on the wedding clothes; his thoughts kept straying.
‘Hurry with those last measurements, will you, Rahab?’ Berengar said.
Rahab lifted his measuring tape. But where before his movements had been quick and deft, now he became clumsy, fumbling in his haste to get things finished.
Berengar began to tap one foot on the floor impatiently.
‘This is taking too long.’
‘I can complete the other measurements later, if the sieur so desires –’
‘I do so desire.’ Berengar seized his tunic.
‘You seem very eager to be on your way,’ Lia said, offended.
‘Duty calls, ma mie.’ He grabbed her hand and brushed it with his lips, a perfunctory farewell.
‘Don’t call me that, you know I hate it.’ She snatched her hand away. ‘Alissende and I will choose what you wear, then? Yellow and red stripes maybe? Jongleur’s colours?’
‘Fine! He was already out of sight, carelessly flinging the last word back.
Rahab sensed he was de trop. Hastily he rolled his swatches up into a bundle and, nodding a quick bow to the damoiselles, backed towards the door and scurried away.
‘Murderers!’
Rahab heard the shouting as he approached the gate to the Tsiyonim Quarter. He hesitated, uncertain whether to go any further.
‘Tsiyonim filth!’
Edging warily to the end of the street, he peered around and saw a group of men and women gathered together, angrily haranguing a thin, stooped figure.
‘No – no – my good people – you’re mistaken –’
Rahab recognised the mild tones of Rebh Jehiel.
‘Liar!’
A man stooped to gather up a handful of mud and lobbed it at the scholar, covering his worn coat in dirt. Others followed suit.
Rahab heard a voice shouting out, ‘Let him be! He’s just an old man.’ To his horror he realised as they turned around that it had been his voice. Whatever had possessed him to be so stupid?
Well, he had started this, he would somehow have to brazen it out.
He began to walk forwards towards Jehiel, forcing himself to keep his pace unhurried. He sensed their hostility as he approached; he could almost smell it in the air. And who were they? Just ordinary people, housewives, tradesmen.
He reached Jehiel, who was cowering on his knees, his arms covering his head. Bending down, he whispered, ‘Are you hurt?’
The old man shook his head; he seemed too shocked to speak.
‘Child-killers!’ cried a woman, her voice shrill with hysteria.
‘Come,’ Rahab said, hooking his arm around Jehiel’s shoulders, trying to pull him up to his feet. ‘Take no notice.’
Something whizzed through the air and struck the gate above Rahab’s head. A large pebble. Dear God, they were going to stone them to death.
‘Quickly!’ urged Rahab, stumbling forwards, dragging Jehiel with him.
A hail of stones followed. One hit Rahab on the back of the head – but he kept dragging the old scholar onwards.
‘Break it up! Break it up!’
Stones no longer cracked on to the cobbles. Rahab propped Jehiel against a doorway and dared to look back over his shoulder.
Beyond the gateway they stood, still staring at him with hostility. But a man had placed himself between them, a richly dressed young man, with a mane of fair hair.
‘Did you hear me? Go about your business. It’s over.’
The crowd lingered a moment or two longer … then, one by one, moved away. The young man stood his ground until they had all gone. Then he turned – and Rahab recognised Berengar, Lord of Belcastel.
‘Are you all right?’ Berengar asked, coming towards him.
Rahab put his hand to the back of his head and winced.
‘Thank you, sieur. Just a bruise.’ He turned to Jehiel but the old man was still winded and could only clasp his hands together in a gesture of thanks. Shutters began to open on either side of the street; curious faces appeared, wide-eyed.
‘Good.’ Berengar nodded. He turned back towards the gate.
‘Thank you, thank you, sieur –’
Berèngar raised his hand to silence Rahab.
‘Just be sure you make a good job of my wedding clothes, tailor.’
‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Schimeon protested Jehiel.
‘No, no, Rahab was right to bring you here.’ Schimeon took the old scholar’s arm and drew him into the house. ‘You’re in no fit state to return home alone. I’m going to summon the Elders. Sit down in the cool and rest.’
‘Let me fetch you something to drink, Rebh Jehiel,’ Chadassah said, easing him into the most comfortable chair.
‘Look at the mud on your coat!’ exclaimed Schimeon. ‘Rahab, take Rebh Jehiel’s coat. He’ll clean and mend it for you, won’t you, Rahab?’
‘Rahab will do nothing of the sort!’ Chadassah said. ‘Can’t you see? He’s bleeding.’
‘Am I?’ Rahab, surprised, put one hand to the soreness at the back of his head; his fingers came away smeared with blood. Now that the excitement was over, he suddenly felt rather weak.
‘I’ll clean that up for you. Now, Rebh Jehiel, how about a cup of camomile tea? That’s good to calm the nerves.’
‘Mama! Mama!’
Schimeon’s little daughters, Thirzah and Iudith, came running in.
‘What’s happening?’
‘How did Rahab hurt his head?’
‘Let’s go find Mama’s magic medicine for bumped heads.’ Chadassah shooed them out.
‘Tsk, tsk!’ Schimeon was examining Jehiel’s coat. ‘These sleeves are worn through at the elbow. And the cuffs … Rebh Jehiel, do me a favour, accept a new coat. It will be my pleasure to make you one.’
Jehiel held up his hand.
‘My dear wife Miriam, may she rest in peace, gave me that coat. I would not dream of throwing it away.’
‘Your wife Miriam was a good woman. Would she want to see her husband dressed in rags? I’ve just finished a fine coat. Arcassanne wool, light and soft. Dark blue, lined with silk. I’d like you to have it. Don’t offend me, Jehiel, by refusing it.’
‘I’m very fond of my old coat, Schimeon. It’s like … a part of me. It has memories. Besides … I’m not so fond of blue.’
‘At least wear the blue coat home tonight. For the sake of my business. I can just hear the rumours: “Did you see that? Rebh Jehiel left Schimeon’s in his shirtsleeves! What kind of a tailor sends his customers home without a coat on their backs!” Rahab can bring you your old coat when he’s mended it.’
‘You’re a very persuasive man, Schimeon,’ Jehiel said, capitulating.
‘Rahab’s not mending anything until I’ve bathed his head.’ Chadassah came back bearing a cup of fragrant camomile tea for Rebh Jehiel and a basin of hot water. ‘Now, let’s take a look …’
Rahab felt her fingers gently lifting and parting the hair at the back of his head. He winced.
‘Hold still,’ she chided, dipping a clean rag in the hot salt water and starting to dab at the wound.
Rahab’s eyes began to water as the salt sank into the abrasions.
‘Does it hurt?’ enquired a solemn voice, and he saw that the little girls were watching him with great interest.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘It hurt when I fell over and cut my knee,’ Thirzah announced to Rebh Jehiel, lifting her skirt to show the scar, ‘but I didn’t cry.’
‘Yes you did.’
‘Didn’t!’
‘I’ll have to cut some of your hair.’ Chadassah reached for her scissors. ‘Behind the ear …’
‘Cut away,’ Rahab said resignedly, wishing that Iudith and Thirzah would not argue so loudly when his head was throbbing. He heard the snip of Chadassah’s scissors, felt the tug of the blades against the matted strands of hair, then the soft pressure of the damp cloth, wiping away the last of the dried blood.
‘What’s this?’ She paused in her dabbing. ‘Some kind of … birthmark?’ She peered more closely. ‘It looks like a … a tattoo.’
Rebh Jehiel looked up from his camomile tea.
‘Let me see.’ He came over and peered at Rahab’s scalp whilst Chadassah held back the hair.
‘Tattoo?’ Rahab said, irritated at being prodded and examined. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You didn’t know you had this mark?’
‘No!’
‘Ahh,’ said Jehiel, nodding, going back to his chair.
‘Well?’ Chadassah began to apply her witchhazel salve. ‘Do you know what it is, Rebh Jehiel? Have you ever seen anything like it before?’
Jehiel shook his head. He seemed absorbed in drinking his tea.
The salve had begun to work its soothing cool on Rahab’s bruised head; he stood up, looking around for a mirror. Chadassah unhooked her little hand-mirror from the chain around her waist and handed it to him. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in the workroom, he tried to angle the hand-mirror so that he could reflect the back of his head.
There was something there … smudged blue and red tattoo-marks in a whorl-pattern that was too regular to be a birthmark. But who had put it there? And when? He had no memory of any such operation being performed on him … but then he had tried to obliterate all memories of Galicys, as if he had sealed his life there in a chest and thrown away the key.
Did Jehiel know what the whorl pattern meant?
Rahab’s head throbbed with the effort of thinking.
He would ask him … later … when this pounding headache had calmed. Now all he wanted was a quiet, dark room … and another soothing poultice.
The Elders gathered at Schimeon’s house. Chadassah went amongst them, offering cinnamon cakes and raisin wine. Rahab, head still aching, hovered on the edge of the circle, neither invited in nor excluded.
The way I see it,’ Schimeon said, ‘is that we are no longer welcome in Arcassanne. We must start to make plans.’
‘I’m not leaving!’ cried a voice. Rahab recognised the querulous tones of the Eldest, Baruch. ‘I secured us a safe haven here. Fifty years ago the people of this city agreed to let us live and practise our beliefs in Arcassanne undisturbed. They signed a contract. Comte Aymon’s father – may he rest in peace –’
‘Contracts can be torn up, burned,’ Schimeon said, shrugging. ‘A great deal can happen in fifty years. Aymon is not the man his father was.’
‘I’m too old to make another move. Arcassanne is my home,’ grumbled Baruch.
‘According to their reasoning, good fortune will not return to Arcassanne until the boy’s killer is brought to justice,’ said Mandel the Shoemaker, shaking his head. ‘All the ill luck that befalls the city will be blamed on us. Take last night’s storm –’
‘And that’s the fault of the Tsiyonim? Yes, yes, we’ve heard it all before, haven’t we? In Galicys – and in Tolonada – and before that in Ebora. When there’s sickness, they blame us. When the harvest fails, they blame us. What possible reason could we have for wanting to spoil the corn? If there’s not enough corn to go round, we starve too.’ Baruch held out his glass for Chadassah to refill. ‘Excellent raisin wine, my dear, I can almost taste the sun ripening the grapes on the vine.’
‘But where could we go?’ persisted Mandel. ‘Where is safe?’
‘The mountains,’ Schimeon said. ‘Tifereth.’
Tifereth. Rahab glanced up. Tifereth, high in the mountains, far away from the distractions of everyday life. Tifereth, the house of learning and prayer, college of the students of the Sacred Laws, renowned for their scholarship and wisdom. Once he had been destined for a life of study …
‘You won’t catch me climbing mountains.’ Baruch took a noisy sip of his wine. ‘Not at my age! I’m staying here. Let the young ones go if they wish, let them leave the sick and the old to fend for themselves …’
Rahab silently took the glass of raisin wine Chadassah offered him. She shook her head at him, whispering in his ear, ‘Old men. All talk.’
‘We have to make plans. Each time in the past we’ve said, “Let’s weather the storm, sit it out.” And what’s happened? Torches in the night.’
Rahab stared into the dark wine in his cup, seeing florets of candlelight reflected in the liquid, like distant torches. He shuddered.
‘It’ll be talk of poison in the wells next, you mark my words,’ Schimeon was saying.
‘The only poison in Arcassanne comes from the ideas spread by Jaufré d’Orbiel.’ Baruch wiped the sticky drops of wine from his curling white beard. ‘Do we not honour and obey our Sacred Laws? Why should we want to sacrifice a child? The death of a child – that is the most terrible thing.’
‘Can we be certain it was not one of us?’ Mandel said. ‘Maybe we have to hold our own investigation.’ His words were almost smothered in an outburst of protests.
‘But why leave the body on my doorstep?’ Schimeon asked.
‘Do you know of anyone who might harbour a grudge against you, against your family?’
‘Fe!’ Mandel said dismissively. ‘It could have been anyone’s doorstep – as long as they were Tsiyonim.’
‘Schimeon’s right. It might be a clue to the killer’s identity –’
‘I say you’re wasting your time trying to find out who did it,’ Schimeon said. ‘Start to pack your valuables and board up your shops. If we leave for Tifereth now, we’ll make it before the first winter snows.’
Rahab saw Chadassah raise her apron to her mouth to stifle a cry.
‘And if we run, they’ll say it’s as good as an admission of guilt. Don’t you want to clear your name, Schimeon?’
‘Rebh Jehiel – what do you advise?’ Schimeon turned to the old scholar who till that moment had been listening, taking no part in the argument.
‘Yes, Jehiel, tell us,’ Baruch said. ‘What should we do?’
There was a long pause, in which Jehiel seemed to be pondering what had been said before.
‘My dear friends,’ he said eventually, ‘you must make up your own minds on the matter. I am too old to go to Tifereth. Arcassanne has been my home for the past fifty years. All my memories are here. I shall stay – and weather the storm.’
The light was slowly fading from Rahab’s garret; Rahab still sat sewing, determined to finish mending Rebh Jehiel’s coat before nightfall. But although his hand moved rhythmically, mechanically, pushing the needle in and out of the worn cloth, his thoughts kept returning to what had been said at last night’s Council of Elders.
What was he still doing here in Arcassanne? Why was he sitting cross-legged, pushing a needle and thread, when he should be searching for his brother?
So many years had passed. He was a grown man, not the frightened starving child who had made the arduous journey to the haven of Arcassanne. How could he have broken his contract with Schimeon before the appointed time? Schimeon and Chadassah were all the family he had now; they had taken him in, fed and clothed him, trained him –
He owed them.
This time it would not be the same as it was in Tolonada, in Galicys.
He jabbed the needle viciously into the cloth.
He would not let it happen again. Iudith and little Thirzah would not be caught up in the same terror that had split him from Shaoni, from his own parents.
Shaoni …
The dreams had begun again. For the last year or so they had ceased and he had found a kind of peace, an acceptance. But now the dead child had conjured them back. Last night he had awoken sweating, staring into the darkness, seeing nothing but flame-lit faces, distorted by fear – and Shaoni.
He had sat hunched in his garret, gazing out at the ramshackle rooftops and chimneys, unable, unwilling to sleep, going over the fragmented memories of that distant night, tormenting himself with thoughts of what he should have done. If only he’d run this way, not down that alley, if only he’d tied Shaoni’s wrist to his own, if only he’d hidden in the cellar, waited till the mob went past …
Now a new, grim determination had formed in his mind.
He had not been able to save Shaoni … but he would give his life’s blood to save the Tsiyonim children of Arcassanne from the hatred stirred up by Jaufré d’Orbiel.
*
The rough stones of the city walls had trapped the day’s heat in the lanes, and there was a taste of dust on the air that dried the mouth and made the eyes sting. Rahab walked slowly, relishing the first stir of the evening breeze. The sweet, powdery scent of tamarisks drifted across the lane from a neighbouring garden. Rahab sniffed the breeze; he could smell cooking. His mouth watered at the enticing aroma of tomatoes seething with basil and garlic coming from Baruch’s kitchen.
Rebh Jehiel’s house was the last at the end of the lane. Since the death of Jehiel’s wife Miriam three summers ago, the old scholar had lived on in the house alone, surrounded by his books and his cats, politely but stubbornly refusing all offers of more comfortable accommodation. The children of the community who attended his classes usually paid with gifts of food – and tonight, honouring the old custom, Rahab had brought a cake from Chadassah.
Mischkin, one of Jehiel’s grey cats, leapt silently down from the windowsill and came to wind himself about Rahab’s leg, purring ingratiatingly.
Rahab scratched the cat’s ear.
Jehiel opened the door a crack, peering warily out into the twilight.
‘Good evening!’ Rahab said.
‘Oh, it’s you, Rahab, come in, come in!’ Rebh Jehiel hurriedly ushered him in, shutting the door behind him and standing with his back against it, as though to prevent anyone else entering.
‘Are you feeling all right, Rebh Jehiel?’
Jehiel had drawn out a handkerchief and was mopping his face with it; short, sharp dabs. Rahab saw that his hand was shaking.
‘Yes, yes. I’m fine.’
Rahab hesitated; should he probe any further? ‘I’ve brought your coat,’ he said lamely, holding out his handiwork. ‘And a caraway cake from Chadassah.’
Jehiel shook the folds out of the coat and pulled it on.
‘Good as new,’ he said, smiling at Rahab. ‘Maybe better.’
‘It’s not too tight under the arms?’ Rahab cast a critical glance at the fit of the new sleeves.
‘Well, maybe just a little …’
Rahab had started forwards to test his handiwork when he saw that the scholar’s face had crinkled into a smile: Jehiel was teasing him.
‘You’re a good boy, Rahab. Schimeon’s a lucky man to have such a gifted apprentice. Now tell me,’ and the smile faded from Jehiel’s face, ‘are you sure you weren’t followed here?’
‘Me? Followed?’ The thought had never occurred to Rahab. In the confines of the Quarter he felt safe; he didn’t look behind him.
‘No one saw you?’
Rahab saw the anxiety in Jehiel’s eyes.
‘I saw no one. It’s supper-time.’
Jehiel glanced around nervously, as though still not sure they were alone.
‘You told me once at scripture class that your family name was Chazhael.’
‘That’s what my father told me.’
‘Chazhael is an ancient tribe name. And you have been marked with the sign of that ancient tribe, marked not long after birth, I would guess.’
Rahab shrugged, wondering what Jehiel was leading up to.
‘I’m going to ask a favour of you, Rahab ben Chazhael.’
‘Ask,’ Rahab said, still puzzled.
Jehiel went into the hall and took down the shell prayer-case that hung outside the study door.
‘If anything should happen to me,’ he said, ‘I want you to take this to Tifereth.’
‘T-Tifereth?’ Rahab took a step back.
‘To the scholars. We were not blessed with children, Miriam and I, so I have no one else to leave it to.’
‘Leave it to –? Are you sure you’re feeling all right?’ Rahab glanced anxiously at the old scholar, wondering if he were about to collapse; in the twilight, his skin looked as thin and translucent as fine vellum. ‘Shall I call a physician?’
‘No need, no need. But in taking this to Tifereth, you will put my mind at rest.’ Jehiel pressed the prayer-case into Rahab’s hands. ‘It’s been in my family for … for years without number. And now you come along, the right man at just the right time. Who’d have thought it, mm?’ He gave a dry little chuckle. ‘Who’d have thought that we were tribe-brothers?’
‘You?’ Rahab was becoming increasingly confused. ‘And I? How can that be?’
‘See. Here.’ Jehiel lifted up his thinning grey locks, revealing a faded pattern tattooed into the skin; a whorl of blue and red, very like the one Chadassah had discovered earlier. ‘The tribe of Chazhael was scattered to the four corners of the world when Tsiyon fell. All that we have left to us is this shell … and the mark given to us at birth. It seems meet and just to me that another of our tribe should carry this to Tifereth.’
‘I’d have to ask Schimeon –’
‘No!’ Jehiel said sharply. Then his tone softened. ‘Don’t tell anyone about this. Not even Schimeon. This is just between you and me, Rahab. And above all –’ his voice dropped to a whisper, ‘– don’t let it fall into Gentile hands.’
‘Gentile? What would the Gentiles want with –’
Rahab broke off. Something was scratching at the front door.
Jehiel raised his finger to his lips, signalling silence. He went out into the hall and opened the door a crack.
The grey shadowcat squeezed in and darted down the passageway, its silky tail waving like a pennant.
‘Mischkin! That confounded cat!’ the scholar said, although Rahab could sense the relief in his voice.
‘Would you like to come back with me? I’m sure Chadassah would be pleased for you to share our supper.’ Rahab was not at all sure how Chadassah would react but he felt he should make the offer.
‘I’d be delighted but I’m in the middle of a singularly fascinating piece of textual interpretation: an alternative reading of the chariot rider verses in the Book of Zhekiel. I’d like to make sense of it by tomorrow. Please – thank her for the cake. She knows I’m very partial to caraway …’
Jehiel glanced warily up and down the twilit lane before opening the door wide enough for Rahab to go through.
‘Take care, my boy. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to know it is safe.’
Behind him Rahab heard the clank of heavy chains and the squeal of rusty bolts as Jehiel barred and double-locked the door.