The Brotherhood of Book Hunters by Howard Curtis, Raphaël Jerusalmy Page A

ramparts that protected the cloister, François and Colin watched the convoy arrive. They made out the bright colors of the plume crying amid the russet of the ripe corn, standing out against the brown of the carts, breaking the sobriety of the landscape with their city insolence.
    At the foot of the hill, the monks unloaded the wagons then carried the packages on their backs up the steep path leading to the monastery. The Mongol sentries had taken up their positions on the roofs, the bell tower, and the turrets. The arrival of the book merchant seemed to have sharpened the Mamluks’ vigilance. One of the guards thought he had seen a scout prowling around the cloister. Or was it only a poacher?
    The dashing stranger emerged from the undergrowth, and reached the promontory. He walked confidently, barely out of breath, as if he were on his way to a ceremonial dinner. His laced boots slid over the rubble, but he did not stumble. He glanced rapidly in the direction of Colin and François, pretending not to see them, perhaps blinded by the light. When he reached the gate, he doffed his spectacular hat and bowed low to the prior. Then he took a keg from his bag, sprang the lid with his knife, emptied the contents—which smelled of brandy—and, from a false bottom, extracted a casket filled with gold and silver coins.
    â€œFor your books.”
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    In the refectory, before sitting down, Brother Paul introduced the newcomer. For supper, the Italian had donned a fleece-lined housecoat in warm colors. The garment, artfully unbuttoned, gave a glimpse of a silk shirtfront as well as an area of muscular, hairy chest. Ostentatious as it was, this touch of vanity was nevertheless in good taste. The proud young peacock knew how to display his fabulous finery with a certain grace. As for his hats, each was more extravagant than the last. For the moment, he was wearing a broad black velvet cap such as master painters wore in their studios. To the rim of it, he had pinned a carnelian cameo showing the bust of a Roman lady. A genuine archeological find dating from the era of Marcus Aurelius, the hard stone was set amid baroque pearls, the work of a Viennese silversmith. From it ran a line of gold that intertwined with the ancient courtesan’s hair. Finally, to emphasize his august attire, he wore high-heeled shoes that raised him at least ten inches off the ground, forcing François to crane his neck.
    François, who did not normally bother overmuch with the dictates of etiquette, nevertheless put on a good show. Even though he feigned roughness and often behaved boorishly, a strange aura emanated from his hangdog face. Beneath his old tricorn there shone a mocking light, underlined by the discreet, wry smile that never left his lips. Nobody had ever known if this grin was natural or affected, sardonic, disenchanted, or a mere defect of birth.
    The Italian quickly looked François up and down, trying immediately to decipher that fixed pout with its mixture of bravado and frankness, a good dose of suffering cut with a dash of goodness, whose secret depths he sensed at once. He had expected to find an arrogant, self-centered rebel. He discovered a man who was natural, who wore no mask—there were few such men in Florence these days. He bowed, gracefully held out his hand, and introduced himself.
    â€œFederico Castaldi, Florentine merchant and agent of Master Cosimo de’ Medici.”
    Now it was François’s turn to examine the newcomer’s features. He was surprised and incredulous. Were all these unexpected links with the Medicis merely the scattered ramifications of a great dynasty or else the meshes of a net that was gradually closing?
    â€œWhat good wind brings you to the Holy Land, Master Villon?”
    â€œContrary winds. Zephyrs of escape and trade winds of fortune.”
    The two men exchanged almost conspiratorial glances. Federico, who hated dubious scholars and proud geniuses, found