Leaves it to you Jews, who haven't got any souls. It does not stop the Church borrowing from you, of course. How many of its cathedrals have been built on your personal loans?"
"Lincoln, my lord." Aaron began counting on his shaking, arthritic fingers. "Peterborough, Saint Albans, then there have been no less than nine Cistercian abbeys, then there's--"
"Yes, yes. The real point is that one seventh of my annual revenue comes from taxing you Jews. And the Church wants me to get rid of you." The king was on his feet, and once again harsh Angevin syllables blasted the gallery. "Do I not maintain peace in this kingdom such as it has never known? God's balls, how do they think I do it ?"
Nervous clerks dropped their quills to nod. Yes, my lord. You do, my lord.
"You do, my lord," Aaron said.
"Not by prayer and fasting, I tell you that." Henry had calmed himself again. "I need money to equip my army, pay my judges, put down rebellion abroad, and keep my wife in her hellish expensive habits. Peace is money, Aaron, and money is peace." He grabbed the old man by the front of his cloak and dragged him close. "Who is killing those children ?"
"Not us, my lord. My lord, we don't know. "
For one intimate moment, appalling blue eyes with their stubby, almost invisible eyelashes peered into Aaron's soul.
"We don't, do we?" the king said. The old man was released, steadied, his cloak patted back into shape, though the king's face was still close, his voice a tender whisper. "But I think we'd better find out, eh? Quickly. "
As the sergeant accompanied Aaron of Lincoln toward the staircase, Henry II called, "I'd miss you Jews, Aaron."
The old man turned round. The king was smiling, or, at least, his spaced, strong little teeth were bared in something like a smile. "But not near as much as you Jews would miss me," he said.
I N SOUTHERN I TALY several weeks later...
Gordinus the African blinked kindly at his visitor and wagged a finger. He knew the name; it had been announced with pomp: "From Palermo, representing our most gracious king, his lordship Mordecai fil Berachyah." He even knew the face, but Gordinus remembered people only by their diseases.
"Hemorrhoids," he said, triumphantly, at last, "you had piles. How are they?"
Mordecai fil Berachyah was not easily disconcerted; as personal secretary to the King of Sicily and keeper of the royal secrets, he couldn't afford to be. He was offended, of course--a man's hemorrhoids should not be bandied about in public--but his big face remained impassive, his voice cool. "I came to see whether Simon of Naples got off all right."
"Got off what?" Gordinus asked interestedly.
Genius, thought Mordecai, was always difficult to deal with and when, as here, it was beginning to decay, it was near impossible. He decided to use the weight of the royal "we."
"Got off to England, Gordinus. Simon Menahem of Naples. We were sending Simon of Naples to England to deal with a trouble the Jews are having there."
Gordinus's secretary came to their aid, walking to a wall covered by cubbyholes from which rolls of parchment stuck out like pipe ends. He spoke encouragingly, as to a child. "You remember, my lord, we had a royal letter...oh, gods, he's moved it."
This was going to take time. Lord Mordecai lumbered across the mosaic floor that depicted fishing cupids--Roman, at least a thousand years old. One of Hadrian's villas, this had been.
They did themselves well, these doctors. Mordecai ignored the fact that his own palazzo in Palermo was floored with marble and gold.
He sat himself down on the stone bench that ran round an open balustrade overlooking the town below and, beyond it, the turquoise Tyrrhenian Sea.
Gordinus, ever alert as a doctor if nothing else, said, "His lordship will require a cushion, Gaius."
A cushion was fetched. So were dates. And wine. Gaius asked nervously, "This is acceptable, my lord?" The king's entourage, like the kingdom of Sicily and southern Italy itself,
"Lincoln, my lord." Aaron began counting on his shaking, arthritic fingers. "Peterborough, Saint Albans, then there have been no less than nine Cistercian abbeys, then there's--"
"Yes, yes. The real point is that one seventh of my annual revenue comes from taxing you Jews. And the Church wants me to get rid of you." The king was on his feet, and once again harsh Angevin syllables blasted the gallery. "Do I not maintain peace in this kingdom such as it has never known? God's balls, how do they think I do it ?"
Nervous clerks dropped their quills to nod. Yes, my lord. You do, my lord.
"You do, my lord," Aaron said.
"Not by prayer and fasting, I tell you that." Henry had calmed himself again. "I need money to equip my army, pay my judges, put down rebellion abroad, and keep my wife in her hellish expensive habits. Peace is money, Aaron, and money is peace." He grabbed the old man by the front of his cloak and dragged him close. "Who is killing those children ?"
"Not us, my lord. My lord, we don't know. "
For one intimate moment, appalling blue eyes with their stubby, almost invisible eyelashes peered into Aaron's soul.
"We don't, do we?" the king said. The old man was released, steadied, his cloak patted back into shape, though the king's face was still close, his voice a tender whisper. "But I think we'd better find out, eh? Quickly. "
As the sergeant accompanied Aaron of Lincoln toward the staircase, Henry II called, "I'd miss you Jews, Aaron."
The old man turned round. The king was smiling, or, at least, his spaced, strong little teeth were bared in something like a smile. "But not near as much as you Jews would miss me," he said.
I N SOUTHERN I TALY several weeks later...
Gordinus the African blinked kindly at his visitor and wagged a finger. He knew the name; it had been announced with pomp: "From Palermo, representing our most gracious king, his lordship Mordecai fil Berachyah." He even knew the face, but Gordinus remembered people only by their diseases.
"Hemorrhoids," he said, triumphantly, at last, "you had piles. How are they?"
Mordecai fil Berachyah was not easily disconcerted; as personal secretary to the King of Sicily and keeper of the royal secrets, he couldn't afford to be. He was offended, of course--a man's hemorrhoids should not be bandied about in public--but his big face remained impassive, his voice cool. "I came to see whether Simon of Naples got off all right."
"Got off what?" Gordinus asked interestedly.
Genius, thought Mordecai, was always difficult to deal with and when, as here, it was beginning to decay, it was near impossible. He decided to use the weight of the royal "we."
"Got off to England, Gordinus. Simon Menahem of Naples. We were sending Simon of Naples to England to deal with a trouble the Jews are having there."
Gordinus's secretary came to their aid, walking to a wall covered by cubbyholes from which rolls of parchment stuck out like pipe ends. He spoke encouragingly, as to a child. "You remember, my lord, we had a royal letter...oh, gods, he's moved it."
This was going to take time. Lord Mordecai lumbered across the mosaic floor that depicted fishing cupids--Roman, at least a thousand years old. One of Hadrian's villas, this had been.
They did themselves well, these doctors. Mordecai ignored the fact that his own palazzo in Palermo was floored with marble and gold.
He sat himself down on the stone bench that ran round an open balustrade overlooking the town below and, beyond it, the turquoise Tyrrhenian Sea.
Gordinus, ever alert as a doctor if nothing else, said, "His lordship will require a cushion, Gaius."
A cushion was fetched. So were dates. And wine. Gaius asked nervously, "This is acceptable, my lord?" The king's entourage, like the kingdom of Sicily and southern Italy itself,
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