The Fifth Servant (39 page)

           
The inner chamber wasn’t as large as the banquet hall, but it was every bit as cold. A green porcelain stove in the corner did very little to heat the room. Its lacquered surface was doubtless hot to the touch, but the heat completely vanished into the air just a few feet away.

           
The emperor himself was sitting with his back to us, gazing into the metal tube of some strange optical device. Beside him lay an open book with large illustrations that matched some of the plants and minerals cluttering up the table. I caught a glimpse of a frown as he turned, but it changed into a smile the moment he saw us.

           
The emperor stood up and greeted us warmly. We bowed our heads, but he insisted on shaking our hands as if we were his equals, and he stopped us from taking off our hats.

           
“Keep your head coverings on, for I know it is your way.”

           
We thanked His Majesty for this privilege.

           
He instinctively struck a pose with all the straight-backed dignity befitting a monarch.

           
He was about forty years old, with sad, intelligent eyes and a strong chin ennobled by a curly black beard. He dressed in the latest Spanish fashion—simple, austere clothing with clean lines, and draped with the sort of long black cloak one might expect a magician or a sorcerer to wear. This was the man who was next in line for the Spanish throne if Prince Don Carlos turned out to be too mentally unstable to rule, though I wondered how one went about determining mental instability in a country that once banned all scientific study, expelled most of its non-Christian scholars, and then, with no one left to persecute, turned on each other, finding witches and heretics in every closet and under every bed, before seeking out fresh victims in the New World.

           
“Please, take your seats,” he said.

           
We took our seats.

           
“It is my great privilege to welcome such learned men as yourselves to my
laboratorium
. There are so many questions that I wish to ask of you.”

           
“And we of you,” said Rabbi Loew.

           
“My councilors inform me that you, alone among the rabbis of the Jewish Town, have instructed your fellow Jews to study mathematics and natural sciences in order to understand the world, and ultimately the Creator.”

           
“Your councilors have spoken correctly,” said Rabbi Loew.

           
“Excellent. But I understand that you also believe that human science will always be inferior to Kabbalistic and Scriptural studies. So perhaps you could teach me about how one might use the Kabbalah to decode the secrets of creation.”

           
Is that why he granted us an audience? To talk
Kabbalah
?

           
Rabbi Loew was better schooled than I in the ways of the powerful, and he responded with great enthusiasm to the emperor’s request.

           
“It would give me no greater plea sure than to discuss these matters with you, Your Grace, since the Law encompasses all forms of knowledge, and leaves out nothing.”

           
The emperor actually rubbed his hands together like a little boy. “Then please begin by telling me what you know about the manipulation of numbers and letters, for I have been told that you are a master of that art.”

           
“Very well, Your Majesty,” said Rabbi Loew. “It is a fitting place to begin, since there are many points where Jewish and Christian numerology intersect. In both systems, the number one typically represents unity and truth, while the number four often symbolizes the four corners of the physical world—”

           
“I’m not interested in the similarities, I’m interested in the differences.”

           
“Of course you are. I see that Your Highness is hungry for new knowledge. Blessed is the Lord, who has bestowed such wisdom upon you. I must tell you that Jewish numerology is distinct from its Christian counterpart in a variety of ways. For example, among Christians, the number thirteen is unlucky. But for the Jews, it is no such thing. For the Ten Commandments are actually thirteen in number, since the second commandment is actually made up of four distinct utterances.”

           
“Fascinating,” said the emperor. “Pray continue.”

           
“Yes, Your Majesty. Moreover, there are thirteen measures of divine mercy described in the Book of Exodus, and thirteen principles of faith that we praise in song at the end of the
mayrev
services on Shabbes and holidays.”

           
“So you’re saying that the number thirteen may not be unlucky, after all,” said the emperor, thoughtfully stroking his beard, and presenting the very image of that rare species of monarch who is actually willing to listen to advice from someone outside his closed circle of councilors. “Then how would you answer those Christians who say the world will end six years hence, in the year 1598?”

           
“There is no valid numerological reason to believe that will happen.”

           
“Especially when everyone knows the world will end in 1666,” I said.

           
“And who is this?” said the emperor, looking directly at me.

           
“This is my student, Benyamin Ben-Akiva.”

           
“Ah, the sexton. I’ve heard about you.”

           
“You have?” I said, genuinely surprised. “I see that Your Majesty is very well informed about the goings-on in the ghetto.”

           
His Majesty was pleased to hear this report. He smiled a little, but he said nothing. He must have had informers in every corner of the city. A wise precaution these days, since the latest firearms were small enough to conceal beneath a man’s cloak.

           
I explained that in the farthest reaches of eastern Poland, one could still find scattered groups of Old Believers and messianic Jews who believed that the world would end in the year 1666 of the Christian calendar.

           
“And you don’t support this view,” said the emperor.

           
“No, I do not.”

           
“Why not?” He appeared to be genuinely concerned that the end was nigh. I did my best to explain my position without using the words
because only an idiot would believe such a thing
.

           
“It’s always a risky proposition to try to predict the exact year of an apocalyptic event. Rabbi Abravanel was convinced that the Expulsion from Spain was a sign that the Messiah would come within his lifetime—and he died in 1508. Even the great Ari of Safed got it wrong when he declared that 1575 would be the year of our redemption. Only the most unreasonable fanatics insist that they know for certain what the future brings.”

           
“Then I must be an unreasonable fanatic,” said the emperor, his chin sagging as he yielded to the heavy pull of his melancholy humor. “Because I
do
wish to understand the cosmos in its totality.”

           
I tried to rescue the emperor from the depths of his despondency. “Then may I recommend that you read the works of Rabbi Moses Cordovero? His
Pardes Rimmonim
has just been published in Kraków.”

           
The emperor’s eyes brightened. He grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper from the workbench and handed them over to me. “You must write down the author and title for me.”

           
I made no move to take the writing implements from him.

           
“What’s the matter?” he said, unable to hide his irritation, for clearly the emperor was not used to having his wishes ignored.

           
I explained that writing is forbidden on Shabbes.

           
“Ah, yes. The People of the Book are not allowed to write anything at all, isn’t that right?”

           
“To be precise, the law refers to two letters at once—”

           
“Even in Latin?”

           
“In any alphabet. Although the penalty is less if it isn’t permanent.”

           
“So it would be permissible to write the words in wax or in chalk, or something equally impermanent?”

           
“Only if an emergency genuinely requires it,” I said, looking to Rabbi Loew for approval. The rabbi raised an eyebrow and gave me half a nod. So I guess this counted as an emergency.

           
The emperor produced a slate and a piece of chalk. I scratched in the words,
, or The Book of the Garden of Pomegranates, and told him that the title page looked very much like the entrance to the Supreme Council chamber. We readily agreed to procure a copy for him, and he said that he would put his translators to work on it right away.

           
“Now, tell me what this Rabbi Cordovero says.”

           
Great. Another digression
, I thought.

           
Were we ever going to get Jacob Federn and his wife and daughter out of captivity? What was with these confounded Christian monarchs, who wielded tremendous power but were constantly tormented by the feeling that something was missing from their lives? It was no mystery to me, since their power was maintained by plundering whole continents, planting their flag on every patch of ground they could conquer, and enslaving the people they found there.

           
Such men could search forever without finding the answers they were looking for, spending their whole lives searching for such chimeras as the Fountain of Youth or the Elixir of Life.

           
“Before we discuss Rabbi Cordovero’s views on the wonders of creation,” I said, “Rabbi Loew has a message for you from Mordecai Meisel, mayor of the
Yidnshtot
.”

           
A thin veil of frost swept over the emperor, and I finally caught a glimpse of the famous coldness that everyone had been warning me about.

           
Rabbi Loew thrust the document before the emperor.

           
“It is a petition, Your Majesty. For privileges.”

           
“What sort of privileges?”

           
“We are asking if you could transfer the accused named in this document, Jacob Federn, from the municipal prison to the imperial prison, and to free his wife and daughter, who were arrested yesterday afternoon.”

           
“I’m afraid that the women are the property of the Inquisition, and so it is out of my hands,” said the emperor. “But I shall make some inquiries.”

           
“Your Majesty is most kind and gracious,” said Rabbi Loew.

           
“As to the accused, the transfer has already been made.”

           
“It has? Where is he?”

           
“Here in the castle. In the Daliborka Tower.”

           
“May we speak with him?”

           
“I will grant you that privilege,” said the emperor, taking the document from the rabbi’s outstretched hand.

           
Rabbi Loew and Rabbi Gans bowed and expressed their gratitude for the emperor’s kindness and wisdom.

           
The frost slowly melted as the emperor read certain parts of the text aloud, perhaps for our benefit, perhaps not.

           
“Everlasting and Most Benevolent Sovereign…seeking your protection…sanctuary laws…right to display the flag of David…tax exemption for the new synagogue…”

           
Meisel had some nerve slipping that last part in.

           
Nevertheless, the emperor summoned his scribe. The curtains parted, and in came a crooked little fellow with a nose as sharp as a hatchet blade and a pair of black dots where his eyes should have been.