“As always,” Hagarzi laughed, and the men drank their wine of friendship.
In those years the Jews in cities like Gretz lived pretty much as they wished. Fanatic Christians sometimes howled against the commingling of Jew and Catholic, but no restrictive measures had yet been promulgated, so that a distinguished banker like Hagarzi could be accepted as one of the city’s important citizens. His sturdy house had become a center of city life to which many Germans like Count Volkmar came not only to borrow, but also to talk.
They came to borrow because of contrasting interpretations which had been placed by Christianity and Judaism upon two critical verses from the Old Testament. Catholics held that the stern commandment in Exodus meant exactly what it said: “If thou lend money to any of my people that is poor by thee, thou shalt not be to him as an usurer, neither shalt thou lay upon him usury.” This was interpreted as meaning that no Christian—on pain of excommunication or death—was allowed to let money at interest, and this ruling came at the precise time when trade was beginning to be international and when borrowing substantial sums to finance such trade was essential. What to do? It was then discovered that Jews, looking not to Exodus but to Deuteronomy, took their instructions from Moses, who had commanded them: “Thou shalt not lend upon usury to thy brother; usury of money, usury of victuals, usury of any thing that is lent upon usury: Unto a stranger thou mayest lend upon usury.” So at the instigation of the Christians a curious agreement had been worked out: Christians would rule the world, but Jews would finance it—so to them was handed responsibility for all banking transactions, and it became customary for even cardinals and bishops to borrow openly from Jews at commonly understood rates of interest, while foreign traders had to do so in order to stay in business. In this manner Jews like Simon Hagarzi of Gretz prospered, but it was ironic that many did so against their own better judgment. Hagarzi, for example, sprang from a family which had wandered into Germany from Babylonia, settling themselves along the Rhine centuries before the present Germans had straggled down from the north. Like his predecessors in the little Palestinian town of Makor, Simon Hagarzi had begun life as a groats maker and he would have been happy to remain so; but in pursuit of grain he had come to know many distant cities, so that he was logically pushed into the business of banking. Now his transformation was complete; what Canaanites, Egyptians, Greeks, Romans and Byzantines had been unable to accomplish—taking Jews from the land and making merchants of them—Europe had achieved. Jews were now the money-manipulators, and without their services the new Europe could not have matured.
But even if Hagarzi had not controlled the credit of Gretz, Germans would still have come to talk with him, for in an age when few could read and when news traveled slowly, Hagarzi was perhaps the best-informed man in the city. Yet he was humble in his knowledge, and if he knew much of the Talmud by heart, he kept it to himself and his family, for he knew that the Christians had their own Book, and he never intruded his religion upon them. Even so, he was known to Christian and Jew alike throughout the city as a man who united in his person not only sagacity but also a radiant personal charity which had confirmed him in the title God’s Man, a name by which the men of his family had been known through many generations in Makor and Babylonia; even devout Christians found spiritual profit in knowing this particular Jew.
As always, when Count Volkmar left Hagarzi he had his money, which he handed over to his bailiff. He then walked disconsolately to his castle and slowly climbed. the stairs to where his wife sat at breakfast with the children, but he had not had time to tell her of Hagarzi’s prediction about the competing Popes when a servant ran in to inform him that strangers were riding down the road from Cologne. The family went onto the battlements, from which they saw a cloud of dust sweeping energetically toward the city. “It must be half a dozen horsemen,” Volkmar estimated, and as he studied the approaching cyclone he craned his neck forward to see who might be causing it.
At last, as the men drew close to the wall, he discerned that the foremost rider was dressed in a light suit of mail, his helmet and shield at his side. Over the metal suit he wore a long tunic of white upon which had been stitched a large cross in blue. Then the man’s head became discernible, a handsome, commanding blond head with clean-shaven chin and blue eyes.
“It’s Gunter!” Matwilda cried happily as she ran down to greet her brother.
When the seven knights from Cologne were seated in the hall, with Gunter clanking his metaled feet, the exciting news was broken. “We’ve taken the cross,” the young German announced. “Within the month we’ll march to Jerusalem. When we leave we’ll have fifteen thousand men with us, and you’re going along.”
“Me!” Volkmar ejaculated.
“You! And Conrad of Mainz and Henry of Worms. Everyone.”
“I do not follow the commands of a False Pope,” Volkmar protested.
“To hell with the Pope!” Gunter shouted. “Clement, Urban? Who gives a damn? Brother, in the Holy Land there are kingdoms to be won, and no quarrel about Popes must separate us from such booty.”
The knights who had ridden forth with Gunter on his conscripting tour nodded, and one asked Matwilda, “Wouldn’t you like to be Queen of Antioch or Princess of Jerusalem?”
“I’d like to see Gunter with such lands,” she replied, for she knew how strenuously her younger brother wanted a fief of his own.
“But I’m quite content here in Gretz,” Volkmar insisted.
“Don’t you want to go crusading?” his brother-in-law shouted. “Everyone else in the Rhineland does.” He dashed to the platform overlooking the public square and bellowed, “You down there? How many of you want to march to Jerusalem and rescue it from the heathen?”
A shout welled up and echoed through the castle. One man cried, “Klaus has a hair from the donkey of Peter the Hermit.”
At mention of the little priest’s name Gunter scowled, then yelled to the crowd, “In one week all able-bodied men who want to march with me to Jerusalem …” Now the shouting grew frenzied and the blond knight waved his arms, but when he returned to the table he slumped noisily into his chair and muttered, “That damned monk. He hasn’t a chance of getting to Jerusalem.”
“You think not?” Volkmar asked.
“You saw him. Were there ten men in his twenty thousand capable of fighting? Peasants, old women.” The young man rose and stamped about the room, his mailed feet clanging on the stones. “Volkmar, to recapture Jerusalem for Jesus Christ we need soldiers, men trained to war. The Turks are terrible fighters …”
“And you are determined to go against them?” Matwilda asked.
Gunter leaped across the room and knelt beside her. “Sister! Some fighting man who leaves Europe this month is going to be crowned King of Jerusalem. Half a dozen others are going to hack out great marches for themselves. I intend to be one of those men.” Then, somewhat ashamed of his personal outburst, he pointed to one of his companions, adding, “And Gottfried here will gain another.” Volkmar and his wife looked at Gottfried, a chinless fool. The knight grinned and nodded. He, too, intended to win a barony in the Holy Land.
Then Gunter’s wild ambition again surged to the fore and he cried, “One month from today, on May 24, we shall march forth from Gretz, fifteen thousand, twenty. And you shall be with us.” He kissed his sister good-bye and swept down the castle stairs, eager to spread the word of his crusade to the other Rhenish cities. At the gate he saw Klaus still clutching his donkey hair, and he shouted, “Can you get a horse, man?”
“Yes,” Klaus called back.
“Then ride with us,” Gunter cried. “I need a servant who is lucky.” And when the seven knights rode off to the south Klaus of Gretz rode with them.
When they were gone, and the excitement had subsided, Wenzel of Trier came quietly to his lord and said, “It is my opinion, sir, that you should take the cross.”
“Why?” Volkmar asked in deep seriousness.
“Because it is the will
of God,” Wenzel replied.
“Those are the words of the False Pope’s man,” Volkmar countered.
“In this great matter, believe me, Volkmar, there is no false Pope, there is no true. There is only the call of God. The holy city, the land of our Lord Jesus Christ, is held by the infidel and we are summoned to redeem it.”
Count Volkmar leaned back, disturbed. “You speak as if you …”
“One month from today,” the hard-eyed priest announced, “I shall ride with the others.”
“But why?” Volkmar pressed. “You have a chapel here. We need you.”
“And we need you in Jerusalem.”
For a week Count Volkmar pondered the invitation that Gunter had so forcefully laid before him, and each day Wenzel of Trier, his stern face staring out from beneath the gray hair he wore in bangs, added his priestly pressure; a spiritual movement without comparison was under way and any man of courage who missed it would be forever ashamed. Wenzel never spoke of kingdoms or principalities; in his heart was the call of God and he did not want his master to ignore that call.
On the succeeding Saturday, Count Volkmar, who could neither read nor write, summoned Wenzel to draft a cautious letter of inquiry to the German emperor, asking whether a Rhenish knight could properly respond to the crusading summons of the False Pope, who also happened to be French; and this was a more delicate question than it might have seemed, since the French Pope had recently excommunicated the German emperor and there was personal bitterness between them, and while Volkmar waited for a reply he went to discuss the matter with Hagarzi, God’s Man, and the Jew listened as the big, awkward count explained his dilemma: “I want to serve God, but I do not want to anger my emperor. How can a German emperor give permission to his knights to follow the orders of a French Pope, who isn’t even legal?”
The moneylender laughed, and grasping the edges of his robe with both hands, said: “Count Volkmar, if you’ve decided to go on the Crusade …”
“I have no intention of going,” the count protested.
Ignoring the disclaimer Hagarzi continued, “Be guided by the story of one of our great rabbis, Akiba. The question arose of blowing the ram’s horn in a new city, because Jerusalem, which alone had the right to sound such a horn, had been destroyed by the Romans. What to do? Akiba and his liberals argued, ‘Let us sound the horn here and establish a new Jerusalem.’ But the conservatives countered, ‘Only in Jerusalem may the horn be sounded. And Jerusalem is no more.’ So Akiba made this proposal: ‘The hour is upon us. Let us blow the horn now and resume the argument later.’ So they blew the horn. Then came the conservatives to argue, but Akiba pointed out, ‘What’s to discuss? The horn has been blown. A precedent has been set. In the future we must like good Jews observe that precedent.’ ”
The two men laughed, and Hagarzi said, “Believe me, Volkmar. Don’t wait for the emperor’s reply. Decide now what must be done, then do it.”
“Even though I may infuriate my own emperor?”
“Governments are made to be infuriated,” the Jew replied, but in spite of this daring advice Volkmar decided to wait.
Before a reply could reach Gretz, Gunter and his six knights rode back from their foray up the Rhine, and the party had grown to fourteen enthusiasts, including an attractive girl whom Gunter had acquired in Speyer. At the castle of Gretz he indicated that from now on the girl would be sleeping with him, in one of Matwilda’s rooms, and his sister was outraged, but Gunter ignored her.
“Wherever we rode,” he cried in flushed excitement, “men of great reputation signified that they would join us at the end of the month. Volkmar, you’ve got to come.”
The count refused comment, but Wenzel confided, “At least he’s written to the emperor for a judgment.”
“Volkmar!” the excited young knight cried. “You’re one of us. The emperor gave Conrad of Mainz permission to go.”
“He did?” Volkmar asked cautiously.
“Yes! Conrad’s bringing a troop of nine hundred.”
The words stunned Volkmar. How could the city of Mainz, no larger than Gretz, spare nine hundred men? Who would tend the fields? And for the first time he realized that a sweeping, all-embracing movement was afoot, one which ignored plow fields and ordinary husbandry.
“From Gretz we’ll take away twelve hundred men,” Gunter predicted. “I’ve got Klaus circulating tonight. We’ll need horses and carts, too.” He had discarded his mail suit and appeared in light robes, covered by the tunic which bore the large blue cross, and as he spoke he kept his left arm about the pretty girl whose name no one knew. “It’s an enterprise of great danger, and perhaps I have spoken too much of the principality I intend carving for myself with this right arm. For there is also the matter of God’s will, and Wenzel here can tell you that it is shameful to have the holy places of our Lord in infidel hands. By God,” he cried, striking the table, “it shall not continue.”
He led his strange girl to bed and in the morning assembled his group and rode off, taking with him three more horsemen from Gretz. He had been gone only a short time when from the south a messenger rode in with the emperor’s reply: “We have passed far beyond the matter of Popes. We must win Jerusalem for our Lord Jesus Christ. So if you find it in your heart to fight for the recovery of His homeland, proceed.” When Volkmar heard the words he knelt on the stone and asked Wenzel to bless him; for if his brother-in-law was marching to the Holy Land for a broad mixture of reasons, Volkmar would go for one only: to strike the infidel and drive him from the holy places. Looking up, he laid hold of his priest’s hands and swore, “I take the cross. It is God’s will.”
But when he came to ask Matwilda to sew upon his tunic a red cross he found himself confronted by a problem which he was quite unable to solve, and he walked through the city to Hagarzi’s house, where he was again greeted by the Jew’s pregnant daughter. As soon as he was closeted with the moneylender he burst out, “Hagarzi, I need help.”
“Money?” his friend asked.
“Much more difficult.”
“The only thing more difficult is a man’s wife.”
“Correct. I’ve pledged myself to go crusading …”
“I hope you reach Jerusalem,” Hagarzi replied solemnly.
“We’ve a good army,” Volkmar assured him.
“Then you have a chance.”
“But when I informed my wife I found her sewing the cross on her own garments and on those of our children.”
The moneylender leaned back in his chair and opened his eyes very wide. “She intends going too?”
“Yes, her brother has infected her with his strange dreams.”
“Volkmar,” the banker said earnestly. “I’ve been four times to Constantinople and never were we able to take a woman. It’s a hundred days through dangerous country.”
“She insists.”
God’s Man looked with compassion at his count. The two had worked together on numerous projects and the amount of gold that Hagarzi had contributed to works initiated by the count could not be calculated, for the Jew had long since stopped keeping accounts. Of Volkmar’s friends only Hagarzi could appreciate what decisions the count was now facing. In such crises the experienced Jew had found it was best to speak frankly: “Volkmar, if a hundred men leave Gretz headed for Jerusalem and back, fighting Hungarians, Bulgarians, Turks …”
“Last time you said that Hungarians and Bulgarians are now Christians.”
“They are, but you’ll still have to fight them.”
“It’s the infidel we intend fighting,” Volkmar protested.
“Of a hundred men who leave, nine will be lucky if they return.”
Volkmar was stunned. He had thought that fighting the infidels in Jerusalem would be much like fighting the Normans in Sicily. A few would die on each side, but most would come home with here and there a scar. The Jew continued, “So if you leave us, there is little chance that I’ll ever see you again.” He hesitated. “Or that your countess wil
l, either.”
“You would take her?” Volkmar asked.
“Yes. But not your son. We’ll need a count in Gretz.”
Volkmar sighed and looked at the row of folios above the moneylender’s head; the castle owned not one. He asked, “Could you lend me gold on the fields across the river?”
“Of course. But if you go you must leave a will protecting me.”
Without deciding then, the count left the banker’s house and walked through the market, where women sold the first fruits of spring—fine onions and beans—and when he reached the castle he did something that he had not done for a long time. He kissed his son, then ripped from the boy’s shoulder the red cross which his mother had that morning sewed to the tunic. “You are not going.” The boy began to weep and Volkmar summoned his family. They gathered in a cold, bare room, for the German castle of that period was little better than a commodious barn with stone flooring. The chairs were rough, the table unsmoothed and the linen coarse. A damp smell of horses and urine permeated the place and there were no fabrics to soften the effect of the sweating walls. Painting and music were unknown, but an open fire kept the dank rooms reasonably comfortable in winter, and there was plentiful food, cooked pretty much as barbarian forefathers had cooked it six centuries before.
“Matwilda and Fulda will ride with me,” Volkmar announced. “Otto will stay home to hold the castle with his uncle.” He drew his son to him and held the boy’s chin to keep it from trembling.
Matwilda, then in her middle thirties and as attractive as when Volkmar had ridden north to court her, was pleased with the news that she could make the trip, and she understood why Otto had better stay at home. She consoled her son, then listened as her husband summoned Wenzel and a scribe: “If I should not return, the fields across the river are to become the property of the monastery at Worms, which shall first discharge the debt I owe to the Jew, Hagarzi, known in Gretz as God’s Man. The castle, the town and all lands pertaining to both shall become the property of my good wife Matwilda, or if she do not return, to my son Otto.” The detailed description continued, the thoughtful words of a man who loved God, his family and his fief, concluding with a final paragraph that was to be much quoted in later years when men tried to penetrate the motives which had inspired the Crusaders: “Let it be known that I am marching to Jerusalem because the will of God should be respected in this world and because the scenes in which our Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ, lived should not remain in pagan hands. I am marching with a goodly band, and we have placed ourselves entirely in the hands of God, for we go forth as His servants to accomplish His will.” When the words were read aloud to him he nodded and made his mark, which as it appears on the document today resembles the red cross he was wearing as he signed.