“That is all very well,” said Crispin. “But an angry youth will kill in the foulest of ways for his own vengeance. Murder is against God’s law as much as this blood prohibition you so passionately plead.”
Julian returned a scathing glare. “You’re not even listening. You, a man of facts. A man of logic. Is it logical to kill four boys, to sacrifice them far from the paschal season, if sacrifice it was? They were crucified, I suppose, as your libels say? You did not mention that. For I have heard of these foul lies before.” He threw up his hands and stalked to the fire. “I weary so of Gentile lies. You claim to be holy and then unjustly slaughter my people to satisfy your own superstitions. Because you do not have understanding. These facts are in the Hebrew Scriptures that even your people consider holy. And yet you do not understand them.”
Julian stared into the flames. The fire played over his cheek. A flicker. A shadow. His skin seemed to glow warm with the fire. Crispin watched and felt a strange clenching in his gut. He did not like these tangled emotions that Julian seemed adept at wrenching from him.
Julian turned to Crispin suddenly, realization awakening in his eyes. “You do this to hurt my father. You steal his money and then extort him for more. This is your plan. I knew it was foolish to hire some outlaw!”
Crispin bristled. “Do not accuse me, whelp. You do not know me. I am not an extortionist.”
“And I am not a murderer!”
“I am done arguing with you. I have witnesses who took your money for their clay. Golem or no—and I still do not believe in your Jewish magic—you were intent on foul deeds. Was your false Golem designed to lure these boys? To ensnare them? You tricked them with your ghastly tales and they were enticed to see this monster that you made, is that it? And after you had entrapped these boys, how did you murder them without your father knowing?”
But Julian’s features suddenly became surprised again. He even took a step forward, putting himself within Crispin’s reach. “You . . . you are serious? I thought my father was exaggerating the case, worrying over some foolish parchment. But . . . This is horrible.” He grabbed Crispin’s tabard, shaking him. “You must stop these killings! I swear I will help you prove it has nothing to do with Jews.”
He grabbed both the boy’s wrists in one hand. “You do not play the fool well,” he snarled.
“I play at nothing,” he beseeched in a startlingly sincere fashion. His eyes were strangely luminous and very green. But then his earnest expression slowly changed to one of resignation. He sighed deeply. “Your heart is like a lion, to be sure, to protect those weaker than you. Even these slain boys. I . . . I suppose, after all is said and done, my father was wise to trust you.”
Crispin’s grip loosened. “What?”
“You tear at the truth like a dog on a bone. There are few men as tenacious or as clever as you. You must be very clever, indeed, to have discovered all this for yourself.”
He shook out the confusion in his head. “Yes. I discovered you.”
“No. These things. These secret things. You discovered them. This is the sort of thing you do to earn your coin? It is very unusual. Surely you see that. You would seem to be a very intelligent man. For a Gentile.”
“Hmph! Useless flattery. And now you will come with me.”
Julian did not resist but Crispin was not moving. His fist was still wrapped tight around both the boy’s thin wrists. But Julian’s expression no longer held fear or anger. Instead, it was suffused with awe. His manner had transformed to one of curiosity and composure. He studied Crispin with disquieting steadiness.
“I’ve never met anyone like you.”
“Ha! You mean someone who would arrest you?”
“No, imbécile. Someone who uses their mind as their sole vocation.” Julian stepped closer even with Crispin still griping his wrists. “You must know that I am not guilty,” he said softly. “Your logic tells you.”
“The witnesses—” said Crispin halfheartedly, compelled by that gaze.
“The witnesses are wrong.” He looked down at his sash, the red cloth wound about his waist. “You thought I had used my sash for some vile purpose. But when you looked at it I could tell you knew it was a lie. Why do you believe that lie now?”
“Because of the witnesses. The . . . the witnesses who described someone like you.”
“Someone Jewish?”
“No, you fool! Why would they know you were a Jew if you did not tell them? She said you were small, foreign, all golden—” Crispin pulled up short. Golden? What had she meant by that? That he was wealthy? Because of the yellow rouelle on his chest and the gold jewelry around his neck? Yes, of course. What else could it mean?
But Julian had grasped at his words. His hands slipped easily from Crispin’s yielding grip and he picked up his lank hair in his fists. “Golden?” he asked, shaking his brown locks, locks that could not by any means be mistaken for golden. Julian chuckled, but for once, it was not sarcastic. “You are mistaken.” Crispin’s chest began burning with undirected emotion, even though Julian was not even goading him. The boy nodded almost sympathetically. “I can see where you might have misread it all. What a grand jest. My journals, the jars, the strange nature of the parchments . . . my father’s unusual request. And then that description of this purchaser of clay. Logically, it all seems to fit. And yet, it does not.”
Julian did not act in the least like an accused murderer. He had the appearance of a man who knew himself justified, and Crispin was seized by a sinking feeling. He had been so certain of his guilt, but when laid out logically, it did not seem to fit. He had wanted the boy to be guilty. But why? Because he was a Jew? Despite Julian’s earlier demeanor, he had seen the intelligence in the youth’s eyes, his determination . . . and even saw a bit of himself there.
Crispin blinked and looked at the boy anew. Julian had perched on the edge of the table, rubbing his smooth chin and studying Crispin with bright eyes. “This curious vocation of yours. ‘Tracker,’ you call it. I can see why a man of intelligence would find his place in such a profession. Are you truly good at what you do?”
Crispin’s arms swung flaccidly at his sides. “I am beginning to wonder.” Either Julian was an extremely clever killer or . . . or . . . dammit! There was no denying it. Julian might just be innocent. The sash—that perfect murder weapon—had not been used as such. There was no evidence on the cloth itself. And Julian’s manner. Crispin had never seen the like. He exuded confidence and, frankly, lack of guilt. These things of themselves were not proof of innocence. But Crispin had not been at this vocation for four years for naught. He recognized when he had made a fool of himself.
He stared hard into the flames until he was blinded.
“No,” said Julian. “I can see you are good at your vocation. And Father said he had heard of you from many sources. You seem to be well respected. I . . . I apologize for treating you so foully before. I thought you were just another greedy Gentile out to ruin us.” His voice grew weary when he said, “I have met so many, you see.”
Julian slid off his perch and strode forward. Crispin turned to him. He could not speak, either to offer an apology or another accusation. Neither seemed appropriate.
“You know,” said the boy thoughtfully, “I now recall those men behind me in the corridor, overhearing you and that servant. There was one man who might very well fit your witness’s description. He, too, is slight, like me, and foreign. And . . . he has blond hair.”
Was this merely a ruse? The boy could be making it up. Checkmate, Crispin. The game is over. And yet he could not stop himself from saying, “Prove it.”