The Dream of Scipio Read online

  Ceccani could send some soldiers, or Pisano could bring it next time he came out here. It and its contents were safe from discovery, at any rate. He had done his best.

  Still sniffing, still unsteady, he went out into the daylight and was dazzled by the sun. The rain had long gone, leaving only the smell of sweetness behind it. A heat haze was already forming in the far distance, and the birds, grateful for the rain and happy also it was over, were singing their songs with a vehemence Olivier thought he had never heard before. Perhaps because of Pisano, he noticed the colors of the landscape properly for the first time, the extravagant purples and browns and yellows and greens covering the hills and the valleys as far as the eye could see. He looked the other way, across the broad plain of the river valley toward the Rhône, dotted with tiny settlements and fields. He relaxed in the warmth and the peace, and went down on his knees to give thanks merely for being alive, and for being allowed to see such sights and smell such perfumes.

  There was much to do, a whole society to rebuild, an entire regime to establish. Simple things, normally taken for granted, required immense effort and labor. All his tasks he accomplished with efficiency and dispatch. He never complained, never made excuses, seemed to sleep in the Préfecture, was an inspiration to all around. He was the perfect product of the system, almost its justification.

  It was some time before he turned his mind to the minor matters and, on the recommendation of the Minister of Education, wrote the letter that summoned Julien Barneuve from his exile to see him.

  “People have been making inquiries about you, my friend,” he said, and was gratified to see Julien look slightly alarmed. A little joke, which was also a small exercise of power. “I have had two memos about you.”

  Julien looked puzzled. “I cannot think why,” he said.

  “We have been drawing up lists of people who might be pressed into service. You wrote an article a year ago, it seems. About a bishop. It has been noticed by people who think it has the right attitude. Which shows how thorough they are being. Combined with personal recommendations . . .”

  “I published it a year ago,” he interrupted. “I wrote it several years back.”

  “Yes, yes. The point is that it is just the sort of thing we need at the moment. The context. A model, if you like, of how relations with our—what shall we call them?—new friends—may develop. That’s why your name has come forward. It is a small consequence of having a classicist as Minister of Education.”

  Julien looked thoroughly puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Germans, Julien, the Germans. Remember them? Those people who have occupied half our country? You argued that although the barbarians conquered Gaul, the Gauls civilized them. A greater victory and in the end beneficial all round.”

  “I did nothing of the sort,” Julien replied. “And I can see no parallels between then and now at all.”

  Marcel looked slightly irritated. “That’s how it seems to people in Vichy. Goths and Germans, rebellious serfs and communists. Very neat. Don’t expect politicians to pick up subtleties. The point is, they want you to help. Do your bit to steady things. Your duty, really.”

  “I’m really not with you.”

  “Give lectures. Write articles. Check the newspapers aren’t being unhelpful. That sort of thing. Radio, now. We could organize a few talks on the radio as well. Immensely popular, those are.”

  “I don’t think that’s something I’d be very good at. Or inclined to do. Peddling vulgarized half-truths is not something that would appeal much.”

  Marcel paused and sat down at his desk. “Listen, Julien my friend. Let me give you a little lecture. You, after all, have given me enough of them over the years. Do you know what the situation is here? In this country? Probably not. We have been beaten. This you may have noticed. Even you. Definitively and completely, this time. We are in a new world, one which has changed forever. The Germans have won, so comprehensively they cannot now be defeated. There is no one left to fight them. They have complete control over Europe. England is hanging on by its fingertips and will inevitably be destroyed sooner or later. Eventually, no doubt, there will be a war on Russia and it will suffer the same fate. Our government, meanwhile, is in the grip of an old general surrounded by men of often doubtful motives. The people are dazed, confused, and prey to any convincing charlatan who might come along. They have to be protected from false hope and expectation. . . .”

  “People like Bernard, you mean?”

  “Exactly like Bernard. I hear he has fled the country. That was the best news I have heard for a long time. Think what he would be writing now. Sniping criticism from the sidelines, assaults on those who lost the war—all justified, no doubt. Worthy articles on democracy and freedom. Constant bickering about every piece of legislation. Character assassinations of ministers and politicians. A never-ending stream inciting hatred against those people who have just driven their tanks all over our country and divided it in two. Again, justified no doubt. But that is not the point. We cannot look back. We dare not. The people have to be consoled and encouraged and protected. We cannot afford a people divided, or a government hampered by internal bickering. Not at the moment.

  “And there is another point. I need help. Me, your friend. Another thing you do not know, I imagine. Have you heard of the Legion of Combattants?”

  Julien shrugged. “Of course. What of them?”

  “A group supposedly of old soldiers. Very virtuous. Heroes of the last war, although how many actually took part in it is doubtful. They have attached themselves to the president, got close to him. Do you know what they are doing? ‘The bureaucracy will not carry out your orders,’ they whisper in his ear. ‘You cannot rely on them. Let us help. Let us be your eyes and ears, tell you what is going on, do those jobs which otherwise will not get done.’ They are dangerous people, Julien. If they are not stopped, they will bypass people like me, all the usual balances of administration will collapse, and it will fall into the hands of old street fighters. Do you remember we were both in Paris in 1928? When there were the riots, when the right battled the communists on the streets? You said you couldn’t decide which was worse, you were merely terrified either would ever come to power?”

  Marcel paused. “They are nearly there, Julien. Marshal Pétain is a fine man, a hero. But he is easily influenced. And these are the people who are influencing him. And unless I can surround myself with people I trust, then they will take more and more of the administration here into their hands. And that is why I need you, a decorated soldier, a renowned scholar, a respected figure, by my side. I need my friends, now more than ever. And, as I say, you cannot sit on the sidelines talking about your inclinations. If there was a war on, you could go off and fight, if you wanted. Very noble. Very simple. But the war is over. Now the really dangerous part begins. You have to see, Julien, what a chance we have. To renew and rebuild this country, give it good government, get rid of all those people who do nothing but criticize and weaken us. All those people who lost us the war. Look at the Germans; look at how they run things, and look at the shambles that we became. I don’t like them, but we must learn from them if we are ever going to get off our knees. But we must keep it out of the hands of the thugs as well. A balancing act. If you do not help me, you are helping them. Here ends my lecture.”

  Julien gazed at him, saw that he had considered this speech, written it in his head for this moment, and was absolutely convinced that what he was saying was correct. Nor could Julien disagree with him. His friend was talking little more than common sense. But he was still reluctant to take the step Marcel seemed so desperately to want.

  “I just don’t see how giving lectures will help,” he said.

  “Oh, that. Useful. Keeps spirits up, explains what we’re doing. Keeping an eye on the newspapers and publishers is the more important part. Making sure no defeatist, critical nonsense is spread about. We can’t afford it. The government, no doubt, is not perfect. But it’s
all we’ve got at the moment, and it has to be given a chance. And at the same time you must fend off criticism of me from within. Do a good job, use all that intelligence of yours.”

  “What do you mean by keeping an eye on things?”

  “Which journals and papers get allocations of paper? Which books should get priority for printing? All that sort of thing.”

  “I am completely unqualified.”

  “Who isn’t? You are an academic with a good reputation. Aren’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  “There you are. Trustworthy, to me and to the people who will be benefiting from your fatherly advice. It’s for the general good, you know. We have to keep things calm. If you don’t do it, someone else will. And, frankly, you have no choice. You’ve been sitting on your backside for years talking about the need to defend civilization from the barbarians, and now’s your chance. The barbarians are here.”

  Marcel stood up and brushed his lank hair back across his head. His face—now slightly pudgy from age, scored with lines from work and worry—was flushed from the intensity of his speech.

  “Go away and think about it,” he said. “And when you’ve thought about it, go to the Hotel Continental. I’ve requisitioned a floor for the new censor’s office. You start work on Monday.”

  “What’s this?” he asked as they grabbed him and made him stand while they searched his clothes and bag.

  “Orders,” said one. “Nothing there. Thank you.”

  “Come on, tell me. What’s this about?”

  “Sorry.”

  And then he was through, and went safely on his way. Just outside the city, on the approach to the great bridge that led over the river to its gates, he came across a sight that initially made him laugh out loud, and he rushed to Ceccani to recite his letter and tell him of what he had seen.

  “Fifty men and women,” he said later, “all roped together, beating the hell out of each other with rods and ropes, singing psalms while they did it. Not very well, I must say, as they weren’t hitting each other for show. They were really hurting. What is going on that we have so many mad-men on the road?”

  Ceccani did not smile. “They call themselves flagellants, for reasons that are obvious. They believe they can fend off the plague through self-mortification.”

  “Judging by the state of this town, they are not succeeding. Is it as bad as it seems?”

  “Worse,” Ceccani said grimly. “And by all accounts there is still worse to come. Do not laugh at these people, Olivier. Much has changed in your absence, and you will not find anything so amusing when you see what is happening.”

  “I saw some things on the way across town, my lord.” And he had; never would he have thought it possible that a city could change so quickly and so drastically. Not the buildings, of course; the town looked exactly as before, every house and church and palace was as it had been. But the streets, denuded of their people, the stalls, the noise, the movement, were like ghosts. Olivier had never thought about it before; only now did he realize how much he had come to like, even to love, this greedy, corrupt, sinful, excessive town, a byword throughout the world for its extravagance. To live in Avignon, survive amid the cruelty and venality, mingle with Italians and French and Germans and Flemings, was to encounter the whole world at once. And now, it seemed, it was gone forever; all that was left of the pageantry were the bells of the body collectors, and the harsh rumbling of their carts as they pulled another load of corpses to the river; it was difficult to imagine it would ever come back. No city, he thought, could recover from such a blow.

  “How many are dead?”

  “So far? About seven thousand, maybe ten. We thought that perhaps it was abating, that the miasma was heading elsewhere, but it seems not. There will be many more deaths yet. There is nothing to be done, Olivier. No human assistance has had any effect. Nonetheless, I wish you to do me a service, when you are rested.”

  “Willingly, my lord.”

  “Go to these people you find so amusing, they must have a leader, and bring him to me. I do not know whether they are dangerous or not, and we must find out what sort of men they are.”

  He had already told Ceccani about his voyage, and apologized profusely for having taken such a long time. Ceccani listened, silently, nodding as he spoke.

  “And he’s dead, this Althieux?”

  “Yes, my lord. I buried him myself.”

  He grunted. “You tell me you read the letter?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied a little nervously. “I did not intend to or want to. But I decided the only way of bringing it to you safely was in my head.”

  Ceccani thought of this, then smiled. “You did well. Very well indeed. I am pleased with you. So tell me.”

  And like a schoolboy before a master, Olivier recited, calling up every word from his prodigious memory. How the proposal was acceptable to the king. How it would take some time to get troops into position. How the English needed eight weeks before any action could be taken, but that they would be ready outside the walls of Aigues-Mortes by the end of May. And how they undertook to provide any and all assistance to Cardinal Ceccani when the time was right.

  Ceccani nodded. “Do you understand this letter?”

  “I believe so, my lord.”

  “And?”

  “I believe the English wish to wrest control of Aigues-Mortes from the king of France, to take from him his only port on the Mediterranean Sea. And that you intend to help them do so.”

  “Go on.”

  Olivier looked perplexed. “That is all, sir.”

  “Your opinion?”

  “I have none, sir.”

  “Do you not find it shocking? Fascinating?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I am your servant, my lord, indebted to you for everything I have. And because the doings of princes are not my affair. Whether Aigues-Mortes is French, or whether it is English, or whether it belongs to the emperor of China is of no matter to me. I serve you to the best of my ability. What else should concern me?”

  Ceccani rose and gave him a warm embrace, the first time he had ever done such a thing. “By God, I choose my servants well,” he said. “Now go to my chancellor and get the money to buy yourself some new clothes. Get enough for expensive ones. And go and see if there are any clothes merchants left in this town. If you choose to buy modest attire and spend the rest on a manuscript or two for yourself, then—then I’ll bless you anew.”

  What he saw revolted him once more. There were about fifty of them, stripped to the waist, dirty, filthy men and women all drawn from the dregs of society, uncouth, loud, and vulgar, standing in a circle. Time and again one would step into the center to be set upon by the others, all of whom carried weighted scourges. Evidently Olivier had missed much of the spectacle, for the ground was as red with blood as the sand after a bear baiting. Several had collapsed, and when they did so, the others rejoiced and ignored them, turning their attention to the next. Olivier could barely contain his disgust, then slowly realized that he was alone in the crowd in feeling this antipathy. Many of the others were on their knees, singing. Others prayed with tears in their eyes, others ran up with handkerchiefs to wipe the blood, which they carried away reverently. He saw one woman grab one of the men and lick his wounds before collapsing in a heap on the ground. A tall man with a thin, wispy beard, his face covered in scabs, walked over to her, picked her up, and gave her a blessing.

  Olivier called out to him. He had to repeat himself several times before he was noticed. “Are you the leader of these people?”

  “I am their captain,” he replied. Alone of the group he did not seem taken with a madness. Alone, Olivier noticed, he did not submit himself to a beating either.

  “I have a message for you. Cardinal Ceccani orders you to attend him.”

  “I take no orders from a priest,” the man replied with a sneer.

  Olivier turned and indicated the ten guards he had br
ought from Ceccani’s palace. “Then perhaps a polite request would be honored with a reply?”

  The man eyed the troops, who looked nervous and unready to do their duty, but decided not to risk it. “You may tell the priest,” he said, “that I am desirous of saving all souls, even his. I will come to him this evening.”

  And he terminated the interview, walking back to the center of the circle, and continued. Olivier retreated; he heard the snigger of the crowd as he did so.

  “I’m sure the same was said of Saint Francis and his followers,” Ceccani said evenly. “And who knows, perhaps these people have been touched by divine grace. Let us see, when this man arrives. Did you get his name, by the way?”

  “He calls himself Peter.”

  “Peter? Well, well.”

  “You are taking a great deal of interest in a few lunatics, my lord.”

  “A few?” Ceccani replied. “Dear me no. If there were only a few I would ignore them. A few would be no danger, and no use either. But we have had reports in from all over Provence, into Italy and France, of bands of people like these. I need to know whether they are truly dangerous or not. As you have seen for yourself, they capture the minds of the populace. But what will they do with those minds? That is what we must discover. Please go and wait for this Peter, and bring him to me the moment he arrives.”

  So Olivier retired to the gatehouse and passed the next three hours working hard, reading the manuscripts that Gersonides had lent him, rereading his own ever more confusing document by Manlius Hippomanes. The contrast appealed to him: the limpid, clear thought of Manlius and the confused, noisy outpourings of the flagellants told him much, suggested to him why the old Roman had written these words. For the first time he picked up and truly understood the tone of regret, the fear in the text, how Manlius must have intended this work to be a bastion against the darkness of ignorance, and a valedictory to an age he knew was dying all around him. But he remembered also Gersonides’s words at the meeting when he had tentatively suggested that his assault on the Jews of Vaison might have been motivated by faith. “Oh, but this man was no Christian when he wrote this. And he was a bishop, as you say. So go and think yet again; what sort of man can persecute others in the name of a faith he clearly does not profess?”