The Dream of Scipio Read online

  “ ‘You are one of Majorian’s Gallic entourage, then. What did he bring you for? Are you a cleric? A soldier? A diplomatist?’

  “ ‘None of these. If anything, I can lay some claim to being a poet,’ I said.

  “Ricimer laughed out loud. ‘A poet? How useful! I am glad to see the savior of the Western empire has his priorities straight. So, sir poet, make me a poem.’

  “I thought, in all my foolishness, that my chance had come. A vision of myself standing before the senate delivering a panegyric danced before my eyes.

  “ ‘Oh, willingly, sir. With the greatest of pleasure. The honor you do me . . .’

  “But this was not what he meant at all. He wished to ridicule me, not honor me. My speech of gratitude was cut short.

  “ ‘Yes, yes. Come along then. Begin.’

  “ ‘But I need to prepare.’

  “ ‘A poet is full of song, I am told. Preparation is not necessary. Generals do not fight battles when they are ready; a good commander can turn any situation to advantage. The same with a politician and a statesman. Are poets different? Make me a song.’

  “The tone of his words was playful, yet there was an edge to them. He was prepared to impose his will even in this little matter. The more I protested, the more would he push, until I gave way. I did not want an unseemly fight which I would inevitably lose, but I did not wish to make a fool of myself either. A difficult situation, as you can imagine. So, red-faced and covered with embarrassment, I began. Fortunately, I had that very morning been perusing Horace, which I had brought with me for the pleasure of rereading it on the very sites where the master had composed his immortal lines. I hope I offend no one if I say I am convinced his shade hovered over me at that moment, and gave me inspiration that I should not disgrace the name of poet.

  “A two-line epigram only did I give him, two of the worst I have ever composed in technique, borrowing from but not imitating Horace as truly as he deserved. But they served their turn.

  “ ‘Perhaps the poet does have his uses after all,’ he said. ‘For you seem to see more clearly than others superior to you in experience. They think Rome is still all-powerful; you in your poem state the truth, that it is crumbling, a mere illusion of what it once was.’

  “He nodded thoughtfully, rapt with admiration, so I hoped, then heaved a heavy sigh. ‘You surprise me, poet. Truly you do. We will talk some more. Come to my palace this evening. After dinner, if you please. I do not entertain, and you would not be flattered by any food I might offer you.’

  “He turned on his heel and left the room, and also left me in a daze. My companion—whose attempt to show me up had collapsed so badly—at least had the grace to congratulate me on my good fortune. ‘He has no companions, few advisors. No one knows his mind. If you can extract even a hint of what he intends, you will be able to trade it for whatever you want. But be careful. It is said that being Ricimer’s friend is far more dangerous than being his enemy.’ ”

  Manlius paused and looked around. No one had said a word, scarcely a cup had been touched since he had begun talking. He was telling them of princes and cities, of legendary figures in distant lands. Sophisticated theologians, men of God though they were, he had them enthralled. “I see from your faces that you are less interested in the progress of a young Gaul like myself, and more in the traveler’s tale I have to offer,” he said with a smile. “Perhaps you are right, for I have seen Rome. Once every Gaul of senatorial rank would have been there; now I know of only half a dozen people who have even traveled out of their own province. But I am one of them. I have seen Rome, I tell you. We hear differing reports, do we not, of this great city. The most beautiful, glorious city in the entire world, glistening with gold and marble. Or is it now a shattered ruin, ransacked and raped time and again after all its troubles, denuded of its wealth, stripped of its population?

  “The answer is both; Rome has fallen from its glory, yet in its decrepitude is still more magnificent than the mind of man can easily imagine. I might even say that the barbarian armies might ransack it again and again and come back a third time, and what remained would even then outstrip all other cities on this earth. Stand on the Capitoline Hill, that sacred spot, turn right around and the city stretches before you, so vast you cannot see its end. The great Colosseum itself is bigger than most cities in Gaul, the shops still burst with the perfumes and spices and cloths of all the world. The libraries groan with precious works; at every street corner there is a statue or a monument to some hero of the past. It still boasts men of exquisite learning and women of extraordinary beauty. And ruling it all and all it owned, though always in the background, was Count Ricimer.

  “I had expected Eastern pomp, as barbarians can rarely resist the sweets of luxury when they are ready to hand, and the palace he inhabited was grand enough—certainly the biggest such place I have ever been in. And yet he nested in it like a squirrel in an oak tree; most of the halls, all the dining rooms, baths, were disused even though beautifully maintained. Not a sound, not a person did I see in the entire place, even though I knew that guards must be all around. The entire building was in total darkness except for the light thrown by the torch of the two soldiers who escorted me to him. Outside, I was searched—efficiently but not brusquely—and then asked to remove my shoes. Then one soldier knocked on the door, opened it, and gestured me inside.

  “Ricimer lay on a couch reading, but made no pretense of business. He got up—there was no one else in the room—and put the papers down on a little desk the moment I walked in, then turned to greet me.

  “I was nonplussed by it all, so different was it to my expectations. I was not so naïve as to imagine that I had been invited because of my poetry—even had it been better, Ricimer was not one to have noticed the fact. Careful questioning had indicated that his lusts—if he had any—did not extend to young men such as myself. I did not consider it likely that I had been asked to give wise words on the state of the empire, although I allowed myself a few moments of fantastic imagination in that direction. In fact, I did not know what I was doing there. It never occurred to me then that the most powerful man in Rome had no one to talk to.

  “He bade me sit on the couch—in this he was traditional—and asked me to pour him some wine, which I did, though I noticed that, although he put the cup to his lips, he never actually tasted it. He kept company with me, but did not join me. Then he asked me about my journey to Rome, and how our delegation was being treated. I answered frankly and honestly, for I considered that to do otherwise would be considered more insulting than to dissimulate. He did not wish to hear empty praise of a city for which he was known to feel little but disdain.

  “ ‘We are treated as you might expect, Excellency,’ I said. ‘As provincials scarcely worth talking to. Although since news of your invitation this evening circulated somehow, I find myself suddenly popular.’

  “He smiled. ‘They still fear me, I think. And will do so until they kill me. They hate me, but cannot do without me. How is my fame in Gaul? Am I thought of as the barbarian, destroying Rome simply to keep hold of power for himself?’

  “ ‘As you say yourself, sir; it is thought shameful that Rome should be under the sway of a man like yourself who is no Roman.’

  “ ‘But what does it say of Rome that it submits to me so easily? I am powerful despite being hated. Yet no one lifts a finger to curb my authority. Do you know why?’

  “ ‘A man with a powerful army is hard to curb.’

  “ ‘Oh, no. A knife thrust will do the trick. As many people have discovered in the past. No; it is because Romans no longer care to resist. They want an easy, trouble-free life, living on their past, going through their ancient ceremonies, reading and rereading books written half a thousand years ago. The present is of little interest to them. They leave it to me; and as long as their lives are not troubled, will continue to do so. You think of me as scarcely lettered, no doubt. So I am, but I have read some of the histories. I know of the re
public and of the old virtues. Such people as the Romans were then would never have tolerated a man like myself except as a servant. Never as a master.’

  “ ‘But if you give them what they want, then you are their servant.’

  “He considered this, then shook his head. ‘Perhaps. But not a true servant. I am the servant who encourages his master to be drunk every evening so he cannot see to the honest running of the household, does not realize I am sleeping with his daughter. I am that sort of servant. I did not choose this role. I wished to do otherwise, to serve Rome, but it is no longer worth serving well.’

  “ ‘But with your power, your authority, and your skill, you could insist on this. I do not flatter you, I hope; your expertise in generalship is well known and often proven. But did not Julius Caesar, then Augustus, then Diocletian, then Constantine all take a somnolent empire and force it awake, make it defend itself, renew its institutions?’

  “Again a shake of the head. ‘Do not tempt me. Those days are gone, and will never come back. All the people you mention merely had to take control of Rome. They did not have to fight against Rome itself. It took Domitian all the resources of the entire empire to fight back the challenges he faced. Do you think a man such as myself could do the same with less than half of one, when the more powerful part is hostile?’

  “ ‘I do not understand you. Why do you say that?’

  “He looked at me with an ironic smile on his face. ‘You are indeed provincial, young man. You see nothing except your own concerns, only what is right in front of your face. You complain about the encroachments of Visigoths and Burgundians. You come here asking for troops, and are confused and upset when no one provides them, worried that the empire is so paralyzed it cannot even defend itself anymore. Let me tell you a secret. It does not wish to defend itself.’

  “ ‘I know there are many demands on the armies. . . .’

  “ ‘No,’ he interrupted me. ‘You misunderstand what I am saying. Let me put it differently. The emperor in Constantinople will do whatever he can to ensure that peace does not come to the Western provinces, that the barbarians do win more and more territory, and that all of Gaul falls to barbarian tribes as Britain and Spain have already fallen. This has been their policy for half a century.’

  “ ‘That is ridiculous.’

  “ ‘Sixty years ago, Rome was sacked. Thirty years ago the Burgundians attacked in Gaul. On both occasions, the barbarians were hurled back and yet on both occasions they were offered huge tracts of land within the empire. It is these lands and peoples which now threaten the rest of Gaul and Italy. They were utterly defeated and could have been expelled, as had happened before. Yet they were settled instead, given land and revenue. Why?’

  “ ‘A mistaken policy, hoping they would prove controllable.’

  “ ‘You have a lower opinion of imperial wisdom than I have. No. The empire does not make mistakes. Not consistently over half a century, and on a matter like this. It was no mistake. It was deliberate, and successful. The policy was to weaken the Western empire fatally, in order to strengthen the Eastern part dramatically. It has worked well.’

  “ ‘You make no sense.’

  “ ‘Let me explain again. How many usurpers of the throne, rebellions, pretenders, uprisings, and mutinies have there been in the last century?’

  “ ‘I don’t know. More than I can count.’

  “ ‘Yes. Some have succeeded, some not, all have been expensive, some hugely so, resulting in years of civil war. Nearly all have come from the West—Constantine himself from Britain, most of the others from the army of the Rhine, Spain, or Gaul. Until the barbarians were settled, and the Western provinces so weakened they could no longer field pretenders. The armies were too weak, the barbarians were more interested in squabbling amongst themselves. How many Visigoths or Burgundians have set their eyes on Constantinople? None at all. And the East has been calm, and prosperous and rich; the imperial crown has passed from one man to the next with no bloodshed—or no more than is usual.

  “ ‘And the cost has been merely the dismemberment of troublesome provinces which, in any case, never provided much revenue; it was always gobbled up in Rome long before it got to the Golden Horn. Gaul has cost huge sums of money, and provided little in return except trouble. Much better to fragment it into pieces so small it can harm no one but itself.’

  “ ‘You are saying we are abandoned. Rome itself is abandoned?’

  “ ‘Look at it from the point of view of, say, a citizen of Antioch, or Alexandria. Older and more glorious than Rome in some cases, richer by far. Why would anyone shed a tear if those upstart Romans, so arrogant, so condescending, suffered a little?’

  “He paused and looked at me seriously. ‘All the world will be shocked should Rome ever fall. But preventing the perpetual civil wars was the main priority of all rulers for more than a century. You cannot say this has not been achieved. And what has been lost? What will be lost?’

  “ ‘We would be no longer Roman.’

  “ ‘Why not?’

  “ ‘We could not take office in the state. My father was consul, my uncle magister milites. What would remain for me?’

  “ ‘Empty titles, for the most part. Which cost the possessor a fortune in entertainments and charity.’

  “ ‘And yet we have an emperor in the West now determined to challenge the threat in Gaul.’

  “ ‘Ah, yes. Majorian. And how long do you think he will last?’ ”

  Manlius paused and looked around him. All his dinner guests had sat quietly, listening to this tale. When Manlius had left Ricimer’s presence he had gone home, thinking quietly of what he had heard. He had thought of Majorian, the emperor he had accompanied to Rome. And what a difference there was! Majorian was a good man, one striving to do his best, but an ordinary man nonetheless. Ricimer was different, altogether exceptional, the sort you encounter, perhaps, once in a lifetime. Maybe not even then.

  “For all that,” he continued, “you know the result. Majorian was killed, his successor was murdered, and his successor was also killed, all probably on Ricimer’s order. Every emperor who wished to raise an army or move against the Goths went to an early grave. Was it because he was bribed by Constantinople, or because he believed any such move was doomed to fail and would dissipate resources on a fruitless task? I do not know.

  “He is dead, anyway. But I remember his last words as I left. ‘The empire is not disintegrating because of the barbarians, but because of itself. One part will not fight, the other half cannot. The next time you have a barbarian army on your frontier, remember that well.’

  “You want me to go to the emperor, if you can find one, and persuade him to send an army, so we might save Clermont and restore the writ of Rome. Let this story give you some hint of how much success I expect, and why I counsel approaching the Burgundians first. For any success with the emperor will not come swiftly if at all. And, I say again, we have little time.”

  He almost stretched out his cup of wine to spill the dregs in libation, but held back at the last moment; it would cause offense, and spoil the effect.

  He never talked about politics, for which he had a disgust that remained and, if anything, grew. Rather, he talked about what he knew; about history, and the way France had grown. He talked about the vicissitudes of the past and how they had been overcome; reminded them of the dark days of other invaders and how, in the end, they had been thrown out. He talked about how the country had grown until it filled its natural frontiers, breeding to produce the French out of the Bretons, Normans, Provençals, Basques, and all the other races who had occupied or passed through in the past. He talked about liberty, and the Revolution and the Rights of Man. None of these did he ever subject to the sort of scrutiny he might have deployed with a scholarly audience; rather, he portrayed their mutual history with an eloquent fervor, discovering reservoirs of patriotic pride he never knew he possessed and which swept over his listeners like a calming, inspiring flood.

&
nbsp; He once even talked elliptically about Jews, by delivering a talk on the Avignon papacy in which he mentioned Pope Clement and his act of mercy during the plague, protecting the Jews against those who thought them responsible for the infection. Would he have done such a thing had he not been French? For reason and mercy was bred in the soil of France, breathed in the air. It was part of the national spirit.

  Julien gave this talk in Orange, because the topic was very much on his mind. His daily work was not onerous and, indeed, proved a lighter burden than the teaching to which he was accustomed. In the gaps, he had time to go back to his notes and papers and found that the past provided a welcome refuge from the gloom of the everyday. There was much he had accumulated over the years, and much he had never looked at. It was because of the war that he turned his attention to Olivier de Noyen properly; this young man who had such a role in the regeneration of learning in a dark age carried a special appeal for him at that time.

  The matter of the Jews also came to his mind for the same reason; even so strict a historian, so determined to exclude the present, could not help but be struck by the contrast between the sudden shaft of magnanimity lighting the dark days of the Black Death and the vindictiveness of the present. For in the most perilous hour of Europe’s history, at a moment when more than a third of the entire population was dying in the most hideous agony for reasons no one then understood, the pope extended his protection over the people popularly assumed to be responsible. It accomplished only a little; across the continent, ghettos were destroyed, synagogues razed, and people killed. But on French soil—or soil that became French—a man born and brought up in France stood up and offered an alternative. “They shall not be compelled, because obedience without faith is worthless; they shall not be punished, because punishment without understanding is pointless.” Thus the great bull that he issued; the Jews were not wiped out; indeed many came into Provence, into what became Southern France, and their descendants remained, to cause many of Marcel’s present headaches.