Citadel (4 page)
Arinius pulled his hood over his head as he approached the gate, a coin in his hand ready to pay the toll. An old denarius, though he felt sure it would still be accepted. Money bought nothing these days, but silver was silver. His heart began to thump. If the Abbot had put a price on his head, it was at the gates of Carcaso he was likely to be taken. Branded not only a heretic, but also a thief.
‘Protect me, Father,’ he murmured, making the sign of the cross.
The crowd shuffled forward once more. The wheels rattling on an old cart, struggling over the rough ground. A flock of geese, herded by a scrawny girl with arms like sticks, a dog snapping at the heels of its choleric owner. Another step forward. Just then, a mule kicked its back leg, sending a barrel flying. The wood split and red wine began to leak out, like a seam of blood on the dry earth.
Arinius pushed the image away.
The merchant started shouting and began to remonstrate with the owner of the animal, their words turning the pale morning air blue. Grateful for the diversion, Arinius slipped in front of them and up to the gate. There were two guards on duty. One, a brutish-looking man, was watching the altercation with a greedy glint in his eyes, itching for a fight. The other, a young man with a pockmarked face and a helmet too large for him, looked tired after his night’s watch.
‘
Salve
,’ said Arinius quietly. ‘Greetings, friend.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Massilia,’ Arinius lied, holding out the silver coin. It was significantly more than required and the boy’s eyes widened. He took it, tested it between his teeth, then waved Arinius through.
‘
Salve
,’ he said with a grin. ‘Welcome to Carcaso.’
‡
CARCASSONNE
JULY 1942
S
andrine was woken by a squeal of tyres on the road as a motorbike took the corner too fast. She blinked up through the quilt of dappled leaves, for a moment not sure where she was. Trapped once more in the same nightmare? Then, the sound of the bells of Saint-Gimer striking the half-hour, and she remembered.
She sat up, picking a twig out of her hair, and looked out across the river. The sun had climbed higher in the cloudless sky. Way upstream, she heard the plash of the water against Monsieur Justo’s barge as he pulled hand over hand on the wire. If the ferry was working, it must be past nine o’clock.
Sandrine scrambled to her feet. As she grabbed her beret, something caught her eye ahead of her in the reeds. Something blue, beneath the overhang of the marsh willow. She paused, certain it hadn’t been there before. She walked upstream, along the water’s edge, moving out of the bright sunlight into the green shadow beneath the tree.
She bent down. It was a man’s jacket, snagged half in and half out of the water. Sandrine reached out to get it, but it was caught on the underside of a branch and it took a couple of pulls to get it free. Holding the dripping material away from her, she examined it. The pockets were empty, apart from a heavy silver chain, the sort of thing a man might wear. The catch was broken and initials – ad – had been carved on the underside.
She frowned. It wasn’t unusual for things to be jettisoned in the river, old boxes, flotsam, torn sacks from the market gardens upstream. But not clothes, not jewellery. Everything had a price or could be traded for something else. And the Aude was fast at this point; there were no rocks on this side of the river, only reeds and grass and flat riverbank that curved gently, so mostly the current sent its cargo rushing downstream.
Sandrine looked out over the river. Now she noticed there was something else in the water, caught on the ridge of jagged rocks below the weir. Pushing the chain into her pocket, she shielded her gaze with her hand, reluctant to believe the evidence of her own eyes.
It looked like someone trying to swim. One arm stretched out, the white material of the shirt billowing in the current, the other holding on to the rocks.
‘Monsieur?’ she shouted, hearing the fear in her voice. ‘Monsieur, do you need help?’
Her voice sounded thin, not loud enough to carry above the roar of the water over the weir.
‘Monsieur!’
Sandrine looked around for help, but the ferry had reached the far bank and was out of earshot. She dropped the jacket on to the grass and ran up towards the road. There was no one about, no sign of the motorbike she’d heard, no one walking past.
‘Help, I need help,’ she shouted.
There was no answer, no movement, just shadows reflected in the water, a pattern of light and dark. Sandrine ran back to the river, hoping she’d imagined it, but the man was still there, on the rocks beneath the weir, his shirt moving to and fro in the current. It was down to her. There was no choice. There was nobody else.
She removed her shoes and her socks, tucked her skirt into her underwear, then waded out into the water.
‘I’m coming, hold on.’
The further she went into the current, the faster the water swirled about her legs, harder and fiercer against her calves, her knees, the backs of her thighs. Deeper, colder. Sandrine struggled not to be knocked off her feet.
‘Hold on,’ she cried again.
Finally, she was close enough to touch him. A young man, unconscious, dark skin, black brows, long hair. His head lolled to one side. His mouth and nose were out of the water, but his eyes were closed. She wasn’t sure if he was breathing or not.
‘Monsieur, can you hear me?’ she said. ‘Take my hand, if you can.’
He didn’t respond.
Steeling herself, Sandrine reached out and touched him. Still nothing. She took a deep breath, then manoeuvred herself around so that she could get her hands beneath his armpits. She tried to pull. At first, nothing happened, he was held somehow on the rocks. But then his grip slackened and after a few more heaves, suddenly he came free.
Sandrine lurched and nearly collapsed under the sudden responsibility of his weight, but then the water took over and held him up. Feeling the squelch of mud between her toes, slowly she began to drag him back to the bank. She tried not to look at his pallid skin and lifeless features, his dark hair. She thought he was breathing, hoped he was. Tiny sounds seemed to be coming from his mouth, but she wasn’t sure. Every drop of her strength was focused on the task of getting him back to the safety of the shore.
As the water became shallower, he grew heavier in her arms. The last few steps were almost impossible, half dragging, half pulling, until his upper body at least was out of the water. With what little energy she had left, she managed to roll him on to his side before sinking to the ground on the grass beside him.
She took deep breaths, steadied her heart. A few moments later and she forced herself to look at him properly, at his bruised and lifeless face. There were rope burns around his wrists, red marks on his lower arms. Not the sort of marks he could have got from the water. She looked at his feet, seeing the soles were also bruised.
Sandrine swallowed hard. Not drowned. Rather, someone had tied him up, beaten him. She took another deep breath, fighting the panic that was threatening to overwhelm her, trying to work out what might have happened.
Without warning, the man’s eyes snapped open. He coughed, started to choke, as if the oxygen had suddenly started to feed into his lungs again. Sandrine leapt back, just as a stream of river water spewed from his mouth. He attempted to sit up, but he had no strength and fell back to the ground.
‘Spirits of the air,’ he muttered. ‘The number was ten thousand times ten thousand . . .’
His eyes were staring at her. Pleading, suffering eyes, shot through with despair.
‘Don’t move,’ she said quickly, trying to sound calm. ‘I’ll get help. You need help.’
‘Tell Baillard,’ he whispered. ‘
Trouvez-lui. Dîtes que
. . .’
‘I’ll fetch help,’ she said. ‘The police, we—’
His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Sandrine stifled a scream.
‘No police. Can’t trust . . . no!’ he gasped. ‘Tell the old man, tell . . .’
‘A doctor, then,’ she said, trying to prise his fingers from her skin. ‘You need help, I must fetch someone. You can’t—’
‘Tell him . . . it’s true. A sea of glass, of fire. Speak and they will come.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she said desperately. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘The spirits of the air . . .’ he whispered, but his voice was fading.
‘No, don’t give up . . .’
A terrible rattling in his throat. A gurgling, then a snatching at the air. Every gasp of breath hard fought for.
‘Save your strength. Help is on its way,’ she lied, glancing up to the road again.
‘All true,’ he repeated, almost looking as if he was smiling. ‘Dame Carcas . . .’
‘It will be all right. Just . . .’
But he was drifting away, his colour fading from pink to grey to white. Sandrine kept shaking him, trying to keep him with her. Her wet skirt was clinging to the back of her legs as she pushed against his chest, her feet muddied and cut from the stones on the riverbank.
‘Hold on,’ she said, trying to keep him breathing. ‘Help will come soon, hold on.’
Then she felt a prickling on the back of her neck. Someone was there. Someone was standing behind her.
‘Thank God,’ she started to say, except something felt wrong.
Fear, rather than relief, jabbed her between the ribs. She spun round, but she was too slow. A blinding pain at the side of her head, dazzling white and yellow and red light, then she was falling, falling, her legs buckling under her. The smell of the river and the reeds, rushing up to meet her. A hand on the back of her neck, pushing her face down into the water. The river, framing her face now, lapping into her mouth, her nose, the shimmer of shadow and light on the surface.
For an instant, a whispering. A voice she couldn’t identify, a sound heard but not heard. Experienced somewhere beyond language, beyond hearing.
‘
Coratge
.’ A girl’s voice, glistening in the light. Courage.
Then, nothing.
THE HAUTE VALLÉE
A
udric Baillard stood in a clearing at the edge of a beech wood in the French Pyrenees. Rather than his customary pale suit and panama hat, he was wearing the nondescript clothes of a man of the mountains. Corduroy trousers, an open-necked shirt with a yellow handkerchief at his neck, a wide-brimmed hat. His skin was tanned, the colour of leather, and heavily lined. He was old, but he was strong, and there was a resolve in his eyes that bore witness to the evidence of his years.
Beside him, mopping his brow in the heat, was a smartly dressed man in a black suit and iron-grey trilby, with a fawn trench coat over one arm and a leather valise. At his side, two silent little girls and a thin woman with dead eyes. A little apart stood a young man in country smock and boots. All around, the sounds of the forest. Rabbits, squirrels, wood pigeons calling one to the other.
‘Good luck,’ said Baillard.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ the American, Shapiro, replied, pulling an envelope from his pocket. ‘I hope this is sufficient . . .’
Baillard shook his head. ‘It is not for me, my friend. It is for your guides, the
passeurs
. It is they who take the risk.’
‘Didn’t mean to offend you, sir.’
‘I am not in the least offended.’
The American hesitated, then put the envelope back in his pocket. ‘If you’re sure?’
‘I am.’
Shapiro glanced at his guide, then lowered his voice so the woman and children couldn’t hear.
‘But as a businessman, sir, I hope you don’t mind me asking what’s in it for you?’
‘Merely to be of assistance,’ Baillard said quietly.
‘Though you’re taking a chance too?’
Baillard fixed him with his steady, quiet gaze. ‘These are difficult times.’
Shapiro’s face clouded over. Baillard knew that this man’s family, French Jews, had been among the first to be rounded up in Paris. He had come over from America, thinking his money might save them, but in twelve months he had succeeded only in finding his brother’s wife and two of her four children. The others had disappeared.
‘You cannot blame yourself,’ Baillard said softly. ‘Because of you, Madame Shapiro and your nieces have a chance. We each do what we can.’
Shapiro fixed him with a look, then he nodded. Something in Baillard’s voice persuading him of his sincerity.
‘If you’re sure,’ he said again. He glanced once more at the
passeur
. ‘What about this guy, does he speak English?’
‘No. Very little French either.’
Shapiro raised his eyebrows. ‘So what am I looking out for? The landmarks, in case we get split up.’
Baillard smiled. ‘I am sure you will not, but in any case, the route is simple. Keeping the sun ahead of you, you follow the
draille
, these wide tracks the shepherds and goatherds use. You’ll cross several brooks, passing through open meadows as well as sections of woodland. The first lake you come to will be the Étang de Baxouillade. Keep the water on your left. You’ll travel through a pine forest and on further, until you reach the banks of the Étang du Laurenti. There, all being well, a second
passeur
will be waiting. He will be accompanied by three others who are making the crossing today. He will take you over the summit of Roc Blanc, ready for the descent to the border with Andorra.’
‘This guy’s not sticking with me?’
‘There are different guides for different sections of the mountain. I cannot say for certain, but I think it likely your second aide will be a Spaniard.’
‘That’s grand. I have a little Spanish.’
Baillard smiled. ‘At the risk of now offending you, monsieur, I would recommend you keep conversation to a minimum. Your accent will give you away.’
‘You could be right,’ he said amiably, acknowledging the comment with good grace. ‘How long do you figure the journey will take, sir? Give or take?’
‘With the children, perhaps four hours to the Étang du Laurenti, then another two hours to the summit of Roc Blanc. The descent will be easier.’
