The Dream of Scipio (38 page)

“I have heard some reports. And seen that this city is in a state of terror.”

Clement looked dismissive. “This city,” he said scornfully. “They don’t have the slightest inkling of it. So far there have been a few thousand deaths. That is all. And they are already panicking. I have priests, cardinals, and bishops running for their fat little lives when they are most needed. And it has scarcely started yet. Do you know what will happen here, and throughout the rest of the world?”

Gersonides made no answer. The pope picked up a sheet of paper and began reeling off numbers.

“Syracuse: ninety thousand dead out of a population of a hundred thousand. Genoa: sixty thousand out of seventy-five thousand. Florence, less than ten thousand souls left. Aleppo, wiped out entirely. Not a single man, woman, or child still alive. Alexandria a ghost town. And it goes on and on. The whole world is being consumed, and in a matter of months. Do you see what I mean?”

The rabbi was shocked. That the head of the church had better, more precise information than he possessed he did not doubt for a second. That it should be so terrible he had not suspected for a moment. For a few seconds he could think of nothing to say.

“I read also,” the pope continued, “several reports that Jews die as frequently as Christians—and, I might say, as Moslems. God is being very evenhanded, and it seems possible—so many think already—that He intends to wipe out His creation in its entirety. We are in the middle of another flood, except this time He is sparing the animals. Only men and women and children fall to this sickness.”

“If that is His intention, then there is nothing we can do about it, except pray for a reprieve.”

“And if it is not, then we should see what we can do. You as well. Or do you prefer to sit in contemplation while all of creation is destroyed?”

“What do you want of me?”

“You know about astronomy. See if you can find the source of this in the heavens, and try to discover from whence it comes. You know something of medicine, as do many Jews. Consult with others and see if some way of preventing this monstrous sickness can be found. There was, if I am right, a great plague in Athens during the Great War.”

Gersonides nodded. “It is described in Xenophon, of which I have one of the few copies.”

“And another in Constantinople in the time of Justinian.”

Gersonides nodded again.

“Study them. See how they brought it to an end then. They knew more than us; we might learn from them.”

“In that case I must return home.”

“No. I do not permit it.”

“I have to consult my books and my charts. I can do nothing here.”

“They will be brought. My entire library and the resources of the curia will be placed at your disposal. You may have anything you want.”

“I want to return to my home.”

“Except for that,” Clement said with a wintry smile. “Do not force the issue. I have been kind, and will reward you well. Do not make me angry and never challenge an order you receive from me.”

It was a revealing moment. The affable pontiff, willing to speak politely with a man such as Gersonides, showing real signs of learning and concern, yet a Christian prince nonetheless. Their positions were clear; the nature of the courtesy clear also. Gersonides bowed his head.

“I will make a list,” he said. “But I insist that a message be sent to my servant immediately, lest she be afraid for my health.”

“The messenger who collects your papers will tell her.”

A nod. “Please make sure he reassures her.”

And the rabbi was dismissed. The shock of what had happened, and the impact of the fresh, cold night air when he left that room was so intense that he fainted on the staircase and had to be carried to his lodgings by soldiers, ordered to do so by their captain, for they thought he, too, had succumbed to the plague, and their first instinct was to throw him into the moat.

 
 
 
THE HISTORICAL RECORD is silent on the nature of diplomatic missions in the late antique period; unless they were exceptionally grand, little remains to tell how they were organized. Nonetheless, it can be assumed safely that Manlius Hippomanes, when he began the journey north to the court of the Burgundians, made his entourage appear as impressive as possible. He knew, certainly, that King Gundobad was known for being cunning, and violent, but knew also that he had been in contact with the Roman world for long enough to appreciate the fruits of civilization. Gold and silver and jewels and fine cloth he did not take; these the king had in abundance, more than Manlius could assemble. To have taken such presents would merely have underscored his weakness, shown how little he had to offer. Changed days indeed from the time of his forebears, the sheer magnitude of whose embassies could in themselves awe a barbarian princeling into submission by the easy demonstration of excess. Worship me and all this shall be yours. Rome had survived and prospered for centuries by using the devil’s words.

But no longer; now greater subtlety was required. Manlius could not project force, or wealth; there was little left of either. So he decided to strike at the king’s weakest spot, his lack of cultivation. Instead of jewels he took books; instead of soldiers he took musicians; instead of a discourse to strike fear and generate submission, he prepared one of gross flattery, drawing parallels between the king and Augustus, noting the emperor’s love of learning, and how his fame grew through the praise of men of letters. Let us agree, and I will do the same for you; that was the message, and hardly a subtle one. It was the balance that was important; Manlius needed a style that would awe through its complexity and sophistication but that could still be understood.

It would be an abuse of learning, a disgusting display, a shameful exercise. To praise an emperor and receive a reward, as he had done years ago during Majorian’s brief and hopeful reign, that was one thing. Wheedling a barbarian chieftain was very different. Manlius took few of his lettered friends with him; he also took few priests, for the king was an Arian, and the last thing he wanted was some self-righteous cleric, burning with zeal to do God’s work, trying to convert him, then denouncing him when he failed. The man’s wife adhered to Rome; if she could not bring him around, a clerical harangue was unlikely to succeed either. But it could make him angry.

All this he did on Sophia’s advice; he had talked the matter over with her. “To throw away the world to preserve the purity of literary style seems foolish,” she had said severely. “You say this man has ruled with justice and firmness. That he was educated at Rome. That he is a man of moderate desires and tastes. To be cunning is no great failing in a ruler, I think. So why should he not be praised? You and your predecessors often delivered panegyrics to emperors who were distinguished only by their lusts, their violence, and their greed.”

“Those were delivered to praise the office, and encourage the man to live up to it,” Manlius said. “There is surely little comparison.”

“There is every comparison. To praise an unjust man and refrain from lauding a just one is foolish. When, also, you desire something from the just man it is doubly so. Give him his due.”

Manlius saw the wisdom of her advice, she who had always been so wise, and took his leave.

“I wish you the best of fortune, my dear,” she said with a smile. “Do not forget that in everything you do, you must stand above faction and petty interest, and tread the road of virtue.”

“Diplomacy and virtue do not make easy companions,” he commented.

“No. But that is why you were chosen. Remember all you have learned. You know what is the right, and what is not.”

He took his leave of her, and as he left, she picked up a book and began to read it. He caught one last glimpse of her through the window, sitting quietly in the courtyard, bathed in soft morning sun, her head nodding, already absorbed by the work she was studying.

 
 
 
 
ONE MORNING in early 1942, Julien insisted on a meeting with Marcel, whom in fact he saw only rarely at work, although they still met on occasion for a meal. He was a menial functionary, Marcel was in charge of the whole département. This time he insisted; went to the Préfecture first thing in the morning and waited, pacing up and down until he appeared, stumping along the corridor, battered briefcase in his hand.

“I need to talk to you,” he said as Marcel nodded to him in surprise. “It’s very important.”

“It must be,” the préfet commented as he showed him into his office. A grand room, though badly needing a new coat of paint. That would have to wait until after the war. “What is it that gets you so agitated?”

“Have you seen this?” Julien said, waving a folder in front of him.

“I don’t know. What is it?”

“A list of books. To be taken out of libraries and destroyed. ‘Degenerate literature,’ it says. Marcel, they cannot be serious about this.”

Marcel took the paper, fished his round, horn-rimmed spectacles from the top pocket of his jacket, and peered at the first page. “Hmm,” he said without much interest.

“Did you know of this?”

“Of course I did. I also remember that a similar order came through some six months ago and you did nothing about it whatsoever. Nor, it seems, did anyone else anywhere in France. So now they’ve lost patience. That’s what happens if you’re obstructive. If you’d cooperated then and put all those books in store, they would have forgotten about it. Now they want more books, and they want them pulped.”

“But look at the list!”

“Marx, Engels, Lenin, Bakunin. . . . A predictable choice, surely?”

“Keep going.”

Marcel shrugged, so Julien read for him.

“Zola. Gide. Walter Scott. Walter Scott? What in God’s name is degenerate about Walter Scott? Boring, I agree. But hardly a danger to national morale.”

“That’s committees for you,” Marcel said wearily. “If you must know, I find it completely stupid as well, though don’t quote me. But they will keep on going until it’s done, and the list will get longer and longer. So go and do it. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Julien was dismissed and went marching down the corridor in a rage. He could not, would not do this. This was an outrage. He remembered how he had felt, the scorn and disgust when he heard of book burnings in Germany. Such a thing could never happen in France, he had consoled himself. And now that was exactly what was happening. By direct orders of a French government.

Again, he thought of resigning, registering his protest, but then, once more, he thought of the cold, cruel man who was likely to take over his job; it was Marcel’s subtle form of blackmail to keep him in place. For he had told him several times how only his protection stopped a rabid zealot, a crusader for moral and racial purity, from occupying his position. If that was what he wanted, then go ahead and resign. Look and see what would happen. . . .

Julien again sat on the memorandum, pretended it wasn’t there, but no matter what he did he could find little comfort. A few weeks later he had to hold a meeting with the editor of a newspaper in Carpentras. It was a difficult meeting, and tried his patience. The editor was a venerable old man who had owned and run his paper for nearly forty years. Of the reporters who worked for him, two were known communists and one was a Jew. Of late, the paper had published a series of articles that were implicitly critical of the government, and that reported on the shortages of food and clothing. Julien, under strict instruction, had sent a letter warning of this, but he had paid no attention. Now he was under instruction to close the paper down.

“We cannot have this,” Marcel had said to him. “Don’t these people realize? Don’t they see that whipping up resentment and criticism does nothing at all? If the marshal cannot talk to the Germans as the leader of a unified France, he can achieve nothing.”

“Everything the paper said was true,” Julien pointed out. It was a cold day; there was no heating in Marcel’s office except for a small iron brazier that smoked badly. Julien felt asphyxiated by the fumes, and chilly in his ever more worn clothes. Even Marcel, he noted, was now badly shaved through lack of a good razor.

“It doesn’t matter if it was true or not,” Marcel snapped. “These people are making trouble unnecessarily. Sort it out.”

And Julien had summoned the editor.

“You are going to close the paper?” the man said in astonishment. “Because we pointed out what everybody knows?”

Julien looked sad. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You were warned.”

“I do not accept it. There must be something we can do. I will give an undertaking—”

“You already have. Much good did it do.”

The man thought. “The newspaper must stay in print,” he said. “Fifty people work for it, and they won’t find another job at the moment. There are the reporters, the printers, their families. . . .”

He looked down at the floor, staring at ruin and disaster. “Tell me,” he said reluctantly, speaking slowly as if hating every word that came out of his mouth. “If I got rid of the reporter who wrote the article . . .”

“Who is he?”

“Malkowitz.”

“I will inquire.”

Julien went back to Marcel and made the proposition.

“This Malkowitz character. Is he the Jew?”

“I believe so.”

“Excellent,” he said. “A fine piece of work. The paper continues, we exert our authority, and we get rid of a Jew who should have lost his job six months ago if you had been doing yours. Come to think of it, take a look at all the papers. See how many Jews there are. Suggest to the editors that their supplies of paper would be more sure if they thought more carefully about the makeup of their reporting staff. Then maybe the Bureau of Jewish Affairs will leave me alone for a bit.”

“Why? I really don’t think—”

“Just do it, Julien.”

“But, Marcel, apart from anything else it is quite unfair.”