The Dream of Scipio (51 page)

And Julien stood up and screamed, for the first time since the woods near Verdun, when he thrust his bayonet time and again into a German soldier. “No!” he shouted, and rushed forward and started hitting Marcel with his hands and his fists. Marcel was no match for him; he had not spent much of the past couple of years walking and cutting wood. All he had was what remained of his authority. He held up his arms to fend off the blows, bent down to avoid hurt, and waited until Julien’s despair brought him to a halt.

Marcel seemed to draw strength from the reaction; it removed his last vestiges of doubt. He sat down at his desk once more, the bureaucrat again, commanding through his calm. “What did you think, Julien? That you could take her to live with you in a small village without anyone noticing? That no one would figure out who she was or what she was? She was denounced weeks ago, my friend. The wife of a blacksmith, I recall, reported her. I knew who it was the moment I saw those new pictures on your wall. Why do you think she hasn’t been questioned, taken in as a Jew living under a false identity? Hmm? Because I have protected her. Me, Julien, because I knew who she was, and I am your friend. But I cannot afford friendship anymore, if it is not reciprocated. Twenty-six innocent people will lose their lives.”

“She is innocent as well. She’s done nothing.”

Marcel brushed it away. “I’m not arguing, Julien. It’s too late for that,” he said wearily. “Give me Bernard. Tell me where I can find him. If you don’t, I won’t protect her anymore. I have to supply Jews. She will be one of them.”

Julien bowed his head, crushed by the words, all the arguments he might have summoned, all the reasoning like so much dust before the enormity of what Marcel had done.

He didn’t even think. He simply agreed.

MANLIUS HAD anticipated that some form of trouble would erupt during his absence. He was aware that he had not won the love and obedience of his flock, and that many people of influence actively resented him. He had not, however, foreseen anything quite so severe. When he heard the news he returned as quickly as he could, accompanied by a hundred of Gundobad’s best troops, pressed on him to demonstrate the new friendship between bishop and king. He accepted the offer, knowing they might become more than a useful symbol of amity. Then, at the head of these—an aristocrat again, no longer a bishop—he marched back to Vaison, leaving his small force a few kilometers out of the town while he approached with a few dozen of his own men.

Like all of his class, Manlius had received a military training in his youth. Unlike Felix, he had never fought, but the basics of war were ingrained into him so deeply that he could assess any situation instinctively. He pulled up his horse outside the main gate and sat looking, the beast whinnying and tossing its head as he stared. A dreadful silence covered his followers like a blanket, and on the walls a single townsman stared back. Manlius looked at him. He was old, unfit to fight, afraid already.

What did they think they were doing? he wondered. Did they really think that people like that could withstand Gundobad or Euric? Did they not see that they were committing suicide?

Slowly Manlius wheeled his horse to the left and walked it around the outside of the town. He went alone, making himself a target, knowing that they would not dare attack him when he was so exposed. He was their bishop. They would not go that far. Something else must be in store for him. He could imagine it all too easily. The horse walked along, Manlius thought and considered, but as he did so he carefully examined the walls and his contempt grew. Why was he even bothering trying to save these people? They were like children, even worse, like people in their dotage, capable of unreasoning anger but incapable of rational thought or action. The walls, built a hundred years before and then allowed to fall into semi-ruin, had been patched and repaired, but could be overcome by half the soldiers he had with him. In places they were scarcely eight feet high, with wickerwork stuffed in the gaps to make them seem stronger than they were. Elsewhere it had fallen down already, the work was so badly done.

Did they think he would not use force against people who had excluded him from his own city? For Manlius now considered himself the ruler, the owner of the town. It was his, to do with as he liked just as he exercised total authority over his villas and their inhabitants. They were not excluding a bishop they disliked. They were in active rebellion. And he knew he was not going to make the same mistake his father had made. He had hoped to avoid having to choose, but he had no option.

He could call in the Burgundian soldiers and they would take this place within an hour. But that would make him dependent on Gundobad, a pensioner to his power. This, he knew, he would have to solve himself. So he thought, and while he pondered, the gate opened enough to let out one person before shutting again.

It was Syagrius. To Manlius, the shock was almost palpable; of all the people who might desert him, he never thought that Syagrius, who had so much to lose, would throw in his lot with his enemies. He had always considered him too stupid, too malleable, to cross him in any way. That must have been his error.

Why had he been chosen now? To show how little support Manlius had? To make him realize that even those closest to him would abandon him? All of Manlius’s training came into play, to ensure that not one jot of emotion passed over his face as the young man approached.

“My lord,” Syagrius said. “I have come to tell you that it would be unwise to try to enter this town as bishop. If you do, I fear the Lady Sophia may come to harm. They want you to submit yourself to arrest and prepare to answer charges of gross peculation and abuse of the office and trust placed in you by the diocese. This is the message I have been told to give you. I dare say no more, though I would gladly do so. When this is concluded, I will explain what has been happening.”

No dramatic words met this pronouncement. Manlius did not turn black with anger, or rail against the ingratitude of the messenger, or the temerity of the message. He could easily have made Syagrius tremble with fear, for their relative positions were such that his anger would have been formidable.

But he controlled himself, as the Roman of old, and sat impassively and detached on his horse. On the other hand, now was not the time for subterfuge, or for bargaining. He could not show hesitation, or any hint that he was prepared to compromise on his rights.

“Report back this reply: that I was elected by acclamation and that I have the power of God and of the law on my side. That I will brook no opposition. That I will enter this town as bishop within the hour.”

He dismissed all but six of his own soldiers, sent the rest back to the cemetery outside the town where he had left his Burgundians, refusing to acknowledge the hurt he felt, or the scale of the betrayal. Syagrius wished to consign him to oblivion, and whatever happened, he had succeeded. He no longer had even an adoptive son to carry on his name. Only his own efforts were left now. Manlius turned his horse, then paused and dismounted.

“No,” he said. “Syagrius, come back here. I wish you to bear a stronger message; these people will not understand anything less.”

Syagrius turned and stood waiting as he approached. Manlius walked up to him and as he drew near, he nodded at a soldier.

“Kill him,” he said. Then he turned his horse around and returned to his baggage train containing the gifts that King Gundobad had given him as a token of esteem and selected a large, gold-encrusted box. He did not look around and never saw the look of strangled disappointment and panic on Syagrius’s face, the way he sank to the ground and died, still kneeling, clutching the place where the blood flowed from his body into the dusty ground. Nor did he see the way the faces of those on the walls turned from eager interest to terrified horror at the event. He knew already the effect the demonstration had had on them.

Then he collected some men, two dozen of his own guard, and led them to the weakest spot in the walls. A small crowd followed him around on the battlements, watching, uncertain about his intentions. Manlius, changed now into his most gorgeous episcopal robes with the bishop’s ring glinting on his finger, scanned them carefully. No man of real authority was there, neither Felix nor any member of his family.

A ripple ran through the little crowd, and Manlius looked up again and saw Sophia, looking at him impassively. Two guards stood on either side of her, and she was chained by the wrists. What Caius lacked in skill he was prepared to make up for in the threat of violence. But he had not learned when threats work, and when they merely incite.

He looked at Sophia once more, silent and immobile. She looked back at him. For the first time, their glances communicated little. What was she thinking? What was going through her mind? Was she frightened or calm? Was she watching and assessing him? Approving or disapproving? Would he follow his public duty, or his private desires? How would he interpet these? Would he accept defeat, or refuse to be intimidated? Years of discussion between them had been passed in analyzing the abstract. Now it was time to apply that teaching, for Sophia to see how much her best and last pupil had truly learned. This at least he understood; he saw nothing of the walls, the people, did not notice the faint smell of jasmine in the air, or the sudden silence that fell over the crowd on the walls. All he noticed was her curious look as she stood there.

He ordered the box to be brought, and held it up high above his head, then knelt in the dust.

“Blessed Mary Magdalen, true servant of the living God,” he began. “You who lived among us, bringing your teaching of God’s word to those incapable of understanding, forgive us for our sins, and help these poor people see their folly. I beseech you, through this most holy relic, bring men back to their senses, end this strife, and open up this town. I pray you, My Lady, help these poor, weak men about to approach these walls and give them divine strength to tear away these defenses. Strong though they may be, they are as nothing in comparison to your power. Let the walls crumble under their touch, fall when they push, give way according to your wishes. And enter, My Lady, into the hearts of those wicked sinners who so abused you, and let them sin no more. Let them truly repent, and your mercy and intercession will save them. But if they persist in their wickedness, let their town be razed, their families scattered, and their punishment be complete.”

Not a long speech, but declaimed with all the force of someone brought up to oratory, his voice pulsating and projecting his will with enormous force. Even as he finished, and bowed his head then stood up, he saw that the effect had been made. The apprehension on the faces of the defenders had turned to despair already; they had turned pale, they fingered their weapons nervously. They would not, could not, oppose him.

He gave the order, and his half dozen men moved forward and began hacking at the pathetic wickerwork palisade. Within minutes holes appeared and then, with an enormous tearing and cracking, it gave way. The soldiers pulled it aside and threw the pieces into the shallow moat, then gave out a great cry, “Thanks to the blessed Magdalen! Long live the Lord Bishop.” One by one the defenders threw aside their weapons and went down on their knees, the foreheads in the dust, as Manlius stepped gingerly, careful not to trip or stumble and spoil the spectacle, over the rocks and boulders onto the wall and then into the town itself.

“Let us go to the basilica to celebrate this deliverance,” he cried. “And afterwards I call a meeting of the town.”

With one soldier bearing aloft the empty box, he walked all the way to the basilica. As he went he could sense the atmosphere. He had won this round, but not yet their hearts. They were in awe of him, but that would not last.

 
 
 
OLIVIER HEARD the noise from his bed; it woke him up as he lay there beside Pisano. The Italian snored with the peace of contentment; Olivier had slept only fitfully, still too ill-humored to rest. The noise of people shouting, reduced to an incoherent rumble over the distance, woke him properly, and he lay there for a while, trying to figure out what it might be. Eventually, he levered himself up and stumbled down the stairs to fetch some water from the well, and also to see if there was any bread or soup left over from the previous evening.

The old woman was excited; she had just come back from seeing for herself. “Have you heard? The Jews have murdered a woman; butchered her in the street.” She was exhilarated by the violence she had just witnessed. It took some time to get the story out of her, but when he did so, Olivier turned and ran back up the stairs, his heart pounding. He shook Pisano violently. “Wake up, wake up.”

His friend came around slowly, then groaned and turned over again. Olivier pounded him with his fists to get his attention.

“What is the matter with you? Leave me alone.”

The Italian was in a good mood, despite being hit in such a fashion. He had slept well and soundly, surrounded by the sweetest dreams; the aroma of Isabelle still clung to his body, the memory of her lingered in his mind.

“Pisano, she’s dead.”

The painter lay there for a moment as the words filtered into his mind and made sense to him. Then he sat up abruptly. “What?”

Olivier repeated what he had heard, and as he provided the details, his friend sank back onto the bed and groaned. In truth, his feelings for Isabelle had been as weak as hers had been strong for him; he had been flattered by the attention, more than pleased to pick up the delicate fruit that fell so easily from the tree, excited by the heady mixture of danger and sin. But Isabelle had been an adventure, a pleasure, and his response to her death was only in small part distress for her dreadful end. More in his mind was the immediate awareness that he was in deep trouble.

“What happened last night?” Olivier asked.

“What do you mean? What do you think happened?”