The Sacrifice Stone (4 page)

‘I’m not saying that these details support the Church’s version of St Theodore’s martyrdom,’ he interrupted, ‘I’m merely pointing out that there
was
a child called Theodore, that he was reputed to be from Arles, and that he was killed at Glanum some time before AD 175.’ He tapped his hand against the notebook. ‘There’s the proof.’

Inside her head a voice spoke. Vehemently someone said,
It’s
not
true
. She was about to repeat the words out loud, and it was only with an effort that she did not.

Where, she wondered, did
that
come from?

She shook her head, as if to clear a buzzing in the ears. Then said calmly, ‘Okay, I accept that.’

‘Thanks,’ he said ironically.

She looked up and smiled, relieved to feel so firmly back in the here and now. ‘Come on, this is doing you good. You’ve got to write a convincing thesis about this kid, —’

‘Not solely about him. I’m planning to cite several other examples of martyrs.’

‘Yes, but the same doubts may well apply to them.’

‘I don’t have any doubts.’

‘Well, you should have! If you’ll just let me finish, I was trying to point out that having to argue your case to someone as unconvinced as me is the best thing that could happen. Prove it to me, and you’ll prove it to anyone.’

‘Typical scientist,’ Joe said. ‘You don’t believe anything till you’ve proved it in the laboratory.’

‘The good old empirical system.’ She closed his notebook and handed it back to him. ‘Joe, please don’t think I’m irrevocably sceptical, because I’m not.’ Or at least, she added silently, I don’t
think
I am. ‘I’m more than willing to traipse all round Arles and the surrounding area with you, and I’ll take notes, photographs, anything you want, if it’ll help. Will that do?’

She went to stand beside his chair, and he reached up and briefly touched her hand.

‘It’ll do,’ he said.

‘Right. I’m off to bed, then. Goodnight.’

‘Don’t you want a book to read before you go to sleep?’ He had selected one, and was holding it out to her.

She looked back over her shoulder. ‘If it’s about human torches, cutting women’s breasts off and other bizarre forms of mutilation and death, no I don’t.’ She blew him a kiss. ‘I’ll stick to my nice unviolent
Blue
Guide
to
Provence
, thanks all the same.’

As she shut the door behind her, she thought she heard him mutter, ‘Philistine!’

4

Joe kept his impatience more or less in check while Beth drank her second cup of breakfast tea, which he whisked away as soon as she’d finished. Then they set out for the church.

The little saint was still simpering from his plinth; someone had lit a candle, and its soft glow highlighted his pink cheeks. Beth thought he looked remarkably healthy for someone with a slit throat.

She waited at the back of the church for several minutes while Joe stood and gazed. Coming eventually to join her, he said, ‘Funny sort of flower arrangement.’

‘The vines and corn? Yes, I noticed that yesterday.’

‘It’s wheat,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have thought they grew wheat here, although they did in Roman times. They got a huge cereal harvest from the northern Camargue, and a lot of it was shipped back to Rome.’

‘What do they grow there now?’

‘Rice, among other things. It’s a lot wetter nowadays — they’ve been operating an irrigation programme since the war.’ He turned to look back at St Theodore. ‘I’m a bit disappointed, actually.’

‘Why? It’s got to be your bloke, there can’t be two Theodores of Arles.’

‘No, I’m sure it’s him. It’s just that —’ He broke off, frowning. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I expected to be more affected by him, I suppose. The statue’s too ... too ...’

‘Sentimental.’

‘Exactly! It’s as if the artist’s trying to engage our sympathy, whereas in fact there’s no need because the story itself has already done so.’

She thought that probably applied to the majority of popular religious art, but it didn’t seem the moment to say so.

‘Have you seen enough?’

‘Yes. Let’s go.’ He held the door open for her.

‘What next?’ she asked as they crossed the square.

‘The Arles guide book says we can buy tickets giving admission to most of the main sights, Roman and otherwise. I thought we might head for one of the sights, get the tickets and make a start.’

She wondered how many main sights there were; perhaps it was better not to know. ‘Fine!’ she said. ‘Where shall we begin?’

‘There’s a graveyard which was used first by the Romans, and later in medieval times. It’s on the map ...’ He stopped to look. ‘Yes. Les Alyscamps. Down across our Place de la Redoute, and it’s there.’ He pointed.

‘It doesn’t look far.’

He put his map away. ‘Nothing’s far. The advantage of an ancient city — very compact!’

The graveyard was far enough outside the walls for them to have to cross two busy roads; French drivers, Beth noticed, had no respect whatsoever for pedestrian crossings. It was a relief to walk through the iron gates and into the shade of the thick trees in the cemetery.

A small group of tourists had finished their visit and were just leaving; emerging from the ticket booth, Joe and Beth had the place to themselves.

‘It’s like a road,’ Beth said softly; she was reluctant to break the silence.

‘It is a road, or it was. It’s the Via Aurelia, the Romans’ main route from Italy to Provincia and Spain.’

She digested that. Then: ‘Why are there stone coffins all along it?’

‘It was strictly against Roman law to bury the dead where people lived, so cemeteries were always well outside the city walls. They often situated them along main roads.’

‘How practical to get the populus to stick their sarcophagi along the roadside, and save yourself the cost of kerbstones.’

‘Nothing if not practical, the Romans.’ He walked over to one of the great coffins. ‘Here lies Marcus Ulpius Cerialis.’

‘Is that what it says?’

‘Not in so many words. It says he was an official of the town, and that his wife Claudia caused this monument to be made. Roman names are fascinating — in their full, formal version they had six elements, and told you the origins of a man’s family, where he came from, his voting district, and ...’

She stopped listening. Somehow Joe’s voice was distracting; the ancient graveyard clamoured for her full attention.

She strolled on up the dead-straight road, glancing at the stone sarcophagi on either side. After a hundred yards or so the road opened out, passing either side of a hollow in which were several more coffins. I wonder if there’s anything in them? Unlikely, lots of them are damaged — the bones would have been removed and disposed of long ago, I should think.

There were buildings beyond the hollow, an arched entrance and a small chapel; it looked as though the hollow might once have formed the crypt of an older, larger church.

She wandered under the arch, emerging into an overgrown courtyard. A sign on the chapel door said:
Chapel
de
St
Honoré
.
Fermé
.

On her left, another door led into a small side-chapel. She stepped over the raised threshold.

The high walls were unadorned, but a shaft of sunlight picked out the plain stone altar. Walking forward to examine it more closely, she heard a movement behind her.

For a split second she was terrified. The sound, breaking the utter stillness, was so unexpected that, nerving herself to turn and look, she was imagining unnamed horrors ...

In the relative darkness of the far corner stood a young man. Although he didn’t speak, she sensed he was reassuring her. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. He was tall, fair-haired, and dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt.

Wondering quite what she’d expected, she gave a nervous smile. ‘You made me jump,’ she said, instantly thinking she should have tried to say it in French:
‘Vous
m’avez
fait
sauter
’? She wanted to laugh.

But he replied in English. ‘I’m very sorry. I didn’t hear you approach, and by the time you were inside, there was no way of letting you know I was here
without
making you jump.’

He
was
English; with relief, she said, ‘It’s all right. I wouldn’t have reacted, only it’s so quiet here, you can almost hear the ghosts breathing.’

He stared at her, an intent expression on his face. Then, smiling, he said, ‘Can’t you just. Which is patently absurd.’

She had the distinct feeling he was making light of something he usually took seriously. ‘All those Romans,’ she said. ‘My brother was telling me just now how they had to be buried out of town.’ It seemed a good idea to mention the presence of Joe; you never know, she thought, even the nicest-looking men can turn out to be muggers and rapists. Although probably not simultaneously.

She wished she could stop the urge to break into nervous laughter.

‘A sensible precaution, when disease caused the majority of deaths.’ She realized he was referring to the out-of-town burials.

‘Quite.’ She racked her brains for something intelligent to say, but drew a blank.

‘Shall we go back into the sunshine?’ he suggested. ‘There’s not much to see in here.’

‘Yes, let’s. Joe will be wondering where I am.’

Right on cue, Joe’s voice calling out, ‘Beth?’ greeted them as they left the chapel.

‘Here. I found another visitor taking advantage of the lack of tour buses.’

‘Adam Gilbert,’ the man said, holding out his hand to Joe.

‘Joe Leighton. My sister, Beth.’

‘Have you found what you wanted?’ Beth asked him.

‘I’m not sure what I did want,’ Joe said. ‘I’ve noted down a few of the inscriptions, but there’s nothing particularly interesting.’

‘What were you looking for?’ Adam asked.

Joe glanced at Beth, then said, ‘I’m researching various events that happened under the Romans.’

She wondered why he wasn’t more specific. He probably has his reasons, she thought, maybe students writing theses get paranoid and imagine other people are going to steal their ideas.

‘What about you?’ she asked Adam. ‘Just having a look?’

‘That’s about it.’ She noticed he was buttoning the flap of his shirt pocket over what appeared to be a small notebook; perhaps he’d been jotting down inscriptions too.

‘Where do you want to go now?’ She looked at Joe.

‘Back into the old town for ...’ He flipped through the guide book. ‘The Roman theatre, perhaps, or the Arlaten Museum.’

‘Or a cold beer,’ she suggested.

‘After the theatre,’ he said firmly.

‘That’s my next stop,’ Adam said. She’d been rather hoping he might.

‘We may as well go together.’ Joe set off back towards the road between the coffins. She was unable to tell from his tone whether he was pleased or annoyed to have someone else accompany them; she thought it was more likely to be the latter.

*

The Roman Theatre was being visited by a large party of Japanese, all of whom seemed to want at least five photographs from every vantage point, so they gave it a miss and went on to the Museon Arlaten. Beth could happily have spent the rest of the morning studying the costumes and the old photographs of citizens of Arles, but there was less to interest Joe; catching up with him by a mock-up of a tum-of-the-century bedroom where a woman had apparently just given birth to a rather pallid infant — better pump some oxygen into
him
, she thought — she asked where Adam was.

‘No idea,’ Joe said tersely.

‘I’ll go and look for him.’ She wasn’t going to ask what was the matter.

‘If you must, although I did think we might get through our three weeks without you picking someone up.’

He made it sound as if she picked people up every other day: the sheer absurdity of it made her laugh, once the initial anger faded.

‘I didn’t pick him up,’ she said mildly. ‘And if you don’t want him with us, that’s fine by me.’

It wasn’t, since she had decided she definitely liked the look of him, but long experience had taught her that the best thing to do with Joe was imply you wanted the opposite of your real desire, which usually ensured you got your own way.

‘It’s all the same to me,’ he said dismissively.

Taking a deep breath and letting it slowly out again, she said pleasantly, ‘
That’s
all right, then.’

And went off to find Adam.

*

They went to the Place du Forum for the cold beer; Van Gogh’s Café de Nuit was closed, presumably saving itself for later, and they found a table in the middle of the square, in the shade of trees.

She was aware of feeling tense, and was cross that, even though she should surely have grown out of it, she still allowed herself to be affected by Joe’s moods. He was glaring down at his innocuous glass of beer as if analysing it for the presence of hemlock.

‘Isn’t this jolly?’ Adam remarked. She looked up and caught his eye: he seemed to be amused about something.

‘It’s wonderful,’ she said firmly. Lifting her glass, she touched it to his. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

Joe didn’t say anything.

‘Are you here on holiday, Adam?’ Okay, she thought, it’s as hackneyed an opening as asking him if he comes here often, but it’s the best I can do.

‘Not entirely — I’m working too.’

‘What at?’

‘I’ve been commissioned by the Beeb to make a film about the great gipsy routes from central Europe down to the Mediterranean. About the whole
gitan
culture, in fact, and how their folklore, music and dances spread down into the south.’

‘They came here? To Provence?’ It seemed an unlikely journey for middle European gipsies.

‘They still do. I was down at Aigues Mortes yesterday, and the plain between the town and the sea was covered in gipsy caravans. There were campfires going, and a gorgeous smell of cooking, and a black-haired girl in a long flounced skirt read my palm for a few pieces of silver — well, for fifty francs. The caravans were great flash ones pulled by cars, admittedly, but the people are the descendants of those who made the trip centuries ago. Or so they claim.’

‘You could have stayed in England and studied gipsies,’ Joe said. ‘A group of them were turfed out of some woods near us last winter, and the filth they left is still there, rotting into the ground.’

‘You may be confusing true gipsies with diddicoys,’ Adam replied. ‘The sort of caravan-dwellers who muck up perfectly good woodland and leave a trail of old prams and bits of Morris Minor chassis are as much an object of disdain to the true Romanies as they are to you. Probably more so, as nobody keeps saying that you and the diddicoys belong to the same group of people.’

Thirty-fifteen, Beth thought, suppressing a smile. Joe made a sound like a snort, but, to his credit, said, ‘How do you define a true Romany, then?’

‘Romanies are one of a small group of principal families, the others, being the Spanish gipsies — the name
gitan
really applies to them — Bohemians and Tziganes, to which we should add the English gipsies. “Romany” has come to be a blanket term for all of them — it was actually first coined by George Borrow to apply to the gipsies who arrived in England in the sixteenth century, and it derived from their own name for themselves, which was Rom, or Romni in the feminine. They themselves called their language Romani.’