The Dream of Scipio

PART THREE

EVEN THOUGH an entire continent was engulfed by war and the south occupied, Julien paid little attention to the German presence until shortly after Bernard had come to see him and announced, somewhat prematurely, how he planned to take control of the region once the occupiers had gone. He always thought on a grand scale, his friend. Until then, the war had been an abstraction, whose reality was sensed only through the shortages of food, the new laws and decrees, the air of despondency that could be sensed in the wind and in the expressions of men as they passed by. The emptiness of the streets, the fact that even a single vehicle attracted attention when before streams of them went unnoticed.

And, of course, through the absence of those people who vanished, taken away to be offered as sacrifices to placate the powers in the north. The foreigners, some Jews, men drafted in to feed the factories of Germany with manpower, others who fled to the hills to avoid being taken or to join the Resistance. The war was a collection of absences but had no real physical presence for him until the day a single truck rumbled into the main street of Vaison, stopped, and the driver got out. What the Germans called Operation Anton, the occupation of Southern France, had been under way since the previous November, but demarcation disputes with Italy over who was to control the area east of the Rhône meant troops generally passed through on their way to the coast. The hilly land east of the Rhône was of no great military importance; it was not the way any invading troops landing in the south would come, if they had any sense.

It was a Saturday morning and the driver was lost. Throughout history, a good general has been he who knows where his army is; a great one he who can say with some assurance where it will be tomorrow. In the case of this soldier, this one-man occupying force, he had been told to join a convoy going to Marseille. But no one had told him where the assembly point was. He had waited for three days, then set out from Lyon on his own to try to catch up.

He was fresh from school; had been in the army only twelve weeks and had not one iota of military fervor in his body. He had hoped desperately for a posting far away from the slightest hint of any fighting, and had used what small influence he possessed—he came from a military family that, collectively, was ashamed of him—to join a unit defending a small island off the Brittany coast, spending his days fishing while hoping that the might of the Allied powers would decide it had better things to do than assault an island with a population of 278 people.

But much of the German army moved south into the previously unoccupied zone, and the young man could only reassure himself that things might have been worse: He could have been dispatched to the eastern front instead. He was swept up in the vast redeployment and got lost as he drove through the night, hoping to find someone—anyone at all—who could tell him where he was, where he should be. He came to Vaison, far from the road he should have been on, and got out to ask directions. He looked around him with an air of perplexity on his face. He was too innocent to wonder whether he should have been afraid, all alone in this town, with no one knowing where he was, driving a truck full of food that the inhabitants would have eaten with the greatest pleasure.

Julien saw him as he stood there, blinking in the bright early sunlight. The youth looked at him, wondering whether he was a person to ask for directions, then walked into a shop. Julien watched him waving his arms as people do when they cannot speak well. He pointed, first in one direction, then in another; the shopkeeper pointed as well. He pointed to some bread and was given it, tried to give some money in exchange, but the shopkeeper waved him away, would not take it. An ambiguous gesture, not friendliness, not disdain, a cautious mixture of both that acknowledged the occupier while also taking account of the news that the fortunes of war were swinging, that the air of invincibility was fading. He mentioned the incident to Julia later: hardly the embodiment of military prowess, he said. Difficult to imagine that the defeat of France had been encompassed by such a figure.

The soldier walked back to his truck, looked around, then drove off. Julien watched that as well; he had not moved once. Julien said so, and described every movement to the investigators who came a few days later, trying to find out who stopped the truck six miles down the road, made the youth get out, then butchered him and left him to die while they stole the supplies he was transporting.

THE PLAGUE sent men mad; this is known, indeed it is a commonplace that extreme circumstances produce behavior that seems scarcely comprehensible to those more happily situated. During the plague and for more than a century afterward, the dance of death became a leitmotiv of European art; men and women naked and dancing frenziedly with monsters and devils, embracing the things they loathed more than any other. It was a representation of the mind, for people threw aside normal restraint and embraced joy and life so eagerly and with so little caution that it crushed them.

One such was Isabelle de Fréjus, whose absurd passion for Pisano provided all the proof necessary that love is a sickness, a dangerous disease that corrupts and destroys all around it. Since he had sketched her and addressed her by the walls of the town, he had grown in her mind until he towered over all other thoughts. She dreamed night and day of him, imagined being held by him and submitting to him in a way which revolted her when she thought of her own husband. Initially she tried to pray that the thoughts would leave her alone, but soon she stopped; the madness took hold and she no longer wanted them to leave. Where the lurid visions came from she did not know; how they arose unsummoned was also mysterious, but soon she stopped fighting them and began to summon them like an incubus to come and comfort her.

Then she passed from mere daydreaming. The longing was so great there was nothing—no action, no distraction—that could shake it from her mind. She had no respite from the moment she woke until the moment she submitted to her dreams at the end of the day. And when it was announced by her husband’s chamberlain that they were now to leave Avignon and head west into central France in the hope of outrunning the sickness, she became sick herself. What if her painter should die? What if she never saw him again? Could she live, how would she die if the thing she desired most of all had slipped through her hands? The morality she had learned from the priests had no power against such thoughts. The sanctity of her vows before God meant nothing to her. She would willingly trade her life and her soul, joyfully submit to an eternity of torment to lie in his arms for one single night, to have that release he alone could provide, which she had imagined so often.

This fever of the mind, this plague of the soul, gripped her and twisted her until all she dreamed of, all she desired was to sin. And the night before she was due to leave, she could abide it no longer. As the servants and members of the family bustled about—those left, for the plague had already struck the house, killing six servants and her own grandmother and sister—packing cases as quickly as possible to make their escape, Isabelle put on her cloak and slipped through the door.

“I’m going to say goodbye to my friends. Who knows, we may never meet again,” she said. It was another sign of the times that she was allowed to go unchaperoned.

Pisano lived in a mean area that had the great virtue of being inexpensive, for Avignon had learned to love greed, and the influx of the papal court forty-three years before had created such a need for space that despite the injunctions about fair price, even cardinals sometimes had to live in houses scarcely fit for priests. Only the areas so low in reputation even the most desperate shunned them could still be afforded, and here, cheek by jowl with the city’s Jews, settled first one Italian painter, then nearly all the rest who came to try their luck.

The area was not entirely unknown to Isabelle; the city was not so big, nor women so protected. She had been to the Jews’ quarter on many occasions, but never alone, and never at night. Huddled in her best cloak, with no one to light her, she walked swiftly through the streets, her sense of unease mounting as they became smaller, more crooked, darker and meaner. Finding the Italian’s lodgings was not easy; she had to ask several times. Getting into the house was more difficult still as it was already boarded and barred to the outside world; she had to knock loudly on the thick oak many times before she heard the noise of feet coming down the stairs.

It was not what she had imagined; in her mind she had thought of a discreet arrival, wafting into the Italian’s room, his arms and his bed with no one else even aware of her presence. Then home again before dawn, through deserted streets, with only her flushed cheeks and look of content hinting at what had taken place. Instead half a dozen people—the housekeeper, servants, people in the streets and the houses opposite—had seen her and must have noted her, for she did not dress, walk, or behave like someone from the quarter.

A less courageous, less mad woman would have taken warning and gone home before irrevocable damage was done. But she had only one idea in her mind, and she never even considered turning back. She knocked on the door until she was let in and the landlady, cursing wildly, came and hammered on the door of the room. Olivier emerged, yawning from tiredness, then came down. He had spent the evening with his friend, and had been up talking too late; he was locked out of the cardinal’s palace, which now shut its doors the moment dusk fell. Those outside would now have to take their chances. So Olivier had begged a space on Pisano’s pallet and was the first to hear the knocking. He woke up swiftly when he saw the woman at the foot of the stairs; he knew from her eyes he would be having to find somewhere else to sleep that night.

They whispered together, so the landlady, notoriously inquisitive, should not hear. Then he took her upstairs.

“You must be crazy coming here,” he said as he led the way. She didn’t reply. All she had said was that she had to see her Italian.

“You should go home. I will accompany you. It’s not safe.”

“No, thank you.”

Olivier showed her in, thought of going in as well to remonstrate with Pisano, but then decided to leave well alone. He dressed himself at the top of the stairs, wrapped himself up in his cloak, for the night air was cold, and walked up and down the street. While he marched he cursed friendship and women and Italians with all the venom only the truly poetic can manage.

ISABELLE STAYED nearly two hours, then Pisano let her out again, and she began to walk home, a sane person once more in a mad world. The madness had protected her, given her immunity from harm. Now she was herself again, she knew she was vulnerable. She accepted it almost as her punishment, and was not surprised when she turned down a blind alley, totally lost, then heard footsteps behind her.

The comte was also in the grip of the devil; he had seen the look on her face as she slipped out the door, and was aware she had never looked that way for him. He followed her, all the way to the moment that she knocked on the door of Pisano’s lodging. While Olivier was pacing up and down the street, he stood silently in a doorway, waiting, his fury and torment rising to such a pitch that he thought he would burst. And when Isabelle came out of the house, he followed her again until he was sure no one was nearby.

She scarcely had time to realize what was happening, and was so weak and puny, with her well-bred arms that had never lifted a weight and soft legs that had never been forced to run. Nor did she have time to scream, for his strong fingers tightened around her windpipe the moment he came close enough.

She had half-turned when she heard the footsteps, but did she see who dragged her into the dark doorway of an abandoned house to squeeze the life out of her in his blind fury? Did her eyes beg for mercy as she sank to the ground, before they glazed over? Certainly she was unconscious before the knife stabbed time and time again into her body, and felt nothing as it slashed, one final time, across her throat in the last, extinguishing burst of rage.

The count threw the knife onto the ground beside her and stood for a few moments, heaving from the exertion. Then he walked off, pulling his cloak up above his head as he rounded the turn into the main street. But not fast enough to avoid the eyes of Olivier as he walked up and back in the cold one last time.

TWENTY-SIX WERE arrested because of the murdered soldier; the strange mind of German military authority had decided on the number—precise, and not to be violated—for reasons not even they understood.

A town that previously had seen little of the war suddenly felt it in its full barbarity; its feeling of vague security because of its presence comfortably in the Italian zone was abruptly destroyed. There was a list, drawn up in advance, as there always was in these circumstances, but no attention was given to such precision anymore. Once, such things were carefully, meticulously done; notables—doctors, lawyers. Two masons. Three shopkeepers. Four artisans. One person who might have been a communist. Two good Catholics. People from the town and from the outlying villages. No women, no children, no one whose death could lead to accusations of being unfeeling or brutal. Such was the original pattern before civilization really crumbled. But this sort of care was in the past; there was no time for precision anymore. The revenge alone was the point. The trucks swept into the town and rounded up the first twenty-six people they saw; herded them together and marched them off to the school, which had pupils and teachers evacuated at five minutes’ notice.

Hector Morville was not a man for such a crisis. He was deputy mayor of Vaison for no reason at all except for the fact that people liked him, and he so obviously enjoyed the little drip of honor that it brought. His wife had died, it was the town’s way of sympathizing. Doing something to bring him out of himself. The mayor often feigned illness before meetings—he was a lazy, if healthy man—so that Hector could wear the full insignia of office and swell up with pride as he sat at the head of the table. No one made fun of him, though it would have been easy to do so. His pleasure was too simple, too pure, to be spoiled by cynical laughter.

Now he was terrified by the sudden burdens of office, petrified by the danger overhanging his friends, people he had known for years. The crisis aged him within hours from being plump and shiny—like many, his family had a small farm that had turned to producing remarkable amounts of food under the stimulus of shortage—to being gray and stooped. An old man suddenly, with all the doubts and hesitations of the elderly.

And so he consulted Julien, his childhood friend, when he bicycled into town that evening to find out what was going on. Elizabeth Duveau was one of those arrested, bundled into the truck merely because she was walking across the main square of Vaison after buying some cloth in a shop. It had received a supply of cotton; every woman for miles around had heard of the event and had come to Vaison to see what might be had. When she did not return, the village of Roaix had collectively turned to Julien to do something about it. Julien came to the deputy mayor to discover the details, such as he knew them.

“They have not been harmed?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do they want?” he asked. “Tell me, what do they want?”

“I imagine they want the people who killed that soldier.”

“Do we know?” asked Julien, who knew very well.

Everyone knew. The moment the town heard of the murder, they knew who had been involved. The two men had been seen near the town that evening, then had disappeared altogether when the body was found and had not been seen since.

No one could guess where they had gone; they had long practice in making themselves scarce. They were not the most admirable citizens of the town, one in particular was a known drunkard, but they had their own robust courage. When the order came for them to submit themselves and go to work as laborers in a German factory, they talked together and decided to refuse. They had never been disciplined, never been good at school or good workers. They had never learned to obey orders. Wartime turned these traits into virtues. One night they disappeared into the hills and woods that they knew so well, and the police and soldiers knew not at all.

After a while more people joined them and they became resisters, sometimes without even being aware of the transformation. Some were heroes, some were trying to escape the German factories. Some were idealists, some patriots, some joined because they loved violence too much, some because they abhorred it completely. Some had clear political objectives, some merely wanted to defeat the Germans, or to bring down the current government of France. Some fought for country, some for God, some for their families, and some for themselves. All were prepared to fight, although how they were to do so, and who they considered their enemy was not always clear. It was groups like these that Bernard was supposed to weld into an effective force capable of doing real damage to the Germans, and groups like these that so terrified Marcel.

“We cannot have these people in this town murdered because of them,” said Hector.

“What do you suggest we do?”

“We hand them over.”

Hector had never been a practical man. He still lived in a world where you told the police, the police did something. It was his own form of resistance to pretend such a universe still existed. He was at the end of his imagination, all his ideas used up. He had briefly put up a moment’s defiance, but all for naught. He sank back into his habitual impotence and shook his head sadly, as he always had when faced with something so imponderably wrong.

“That is not so easy,” Julien pointed out gently. “And perhaps not wise, either.”

“You have contacts, Julien. You are important. You know the préfet. Go and see him. Talk to him. He’ll be able to do something.”

Julien gazed sadly at him. His faith was touching.

“What do you think?” he asked Julia when he pedaled back to the house. She was still with him; Bernard had not yet made any arrangements to get her out and it looked now as though he never would. Months had passed by; Bernard didn’t even trouble to make excuses anymore. Yet the demands for more identity cards and documents kept coming. Julien hoped that when Bernard had made the agreement he had intended to keep it, but he was no longer sure. Julia had done everything he wanted and more. Anyway, it would be quicker now, so Julien dryly remarked, to wait for the Allies to come to them. Not that he minded so much; there had been no hint of any danger, and the days passed in such perfect happiness—peace, almost—their own tranquillity the greater because of the daily news of the fighting that sooner or later would engulf them all.

She was covered in ink; before he’d lived with her, Julien had never realized quite how messy, quite how physical was the life of a painter. It gave added impetus to his constant search for soap. He looked at her fondly as she tried to scratch her nose with some part of an arm that wasn’t covered in her particularly sticky brew of homemade ink, then took mercy on her and scratched it himself.

“Now I know why the Renaissance painters had assistants,” she said in relief. She looked in the mirror. “Dear God, just look at me!”

An old shirt without a collar, a pair of his old trousers rolled up at the bottom so she wouldn’t trip over them, no shoes, hair tied back with a piece of string, she looked utterly beautiful and more happy than he had ever seen her.

“Go,” she said, after studying herself carefully. “Of course you must go. What is there to lose? You must do something for these poor people, if you can.”

Julien left an hour later. He would, he reckoned, be back the following afternoon, and he promised to see if there was any soap or paper to be had. They were, he acknowledged with a smile as he left, the two most valuable things in the world.

IN 1972, shortly before he died, a journalist-turned-author came across the name of Marcel Laplace and wrote a book about Provence in wartime. His work was part of the reevaluation of the war that at that stage was just beginning to get under way, but was still more concerned with exonerating than accusing. Old accounts were settled, long-hidden deals and accommodations brought to light. In Marcel’s case the cost was not high; he was already ill by then and his mind had trouble concentrating; he was beyond recrimination and had no need to defend himself. His record and reputation spoke for itself.

Marcel, by then, was a man so loaded with honor that he was one of the great men of the state. He had been of major importance in different branches of the French civil service for nearly a quarter of a century after the war and had played a part in the economic miracle that had restored French pride in the 1960s. A technocrat, the epitome of technocracy, who had perfected his art in Avignon during the war, while putting into effect the policies for national renewal dreamed up in Vichy.

The journalist delved into his past and found much that had been forgotten. The book that resulted avoided the bureaucratic detail, the memoranda, the orders, the meetings, the appointments that were the daily bread of collaboration. He could have made much more of the administrative orders Marcel had issued, which showed him time and again going beyond the requirements of both régime and occupiers in his desire to please, gaining himself space to maneuver at the expense of others. A careful examination of the way he applied the statut des juifs would have shown that many people lost their jobs who might have survived had a more indolent préfet been in charge. That edicts on reforming schools, closing nightclubs, banning meetings might have been softened in more cautious hands.

All this was mentioned, but it was not what he was after; rather, the author chose to concentrate on the single event that summed up the drama and confusion of war. And he chose as his one telling anecdote the moment on August 14, 1943, when Marcel, according to his own recollection, first tried to make contact with the Resistance, a courageous decision that finally bore fruit in the weeks before the liberation the following year. For when the German army was beaten back, civil war did not break out, chaos did not ensue. Civilian government resumed and reprisals were kept to a minimum. Once more, Marcel served his country and his département well. The author picked up that he and Bernard had been to school together; under his penmanship they became friends, closer than friends, blood brothers reaching out a hand to each other across the divide of ideology and the noise of conflict. Trust, simple and human, triumphed over fear and hatred, and ensured the swift reintegration of military and administration, the reestablishment of civilian government, at the first possible moment after the Allied armies had pushed the Germans back north.

Thus the journalist imagined a conversation in which Marcel was told of Bernard’s presence in France, and has him sitting at his desk, considering how to proceed. Does he inform the Germans? Pass the information on to his own police? Or does he step out of legality and enter the dark world of the clandestine? Someone like Olivier de Noyen would have constructed a semi-theological scenario, with a very literal devil tempting the bureaucrat into evil, an angel arguing for the opposite. Manlius Hippomanes with his classical and pagan background would have mimicked the judgment of Hercules, with a long and highly intellectualized discourse in which the moral issues are debated—with personifications of Vice and Virtue to help out—before Marcel makes his reasoned choice.

Given the way the drama was constructed, all three must make Marcel the hero, as did the author of the book, or at least the centerpiece of the affair. Everything focuses on his decision, and this is where the journalistic distortion creeps in. For Marcel never made a choice. He never considered alternatives. He never doubted for a moment that the actions he in fact took were correct. And, of course, the journalist did not suspect the existence or the importance of Julien Barneuve in the matter.

THE PROBLEM was simple: Manlius regarded the Burgundians as the best hope for the security of Provence. He could make a distinction between one group of barbarians and another, while his friend Felix saw all as a threat to the ideal of Rome. By the time Manlius left the king’s palace and began his trek back home, the starkness of the opposition was clear to him. Events had made them enemies. One or the other must give way. And time was short; the Burgundian king was willing to move his army to a line south of Vaison, but would not invade. He wanted no opposition, and if there was any either he would not come at all or he would feel free to pillage at will. Then everything Manlius had tried to achieve would be lost. Their savior would become their destroyer.

As he voyaged, the journey taking ten days when a generation ago it could have been done in two, Manlius was confident that he could carry the day in the town and the region; his position as bishop gave him an unrivaled, indeed a unique voice to the townspeople, and there was, of course, no doubt that his estates would obey. Nonetheless, he was aware that there would be opposition, and that with Felix at its head, it could be formidable.

He was reassured by the belief that Felix had headed south, to try once again to raise troops to send to Clermont; it was because of this confidence that the news Vaison had rebelled against him under the leadership of Caius Valerius came as such a shock. It was one development he had not foreseen, for like Felix himself, he had never taken seriously the devout but simplistic fool whose bishopric he had taken.

In fact, Caius had been preparing since the moment Manlius was elected some four months previously, and knew that the absence of both the bishop and Felix from the region gave him the one chance he was likely to get. Within hours of the delegation leaving for the court of the Burgundians, he began to move with those he had persuaded, bribed, and frightened into supporting him. The church was captured, and its treasury—newly filled with Manlius’s gold—opened. Work details were set onto the walls, building and strengthening. All of Manlius’s men in the town were disarmed and given the choice: abandon their master or have their hands chopped off so they could not fight for him. Most chose the former option. No move was made to deprive Manlius of his position, however; that would be done later; charges of peculation were prepared to lay against him when he returned. For Caius did not underestimate his bishop or his cousin, and knew that he had little time. Manlius was immensely powerful, and could raise a substantial number of troops from his estates. Moreover, the townspeople were uneasy; Manlius had been elected by acclamation. He had the support of Faustus; he was God’s representative.

Nor could the town be easily prepared for a siege, or defended. The walls were feeble and weak. The inhabitants had almost no idea how to fight. Caius sent urgent messages south, along with all of Manlius’s gold, to hire mercenaries, but nothing had happened. Until they arrived, or his cousin Felix returned with troops to face a fait accompli, a full and open declaration of war against the bishop was unthinkably stupid.

So Caius Valerius worked to prepare the walls, and to stiffen the resolve of the townsmen. Here something dramatic was needed; something to ram home just how unsuitable Manlius was. Who better than Sophia to make this point?

The rumors about her had already started in any case. It took little effort to fan them into a flame of outrage. Sophia was strange, haughty, and aloof. She spoke in a way—the purest Latin, in fact—that the Gallic ear could scarcely even understand anymore. She practiced medicine, so easily confused with necromancy. She was, undoubtedly, the bishop’s consort, he who was supposedly dedicated to celibacy and chastity now his wife had gone to a woman’s house. Above all, she was a pagan, who preferred the company of Jews to good Christians, who openly sneered at the truth and had corrupted the mind of youths throughout the land with her teaching. Sophia, when she heard this last, laughed out loud. She couldn’t corrupt them even if she wanted to.

She was in the habit of coming into the town every few weeks, not so much because she needed to—her slave was more than capable of seeing to her small needs—but because she needed to breathe the air of civilization, however diminished and provincial it might be. She stayed in the great house Manlius had given her, generally only for a day or so, and went walking through the streets, listening to the noise of human activity, constantly surprised by how much it reassured and soothed her. For she had absorbed little of pastoralism in her education; she lived in isolation on her hill to escape the omnipresent signs of decay, rather than to bask in the revitalizing aura of nature. Nature, indeed, she had little time for; she had always been a city dweller, and was more appalled by cruelty of the wild than she was awed by its beauty.

Besides, she had begun to give instruction to Syagrius. The young man had come to her one day and asked to speak. Then, in a rush, he had asked her for lessons, his eyes beseeching her not to turn him away or ridicule him in the way that his adoptive father did as a matter of course. Sophia would never have done that; but she did not, initially, want to instruct him either. She knew perfectly well that he did not ask out of any craving for philosophy; rather he wished through her teaching to come closer to Manlius and demonstrate his worth.

Ordinarily, she would have refused, but now she had no other pupils, and as he stood there, proud but so young and lost, his wish to win Manlius’s respect and affection so clear, she could not turn him away. Instead, with a sigh of misgiving she had smiled, and agreed. “Of course. It would be a pleasure.” His smile of relief and gratitude—a charming smile, with real beauty in it—reassured her.

“And the first thing you can do in my company is to stop standing to attention like that. I will not be your teacher but your guide. I will help you, not instruct you. This means you must speak freely, and I forbid you to believe anything I tell you. Do you understand?”

A look of puzzlement and distress crossed his face. Sophia’s heart sank. “Come in, young man. But if you call me ‘my lady’ once again I will throw you into the street. You will, I hope, think of me with respect. But I have not earned it from you yet. When I have, you may address me thus.”

And so she began with poor, simple discourses. His ignorance was total, the lad was scarcely capable of understanding the basics. Sooner or later, he would say:

“How can you say this? The Bible says . . .”

“What do you mean that life is a quest? What are we looking for? Surely faith should be enough.”

And she would try to explain in a way he could understand, but knew that she lost him, almost every time. “Now, how can we define the difference between understanding and believing?” she would say, continuing because he wanted her to continue, and she was determined not to stop as long as there was any hope that, one day, she might spot some flash of recognition in his eyes.

But she never saw it; his mind was long closed, barricaded by priests and Bibles. She was not strong enough, not a good enough teacher, perhaps, to burst through and let in the light of reason. She should have given up, but she saw also that, although Syagrius’s understanding was feeble, his soul was good. There was no malice or cruelty in him, nor did he ever give up, even though at times he came close to tears in his desperate wish to understand. “Let us take our premise that the individual soul likens himself to God through the refinement of understanding reached through contemplation, and that virtue is a reflection of this understanding . . .”

A cliché of philosophy, repeated endlessly for near eight hundred years; Sophia hardly even thought it controversial. Even in Marseille, she had never had the proposition queried. However, it came to the ears of Caius and he saw it as the pyre on which Manlius might be consumed.

The bishop’s woman taught that men could become God. She challenged the Almighty, taught youth that no savior was necessary, that faith was absurd, that she was the equal of Christ. She contradicted Revelation, poured scorn on believers, and all the while was supported and defended by Manlius himself. What sort of bishop encourages men not to believe?

She was sufficiently unworldly, or perhaps arrogant might be the better term, not to notice that more people looked at her askance as she walked through the streets; that there was more muttering as she emerged from her house. She paid no attention; the opinions of such people had never been of the slightest importance to her; their talking no more registered with her than the noise of buzzing flies occupied her mind.

Southern Gaul was not like the East; monasticism had not taken so strong a hold that hundreds or even thousands of monks were gathered in almost every town. Yet there were many who had gathered informally in such associations, often moving in and taking over abandoned villas or town buildings, asserting—sometimes violently—their ownership and priding themselves on the purity of their faith. More than anyone, perhaps, they feared invasion, for an Arian, heretic king would have little sympathy for them and be open to the complaints of aggrieved property owners.

It took little to persuade them that True Religion must be defended, and that the corruption Sophia represented should be stopped. On the morning before Manlius held his first meeting with the Burgundian king, they gathered outside her house and waited for her.

There were only about a dozen; no more were needed, although the crowd grew larger as time went on. Several were drunk; such things were common, for most were young and were scarcely under any control. For all that, they had no idea what to do but were waiting for someone to give a lead.

When Sophia came out of the house, she paused as she saw them. It crossed her mind to go back inside, for even she sensed the menace in the atmosphere. Had she done so, history would have been subtly changed in innumerable ways. But she remained true to the philosophy she had practiced all her life; she was not afraid, and after a brief moment when the lower, more treacherous part of her mind sent a surge of alarm through her body, she conquered the fear and restored herself to tranquillity.

Then she began walking down the street, toward what had once been the forum but now scarcely merited the name of a market square. Ahead of her was Syagrius, waiting for her. She relaxed, felt the relief flowing through her, and was angry with herself. He would not hurt her, she knew.

“You are in danger,” he said. “You must come to a place of safety now. Come with me.”

And she went with him. He took her to the church, and barricaded her in.

WHEN ISABELLE’S BODY was found, news of the event raced around the town as fast as the plague. Her husband himself came for the body, and even though his sense of outrage was still uppermost in his mind, he also felt regret for the loss of this pretty, feckless, disobedient girl of whom he had been fond. At the same time he was aware, of course, that he had acted justly, and that moreover he was now free to marry again and produce the legitimate heir that she had denied him.

Nor did he want to delay quitting the town more than necessary. He was a thoroughly frightened man; the plague was one reason, but he also wanted to get to the safety of Aquitaine, safe on English territory when the French realized who had been responsible for opening the gates of Aigues-Mortes, due to take place in only a week’s time. But his wife’s foolishness the night before had thrown all these plans into disarray, and he would now have to stay for a few extra days. So he gave instructions that the packing should continue, and concerned himself with laying a complaint to the authorities about the murder. With luck he would still be able to set off before it was too late, and if he went alone, abandoning his household and telling them to follow in their own time, he might yet be able to outrun any pursuers.

It took only a few hours for the magistrate to discover that Isabelle de Fréjus had gone the previous night to the house near the Jewish quarter where Luca Pisano lived. This was clearly stated in two of the depositions contained in an individual folder under Reg. Av. 48 in the Vatican archives, whose existence Julien noted first in 1924 but which he did not pursue until much later. Despite the difficulties of the war, he wrote to Rome in early 1943 and requested that someone copy out this folder for him; it was done because he was known to the archivist, and because he was a man who, at that time, commanded respect as a supporter of Vichy.

He should have had his interest piqued much earlier, and he had a residual annoyance with Julia’s father when it finally arrived. For he remembered well that he had a choice that day, either keep on working in the insufferable heat, or abandon it, walk out the doors, and go for a long lunch with Claude Bronsen. He had also managed to get permission to see the Golden House of Nero, and wished the older man to see it as well. The temptation was too great. The file remained unread for another eighteen years.

When it did arrive, he understood what he had missed, and why he should have paid more attention. The murder should have been dealt with under common legal procedures, yet it had been quickly plucked out of the hands of the magistrates and dealt with by a papal appointee. The report clearly stated that Isabelle de Fréjus had gone to see the painter Luca Pisano. Combined with the fact that his poetry of love had been written for someone else, then the whole tale of Olivier’s end, of how he murdered his mistress and was mutilated in revenge, was demonstrably and totally wrong. Nonetheless, he had been attacked by one of Cardinal Ceccani’s own people. What had happened?

The count himself had a dilemma; Isabelle could not be tainted with the sin of adultery; he had his pride, and yet even a cursory investigation would uncover why she had been in that part of the city. And as he stood in the little alleyway staring at the body he had so grievously assaulted, waiting for his men to come and take her back to his house, he suddenly realized how to extricate himself from the potentially dangerous and embarrassing situation. A crowd had gathered behind him, restless and uneasy, staring at the figure on the ground and the pool of blood, still wet and shining in the morning light, as it ran off in a great stream of scarlet. There was an air of terror that he could feel among these people, who had grown so inured to death over the past few weeks that one more should not have even been noticed. But this was different, of course. As the plague was taking so many, for someone to die of violence seemed ten times worse than usual, an almost unbearable act of evil.

“It was the Jews.” The first time it was muttered, the count did not hear it. Only after it became almost a chant did he pay attention to what was developing all around him. He turned and saw a tall man with a thin beard, his face disfigured by the scabs of poor living, repeating the phrase, looking around him slyly to make sure the refrain was being picked up by others. He began beating time with his fist, so the sound rose and fell; soon it was accompanied by stamping, getting louder and louder.

More and more people joined in; the crowd overflowed into the street, and down the street, young and old men, men and women, women and children, all chanting and stamping their feet, moving restlessly. Then there was a pause and the collective noise petered out. A sudden silence of waiting. “Kill them,” the bearded man shouted. “Revenge.”

“Yes,” shouted the count. “I demand justice.”

The crowd responded with a roar of pleasure.

JULIEN TRAVELED back to Avignon the moment he decided that, even though it was likely to be useless, he had to intervene with Marcel, try to get him to do something to save the hostages. This time there was no help on the road; no military trucks stopped anymore, farmers and their carts had vanished, holed up now on their farms, keeping out of the way. Everyone knew the fighting was getter closer.

It took him eight hours on his bike, but it was now a trip he did almost without noticing, only the heat of midafternoon slowed him down; then he had to stop for an hour or so to seek shelter. He didn’t even feel tired when he arrived to see Marcel.

There was an air of abandonment about the Préfecture; he’d not noticed it before, or perhaps it had grown in his absence; the corridors that once resonated with purpose, with a mission, now seemed desolate and irrelevant. He was recognized at the door, walked in, and went straight to Marcel’s office. It would not have mattered if he had been a total stranger, the lassitude had spread even here. Even the bureaucrats seemed like those who sit idly at night, feeling the thunder approaching, doing nothing except waiting for the first flash of lightning.

Only Marcel, it seemed, was still fighting, hoping that simple activity could fend off what even he now accepted as inevitable. His desk was piled high with papers, files were strewn across the floor; he sat there, head bowed, scribbling furiously in the purple ink he had affected when young and never given up. Julien often wondered what the appeal was. Bernard once remarked he thought he could smell a little touch of incense in his writing.

“Marcel, they’ve taken hostages in Vaison.”

“I know,” he said, not even looking up, still scribbling. “They told me. Good of them, don’t you think?”

Finally he abandoned his bits of paper. “The water gave out in Carpentras a week ago. Did you know that? I’ve been trying to find somebody to repair it. Simple enough, you’d think. I can’t even find anyone to go and look.” He shook his head, then threw his pen down and rubbed his eyes, covering his whole face with his hands before finally looking at Julien.

“If you’ve come to ask for help, there’s nothing I can do. It is entirely out of my hands and I’ve already done everything I can think of. Made representations, of course. Protested. Sent telegrams. Tried to get what is left of the government involved. Even been to see the German High Command. But . . .”

“Nothing?”

“No. Not long ago, pointing out how this would damage relations might have had some effect. You remember when the Resistance blew up those trains? Six railway workers were shot for it. I bargained them down; they wanted to shoot twenty. Now they are desperate. They don’t care who they kill anymore. Do you know any of these people?”

“Several,” Julien replied shortly. “I even took communion lessons with one of them. Marcel, there must be something . . .”

“No,” he snapped. “There isn’t. Nothing I can give them. Believe me, I’ve thought, and asked. And all I’ve got is that if the people responsible are caught, then the hostages will be freed. It’s what they always say, of course.” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m at the end of my tether, Julien. I can’t do this much more. I have responsibility without power. I spend my time trying to restrain people to stop things getting worse, and I am helping people whose war is lost. Everybody knows it now. The Allies will soon land here, in the north, and they are advancing from Russia. The Germans are beaten. Hooray. And here I am, trying to make sure there is something still standing when they go. And that means keeping things as calm as possible. There must be an adminstration of sorts still working when they leave, just as there had to be one when they arrived. But I don’t expect I will get many thanks for it. And, while the world is falling down, do you know what I get? Demands for Jews. Can you believe it? We are not filling our quotas, it seems. Can I order the police to round up some more? Unbelievable.” He looked at Julien curiously, as though an idea had come into his mind.

“Give him to me, Julien,” he said quietly.

“Who?”

“Bernard. I know he’s nearby. It’s obvious from what you said. Who else would choose you to be his errand boy? Why else would you talk of friendship like that? He’s back here. I know it. He would satisfy them. He’d save the hostages. Give me Bernard, and I can trade him for those people.”

Julien stared at him, then shook his head. “I can’t. I couldn’t.”

Marcel considered the reply, then looked at the floor for a few seconds. “My apologies. You must excuse me for a few moments. There is something I must do. But please don’t go; I need to talk to you some more.”

He walked out, and Julien sat, puzzled but patient, for nearly an hour before he returned. His manner had changed; it reminded Julien of something he’d seen before, he couldn’t quite remember what it was.

“Julien,” he said, sitting on the edge of the desk, bending over close, creating a sort of intimacy. “Give me Bernard. Tell me where he is, how I can find him. All I need is a promise, and I can get these executions at least postponed. Please, tell me now, to stop worse happening.”

“I can’t,” he replied sadly. “You mustn’t ask me that. You know you shouldn’t.”

“I must have him,” Marcel continued. “It’s a matter of life and death, don’t you see? I cannot allow twenty-six innocent people to die if there is anything I can do to stop it. Don’t think I’m doing this lightly. I know full well that if you give him to me, I’ll be signing my own death warrant. I know what will happen to me the moment the Germans go and the Resistance move in. “

Julien shook his head. “No. Arrest me if you must. But the answer is no.”

And Marcel, still undecided, broke the moment of friendship, got up and walked to the window, stared out over the place so he would not have to meet Julien’s eye.

“I have telephoned the police in Vaison,” he said softly. “I have told them to go to Roaix and arrest Julia Bronsen and take her into custody. You can have her back if you give me Bernard.”

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?”

“Luca, don’t be stupid.”

“I don’t know what happened,” he replied testily. “You tell me. I was in here.”

“When she left here, someone must have grabbed her, dragged her down an alley, and slit her throat. They are killing the Jews for it.”

“Maybe they did it, then.”

“Luca, when I came walking along the road I saw her husband coming out of the alleyway.”

“Oh, dear God.”

“You have to get up; we have to go to a magistrate and stop it.”

The full impact of the danger he was in suddenly swept over the Italian. If de Fréjus could calmly kill his own wife, what would he do to the man who cuckolded him?

“Oh, my God,” he repeated, sinking back onto his pillow. “Oh, my God.”

“Come on, then. Get up. Luca . . . ?”

“Do you think I’m mad?” he said, recovering himself enough to answer, then getting out of bed and fumbling for his clothes in the shuttered darkness.

He began walking around the room, collecting clothes and equipment and stuffing them into a large canvas bag as fast as he could, panic obvious in his every movement.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m getting out of here.”

“You can’t do that. You have to go to the magistrate, say what happened.”

“Are you mad now? Stand up and say, ‘Please, sir, that countess, that woman married to the Comte de Fréjus, wasn’t killed by the Jews. She was murdered by her husband because she was committing adultery with me just before?’ I wouldn’t even have time to sign a statement, he’d kill me so fast.”

“But unless you say what happened . . .”

Pisano shrugged. “What? De Fréjus goes free? He will anyway. All the Jews are killed? They will be anyway, the way things are going.”

“You can’t just run away.”

“Watch me.”

He was being coarse, brutal, unfeeling. Deliberately so, wanting to push aside all memory of what had occurred the previous night. In his mind he was halfway there. She had never come to the house; he had never given Olivier a beseeching look to go and spend a couple of hours walking the streets. She had never walked over, kissed him, given him no choice about what happened next. He had not fallen asleep, thinking that in all the time she’d been there, they had not exchanged more than six words. She had come, and gone, and now the whole encounter was merely a fantasy, a dream that had never taken place. As long as he was not confronted with the gossip and the details, that was how he could keep her. If he could leave immediately.

His bag was packed. All he had to do was walk out of the house, hire a donkey, and go.

“You’re really running away?”

He grunted, then turned around. “Olivier, my friend, believe me. I may have been wrong not to make sure she got home safely, I may have been wrong to let her stay here in the first place, but I’m not going to get killed for it. Promise me you will say nothing. Nothing will be gained by it.”

Olivier hesitated, then promised.

Pisano turned and ran down the stairs, the door crashing as it slammed shut. His world was collapsing all around him, and like many another, he felt the need to go home, to see the hills and fields and people who had given him life. He never reached them. The nausea began four days later, even before he reached the coast road that led down into Genoese territory; the sweating began an hour afterward and the black, stinking pustules erupted in his armpits and then all over his face that night. He was traveling alone, wanting no company out of fear, and would have been able to find none even had he so wished. The roads were empty, and those who were on the move were going in the opposite direction, away from the sickness and carrying it, all unknowingly, farther and farther into the heartland of Europe.

He died alone, without comfort or sacrament, with only his mule for company, it as indifferent to his suffering as he had been to its distress at the weight of baggage he had loaded onto its back. After he died his whole body erupted into a mass of black pus, creating such a stench that the mule slowly wandered off, into cleaner, fresher air. Even the rats refused to chew on his carcass. He did not win his place as one of the great founders of Italian painting, as he believed he deserved. The pages of Vasari do not mention him even as a pupil of anyone; he won no great commissions from church or town or noble patron; nor did he ever have the chance at fixing his immortality onto the walls of his beloved Siena.

THEY HAD lived in a dream of their own imagining, believing that they had barricaded themselves from reality, shut out the world, created a place of perfect safety by their own efforts and the strength of their emotions. It was the shock of realizing how much of an illusion that had been that so numbed him that he spoke automatically to Marcel’s questioning and probing.

But, crushed though he was, capable really of thinking only of her, he still responded with a flicker of calculation, enough to win himself time; and with time came hope, for the two are really aspects of the same thing.

No, he said, he did not know where Bernard was. He had been given a means of contacting him, that was all. A message to be relayed through who knew how many intermediaries. And only two messages to send; that was his entire purpose. He could say he had some of Julia’s pictures ready, or that Marcel wished to discuss matters with him. That was all; anything else would be ignored. He had to deliver the message on his own, with no supervision, otherwise Bernard would not come. He needed a car as well, for the message had to be delivered in a town some way from Avignon, and time was short.

He would, he said, tell Bernard that Marcel would meet him, at his house in Roaix. Tomorrow. At four o’clock. Marcel could make whatever arrangements he thought necessary.

“One condition, though. I deliver this message, Julia goes free. Once I’ve done it, I will go straight to the prison and collect her. I will telephone when I get there, and you will give the orders that she is to be released. I will take her away, and you will promise she will not be troubled in any way again. If you do not agree, I will not leave this office.”

Marcel agreed. He was glad to do so, genuinely glad. “Believe me, I wish her no harm, Julien,” he said. “Even you will scarcely be as happy as I when she walks through those gates.”

Julien did not answer. He walked out of the office, with the keys to Marcel’s car in his pocket.

WHEN THE POLICE came for Julia, driving out of Vaison in their car, they were angry at the assignment, not least because they had been told to take her into Avignon and they barely had enough fuel to get there. They had been husbanding their limited supplies for weeks now, and considered that to use it all up on such an errand was an absurd waste.

She answered the door on their knock, and looked more surprised than worried to see them there. “What’s up, gentlemen? Lost your way?”

She was still dressed in the dirty ink-stained shirt, the arms rolled up, her hair pinned back loosely, falling around her neck. Her hands were dirty; she had been working.

The policemen were uncomfortable; none truly believed they should do jobs like this; the government had set up a special department for rounding up Jews, and they disliked having to do the dirty work for others. One of them, indeed, was ready to tell her that they would come back, that she had half an hour to disappear into the hills. All would have been quite happy had she not been there. These were not cruel men; in a few months’ time one would abandon his uniform and join the Resistance himself; another would risk trouble for giving a young man and his family precisely the opportunity he was not quite ready to give to Julia. Only the third disliked troublemakers and communists more than he did the Germans, yet even he acted with no zeal when it came to rounding up people for deportations. He did his duty, as did the others, hoping that a higher authority—the préfet perhaps—would intervene and prevent this matter getting out of hand.

“Is your name Julia Bronsen?”

Her lips tightened as she realized that the moment she had feared then managed to put in the back of her mind had materialized so suddenly in the middle of a hot, quiet summer afternoon. The words changed everything; the heat became humid, the light sound of the wind through the trees around the little house faded into silence, and she knew she was very afraid. She said nothing; she could have said no, the lady of the house has just gone into Vaison, but did not know the police would have tried to believe her.

“And are you a Jew?”

Again, she could have denied it, produced all her identity cards, all the official bric-a-brac she had made for herself, but did not; she’d been busy that morning working on some new cards for Bernard and was more terrified of their coming in and seeing these than she was of being arrested. There was little she could do; they evidently knew she was not Juliette de Valois anyway. And if the police came in, dozens of Bernard’s associates would be vulnerable, and Julien would also be arrested.

Besides, she realized she did not wish to deny it anymore.

So she looked at them firmly and said, “Yes, I am.”

She begged a few minutes to prepare herself; checked there was nothing incriminating; packed a bag, asked to stop at the village, where she quickly asked the priest to get a message to Julien. The police did not come in the house; they should have done so, but they were hoping she would take the opportunity to run out the back door. She would have been pursued, of course, but they would not have done a very good job of it. It was too hot for running; only those in fear of their lives could run on a day like that.

But she didn’t. Instead she walked to the car and sat peaceably in the back as it drove over the bumpy tracks to the road, then turned onto the main road to Avignon. She felt very calm, if annoyed at her ill fortune. Julien, she knew, would intervene and get her released. Why had he worked for Marcel for all this time if not in anticipation of a moment like this?

OLIVIER WAS IN a state of shock as he walked through the streets, unnaturally quiet now that the fury had abated, with only the smell of burning wood from the Jewish quarter to give a hint of what had happened only an hour or so before. Dozens of people had died, many buildings razed, their possessions—few enough—not even looted. This was holy rage, not to be deameaned by theft. The storm had blown, then suddenly died away; men who were screaming, throwing stones, beating bodies with sticks, suddenly found their fury exhausted, and they stood there seeming not to know what they had been doing or why they had been doing it.

Calm, and the appearance of normality, returned, but as he crossed the town and made his way to the cardinal’s palace, Olivier could feel the chaos lapping at his heels. The feeling that all sense was turned upside down became stronger still when he arrived, made his way to his master’s private chamber, and begged for an audience.

“Not now, Olivier,” Ceccani said. He was staring out the window to where he could just see the papal palace, still covered in the impedimenta of building, though all work had now stopped.

“Forgive me, sir, but this is truly important,” Olivier began.

Ceccani said nothing, and Olivier used the brief moment to catch his attention.

“The wife of the Comte de Fréjus has been murdered, sir.”

Ceccani turned and arched an eyebrow. “So?”

It was gossip, pure and simple. Nothing to attract his attention as yet.

“She was murdered by her husband, I am sure. But the people are blaming the Jews, and there was a riot this morning. Many have been killed, and more will be soon unless something is done.”

Ceccani had not risen so far without being able to unravel implications, and the implications of implications, in an instant. His good fortune was so great that he knew that divine favor was responsible for it.

“Why did the count kill his wife?”

It never occurred to Olivier for a moment not to say; Ceccani was master of them both, nothing could be concealed from him, and in truth, Pisano never intended that it should be when he extracted his promise.

“Because the lady was with Luca Pisano shortly before her death.”

Ceccani said nothing.

“She came to him, sir,” Olivier went on. “He did not seduce her.”

“Spare me the details, Olivier,” Ceccani said with a wave of his hand. He sat down in his chair by the broad oak table covered with papers and parchments, and thought.

“So,” he said after a while. “The Jews are under suspicion of causing the plague by poisoning wells; we have solid evidence of it with Cardinal de Deaux’s creatures caught trying to murder His Holiness, and now they have murdered the innocent young wife of a nobleman. It is God-given, Olivier my boy. Just as the church could put itself at the head of Christendom by calling for a crusade, then again by wiping out the heretical Cathars, so it can do so again, now, by wiping out these people, once and for all.”

His eyes shone as he saw the possibilities. At last, people would have hope once more, convinced they were attacking the source of their troubles. The authority of the church would be restored as it placed itself at the head of the despair, and channeled it into purposeful action. And once Aigues-Mortes had fallen, and the papacy was forced out of Provence, then it would return to Rome as well, immeasurably strengthened and ready, once more, to impose itself on all of Christendom.

This was the first Olivier had heard of the arrest of Gersonides; he had not been to the palace for several days, and the arrests had not yet been broadcast abroad. Would not be, until the battle for power within the palace was decided. He turned pale at the words and gripped the back of the chair to balance himself.

“What? What did you say? Who did you say tried to murder His Holiness?”

He sounded so grieved, so incredulous, that Ceccani omitted to reprimand him for his interest in things that were none of his business. “Just as I say. Gersonides and his servant are both in the dungeons. One of them was caught emptying a phial of poison into the well.”

“But that’s ridiculous. They are innocent, sir. They must be.”

“Maybe they are,” said the cardinal. “Maybe the Jews did not kill Comte de Fréjus’s wife either. But in the current state of panic no one would believe it. We must use what God gives us.”

“They must be freed, sir. Both of them.”

Ceccani looked at him curiously. “Why?”

“But . . . sir—”

“Olivier, you are meddling. We are dealing with great matters here. The whole course of Christendom is at stake and will be determined by this. That is my concern. These two Jews, guilty or not, give me an advantage. They will confess to this crime. If I have to torture them myself, they will confess to it. Now, if you please, leave me in peace.”

But Olivier stood his ground, terrified of his own defiance but unable to retreat. “No, sir,” he said eventually. “You cannot do this. They must go free.”

Ceccani turned toward him. “And you insist on this?” he said coldly.

“I do, sir.”

The cardinal waved his hand. “You are angering me, Olivier. I have always indulged you. You are wayward and foolish, but I have always been kind to you. But you do not—ever—interfere or state your opinions on matters which do not concern you. Do I make myself clear?”

Olivier took a deep breath, his heart pounding with his temerity. “But—”

“Get out of my sight, Olivier. Now. Or we will both regret it.”

Olivier, shaking with terror at his daring, bowed and retreated.

HE’D NOT DRIVEN for nearly four years, had never driven regularly even then, as he had never owned a car, and had almost forgotten how. Only the fact that the roads were deserted prevented him from having an accident within a few minutes of driving off.

The liberty he felt was extraordinary; sitting behind the wheel of the black Citroën, wheezing along at forty kilometers an hour in a machine that had scarcely seen any new parts since the war began, and that had been patched and mended with true ingenuity by mechanics to keep it on the road. Under any other circumstances he would have found it exhilarating, almost godlike to travel thus, alone in the world to be so privileged.

He had no such sensation, though; in his mind there was only one thought and the rest of him was cold and numb. He did not think of the consequences of what he was about to do, or debate the nature of the choice. Had Marcel been responsible alone, had it been German investigators who had uncovered Julia’s secret, he could have understood. It was something he was even half prepared for. But it was not. The only thought that had gone through his mind was that Julia had been denounced by Elizabeth Duveau, someone he had known for thirty years, someone whom he had befriended as a child and who, he thought, had befriended Julia in her turn. And that she had been arrested because he had come into Avignon on Julia’s urging to try to save the woman who had denounced her. And that all of this had happened because one day Elizabeth had come to him, and he had reached out to her.

He arrived in Carpentras at three o’clock and went to the post office, where he asked to see the postmaster.

“I need to send a telegram to a Monsieur Blanchard in Amiens,” he said. “It’s very urgent, about his sister who is ill. Is that possible these days?”

“I’m afraid not,” the man replied, cautiously and steadily. “Perhaps you might step into my office, and I will see what can be done for you?”

He led the way into a back room, and there Julien delivered the message, specifically designed to lead his friend to his death. Marcel, it said, wished to talk, tomorrow at his mother’s old house. He would meet him there.

THERE WAS LITTLE enough time. Already the Burgundians were on the march; by his estimate it would take them fifteen days to make the journey south along the river. The news of their advance would travel faster. The whole region was buzzing with rumor and gossip by the time Manlius returned; the fact that he had told no one the details of his private discussions made the tongues wag all the more. Several versions were in circulation: that he had used his gold to buy off the Burgundians, had deceived them into launching an all-out attack on the Visigoths; that he had successfully persuaded them to attempt confederate status; that they had agreed to declare their support for the emperor. And so on; the nature of the imaginings suggested all too clearly that the populace was not yet ready for the truth, which was the only possibility not generally canvassed.

Manlius had only a few days to prepare the region for what was to come next. He also knew that he could not permit his opponents to intervene again, for once Felix returned they would be that much more formidable. The imbecilic Caius Valerius was no serious foe; Felix with his reputation and ability was very much more daunting an opponent. Manlius had to win over the people to his side, and had to ensure Felix did not get the chance to offer any alternative. He must present the result of his maneuverings and compromises as though they were God-willed. Shouting and dispute—however admirable in principle, however much in the tradition of the Rome they admired—was unacceptable.

He also had to persuade the great landowners to follow him, and they required different sorts of arguments to the ones that would sway the townspeople. However devout they might be in their souls, in all other respects they were hard-nosed. What sort of deal had Manlius achieved? Would Gundobad rule with a heavy hand? Would he enforce the laws on tax that were beginning now to slip? Would he defend their rights and return errant serfs? If Gundobad would serve them, enrich them, strengthen their position, and rule in a way Rome no longer could, then they would accept him. And those who would soon lie outside Burgundian protection would simply have to fend for themselves. He had saved what he could. It was better than nothing.

Successful governance with no true authority in law depends on convincing others to do your bidding, which in turn means acting in ways that they consider appropriate. From this need came the event that won Manlius his later sanctity, the conversion of the Jews of Vaison because of his miraculous powers. It was this occurrence—transmitted in garbled form through an interpolation in Gregory of Tours’ Historia Francorum, although this is merely a summation of his work on lives of the Gallican saints, lost now but available to Gersonides when he was teaching Olivier de Noyen in his study in Carpentras—that won Manlius the authority to proceed as he wished, winning over his diocese and convincing his brother bishops that he was indeed now a true Christian. It says much of Manlius’s skills as a politician that the moment the events took place he saw their potential and moved to exploit them.

Was it a considered policy, though, this dramatic event that seems to have led to the conversion of some 150 Jews, the razing of the one synagogue in the town, and the expulsion or death of those recalcitrants who refused to comply with his will? Certainly Manlius was not greatly exercised by the presence of so many Jews in Vaison, for although they remained a self-enclosed enclave, they paid their taxes and kept themselves quiet. Their existence did not offend him. And yet he must have known full well that moving against them would strengthen his hand immeasurably. As he himself had bowed his knee at the altar without in any way feeling as though he had betrayed his beliefs, so it is unlikely that he considered for a moment that the reluctance of the Jews to embrace Christ in their heart was a proper reason for them not to do so in public. And he was a ruthless man, short of time, born to authority but never yet having had the opportunity of exercising it. Gentle, eloquent, cultured, and refined he might be, but these qualities were bestowed on those who deserved them, and that was a narrow circle. To others he was, all admitted, just and fair, but he would brook no interference with the proper exercise of his authority.

The great events were begun three days after he had reentered Vaison by a Jew called Daniel, an utterly dissipated young man all but shunned by his community because of his criminality, violence, and cheating. He had always been so, cruel to his family, idle and insulting, so much so that he was, in effect, expelled from their midst. He was a woodworker, but of no great skill or application, and it was generally accepted that he spent much of his time in theft. When a priest went to his family’s house one day and demanded either compensation for someone he had defrauded or that Daniel leave the town, he responded by going to the church, throwing himself in front of the first priest he saw, and demanding to be baptized. He had heard that converts such as himself were greatly welcomed, showered with money and opportunity and, as he now had nothing to lose except a family that hated him and a community that wished only his absence, the prospect of such favor became irresistible.

He was conducted to Manlius, who interviewed him and was repelled by his evidently low character; but, as the deacon pointed out, we were all sinners in the eyes of God, and Daniel’s character might change once accepted into the church. Manlius was more skeptical, but could find no reason to deny the request and, in any case, was well aware of the value of such an event, especially once stories went into circulation that his own interview had been the cause of the young Jew’s dramatic request. So Daniel was given rapid and cursory instruction in doctrine, and the following Sunday, a ceremony of some noise and grandeur was prepared for the baptism. This was the occasion of Manlius’s first sermon, in which he inflected orthodox doctrine with the teachings he had absorbed since his youth. It is not the case that he stated baldly that the life of man is but part of a journey, that the soul cannot ascend to God until it is purified and clean. The implication was there, however, and it was a conception that derived from Pythagorus, and was restated by Plato before finding its place in Christianity through the idea of Purgatory.

His argument was far too complex for most of the congregation; rather it was a clarion call, a warning to his fellows that, although he might be a neophyte, he did not intend to abandon his beliefs through gratitude. From then on, and for the rest of his life, he delivered his sermons, arcane, erudite, and complex, knowing that his audience would not understand them but knowing also that the repeated presentation of such sophisticated ideas would indeed have an effect, if only a small one, deepening and refining the bundle of coarse superstitions that Christians called their religion.

Even had he ventured into complete and coherent heresy, however, the congregation would have forgiven him. For Manlius spent a considerable sum of money to provide a spectacle the likes of which they had not seen for years. He had already begun rebuilding and extending the church, now he rerobed the priests and offered food in plenty and at no cost after the event. For this, they were all to parade through the streets to the now generally disused forum, led by Manlius and with the new convert, robed in white, just behind him.

However, the route from the basilica ran alongside the street where most of the town’s Jews lived, and they were enraged by the way the church’s triumph was being so noisily proclaimed. Even so, there was little anyone could do, but Daniel’s brother, deeply shamed by his elder sibling, climbed to the top of a building and, when Daniel passed by underneath, tipped a large jar of oil over him.

Fortunately, none hit the bishop, else the consequences would have been very much worse; had his cloak been touched, even the slightest drop staining the pure white wool, then the anger of the crowd would have been uncontrollable. But the aim was true; only the newly baptized Daniel was touched, and he shrank down with a scream, thinking that worse was about to follow.

His fear ran through the crowd, and when one pointed up at the roof to the departing brother, they all cried out and began to give chase. It was a hopeless task; Vaison was hardly a big town anymore, but it was more than large enough to conceal one person who did not wish to be discovered. Their anger could find no outlet, and so they went to the one place where they knew Jews could be found. The synagogue was not grand, and did not in any way resemble the buildings that either Olivier or Julien would recognize. Rather, it was an ordinary house, with one larger than average room at the back, big enough to accommodate fifty or so people at one time; when there were more, on holy days, the extra would congregate in the small courtyard outside. It had been there a long time, more than a century, since the number of Jews in the town had increased enough to support it, and everyone knew where it was.

There was no plan to what happened next; the building was set on fire because, once the crowd arrived outside its doors, no one knew what to do next. Had someone with authority managed to keep up, worked his way to the head of the crowd and taken control, there would have been no violence. But, in the absence of such a figure, leadership descended to the most brutal, and it was one of these who first picked up a stone and threw it into the building, then kicked in the door. Half a dozen charged in and only one of these took some embers from the fire glowing in the grate and used them to light the hangings.

It was a small fire, which did little damage in itself; its main effect was to enflame the crowd, who sensed that the thin curl of smoke and little flicker gave the permission to continue. From then the destruction increased and engulfed the whole building. When the real fire, the one that reduced it to ashes, took hold, there was not a piece of furniture, hanging, or book left intact. The noise of the crowd increased to a pitch, then gave way and sank back to silence as the flames blazed, the energy of their anger transferring to the conflagration, and reducing them to mere spectators. Then they simply stood and watched what they had done, scarcely even remembering that it was they who had begun this. And after a while they began to disperse, their anger spent, their vengeance taken, and their lust satisfied.

In terms of violence, it was not a serious business. Compare it with the orgy that convulsed Constantinople a few decades later and left fifteen thousand dead after a week of riots. Compare it to some of the coups and civil wars that had engulfed the empire in the past century. Compare it to the traditional and accepted behavior of troops taking control of a city after a siege. The violence of Vaison killed no one; even Daniel’s brother escaped unscathed, and while Jews felt obliged to stay indoors for a day or so, even they did not consider themselves under great threat. Indeed, their anger was directed not so much against the Christians who had destroyed their synagogue—even though they deeply resented the assault—as against the family that had brought this calamity upon them: the useless Daniel and his equally violent, headstrong brother. Neither of them was worth any loss.

The importance of the incident was not the violence; many communities of all sorts had suffered very much worse. Rather, this lay in the fact that it became woven into the fabric of Christian, Gallic history, embedded in a framework of theological justification, given purpose and meaning, a past and a future, through the words and deeds—misreported and twisted though they were—of Manlius Hippomanes.

For Manlius saw the opportunity finally to make himself the undisputed leader of the town, to put himself in a position where he commanded such love and respect that he was invulnerable. And he took it, grasped it with both hands.

The following day he delivered his second sermon. Less considered and far more effective than his first. Little of what he said was completely new; the desirability that the Jews should throw off their blindness and recognize their own Messiah was something of a commonplace and had been for well over a century. Revulsion at the way they had murdered their own God was not new either. Disdain for—or more properly incomprehension of—Jews was also common, although it was little different in form to the bewilderment that had once greeted the unsocial, uncivil, and coarse behavior of Christians themselves. None of this was innovative; nor did passion give the words their power, for Manlius regarded Jews with no more disdain than he regarded Goths, Huns, slaves, serfs, and townsmen—anyone not of his family or rank.

It was his logic that impressed, that finely honed skill taught to him by Sophia and which he applied to all that he said or did, reaching out to conclusions and stating them because of their rationality. The Jews were disobedient; they had disobeyed their savior, and now they disobeyed those who took their authority from the savior. Consequently, the path was clear. They were to be given three choices. They could convert, they could leave, or they could die. It was necessary for all Jews to be eliminated for the divine plan to be fulfilled, and the church, through Manlius, put its full authority behind this noble plan.

Manlius wished to be remembered as a man of letters, the voice of reason, a philosopher. This he intended to be his immortality. But all of this was buried for nine hundred years until Olivier briefly unearthed his work, and it was then lost again until Julien discovered it in the Vatican archive. Instead, such influence as he had came through a trifle, an instinctive reponse to a political problem that he had largely forgotten about only a few months later. For in one sermon he managed to bind all the diverse elements of disapproval into a coherent polemic. He asserted not merely the right of the church to insist on conversion, but also its duty to eradicate false belief by whatever means necessary. His learning, skill, and eloquence were bent to the task of asserting the church’s right—his right—to absolute control, and he brought all his scholarship, everything he had learned, to the task of weaving the proofs necessary to back up his desires.

Faced with such a call, the reaction was swift. Manlius achieved everything he desired, doubts about him faded away, his advocacy of the treaty with King Gundobad was accepted almost without question. Over the next week, fifty converted, a hundred and four left, and five died. The incident was recorded, passed from mouth to mouth, written about in letters, and eventually, many years later, found its way to Gregory, the saintly and able Bishop of Tours. He recorded it twice—once more or less accurately in a manuscript lost in the fifteenth century, and once less so, transferring the events and the words to Saint Avitus a century or so later, repeating the same story because the simple repetition excited in him not suspicion that his source was doubtful, but joy that the same events occurring twice confirmed the will of God. Through him, and others who borrowed his arguments and turns of phrase, the words of Manlius echoed down the centuries, becoming fainter and stronger by turns, whispering into the ears of Clement, of Olivier, of Gersonides and his servant Rebecca, and on to Julien, Bernard, Marcel, and many, many others. This was his immortality.

JULIEN DROVE BACK to Avignon afterward, ran out of fuel outside the railway station, and abandoned the car by the side of the road. He left it unlocked and walked straight off, looked up at the goods train, immobilized on the tracks above him, puffing pathetically. He sometimes thought all the trains in France had spent the last four years sitting idly at stations, waiting for some order to be given. Nothing moved anymore, except in slow motion.

He headed for the lycée that had been converted into a makeshift prison. His lycée, indeed, where he had enjoyed the triumphs of youth before he volunteered for the army in 1917. Where Bernard and he and Marcel had first met. And he understood the passion that Marcel felt at this moment, how he wanted so much to triumph at last.

He remembered the schoolroom, probably still decorated with the same tables of the alphabet; he remembered the smell of the place, the way the paint peeled in the corridors. The maps, though, would have been changed, taken down so that Alsace and Lorraine would not be shown as French; the bust of Marianne, symbol of republican France, which used to decorate the hallway, had no doubt also vanished, removed and put into storage on Marcel’s order some three years previously. But unchanged would be the teacher’s podium, where Bernard had once taken his pen-knife to the teacher’s desk.

Everyone had watched him do it; a crowd had gathered around, laughing and sniggering. Only Marcel had stayed at his desk, conscientiously working, doing his best as usual to keep up, making best use of his time. Had Julien been one of the crowd? He could not remember. He remembered it only as a filmgoer; the scene in black and white, the giggling children, the sudden hush and scramble as Monsieur Julot the teacher came back into the room; the suspicious look, and then the questioning.

“What has been going on here?”

And how had he accomplished it? How had Bernard managed to get the blame poured onto the top of Marcel’s innocent head? “Julot is a Jew,” Bernard had scratched, and the beating Marcel received was severe, not because of the vandalism, although that was serious enough, but because of the magnitude of the insult. Bernard put his arm around him afterward, said he was his best friend, made him feel better.

“No one here of that name.” He had managed to get into the building, demanded to see the officer in charge, and explained why he was there. He had come for Julia.

“Don’t be absurd. The préfet said she was here. I am to telephone him, and he will sign the order to have her released.”

He shook his head again. “All the Jews were moved out this afternoon; orders of the General Commissariat for Jewish Affairs.”

Julien stared. “What?”

The man sighed; a bored sigh of one who has to deal with complaints far too often. “There was a convoy to pick up Jews. It was short of numbers from Marseille. So . . .”

“Who said that?”

The man did not reply. What did it matter? It was not his concern.

“Where has she gone? What are they doing with her?”

Another weary shrug. “You’re asking the wrong person. I am merely in charge of guarding this place.”

“You must know something.”

The panic in Julien’s voice struck a chord. Some sort of human connection was made. “Look, I don’t know. All Jews are to be taken to an assembly point, then they will be transported to work camps. That’s all. Now, go away.”

“Where is she? Please tell me.”

He sighed. “They were all taken to the railway station,” he said impatiently. Anything to get him to go away. “And that’s where they will still be, I imagine.”

JULIEN RAN; he had never run so fast; the years of walking had made him fitter than he ever realized. At least once a policeman shouted at him to stop, suspicious of anyone running in the slow-motion country, but he paid no attention, and the man lost interest. He ran down the rue de la République, down what used to be the cours Jean-Jaurès, down to the walls, across the big boulevard that skirted them, and over to the station.

It was quiet; he tried to block out what that meant. As he ran in he started shouting uncontrollably. “Where is the train? Where is the train?”

The few people there paid him no attention, beyond curious looks. He ran to the platform, found a guard, and grabbed him. “Where is the train?”

The guard pushed him off roughly, and Julien lunged forward again, then tripped and fell heavily on the concrete. “Please,” he said, panting so hard he could scarcely speak, “I beg you, tell me.”

“What train?”

“The one that was here. With the people on it. The convoy.”

“The Jews, you mean?”

He nodded.

The guard paused, and looked down the line. Nothing here, his gesture seemed to say. “It was in the goods yard. It went ten minutes ago.”

He looked at Julien for a moment, considered offering him some help. Then he looked at the clock; his shift was over, he was late. It had been a long day. He flicked his cigarette onto the tracks and walked away.

OLIVIER TRIED to think, for a while, that something might be salvaged from the catastrophe, but knew he was fooling himself. He knew and understood nothing. Ceccani could feel the great sweep of history whirling around him, and thought in centuries; he had taken on the guardianship of the soul of Christianity. He was prepared to sacrifice, himself and others, to discharge his duties toward Christendom, and to obey the will of God. Daily, he grappled with mighty matters of an import Olivier could only guess at; the poet was a mere human, Ceccani something more than that.

Although he understood this much, it meant little to him. His universe was smaller, more petty and more circumscribed. Having buried Althieux, seen Pisano run away frightened for his life, been close when a man murdered his wife, smelled the charring of a riot, knowing that the plague threatened them all, he found he cared little for the future of Christendom, was indifferent to the power of the papacy. This was not his business. All he cared about was Rebecca and Gersonides, locked away, liable to be tortured and killed. His mind was insufficiently grand to see further than that. And indeed, he realized he was not even preoccupied with Gersonides; he felt—for now he felt only and could not think—that everything in creation, his soul and hers, the soul of all men, depended on her continuing to live.

He walked the streets all afternoon and into the night, the only person in the entire city mindless of the plague, knowing full well that it had no power over him whatsover; that although it might one day claim him for its own, it could not do so until he had reached the decision that he knew he must make sooner or later. He could bow to the wishes of his master, obey the laws of men as they were unwritten but understood. For Ceccani had given him everything—money, encouragement, a place in the world, even something approaching friendship. In return he expected loyalty; it was a fair bargain, freely entered into and universally recognized. No one would accept that throwing that over was justified. It was not self-interest, although the consequences of breaking the ties that bound him to Ceccani would be terrible enough. Rather it was a matter of honor, the simple fact that nothing could possibly justify what would be a breathtaking treason. Olivier was considering playing the part of Judas; a squalid little Judas betraying his master for no reason except for what the world would consider a base infatuation.

Nor was there anyone to talk to. Pisano would have talked him out of it with a laugh, made him see the absurdity of his conundrum, ridiculed him back to sense. Althieux would have been more considered, taking the argument through countless authorities, classical and biblical, before coming to the same conclusion. But one was on the road to Italy, the other was dead.

Olivier had only his own mind, filled with the metaphors of poetry and half-understood readings from philosophy. And the phrases of Sophia, relayed through Manlius, came back to him, hammering inside his skull. “Any amount of disgrace or infamy can be incurred if great advantage may be gained for a friend.” And again: “The action of virtue is rarely understood by those who do not understand philosophy.” Again: “Laws formulated without the understanding of philosophy must be constantly questioned, for the exercise of true virtue is often incomprehensible to the blind.”

He slept on the steps of Saint Agricole, along with half a dozen other beggars, and considered how he had first glimpsed Rebecca some two years before. He again saw her walking past in her heavy dark cloak and remembered the feeling that had torn through him as he looked. And he decided that the emotion that welled up in him that day was itself a sign from God, that he had to obey it.

Dawn came eventually; his companions of the night rolled over and groaned one by one, and as the light rose, Olivier stood up with a sudden surge of determination and walked off, pausing only when he got to the great walls of the palace. He considered going again to Ceccani, considered going to de Deaux, but dismissed both ideas. He thought of begging for Rebecca alone, saying she was not a Jew, but knew this was hopeless. Ceccani was reaching for the whole world; Olivier knew he could never deflect him with anything so simple.

He walked in through the huge gates of the palace, nodding familiarly to the guard, whom he had known for years, but wary lest some alert had been put out for him, in case Ceccani had managed to read the mind he had had such difficulty understanding himself. But all was well; nothing happened, there was no shout or running of feet. In the great courtyard he stood uncertainly, lost and bewildered once more until his confusion was broken into by the clear, pure sound of a bell ringing through the morning air.

He almost fell to the ground in thanks as he heard it. It was the sound for the musicians and the singers to leave their studies and gather in the chapel, dutifully waiting their master. For them to sing their hearts out before God’s earthly representative. Clement, frightened and blockaded in his tower though he was, could not live without music. It was his life and his greatest pleasure. Even the plague could not deflect him from it. Even as the bodies were carried through the streets, he had ordered that any musician who left the palace without his permission would be arrested. If they had to die for his tranquillity, then so be it. There were some things this strange man could not do without.

And as the bell tolled, he would be putting on his robes, descending the stairs, and processing through the great corridors and chambers of the palace to the chapel. He would be alone and isolated, for he had ordered that no man must come near him in case he communicate the plague. Then he would sit until the music had finished and he could scurry, refreshed, back to his protective chamber high in the sky.

Olivier hurried, taking all the shortcuts he knew by instinct after so many years. There was a side door to the chapel where the acolytes entered and left as the services demanded. Olivier got there before anyone else and ducked through it. Then he concealed himself behind one of the huge Flemish tapestries Clement had commissioned to make the place more pleasing to his eye. And waited.

At any more normal time, he would have had no chance of approaching Clement; the moment he stepped forward, the guards who always hovered nearby would have fallen on him and dragged him away. Clement had an affable persona in public, but took the prospect of neither injury nor insult lightly. True, he was at his least exposed in the chapel, the heart of his own palace where only his immediate circle was allowed. Still, the guards remained, for he knew well that men of God were not necessarily men of peace.

The plague had changed the great ceremonies; Clement wanted as few people as possible around him. Moreover, he had a fine sense of occasion, and refused absolutely to look absurd. Rather than entering in with one priest behind him, no assistants and no one to watch, he strolled in alone with a goblet of some drink in his hand, sat heavily on his throne, leaned back, and called out to the officiating priest:

“Come on, then. Get on with it. I haven’t got all morning.”

The priest bowed and made a blessing. The choir, looking solemn or bored or resentful according to their characters, filed in and the singing began. The new music, rising and falling, twisting in and out of itself, doubling back, created in the air for as long as it lasted a perfect resemblance of the wonders of creation, and the love of God. Too complex, it seemed, for man to grasp as a whole, but so beautiful that Olivier again thought of Rebecca and Sophia and their belief in the evil of the world. So it might be, he thought. The world of spirit might be far finer, more pure, and closer to the divine. But nothing that can produce such beauty can be irredeemable; if men can produce such harmonies, hear them with their ears, sing them with their voices and their instruments, there must be goodness in the material.

Then the contrast, between the calm beauty of the music and the dire state of his own predicament, came back to him once more. He stiffened and prepared himself as the music came to an end, and an echoing silence descended on the chapel, broken only by the pope beating on the arm of his throne with his hand and calling out in a loud voice, “Very fine, very fine, boys. My thanks to you all. Makes me feel better already. Now, get out of here, and tomorrow I’d like that piece you did last week again. By that Italian fellow, you remember?”

The choirmaster nodded and bowed, and with a loud cackle of pleasure, Clement bounded out of his throne, bowed solemnly to the altar, then rubbed his hands.

“Nothing like a bit of music for stirring up an appetite, I think. I’m starving.”

He turned, took a step toward the door, then stopped as he saw Olivier, standing in front of him. There was a moment of screaming silence as Olivier realized how alarming he must look—unshaven, swaddled in a dirty cloak, the look of the hunted about him already. He kneeled down swiftly when he saw from the look on the pope’s face that he was frightened out of his wits.

“My deepest apologies, Holiness. My name is Olivier de Noyen, one of Cardinal Ceccani’s people. I wish to beg for an audience.”

Clement peered at him more closely. “De Noyen? Good God, man, what’s with you? You look like a gypsy. How dare you come before me in such a state?”

“I apologize again. I would not have done so if it had not been urgent.”

“You’ll have to wait. I want my breakfast.”

“This is more important than breakfast, Holiness.”

Clement frowned. “Young man, nothing is more important than breakfast.” He looked exasperated, but saw in the dogged look on the young man’s face that there was something he should hear. This was not frivolous, a demand for a favor, or yet another madman who believed he knew how to cure the plague or bring the Muslims to Christ.

“I will not readily forgive this.”

“As you choose, Holiness. What you do with me is of little importance as long as you hear me.”

Clement signaled to one of the guards at the door, who stepped forward. “Search him,” he ordered. “See he has no weapons. Then bring him to my chamber.”

And with a mighty scowl and a ruined morning, God’s vicegerent on earth stamped out of the chapel.

“WELL THEN? Get on with it. What is so important that you ruin my music, my breakfast, and my morning?”

“Holiness, do you wish to take the papacy to Rome?” “A strange way to start. Why do you ask such a thing?”

“Because you may have to. There is a plan to make sure you have no alternative but to leave this city. Aigues-Mortes is to be delivered to the English. When it is, the king of France will blame the Countess of Provence and want you to condemn her. You will have a hard time refusing him, I think. And if you condemn her, your chances of buying this city from her, or even remaining in it, will be small.”

Clement’s mind, subtle in matters of theology, was direct when it came to statesmanship, but now it hardly needed either. He scarcely needed to think at all to grasp that such an unfolding of events would be catastrophic. He would be reduced in an instant from serene overlord of Christendom to wandering priest, or at best a local magnate, battling against the petty warlords of Rome. Who would allow him to be peace-maker between French and English, to dictate the policies of the empire, to call up and direct a crusade, when he could not even keep his own house in order?

“You know this? Or is it something you have imagined to win my attention?”

“I am a mere servant, and a poet, Holiness. I have no taste for intrigue. I could not have invented this. I have read a letter, setting out just such a plan.”

“From? To?”

“It was written by the Bishop of Winchester. To Cardinal Ceccani.”

Clement sat down and thought. Then he wagged his finger at Olivier. “I know you, young man. You are Ceccani’s favorite. And yet you come here to tell me this? Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because I want a reward.” He could have given a long justification to exculpate himself, to demonstrate that he acted with honor, appealed to higher motives. He did not do so; he was selling his master; he knew it and did not wish to disguise it.

“And that is?”

“I want my teacher and his servant released from this place. The two Jews. They have done no wrong, the accusation was made simply to weaken Cardinal de Deaux. And I want you to stop this campaign against the Jews before any more people die. If all Jews are threatened, then so are they, as long as they live.”

Clement waved his hands in irritation as if to dismiss the very idea. “The world is crumbling into ruin. Armies are marching. Men and women are dying everywhere, in huge numbers. Fields are abandoned and towns deserted. The wrath of the Lord is upon us and He may be intending to destroy the whole of creation. People are without leaders and direction. They want to be given a reason for this, so they can be reassured, so they will return to their prayers and their obediences. All this is going on, and you are concerned about the safety of two Jews?”

Olivier stayed silent. He was not meant to reply.

“I wish to do something which will make my name light up history,” Clement said. “I will be remembered as the man who rid the world, once and for all, of the scourge of these people. Who eradicated a daily offense against God. For more than a thousand years they have had their chance, and for all that, they have spat on the truth as they once spat on Our Lord. This is the moment to strike against them. Do you doubt it is a noble thing? A necessary, justified act, delayed for too long already? The Jews must convert, or be killed. Ceccani is right; it will bring men back together with a common purpose; reunite them with the church. I have merely to say the word, and it will be done.”

Olivier lifted his head and looked at him. “Then do not say it, sir. A conversion by force cannot be pleasing to God, only to men. The Lord built His church on love and faith, not on lies and threats. Obedience is nothing without faith. When Saint Peter took up a sword against the soldier, He took that sword from him and healed the man’s ear. And you are his heir on earth; take the sword from Ceccani’s hand as well; do not do what he suggests. Rather, do the opposite; extend your protection and love to these people, just as Christ loved sinners as much as He loved those who had faith. Live up to the name you chose when you ascended to Peter’s chair. Be clement by nature, as well as by name. Let that be your memorial. So that in the future men will think of you and say, ‘He had such love for humanity he gave the cloak of his protection even to the Jews. And by doing so, let all men see that as God is love, so is His church, even for the worst sinners, and for those most deserving punishment.’ ”

Olivier took a deep breath, then continued: “Otherwise, you will spend the rest of your life wandering the world, homeless and friendless. Men will laugh at you, no one will listen to you. Because I will not tell you how the gates of Aigues-Mortes will be opened, or when, and you will not be able to discover enough in time to stop it.”

Clement was sitting, listening to his words carefully, not throwing him from the room as he deserved. Olivier had touched something in him, he knew. But he was not there yet. “You have not yet convinced me this is anything other than some sort of elaborate trick,” he said. “You say you have seen a letter, but you do not produce it. Is there such a thing? If there is, perhaps it was written by one of his enemies? You say you have a letter proving Cardinal Ceccani is guilty of the most terrible betrayal of me, and yet here you are, wandering around this town in broad daylight, quite unmolested. If I were Ceccani, I would have cut your throat before you came near me.”

“He does not know I am here. But there is a letter.”

“Give it to me, then.”

“I cannot. There is no time. Either for you or for me. The torture of the two Jews will start soon, if it has not already. There will be more riots in the streets when night falls. And you must move quickly if you are to save Aigues-Mortes for the French.”

“You are suggesting I take severe measures against a cardinal who is my closest advisor, on your word alone? No, young man. How do I know you have not been suborned by de Deaux? Or maybe you have a dispute of your own with Ceccani and wish to ruin him in revenge? You are unconvincing. I will do nothing on the basis of what you say.”

He was half-convinced, Olivier knew, and very worried. Clement knew quite well that it was a scheme Ceccani was capable of devising. But he was not sure enough to act. Not ruthless enough, perhaps. Ceccani would have done so already, on half the evidence. But the pontiff was a gentler, more pacific man, less able to think ill of people, and who found disturbance almost painful. Olivier found his prize slipping from his fingers, and so tried his final throw.

“Holiness, you say you are surprised I have not been silenced. So am I. I do not think my safety will last long.”

He paused. “Send someone to find me this evening. If I am still unmolested, then I have not proved my case, for why would anyone wish to do me harm?”

Olivier stopped, and looked carefully at the pontiff. “If someone has attacked me, then arrest him as the person who will deliver Aigues-Mortes to the English for the cardinal. Interrogate him, and discover the truth. You will also remember that the man who conceived this plan is the one who is also urging you to begin a crusade against the Jews. And you will think about that carefully before you follow his advice to soak your name in blood for his purposes.”

Clement considered. “Very well. I accept your offer. By this evening we will know whether you are a liar or a fool.”

“As for my friends, I am not trying to force you to save these two people; I leave them to your mercy and ask for no more.”

The pope rose; he liked nothing more than to demonstrate his generosity and his mercy. “The pope must know how to behave like a prince” was his belief. He liked no man to leave his presence unsatisified.

“You may take them,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I give them to you. One condition though. And that is that you tell me why any Christian should place himself at risk to save Jews, either a brace of them or the entire people.”

Olivier thought, and then accepted his failure. He had spent much of his time in the last few months trying to wrestle with the thorny questions Manlius Hippomanes had thrown at him, and he now understood for the first time the difference between clever patterns of words and the answers of the soul. “I do not know, sir,” he said. “I can discover no reason or justification for it, and do not wish to. I am neither a theologian nor a philosopher, a lawyer nor a politician. I cannot find reasons; my skill is to sing about the impulsions of the heart, and that is enough.”

Clement grunted. “Very well. If you want to play the fool, then so be it. Go away. Give me a convincing demonstration of your case by this evening, and I will reconsider. But if you don’t . . .”

He paused and thought.

“But if I don’t . . . ?” Olivier prompted.

The pope did not smile. “Then I will kill every Jew in Christendom, including your teacher and his servant.”

JULIEN STOOD ON the platform of the railway station for nearly half an hour, not knowing what to do. His mind had closed down. Only one train came through as he stood there, full of German soliders heading south, rattling and squealing, filling the atmosphere with thick coal smoke. The days of triumph had gone; they were traveling to be defeated; everyone knew it.

Eventually he shook himself, walked away, and found himself going back to the Préfecture. There was nothing else he could do. Only Marcel now could help in any way; so he went to beg.

He was, as usual, sitting neatly at his desk, going through papers, oblivious of the heat and the little trickle of sweat running down his temple into the frayed collar of his shirt. He looked up at Julien, with the defiant glance of a guilty man.

“What have you done?” Julien said quietly.

He shook his head. “It wasn’t me, Julien. Believe me, I didn’t do this. She was taken to the detention center, then the people from Jewish Affairs came. They didn’t know she was not to be moved. They wanted all the Jews. She had admitted she was one, so they took her. I only heard about it five minutes ago.”

“A mistake?” he said incredulously.

Marcel nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Get her back, Marcel. Phone ahead, say there’s been an error. Say she’s wanted for interrogation. Say something. Say anything. You can do it. You’re the préfet, for God’s sake.”

“It can’t be done, Julien. These convoys are run by the Gestapo. They don’t stop them because of requests from French officials. If she hadn’t signed a statement saying she was a Jew, I could have done something, perhaps. Why did she do that?”

Julien shook his head, dismissing the question. “What happens to her now?”

Marcel paused. “Do you want the official, reassuring answer? Or the one we both know?”

He didn’t reply, so Marcel continued. “Officially she will go to a labor camp. Conditions will be harsh but fair. She will be kept there until the war is over and then, no doubt, released.”

He hesitated, got up, and stood facing Julien, his hands in his pockets, his face looking down at the floor for a few moments.

“But you know as well as I do that is a lie, and that she will die there,” he said. “They are killing them, Julien. They said that’s what they were going to do, and they’re doing it. I’m sorry. I truly am. This is not what I intended. I wanted only to save the lives of twenty-six innocent hostages.”

Julien stood there, quite immobile, until Marcel came and touched him on the arm. “Come with me,” he said. “Let’s get out of here for a while.”

He allowed himself to be led, along the corridor with the worn linoleum, down the stone stairs, and out into the oppressive heat of the afternoon. They walked, quietly and companionably and for a long while silently; good friends, almost. The sort of walk that Marcel had always valued, and which Bernard so disdained. Together they crisscrossed the city, seeking out the dark and shadowy streets where the sun could not penetrate; past the steps where Olivier had first seen Rebecca, past the place where he had been attacked and where Isabelle had been murdered.

And Marcel stayed with him, saying nothing, hoping only to give some comfort with his presence, the assurance of his friendship. Eventually, Julien began to talk.

“When I was at Verdun,” he said quietly, “I saw things which were more appalling than you can imagine. I saw civilization coming apart at the seams. As it weakened, people felt free to act as they pleased, and did so, which weakened it still more. And I decided then it was the most important thing, that it had to survive and be protected. Without that tissue of beliefs and habits we are worse than beasts. Animals are constrained by their limitations and their lack of imagination. We are not.

“So that is what I have tried to do, all my life in a small and insignificant way. Anything would be better than another collapse like that, because I was certain that another would be final. No coming back. And I told myself that no matter what politicians or generals did, they were merely the barbarians, and everyone else had to defend what was truly important from them; keep the flickering flame going. People like Bernard and you were what I detested most of all. Neither of you was even honest enough to admit you wanted power.

“I was wrong, and I only realized it when you told me Julia had been denounced by the wife of our local blacksmith. Odd, don’t you think? I have seen war, and invasions and riots. I have heard of massacres and brutalities beyond imagining, and I have kept my faith in the power of civilization to bring men back from the brink. And yet one woman writes a letter, and my whole world falls to pieces.

“You see, she is an ordinary woman. A good one, even. That’s the point. You are not a good man. Bernard is not a good man. Nothing either of you do can surprise or shock me, or worry me. But she denounced Julia and sent her to her death because she resented her, and because Julia is a Jew.

“I thought in this simple contrast between the civilized and the barbaric, but I was wrong. It is the civilized who are the truly barbaric, and the Germans are merely the supreme expression of it. They are our greatest achievement. They are building a monument which will never be dismantled, even when they are swept away. They are teaching us a lesson which will echo for hundreds of years. Manlius Hippomanes buried his ideas in the church, and those ideas survived the end of his world. The Nazis are doing the same. They are holding up a mirror and saying, ‘Look at what we have all achieved.’ And they are the same ideas, Marcel. That was my mistake.”

“The Germans are trying to win a war, Julien,” Marcel said. “And they’re losing. They’re desperate, and that makes them even more brutal than they are usually.”

“You know that’s not true. They knew the moment the Americans entered the war they’d lost. Before then, even. They may be mad, but they’re not fools. What they’re doing goes far beyond the war. Something unparalleled in human history. The ultimate achievement of civilization. Just think about it. How do you annihilate so many people? You need contributions from so many quarters. Scientists to prove Jews are inferior; theologians to provide the moral tone. Industrialists to build the trains and the camps. Technicians to design the guns. Administrators to solve the vast problems of identifying and moving so many people. Writers and artists to make sure nobody notices or cares. Hundreds of years spent honing skills and developing techniques have been necessary before such a thing can even be imagined, let alone put into effect. And now is the moment. Now is the time for all the skills of civilization to be put to use.

“Can you imagine a greater, a more enduring achievement? This will last forever, and cannot be undone. Whatever benefits we bring to mankind in the future, we killed the Jews. No matter how great the advances of medicine, we killed them. However high our achievements may soar, however perfect we become, this is what is at our heart. We killed them all; not by accident, or in a fit of passion. We did it deliberately, and after centuries of preparation.

“When all this is over, people will try to blame the Germans alone, and the Germans will try to blame the Nazis alone, and the Nazis will try to blame Hitler alone. They will make him bear the sins of the world. But it’s not true. You suspected what was happening, and so did I. It was already too late over a year ago. I caused a reporter to lose his job because you told me to. He was deported. The day I did that I made my little contribution to civilization, the only one that matters.”

“If you think that, why didn’t you throw your lot in with Bernard, then?”

“Because he’s no better. He promised to get Julia out of France and then did nothing about it, because he needed her to forge papers for him. If that placed her at risk, then so be it. If she got caught, it didn’t matter. He spends his time thinking about the future, and in the present his people kill soldiers and bomb barracks. They don’t sabotage many convoys taking away the Jews. It’s not a priority. There are more important things to do.

“ ‘The evil done by men of goodwill is the worst of all.’ That’s what my Neoplatonic bishop said, and he was right. He knew. He had firsthand experience of it. We have done terrible things, for the best of reasons, and that makes it worse.”

Marcel was trying to lead him back to his apartment; they got to the entrance to the museum, closed now. “I think you should go and sleep. You haven’t had any rest for a long time.”

“What about Bernard, Marcel?”

“It’s out of my hands. All the information has been given to the Germans.”

“ ‘Has been given’? You mean you gave it to them already?”

“Yes. I gave it to them. I had to, otherwise those people would have been shot this evening. If they manage to arrest Bernard, they will be let go.”

“And then what? He is tortured to death?”

Marcel sighed. “What can I do, Julien? What would you do?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Go home and sleep. It is out of your hands. And out of mine. We are powerless. We always have been.”

And Julien did go home, but before he did so, he watched Marcel slowly and heavily go into the church across the road. He was going to pray; he found it a comfort. Not for the first time, Julien envied him the solace.

THAT MANLIUS FORGAVE Felix when he returned, took no vengeance on his family for their attempt to suborn Vaison, that their last public meeting ended with a kiss of peace, their old friendship triumphing over immediate differences—small really, for both wished the same thing but merely differed over the ways of accomplishing it—counted greatly in his favor, for it was publicly done.

Afterward, he begged Felix to come to his villa for more substantive talks. The invitation was accompanied by all sorts of reassurances that the friendship of the soul must always triumph over minor material estrangements. That Manlius was, and always would be, his true friend. In these dangerous times any sort of disunity amongst those who truly were of importance would allow civil strife to come to the surface. In the name of the rationality they had always espoused, Manlius begged Felix to come and talk to him, that their differences might be settled.

Felix responded—not enthusiastically, but readily enough; it was the last flickering of their old friendship. Besides, Manlius now had the upper hand in the delicate balance of the town’s affections; he had come to some accommodation with the Burgundians; and Felix needed to know urgently what exactly he had agreed to do.

So he came, and the spirit of peace returned. They retired to his villa, and arm in arm they walked once more, and for a while the comfort of civility extended itself over them both.

“I wish this had not happened,” Felix said. “Much will be lost if we are separated.”

“We needn’t be,” Manlius replied. “We will always walk through these gardens, smelling the flowers in bloom and watching the sun on the water’s surface.”

Neither wanted to break the moment, to talk about why they were meeting. To do so would have acknowledged that their last afternoon together was a chimera, existing now only in their desires, not in any reality. The hearts of both men ached for what was passing from their grasp. The days spent in conversation, the letters received and read, the responses made to them. Their shared pleasure in a well-cropped fruit tree, an admirable vista recalling some work of literature, a subtle blend of spices at an agreeable dinner party.

“Do you remember,” Felix said eventually, “that time we heard of the Greek musician in Marseille? How we both went down there as fast as we could, and bid to hire him for a month? How the price went up and up, until the poor man was bewildered and thought we were making fun of him?”

Manlius laughed. “And eventually he had to intervene, and promise to come to both of us, one after the other. But you got him first.”

“And you discovered that he knew the whole of the Iliad, and could recite it in the old mode. So beautiful it was.”

“And all the more enjoyable for watching the faces of our guests when they realized they were expected to stay and listen to it for eleven days.”

They walked some more, basking in the warmth, until Felix finally broke the spell. “I think that Gundobad does not read Greek,” he said quietly.

Manlius almost cried out in protest. Not yet. Let us enjoy this a little while longer before it is taken away forever. But he knew that sooner or later it would come. It could not be delayed.

“He is a good ruler, educated in Rome. Willing to take advice from people he trusts. His wife is a Catholic and he will not interfere there. And he can block Euric.”

“He is a barbarian, come what may.”

“So was Ricimer, and Rome itself bowed before him happily enough.”

“But Ricimer bowed in turn to Constantinople. Gundobad will not do so. Will he?”

“No. He wishes to be king, owing allegiance to no man.”

“And the Burgundians are not numerous. Do you seriously think that they can relieve Clermont and defend the whole of Provence from Euric?”

And here was the moment. The end of it all, for civilization was merely another name for friendship, and friendship was coming to an end. Manlius wished not to speak, wished he could say something else, suddenly come up with a great plan that would convince his friend so they could meet the coming challenges together. But he could not.

“He does not intend to.”

Felix took some time to absorb the implications of this. He was not a slow man; far from it. He simply had trouble believing what he heard.

“Go on,” he said, almost in a whisper.

Manlius took a deep breath. “I did my best to persuade the Burgundians to march to Clermont and block Euric there. They would not do so. Instead, they will move south to a line a little beyond Vaison, on the left bank, so that they command the river. That is all I could get them to do. And I believe they have begun their march already. Clermont is lost. So is all the land down to the coast. Those who live there had best make what peace they can with Euric, or he will impose his own terms later.”

He glanced at his friend and saw that there were tears in his eyes. “Manlius, Manlius, what have you done?” he said eventually. “You have betrayed us all. Sold yourself and abandoned everyone else. Did he reward you well, this new master of yours? Did you go down and kiss his feet? Are you learning his language, so you can lie to him the better?”

“My friend . . .” Manlius said, resting his hand on Felix’s arm.

“You are no friend of mine. A man of honor would have preferred to fight to the last, side by side with his friends. Not sell them into slavery to save himself and his estates.”

“The way is open for you to bring troops from Italy. Did you find any?”

“There is no time now. The moment Euric hears the Burgundians have moved, he will move as well. He must. You know that, don’t you?”

Manlius nodded.

“Not that it will concern you. You will be safe, all your lands protected by Gundobad.”

“And if I hadn’t? What then? Do you seriously think that even if you had a year, or two years, you would have found any troops worth having?”

“Yes.”

“You know there are none. Any you found would have put up a paltry show of fighting then joined the winning side. And the Goths would have destroyed everything in vengeance. As it is now, they will be blocked. The sea on one side, the mountains on the other, and the Burgundians on the third. They have to keep moving. Eventually they will wither and die.”

“And will anything be left when they leave?”

Manlius shrugged. “There is a chance.”

“Yes. There is one chance.”

“What do you mean?”

“A show of strength, to demonstrate that we are not to be walked over. If we can throw back the Burgundians, then Euric will think twice about trying as well. He is besieging Clermont still. He cannot commit his forces to little wars all over Gaul. It will give him pause. And in that time we can raise troops from somewhere, even if we have to melt down every statue in the land to pay for it. That is our chance. Give me your aid, your money, and your men. We could leave in a few days, you and I, and others would join us.”

“I have already given my word.”

“The Bishop of Vaison gave his word. After tomorrow, you may not be the bishop. You have called a meeting. Very well, then. We will see who is the more persuasive.”

Manlius nodded, distracted by the noise of two slaves standing nearby, hewing at a log with a long-handled axe.

“We must not argue now,” he said sadly. “Too much is at stake for heated words. Let us pause and think, and talk again later.”

OLIVIER COLLECTED the authorization from Clement’s secretary, dictated brusquely and signed with a blotchy blob of wax, then ran off to the section of the palace that was being used as a prison. He stood there, haranguing the guards as they shuffled about, unlocked the door, and let the prisoners out, their release as abrupt and as unexplained as their initial incarceration.

When she came out, dirty and disheveled, she looked confused, uncertain, and frightened, not knowing whether she was being released or taken off to be tortured or killed. Then she turned, ever so slightly, and saw Olivier. She couldn’t even smile, she just ran to him and gripped hold of him so tightly it seemed that they must become one person, inseparable and indistinguishable. He bent his head down and smelled her hair, felt it against his cheek, rocked to and fro delighting in her touch. Neither said anything; even the guards stood back and let them be.

With the greatest reluctance, they had to pull apart; such moments do not last in this world, they merely offer a hint, then are whisked away.

“You are free. I’ve come to take you away.” It was all he said; he had used up all his poetry and needed to say nothing else. “Come quickly.”

The old rabbi, standing by and seeing all, needed little encouragement. He had no idea what had happened to him; it was what Christians did. He sought no further explanation. Philosopher he was, but no fool; he now wanted to get out of the palace and the town as swiftly as his old legs could carry him. He had no money, and no donkey or horse. Weighed down with books and manuscripts—for these he refused to abandon—the three of them walked up to the ground and out into a courtyard. It was still morning, a fine and beautiful day, the most beautiful there had ever been.

They walked slowly through the streets of the town until Olivier made them sit down and wait while he ran to find a donkey. As he left them, he was overcome with a fit of shivering despite the heat of the morning sun. The realization of what he had done came over him like a sickness, and he felt the chill of loneliness. He was alone, and without any protection. He had no one to go to for help. As he walked he felt hunted already, knowing that retribution would be swift and hideous. He dared not go back to Ceccani’s palace, his home for the last ten years, but could not behave as Pisano had done and run away. He wanted to, though, wanted to race across the countryside as fast as he could and catch up with his friend Pisano. Then they would journey to Italy together, and Olivier would—what? He did not know; all he knew was that the greater the distance between himself and Avignon, the safer he would be.

But what of his other friends? What about this woman he had fallen in love with, and her master, grumpy and ill-humored though he was? If he left, they would die sooner or later, and it says much again for the limitations of Olivier’s vision that this was the way he saw it. If all the Jews died, so would they. He was making no grand gesture, did not want to guarantee his own eternal fame. He did not even want to save the Jews; they were not his business. All he wanted to do was make sure that these two people were not harmed when they deserved to be left in peace. A foolish, wasteful, and futile gesture; even he knew that.

He came back with a donkey, after giving all the money he had in exchange. He walked it back to them in bare feet, and helped load Gersonides’s books—he was coming to hate books, he thought as he struggled to tie them in place—then the old man himself. And he handed the halter over to Rebecca.

“Leave the city immediately. Do not go home, or anywhere where there are Jews until you are sure you can do so safely.” He said it brusquely, without detail. He knew that if he started talking to her properly, he would never be able to stop.

“But you are coming with us?”

“I have things to do here.”

“What things?”

He shrugged. “Important things. Things which don’t concern you. I would like to go but I can’t. And you must. It is too dangerous to stay here.”

“No,” she said. “You have to come, too.”

He turned to Gersonides, sitting as patiently on the donkey as it was bearing his weight. “Sir?” he appealed. “Tell her to go with you.”

“I think it would be best, my dear,” he said gently. “Olivier will no doubt race to catch up once his business is done.” He looked at Olivier and saw there was little chance of it, whatever he had planned.

“Of course,” Olivier said stoutly. Then he moved over to talk to him quietly.

“You will make sure she stays with you and doesn’t come back here?”

“Of course. A counterfeit Jew can die as readily as a real one, I think.”

“I cannot say goodbye to her properly.”

The old man nodded. “Probably not.”

Olivier smiled. “Goodbye, sir. I think you sense how much I have valued knowing you.”

“No. But I will comfort myself with guessing until you return.”

Olivier took a deep breath, then turned and bowed in farewell. Gersonides nodded in return, then thought of something.

“That manuscript you brought me, by that bishop. It argues that understanding is more important than movement. That action is virtuous only if it reflects pure comprehension, and that virtue comes from the comprehension, not the action.”

Olivier frowned. “So?”

“Dear boy, I must tell you a secret.”

“What?”

“I do believe it is wrong.”

JULIEN COULDN’T SLEEP, of course; there was never any chance of it. Instead, he walked around the apartment, so beautiful and usually so reassuring, but found no rest or respite. Not that he was thinking; a dullness had settled over him the moment he was told that Julia had been arrested, and had never lifted. He had not thought or felt anything since then. He found himself looking at the four pictures she had given him so proudly, so full of promise; she had solved her problem, but he had not managed to find any answer to his own, and she had now paid the price for it. His understanding, such as it was, only came when she was taken. Marcel had been right, of course; just as Pisano had turned the blind man and the saint—Manlius and Sophia, as he now thought—into Olivier and the woman he loved, so Julia had found her solution by continuing what he had done, transforming them once again into herself and into him. A triple portrait, around the same theme: making the blind see.

He looked out the window, hoping for distraction in the ordinary bustle and movement of the city, but there was virtually none. No people walking up and down going about their business, most of the shops shut. Only one car, its driver leaning against the bonnet smoking a cigarette. Where did he get that from? Julien thought. And he looked again, more carefully, and realized.

Friendship had its limits. Marcel had sent the police to watch him, make sure he didn’t try to leave and warn Bernard. He was to be, once more, an accessory to a murder. The realization snapped him awake; he could feel the surge of thought through his mind as he grasped what was going on. He had not gotten to the station on time, managed to achieve nothing to save Julia. But he could at least refuse to accept this as well.

He made his preparations quickly; changed his clothes, put on his stoutest shoes, ate what little food there was in his kitchen—some olives, a piece of hard, dry bread, a tomato, a small piece of cheese; they had all been there for a week or more and were scarcely edible. Drank a glass of wine that was close to being rancid, and wondered if he had ever had a meal that tasted quite so unpleasant.

Then he left the apartment, walked down the stairs and into the courtyard. There was a high stone wall that separated the house from the one behind; too high for him to climb. He went to the concierge and asked to borrow a chair.

“I am going to climb over the wall and go into the next street. There is a policeman outside. I want you to do something for me. If he asks, say that I went upstairs to go to sleep. Say I have not come down again and you have not seen me since. Will you do that?”

The concierge nodded, a little twinkle in her eye. Her husband, he knew, had spent years in jail for robbery before he had died; she herself had been in enough trouble with the police over the years for her nearly to have lost her position when one of the building’s occupants discovered it. Julien had argued for her to be left in peace. Had she ever done anything wrong? Then let her be. She knew of it, and was grateful.

“You’ll never make a good burglar, Monsieur Julien, if that’s what you’re thinking of doing. Best give it up before you get into trouble. Some people are just not made for it. My Robert, now, he was hopeless, so I know.”

He grinned at her. “I’ll bear it in mind. And I’d better go.”

“I’ve not seen you. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t talk to a policeman even if my life depended on it. Never have. Don’t hold with them.”

He nodded, and climbed the wall, making such a bad job of it that the last thing he heard as he fell heavily to the ground on the other side was a sarcastic cackle.

Then he started walking, passing through the gates of Avignon as the sun was beginning to set, doggedly pounding along the road as it grew dark. He reached Carpentras at about one in the morning and thought of stopping for a rest, lying down somewhere for a few hours’ sleep, but kept going; he had had enough sleep in his life and needed no more. Instead he headed north, and as dawn broke he passed close by the hill with the shrine of Saint Sophia at the top.

He was far too early to go to his house; Bernard was not due there until the afternoon. So he climbed the hill and took refuge in the place where Julia had been so happy. As he reached the top and saw the chapel nestling in its little copse of trees, he saw also the bits and pieces she had left behind the last time she had been there—a bundle of papers, an old tin can she used for washing her brushes, a scarf she wrapped around her head to keep the sun off. Julien picked it up and felt it, then put it to his face and smelled her for the last time. And her smell finally made him break down as he had not managed to do before at the train station, or with Marcel, or in his apartment. There he had still been in command of himself. Now he was no longer; he sank down onto the grass, his whole body shaking and his whole mind overflowing with grief.

It was only the heat as the sun rose higher in the sky, and the realization that time was passing, that eventually forced him to banish all such thoughts; but when he finally stood up he had accepted that she would not come back and he would never see her again.

He went into the chapel and looked at the pictures she had studied, and saw them through her eyes. He looked at the picture of the blind man and Sophia, her gesture so tender, his so responsive, and saw again how she had made it her own. She had lost herself in this old work, her personality dissolving into it, so that she had been set free. The immortality of the soul lies in its dissolution; this was the cryptic comment that so frustrated Olivier and which Julien had only ever grasped as evidence for the history of a particular school of thought. He had known all about its history, but Julia knew what it meant. He found the realization strangely reassuring; she, it seemed, had come to understand everything that Sophia had tried and failed to teach Manlius, and which he had never understood himself.

Did that make it any better? Did it lessen the horror of what she was enduring? Or of how he had contributed to it? Of course it did not; nothing ever could. She was on a train, in the hands of monsters, and while she journeyed to her death he sat here, looking at pictures. Julien had sunk into complete impotence, where he had nothing left he could do. Everything he had ever thought or learned, all his tastes and cultivation had gone, stripped away by this one fact: She was gone, and he could not prevent or change anything that was to happen.

Olivier had made a protest against great ideas for the sake of a small humanity, and had illuminated it with his own suffering. Julien could not even do that; his life was already over and with it any opportunity to accomplish something of worth. All he could do was signal that he understood, at least, how much in error he had been, and hope that someone might, in turn, understand him.

He closed the door of the chapel carefully, breathed in the warm air, so fresh after the slight dankness inside, and began walking down the hill.

FELIX LEFT THAT EVENING, his retinue bumping along the unrepaired roads, the few soldiers with him on the lookout for brigands, who were becoming ever more adventurous in their depredations. They were in something of a hurry, for Felix had much to do before the confrontation with Manlius. Supporters to prepare, soldiers to ready, for he did not doubt that fighting was likely, and much though he regretted it, he felt there was now no choice. One of them would have to give way; only one person could emerge triumphant, for the stakes were too high for compromise.

They went some ten miles before they paused, and stopped by a stream to water the horses. It was then that the attackers struck. There were perhaps six of them, although as no one survived, the number remained conjecture. Felix himself was the last to die, his head severed from his body in such a way that it went rolling down the slight incline and came to rest in a patch of primroses growing on the riverbank.

But at least he died knowing who had killed him. The last thing he saw before his life was extinguished was the blade of the long-handled axe as it swung through the air, glinting brightly in the spring sunshine, and he recognized the man who had been hewing wood on Manlius’s estate the day before.

WHEN THE BURGUNDIANS arrived, they behaved with exemplary correctness, eliciting admiration from the population for the way in which they were kept in order, without looting or pillaging. A contrast to soldiers in the pay of Rome, it was pointed out by more than one person. Only in one area did they act with less restraint; the estates of the family of Felix were attacked immediately and by the end almost the entire clan was eliminated, the villas burned, the land transferred to the king for distribution to his own people.

This was as it should be; no one mourned them, for by then they knew his true duplicity, and were the more won over by their bishop, their savior. For Manlius told them, with trembling voice, eyes filled with tears, how he had discovered the truth about his friend, how he had been in secret negotiation with Euric, planning to hand over the land to him in exchange for favors. This had been the true reason, he announced in a dull, resigned voice, why he had moved so fast to invite King Gundobad to move south, why he had abandoned the idea of going to the emperor for troops. There was no time if Felix’s treachery was to be countered.

The news came as a shock, but the impact was salutary. Gundobad was hailed as a savior and entered into his new patrimony without a sword being drawn in protest. And Manlius, his chief advisor, began teaching him about ruling, about the law, and about justice. About how to be a king, not merely a chieftain.

He was at his greatest in those years; he felt it was what he had been born to accomplish. The constant, intricate details of administration, of justice, of reevaluating and reassigning tax revenues, the delicate discussions and persuasions needed to steer both rulers and ruled toward an understanding and even appreciation of each other. It was due to him that war never came between the Burgundians and Visigoths, that the destruction all had feared never happened. And the culmination of his achievement was the code of law, the Lex Gundobada as it was known to Julien, which encapsulated the triumph of Roman civilization over its tribal successors. The Roman people submitted to barbarian rule, but the barbarian rulers submitted to Roman law.

It took years of unremitting work before his labors were complete, and when he was satisfied, he went back to the great villa that had been almost desolate for so many years and opened up the doors and lived in peace once more. It was much changed; the huddling masses of laborers had been cleared away, but there had been no time and no money to restore the garden. Cracks had appeared in the fabric, holes in the pavements and mosaics, for despite his efforts the labor force had continued to evaporate, the towns to shrink. Cut off from much of its old places of trade, with travel ever more dififcult, society continued to wither, albeit at a slower, more gentle pace.

He was satisfied, nonetheless; he had achieved all he had aimed at, and more. And now he could rest. So he hoped, but no peace came to him. The hole in his soul grew bigger by the day, for he had lost Sophia, the woman who had guided him and taught him for all his adult life. He had wanted her praise, her thanks, or at least her understanding, and had gotten none of these, even when he finally finished his last work, the Dream, and sent it to her.

HE HAD SEEN little of her since the arrival of the Burgundians, for he had much to do and she had withdrawn to her little house on the hill. When he had secured her release from captivity she had not even thanked him. He thought he understood why; for Sophia yearned for the release of death, and would have no gratitude for the man who had postponed what she so ardently desired. She had left with scarcely a word, and he had been too busy to follow, although he made sure that she was properly protected and looked after. His occasional letters went unanswered, and eventually, after he had sent her his manuscript, with a dedication to the great god Apollo and his consort Wisdom, he went to see her. He was puzzled, offended even, by her silence. And he wanted her praise.

“That you will not have,” she said when she divined this part of the reason for his visit. She was sitting under a tree beneath which a servant had fixed up an awning of white cloth; there she sat on the ground, knees crossed and hands together.

“I never thought that I had managed to teach you so little,” she continued, with a sadness and a distance in her voice that he had never known before. Often in the past, she had been angry with him, furious at his obstinacy or his inability to understand. But that had been part of her love; this time she talked like an acquaintance, someone who cared nothing for him. The realization sent a chill through him.

“I admit it,” he said with a forced smile. “But what there is is all due to you.”

“Then let me be cursed for it,” she said quietly, “for if I am responsible for what you have done then I bear a heavy guilt. I taught you as much as I could and you used it to massacre your son, your friend, and the Jews. And you have become a saint. You are a saint, Manlius; the people say so already. When you are dead you will have your shrine and your prayers.”

“They are nothing to me if I do not have your good opinion, my lady.”

“And you do not have it. The moment you ordered the death of Syagrius you lost it forever. He did not betray you; he stayed in Vaison to ensure I came to no danger. He kept watch on me night and day, offered himself as a hostage until you came back. Your response was to kill him, without inquiry, so you could make a grand gesture before all the town. And to yourself, and to the shade of your father. You would not show weakness, would you, Lord Bishop? You would not expose yourself as your father did, and hesitate, and be merciful. He did, and died for it. His cause was lost. That was not a mistake you would make. You learned from him as you learned from me.”

“What he did—or what he failed to do—is the cause of our current distress,” Manlius said stiffly.

“Nonsense,” she replied harshly. “Do you think one man can make a difference? If he had lived another twenty years, would it have conjured up armies? Given the people of this region the will to fight? Made Rome able to defend itself? No. Your father’s quest was doomed from the start. He knew it, and he died as a man of honor, choosing not to do wrong, so that at least he would leave behind something noble. Would that you had his qualities. You have chosen instead to pile injustice on injustice, corpse on corpse. Felix knew nothing of what his cousin was doing, but your response was to kill him, and to kill his entire line, because you wanted to deliver a peaceful province to Gundobad. And because you needed to win the minds of the people, you slaughtered the Jews, who had done neither you nor anyone else any ill. On such things do you build your civilization, and you use me to justify it all.”

“I have brought peace to this land, and security,” he began.

“And what of your soul, when you use the cleverness of argument to cloak such acts? Do you think that the peace of a thousand cancels out the unjust death of one single person? It may be desirable, it may win you praise from those who have happily survived you and prospered from your deeds, but you have committed ignoble acts, and have been too proud to own them. I have waited patiently here, hoping that you would come to me, for if you understood, then some of your acts would be mitigated. But instead you send me this manuscript, proud, magisterial, and demonstrating only that you have understood nothing at all.”

“I returned to public life on your advice, madam,” he said stiffly.

“Yes; I advised it. I said if learning must die it should do so with a friend by its bedside. Not an assassin.”

She looked up at him, with tears in her eyes. “You were my last pupil, Manlius. And you have made what you have done into my legacy, as well as your own. You have taken what I had and corrupted it. Used what I taught you to kill and justify your killing. For that I will never forgive you. Please leave me alone now.”

She turned back to face the valley and closed her eyes in contemplation. Manlius waited for a moment, hoping she would begin talking to him once more, then turned and walked away. He never spoke to her again.

JULIEN HAD ONLY glimpses of what Olivier did in the last few hours before he was attacked. Olivier himself scarcely understood what he was doing; he did not proceed rationally, but rather went by instinct, almost in a dream. In many ways, he was behaving purely selfishly, in contrast to the idealism that motivated both Ceccani and Cardinal de Deaux in their different ways.

He left the palace and walked through the streets of Avignon until he saw a servant of the Comte de Fréjus, someone he had seen before. He walked up to him. “Say, my friend,” he said. “Would you do me a favor?”

The man turned and nodded in vague recognition.

“Would you run straight to your master and say you saw me? Say I am going to the house of the Italian painter Pisano. Tell him the news: that I said I know who murdered his wife, saw the culprit with my own eyes, and that I will inform the magistrates this afternoon. Make sure he understands. I know who murdered his wife.”

The man frowned in puzzlement.

“Do not ask me questions,” Olivier said urgently. “Just discharge this service, and I will be in your debt forever.”

And he turned and walked away. He went back to Pisano’s lodgings. He waited for four hours, during which time he wrote his last poems, the final four that came down to Julien, including the most puzzling of them all, the one that begins “Our lonely souls swim to the light . . .” a verse that only Julien ever properly understood, its strange imagery, and tone oscillating between the regretful and the joyous being too eccentric to be readily appreciated.

And then they came, as he knew they would. Olivier folded his papers and pushed them under the door of Pisano’s neighbor, with a note that he should take them to the pope. Then he knelt down to pray as he heard the footsteps coming softly up the stairs. He looked up and saw the Comte de Fréjus himself with three other men standing in the doorway.

“I have been expecting you,” he said quietly as they came in.

THE REST OF the story took place in public, although what it meant was swiftly obscured. Only Clement, perhaps, held all the strands. When de Fréjus fled, leaving Olivier bleeding on the floor all but dead, his hands smashed beyond use, his tongue cut off so that he could never tell his secret to anyone, the news traveled fast. The count was seen entering the building, seen leaving it two hours later covered in blood; the screams as Olivier was tortured were heard for hundreds of yards around. No one dared intervene. It was then that the story began to circulate that the assault was revenge for Olivier’s murder of Isabelle de Fréjus; the tale protected the count’s reputation, for no one wanted the truth made public, but it did not fool Clement. A horse-man left the papal palace within the hour, heading for the Countess of Provence’s court; the comte’s seneschal was removed from Aigues-Mortes and the command taken over by her own cousin; extra soldiers were sent in. The English force materialized off the coast, waited three days, then sailed back to Bordeaux.

As a power, Ceccani was finished, his desire for the papacy to return to Rome dead. He even returned to his bishoprics, visiting each in turn and winning a reputation as a good shepherd of his flock, in contrast to the absentees of Avignon, who took their dues but gave precious little in exchange.

And three days after the attack, Olivier had his reward as he lay in a quiet room in the papal palace, attended by the pope’s own physician. For Clement was a thorough man; he not only blocked Ceccani’s plan for Aigues-Mortes, he moved to demolish the power base his cardinal had built himself as well. The great bull Cum Natura Humana, a thunderous declamation that echoed across the whole world, was issued. The Jews were innocent of any charges laid against them in the matter of the plague. They were the fathers of nations, as was now the pope himself. To injure them was to injure the pope, and all Christians as well. Clement took them under his personal protection. Anyone who harmed them in any way would be excommunicated and would have to answer to the pope himself. They were not to be attacked, nor to be forcibly converted, for obedience without faith was pointless. They were to be left alone.

And those people who attacked them, the men like Peter the flagellant and all his followers, were excommunicated, to be hunted down. And all those who helped them were to be excommunicated as well. They were to be chased from the society of men, spurned and shunned, thrown out of any town they approached, or arrested and kept imprisoned until they repented. Rather than using them to persecute the Jews, he turned the full force of papal power and authority on the persecutors. The results were not swift, but they were effective; the assaults on Jews spluttered out, bit by bit, the flagellants and those who came to the surface under the cloak of their piety were crushed.

It was—and is—an extraordinary document, with a few antecedents but no parallels. The sound it made, true, was drowned out by other more raucous voices; the tumult first stirred in Provence by Manlius proved more attractive and more tempting. And yet the little flicker it represented stayed alight for long enough, embodying something of the soul of Olivier de Noyen, and communicating itself down through the centuries until it whispered into the ear of Julien Barneuve as he trudged the last few kilometers to his house.

OLIVIER LIVED OUT the remaining part of his life in the monastery of Saint Jean outside Vaison, whose abbot was appointed under the guidance of Cardinal de Deaux. He arrived one night, in a litter escorted by the pope’s own troops, and no one in that place ever knew his story. All they knew was that he was under the protection of their cardinal, and of the pope himself. He had rendered great service to the church, it was whispered, although what this was was unclear.

He did little in that period; could not talk and could not write. Nor did he attend services unless he had to. Rather, he sat in the sun most of the time, read a great deal—his friends sent him manuscripts to read as they were discovered—and walked. His favorite place was the chapel on the hill about a day’s march away, where his friend had begun painting the life of Saint Sophia. He slept there often, and spent much time in prayer to the saint; it gave him great comfort.

And Rebecca came to him there. Gersonides and she returned to their house when peace came back, and they felt safe. The ordeal had weakened the old man, though; she knew it would not be long before he died.

Olivier tried, and eventually managed, to communicate to her that she should marry, if possible. Or she would be utterly defenseless in the world. But it was not what she wanted.

One day as they were sitting together, looking out over the hills, she stood up suddenly and turned to him. “You were wrong in what you did, you know,” she said. “To protect me, I mean. I did not deserve it. You suffered for nothing.”

He reached out and tried to touch her, to get her to be quiet, but she pulled away from him and continued, the words coming out in a rush now she had summoned the courage to speak at all. “I was born in a small village near Nîmes, and someone betrayed us. There was a monastery nearby and the case was taken to the abbot. And at the end of it, he gave orders that everyone accused of heresy should be executed. They told me it was merciful, that otherwise the monks would come and do as they had before and kill everyone in the region. That this was a kindness on his part to save many others. But still my parents were killed by this act of kindness.

“I ran to the fields and wandered for six years before I came across my master. He found me and took me in and looked after me until I was ready to look after him.”

Olivier looked anguished, made the childish gurgles and chortlings that were the nearest he could now get to speech to interrupt her, but she went on doggedly nonetheless. “That abbot was a great man, and became greater still. A few years later he began to be known as Pope Clement the Sixth.

“When you came for me that night, to take me to the palace, I knew the temptation. I took a potion my master had, which he had always told me never to touch as it was a powerful medicine, dangerous if not taken with care. I put it in my bag, and when I got the chance, I poured it into the well. The moment I’d done it, there was a great shout, and someone grabbed me.”

She paused and smiled. “I tried to explain, you know. I said it was all my doing and tried to tell them why. But they weren’t interested. They thought I would never have done such a thing without my master’s instruction. The stupid thing is that it wouldn’t have worked anyway. Gersonides has told me it was quite harmless when diluted to such an extent. I wanted to confess, but my master said there was no point. No one would believe me, because they wanted to believe Jews were poisoning wells.”

She went down on her knees and kissed his cheek. “You are a good man, Olivier, far better than I am. I hated, and risked the life of my master, and subjected you to this for my hatred. And you now must hate me, too, and I know you will never want to see me again.”

He leaned forward and took her in his arms; he wished more than anything to speak to her and reassure her; his heart was full of wonderful poems; all sorts of words and phrases sparkled in his head, none of which anyone but he would ever hear. But he held her nonetheless, rocking her gently backward and forward, doing his best to stroke her hair with his arm, kissing it with his lips.

“Do you want me to go?” she asked eventually. “Please don’t tell me you do.”

He shook his head fervently, and then she returned his embrace, and they stayed there together for a long time.

He lived for another six months before the burden of his wounds finally pulled him down. Rebecca was with him at the end; the abbot of the monastery understood enough to know she would be his best comfort. And so it proved; Olivier died in almost perfect happiness. The only blemish on his contentment was not knowing when he would see her again. But he believed in eternity, and knew it would not be long.

AS JULIEN WALKED to his house, he began to reach a state of calm that had long eluded him. He arrived at the house about fifteen minutes early; it gave him just enough time to send out a warning that Bernard would be able to see from miles away, something that would make him turn around and go back. He dug up the etched plates from the place where Julia had hidden them and took them into the little kitchen of the house, then got a bottle of the acid she used for biting the lines into the metal, and poured it all over them. Bit by bit the lettering would be erased; that part of his job was done. He lifted the floorboards and took out the little pile of papers inside and put them on the floor. He was not thinking anymore; he merely did the job he set himself, his mind completely empty.

Then he prepared himself, and made a pile in the middle of the living room of all his old notes and papers, his manuscript on Manlius, useless because so wrong. The notes from the Vatican. His draft on Olivier, also erroneous in nearly all respects except for the analysis of the poetry, which still had some merit. None would be missed. They were a record of wasted time and misunderstanding only.

These he stacked carefully, then surrounded them in turn with wooden furniture, the old curtains. Beside them he put his last two-liter jar of kerosene for the little heater, and the bottle of eau-de-vie that Elizabeth Duveau had once given to Julia. A welcoming present, a gesture of friendship.

His last cigarette he took from the packet and put in his mouth, the box of matches on the table, then picked up the kerosene and eau-de-vie and splashed it liberally on the papers and over the furniture. He needed only a few moments for the fuel to soak in; when he judged the moment was right, he took a long puff on his cigarette and exhaled. Then another; his last pleasure. He blew on the end until it glowed brightly and flecks of ash flew off and floated through the beams of light coming through the open window, then dropped it, quite carefully as with all he did, in the middle of the pile of notes.

THE FIRE TOOK hold quickly, sending a billowing column of smoke into the hot summer air, easily seen for miles around by the approaching platoon of Germans, and also by Bernard. The soldiers rushed to the scene but could do little; Bernard, in contrast, took the warning; he turned around and vanished swiftly into the woods he knew so well.

He survived another six weeks before he was captured and killed. Two days after Julien’s death, twenty-six civilians were shot in the quiet courtyard of a farm a kilometer or so outside Vaison.