Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

“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?”