Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

“They say they are already across the river upstream, so your task is pointless anyway. If you withdraw now, you can rejoin your battalion and continue to fight. If you don’t you will be surrounded and captured within hours.”

The captain heard him out, then hurled the glass he was carrying against the wall in blind fury. “They said they would hold that bridge,” he shouted at Marcel. “Come what may, they would hold it. They promised me. At least they promised me that.”

He turned away, not wishing the civilian official to see him in his moment of shame and humiliation, but not doubting the truth of what he was told either.

Then he straightened himself up and called his junior officer. “It’s all over. The bridge upriver has gone. We’ve got to get out of here.”

The news traveled fast. The soldiers abandoned their positions as they had apparently been abandoned by their comrades. They knew, as soldiers do by instinct, that there would be no more fighting. Many left their weapons, some already were changing out of their uniforms, wanting only to go home. Only the Senegalese troops stayed armed and uniformed. They had nowhere to go.

Only they, also, were pursued by the Germans when they swept into the town four hours later. There was a brief fight. They were all killed.

After the war, when Marcel’s career was being examined to see whether he should remain in public office, he said that the initial contact came from a phone call from the German forces, which were under orders to cause as little destruction as possible. During the six hours in his office, he was negotiating terms to save as much as he could from the wreckage of the country.

For this he received his exoneration, and was allowed to continue in the civil service. Long before that he had also received an official vote of thanks from the town council when they returned, and a tearful farewell from the townspeople when he was transferred south three months later.

The fact remains that no note of any phone call or other contact has ever been found in the archives of the German army, nor could any of its officers remember such a thing when questioned after the war. It is also a matter of record that the bridge upstream held out for another two days, until its defenders heard that the troops in Marcel’s town had surrendered.

SHORTLY BEFORE the plague arrived, Olivier traveled to the west, into France. He often made such trips, voyaging on behalf of a master who sent him to sort out some quarrel between recalcitrant priests, reorganize the tax gathering, represent his master in a dispute with the secular authorities; all these things he did with care and some success, as his obvious desire to resolve problems rather than merely end them made him a popular and welcome figure.

This time, however, he was to be merely a messenger.

“A little below you, my boy,” said Ceccani with a smile. “But I can trust no one else. Do your job well, and you will be rewarded.”

“I need no reward, sir.”

“This time you will get one, whether you like it or not. Because this time I forbid you absolutely to tarry. Not even if you come across the manuscript of the Republic in Plato’s own hand will you delay for so much as a moment. Do you understand?”

Olivier nodded. The cardinal seemed unduly preoccupied, as though he was carrying an enormous weight on his shoulders. He had been like this for some weeks; short-tempered, refusing to respond to questions, drifting off in the middle of conversations to dwell on his thoughts. Olivier knew nothing of what was going on, of course; even gossip was for once carrying no tales or rumors. But something was worrying the cardinal greatly; of that he was certain.

“I will do exactly as you say, my lord,” he said gently. “To whom am I to deliver this letter?”

“You will take this to the Bishop of Winchester, who you will find in Bordeaux. You will bring me the reply as swiftly as possible.”

Olivier was not that surprised; the Bishop of Winchester was one of the most important people in England, known for the way he had sought to weave a tapestry of alliances to entrap the king of France and further his master’s aims in the war. Ceccani, he thought, must be taking a hand in the business of trying to find a peace between the two sides. Certainly it was needed.

He bowed deeply and left.

He accomplished his task, traveled to Bordeaux and discharged his commission; and also controlled himself in the matter of manuscripts. Not that this is so important; rather, the one event that is of significance amid the tumult of war and diplomacy, overshadowing the march of armies, the letters of the great, and the march of pestilence, is that on his return, about two days’ ride from Avignon, he met a traveling peddler.

Olivier was traveling simply, as was his wont, alone and on a horse, carrying with him a little food and water, a bag with the papers he needed to discharge his tasks, a thick woollen cloak to keep off the cold, and a wide-brimmed hat on his head to protect him from the rain. He had taken off the gold ring that was his one sign of position lest it tempt another into avarice and violence, and had slung his shoes around his neck so that his feet could be kept fresh by the air as he plodded along. He was happy; the weather was fine enough though chilly, the road good and empty; he was lost in thought and careless of the world—perhaps the state that gave rise to the couplet on forgetfulness in one of his surviving poems, for Olivier had an unprecedented ability to seize a passing moment and fix it in words, rendering the transient timeless.

As he rounded a corner obscured by a clump of trees, he came across an upturned wagon, a donkey lying on the ground and struggling to get up, and a man, not young, trying to loose it from its harness. He was cursing quietly; all around were the impedimenta of the traveling craftsman heading from village to market—his own stock, which turned out to be three pairs of beautifully made shoes, some uncut leather freshly tanned, and some baskets made by his family. The food grown by others in his village and surplus to their needs, and some small rolls of cloth, gray and ragged, for sale to whomever wished to buy such rough material.

Olivier stopped his horse and watched a moment, then leaped down and went to help. His assistance was needed, as the donkey was thrashing around and risking breaking one of its legs or snapping some vital part of the cart. The owner scarcely acknowledged him to begin with, but concentrated on the task of saving his livelihood, breathing a huge sigh of relief when, eventually, the beast was freed, rolled away, got up, and went carelessly off to the nearest patch of grass for a feed. Then he turned to Olivier and grunted his thanks.

He was, perhaps, twice Olivier’s age, strong but not big, with the precise movements of the craftsman and a gaze quite unlike anything Olivier had ever noted in one of his rank. It was open and inquiring, seeing and assessing Olivier in one glance, and yet he sensed something cautious and watchful as well.

He left it to his savior to speak first. “Come, let us turn your wagon the right way up. It seems undamaged, and it will not take long if both of us are at the job. Some of your goods are a little muddy, I’m afraid, but most seem fine.”

The man nodded, and they moved around the wagon, working out the easiest place to attack the problem. Then, under the craftsman’s direction and taking care not to get his clothes dirty, Olivier and he lifted, pushed, and pulled until at last the wagon balanced precariously on one wheel, then crashed down onto the ground the right way up. His new companion inspected it carefully, then sniffed with satisfaction.

“Thank you,” he said, speaking for the first time. “Grateful.”