Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

The order and discipline of the monastery collapsed in minutes; three hundred years of contemplation and prayer and blind obedience wiped out by terror. Nor did it ever recover; three of the forty-five brothers survived, but they went elsewhere, and the building was abandoned for years before it was finally taken over by the duke and used as stabling. In the eighteenth century a fire in a pile of hay burned down most of it, and the depredations of builders removed much of the stone for new houses. What remained was incorporated, in 1882, into a school, a fine monument to the meritocratic ideals of Republicanism. The spot where Olivier stood in the sunlight, and where Althieux died, is now a favorite haunt of adolescent boys, who come here to smoke when their lessons are over for the morning. Wildflowers grow where Olivier buried his friend, tipping him into the grave he dug himself, saying a brief prayer in farewell, and promising to have a mass said for him when he could find a priest to say it. They are picked, every year, and the boys give them to their girlfriends of the moment.

OLIVIER COLLECTED HIS bag and left as soon as he could. The speed of what had happened had shocked him, not only the plague itself but also the reaction to it. It was clear that the news had spread to the town; the silence, perhaps the most alarming of all the symptoms, had descended. People talked softly, looked frightened, moved as though they might be attacked at any minute. Only a few people were in the streets, doors and windows were being barred, and horses were whinnying as they were loaded with essentials.

Even the market had few people in it as Olivier walked through, only a handful of traders remained in their places, still hoping that someone would come and buy to reward their efforts in coming. As Olivier looked around him he saw, quite plainly, his heretic of the previous day.

The man noticed him as well. His eyes met Olivier’s.

You know what I am, the glance said. What will you do?

The faintest ghost of a smile crossed Olivier’s face. A half, even a quarter, of a wink. Then the meeting was broken. The man bent his head and saw to his pile of cloth. Olivier passed on his way, the bags bouncing against the side of his horse as he walked it toward the gate leading back to Avignon.

Even though he was mindful of Althieux’s warning, and circuited so that he came into Avignon from the north, nonetheless the precautions were insufficient. As he stopped one night at a rough hostel for travelers on the far side of the Rhône, already back in Provençal territory, he heard two merchants talking.

“Don’t know who they’re looking for, but they must want him badly.”

“What’s this?” he said. “Trouble on the roads?”

“Soldiers,” replied one of the men. “Don’t know whose they are, but they’re stopping everyone heading for Avignon. I’m told every way into the city has got blocks on it.”

“Maybe they’re after brigands,” Olivier suggested.

“No, there’s only a few of them. Enough to stop one man,” he said, looking at Olivier carefully, “but not much use for anything else.”

He thought as he lay scratching on his flea-ridden straw pallet that night. If they were searching everybody, then they could not know what he looked like. It must be that they anticipated the letter giving him away. Therefore, the solution was simple.

The next morning, after he’d had some bread and wine, he started off again, but instead of heading south to Avignon, he turned east inland and toward the hills that rose on the far side. Again, it added time onto his journey; in all, the detours took him a total of ten days, but as he did not want his throat cut, and as Ceccani would not have thanked him for losing the letter, he had no real choice. He headed straight for the chapel of Saint Sophia, thinking that by far the most sensible thing would be to consign it into his friend’s hands. Ceccani could then send some of his own bodyguards to bring the Italian, and the letter, into the city. His friend would like that; indeed, the prospect of being escorted into the town surrounded by an armed retinue in full regalia like some visiting potentate might well be the high point of his life, for he always had a grand sense of occasion.

It began to rain the day before he arrived, and kept up a steady downpour for nearly thirty-six hours. He was soaked to the skin and shivering by the time he finally made it to the top of the hill, hoping desperately that he would soon see his friend, huddling over a fire in the makeshift encampment he had once proudly described. But Pisano was not there, of course; he rarely was when he was needed. The chapel was deserted; only the mess all around—the poles for the scaffolding, the scorched patches on the grass where he had built his fires at night, the splotches of bright red and blue on the earth where he had washed his brushes after his work—suggested that anyone had ever been there. It was bleak, and desolate, half finished and with the air of something that never would be finished. Olivier stood uncertainly, gazing out over the thick woodlands that surrounded the hill, listening to the rain pattering down on tens of thousands of leaves so that the whole of creation seemed to be drumming with the noise. In the distance he could just see the smoke rising from the chimneys of Vaison, which he had not visited for years. He shook the rain out of his eyes, then turned miserably to the chapel, which offered the only dryness within reach. Once inside, in the gloom, for the darkness of the sky meant little light came through the windows, he shivered; he knew a fever was coming and that if he didn’t get dry he would be in great danger. Even as the shivering grew worse and he had trouble standing, he still never considered the possibility that he, too, might have the plague. Instead he was as practical as he could be, knowing that he had little time before he would be too weak to stand. He took the warm blanket from his pack, his flask of water, took off his wet clothes, and, teeth chattering from the cold, wrapped himself up and huddled on the floor.

He had no idea how long he slept, possibly a day or more, and half the time he did not know whether he was asleep or not. Rather, he kept passing in and out of dreams, sometimes thinking clearly, sometimes only aware that he could hardly think at all, and luxuriating in the strange thoughts that passed through his mind without his bidding. At some stage the rains stopped; he noticed the sudden silence, then the skies cleared for the chapel grew light once more, and a shaft of sunlight streamed in through the windows to illuminate Pisano’s unfinished work.

Olivier lay there and looked; for as much as half a day he looked at what his friend had accomplished, sometimes aware he was looking at artifice, sometimes thinking he was looking at real events. He was entranced and knew that all of the Italian’s boasting, all his claim to be doing something the world had never seen before, were perfectly justified. He had created real people and endowed the story with life. Olivier saw how he used Isabelle de Fréjus to make his Magdalen, and wondered how anyone had ever considered that the blessed saint could have looked like anyone else. Even though it was unfinished, the panel of the saints arriving on dry land in their miraculous boat made him wonder at the glory of God who could protect such a frail craft on such violent seas. He even noticed that Pisano had given the blind man his face, and saw that Sophia was Rebecca. That darkness, with the radiance shining from her, the kindness of her gestures, the sometimes rough way she spoke, the twist of her head and the fall of her hair. Who would not wish to see such a person? Who could not love her?

He dozed again, and heard her words as she addressed the sinner who came to her. “You will see when you understand what love is,” and she passed her hand over his face—an imperious, commanding gesture, not something mannered as some fairground charlatan would do—and the sunlight streamed into his eyes and woke him with a start.