Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

“And there is another point. I need help. Me, your friend. Another thing you do not know, I imagine. Have you heard of the Legion of Combattants?”

Julien shrugged. “Of course. What of them?”

“A group supposedly of old soldiers. Very virtuous. Heroes of the last war, although how many actually took part in it is doubtful. They have attached themselves to the president, got close to him. Do you know what they are doing? ‘The bureaucracy will not carry out your orders,’ they whisper in his ear. ‘You cannot rely on them. Let us help. Let us be your eyes and ears, tell you what is going on, do those jobs which otherwise will not get done.’ They are dangerous people, Julien. If they are not stopped, they will bypass people like me, all the usual balances of administration will collapse, and it will fall into the hands of old street fighters. Do you remember we were both in Paris in 1928? When there were the riots, when the right battled the communists on the streets? You said you couldn’t decide which was worse, you were merely terrified either would ever come to power?”

Marcel paused. “They are nearly there, Julien. Marshal Pétain is a fine man, a hero. But he is easily influenced. And these are the people who are influencing him. And unless I can surround myself with people I trust, then they will take more and more of the administration here into their hands. And that is why I need you, a decorated soldier, a renowned scholar, a respected figure, by my side. I need my friends, now more than ever. And, as I say, you cannot sit on the sidelines talking about your inclinations. If there was a war on, you could go off and fight, if you wanted. Very noble. Very simple. But the war is over. Now the really dangerous part begins. You have to see, Julien, what a chance we have. To renew and rebuild this country, give it good government, get rid of all those people who do nothing but criticize and weaken us. All those people who lost us the war. Look at the Germans; look at how they run things, and look at the shambles that we became. I don’t like them, but we must learn from them if we are ever going to get off our knees. But we must keep it out of the hands of the thugs as well. A balancing act. If you do not help me, you are helping them. Here ends my lecture.”

Julien gazed at him, saw that he had considered this speech, written it in his head for this moment, and was absolutely convinced that what he was saying was correct. Nor could Julien disagree with him. His friend was talking little more than common sense. But he was still reluctant to take the step Marcel seemed so desperately to want.

“I just don’t see how giving lectures will help,” he said.

“Oh, that. Useful. Keeps spirits up, explains what we’re doing. Keeping an eye on the newspapers and publishers is the more important part. Making sure no defeatist, critical nonsense is spread about. We can’t afford it. The government, no doubt, is not perfect. But it’s all we’ve got at the moment, and it has to be given a chance. And at the same time you must fend off criticism of me from within. Do a good job, use all that intelligence of yours.”

“What do you mean by keeping an eye on things?”

“Which journals and papers get allocations of paper? Which books should get priority for printing? All that sort of thing.”

“I am completely unqualified.”

“Who isn’t? You are an academic with a good reputation. Aren’t you?”

“I think so.”

“There you are. Trustworthy, to me and to the people who will be benefiting from your fatherly advice. It’s for the general good, you know. We have to keep things calm. If you don’t do it, someone else will. And, frankly, you have no choice. You’ve been sitting on your backside for years talking about the need to defend civilization from the barbarians, and now’s your chance. The barbarians are here.”

Marcel stood up and brushed his lank hair back across his head. His face—now slightly pudgy from age, scored with lines from work and worry—was flushed from the intensity of his speech.

“Go away and think about it,” he said. “And when you’ve thought about it, go to the Hotel Continental. I’ve requisitioned a floor for the new censor’s office. You start work on Monday.”

AS HE APPROACHED Avignon once more from the east, Olivier passed unmolested through the two small groups of papal soldiers who stopped everyone they saw and searched them. He watched them for an hour before plucking up courage and marching down the road.

“What’s this?” he asked as they grabbed him and made him stand while they searched his clothes and bag.

“Orders,” said one. “Nothing there. Thank you.”

“Come on, tell me. What’s this about?”

“Sorry.”

And then he was through, and went safely on his way. Just outside the city, on the approach to the great bridge that led over the river to its gates, he came across a sight that initially made him laugh out loud, and he rushed to Ceccani to recite his letter and tell him of what he had seen.

“Fifty men and women,” he said later, “all roped together, beating the hell out of each other with rods and ropes, singing psalms while they did it. Not very well, I must say, as they weren’t hitting each other for show. They were really hurting. What is going on that we have so many mad-men on the road?”

Ceccani did not smile. “They call themselves flagellants, for reasons that are obvious. They believe they can fend off the plague through self-mortification.”

“Judging by the state of this town, they are not succeeding. Is it as bad as it seems?”

“Worse,” Ceccani said grimly. “And by all accounts there is still worse to come. Do not laugh at these people, Olivier. Much has changed in your absence, and you will not find anything so amusing when you see what is happening.”

“I saw some things on the way across town, my lord.” And he had; never would he have thought it possible that a city could change so quickly and so drastically. Not the buildings, of course; the town looked exactly as before, every house and church and palace was as it had been. But the streets, denuded of their people, the stalls, the noise, the movement, were like ghosts. Olivier had never thought about it before; only now did he realize how much he had come to like, even to love, this greedy, corrupt, sinful, excessive town, a byword throughout the world for its extravagance. To live in Avignon, survive amid the cruelty and venality, mingle with Italians and French and Germans and Flemings, was to encounter the whole world at once. And now, it seemed, it was gone forever; all that was left of the pageantry were the bells of the body collectors, and the harsh rumbling of their carts as they pulled another load of corpses to the river; it was difficult to imagine it would ever come back. No city, he thought, could recover from such a blow.

“How many are dead?”

“So far? About seven thousand, maybe ten. We thought that perhaps it was abating, that the miasma was heading elsewhere, but it seems not. There will be many more deaths yet. There is nothing to be done, Olivier. No human assistance has had any effect. Nonetheless, I wish you to do me a service, when you are rested.”

“Willingly, my lord.”

“Go to these people you find so amusing, they must have a leader, and bring him to me. I do not know whether they are dangerous or not, and we must find out what sort of men they are.”

He had already told Ceccani about his voyage, and apologized profusely for having taken such a long time. Ceccani listened, silently, nodding as he spoke.

“And he’s dead, this Althieux?”

“Yes, my lord. I buried him myself.”

He grunted. “You tell me you read the letter?”