Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

“Yes, sir,” he replied a little nervously. “I did not intend to or want to. But I decided the only way of bringing it to you safely was in my head.”

Ceccani thought of this, then smiled. “You did well. Very well indeed. I am pleased with you. So tell me.”

And like a schoolboy before a master, Olivier recited, calling up every word from his prodigious memory. How the proposal was acceptable to the king. How it would take some time to get troops into position. How the English needed eight weeks before any action could be taken, but that they would be ready outside the walls of Aigues-Mortes by the end of May. And how they undertook to provide any and all assistance to Cardinal Ceccani when the time was right.

Ceccani nodded. “Do you understand this letter?”

“I believe so, my lord.”

“And?”

“I believe the English wish to wrest control of Aigues-Mortes from the king of France, to take from him his only port on the Mediterranean Sea. And that you intend to help them do so.”

“Go on.”

Olivier looked perplexed. “That is all, sir.”

“Your opinion?”

“I have none, sir.”

“Do you not find it shocking? Fascinating?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am your servant, my lord, indebted to you for everything I have. And because the doings of princes are not my affair. Whether Aigues-Mortes is French, or whether it is English, or whether it belongs to the emperor of China is of no matter to me. I serve you to the best of my ability. What else should concern me?”

Ceccani rose and gave him a warm embrace, the first time he had ever done such a thing. “By God, I choose my servants well,” he said. “Now go to my chancellor and get the money to buy yourself some new clothes. Get enough for expensive ones. And go and see if there are any clothes merchants left in this town. If you choose to buy modest attire and spend the rest on a manuscript or two for yourself, then—then I’ll bless you anew.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY, Olivier did as he was told, although with some foreboding. The group of penitents were not hard to find; a considerable crowd had gathered around them and the noise of screaming could be heard from some distance. Olivier indeed had to push his way through to reach the front.

What he saw revolted him once more. There were about fifty of them, stripped to the waist, dirty, filthy men and women all drawn from the dregs of society, uncouth, loud, and vulgar, standing in a circle. Time and again one would step into the center to be set upon by the others, all of whom carried weighted scourges. Evidently Olivier had missed much of the spectacle, for the ground was as red with blood as the sand after a bear baiting. Several had collapsed, and when they did so, the others rejoiced and ignored them, turning their attention to the next. Olivier could barely contain his disgust, then slowly realized that he was alone in the crowd in feeling this antipathy. Many of the others were on their knees, singing. Others prayed with tears in their eyes, others ran up with handkerchiefs to wipe the blood, which they carried away reverently. He saw one woman grab one of the men and lick his wounds before collapsing in a heap on the ground. A tall man with a thin, wispy beard, his face covered in scabs, walked over to her, picked her up, and gave her a blessing.

Olivier called out to him. He had to repeat himself several times before he was noticed. “Are you the leader of these people?”

“I am their captain,” he replied. Alone of the group he did not seem taken with a madness. Alone, Olivier noticed, he did not submit himself to a beating either.

“I have a message for you. Cardinal Ceccani orders you to attend him.”

“I take no orders from a priest,” the man replied with a sneer.

Olivier turned and indicated the ten guards he had brought from Ceccani’s palace. “Then perhaps a polite request would be honored with a reply?”

The man eyed the troops, who looked nervous and unready to do their duty, but decided not to risk it. “You may tell the priest,” he said, “that I am desirous of saving all souls, even his. I will come to him this evening.”

And he terminated the interview, walking back to the center of the circle, and continued. Olivier retreated; he heard the snigger of the crowd as he did so.

STRANGELY, Ceccani was not offended by the response when he reported it. He laughed, merely. “But, my lord, these people are shocking,” Olivier hastened to tell him. “And they are dangerous. They do not acknowledge the church; they wrap the people round their thumbs and could make them do anything. Believe me, I am not joking. I saw the effect they were having.”

“I’m sure the same was said of Saint Francis and his followers,” Ceccani said evenly. “And who knows, perhaps these people have been touched by divine grace. Let us see, when this man arrives. Did you get his name, by the way?”

“He calls himself Peter.”

“Peter? Well, well.”

“You are taking a great deal of interest in a few lunatics, my lord.”

“A few?” Ceccani replied. “Dear me no. If there were only a few I would ignore them. A few would be no danger, and no use either. But we have had reports in from all over Provence, into Italy and France, of bands of people like these. I need to know whether they are truly dangerous or not. As you have seen for yourself, they capture the minds of the populace. But what will they do with those minds? That is what we must discover. Please go and wait for this Peter, and bring him to me the moment he arrives.”

So Olivier retired to the gatehouse and passed the next three hours working hard, reading the manuscripts that Gersonides had lent him, rereading his own ever more confusing document by Manlius Hippomanes. The contrast appealed to him: the limpid, clear thought of Manlius and the confused, noisy outpourings of the flagellants told him much, suggested to him why the old Roman had written these words. For the first time he picked up and truly understood the tone of regret, the fear in the text, how Manlius must have intended this work to be a bastion against the darkness of ignorance, and a valedictory to an age he knew was dying all around him. But he remembered also Gersonides’s words at the meeting when he had tentatively suggested that his assault on the Jews of Vaison might have been motivated by faith. “Oh, but this man was no Christian when he wrote this. And he was a bishop, as you say. So go and think yet again; what sort of man can persecute others in the name of a faith he clearly does not profess?”

He read, then reread, the section on friendship in the light of the death of Althieux, and there at least found much to comfort him. The bishop had understood about friends, loved his friends, advocated forgiving them if they erred. “For nature gives a man two eyes, two hands, two ears. If one eye weakens, the other becomes stronger in its aid; if an arm is injured, we do not cut it off; rather, the other does its work as well as its own until it is whole once more. So it is if a friend falls from virtue.”

He was thinking on this passage when Peter arrived. Olivier had to intervene, for the guards on the gate wished to deny him entrance. Then, walking ahead of him, being careful not to talk to him, Olivier led him across the vast hall and up the stairs to Ceccani’s chamber.

“I did not give you permission to sit,” the cardinal remarked as Peter placed himself on a chair, carrying it over from the wall where it stood.

“And I did not ask it,” Peter replied, sitting down anyway. “You wished to see me, not I you.”

Olivier smiled, and waited for Ceccani to erupt. His anger was a terrible sight, and he felt a small tingle of anticipatory glee at the thought of what must come next.