Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

He also brought his Jew to Avignon to see if he could discover the source of the infection. Ceccani noted all the maneuverings, saw the purpose hidden beneath them. For Cardinal de Deaux was steering the papacy into earning the love of the population, cementing its presence there in their hearts as it had already done in their wallets, fixing it ever more permanently into the very ground of Provence. He was staking his claim to the succession at the same time that he was creating the atmosphere in which the negotiations to buy the city outright were getting under way. Time was very short. Ceccani knew that if he did not move soon, he would never move at all.

Gersonides was brought to Avignon not quite in chains, but as good as. Certainly he would have been shackled and tied to the back of a horse had he persisted in his initial reluctance to come. The two armed soldiers outside his door would brook no refusal. The rabbi had, with the greatest irritation, packed bag and books and accompanied them.

“I do not know when I will see you again,” he said to Rebecca at the door. “The plague is not here yet, and I will not come back until it has extinguished itself in Avignon. I do not know if it travels with people, but it seems very possible. I do not wish to bring it to my own home because of a selfish desire to see your face.”

To this woman he was as gentle as he was gruff and offensive to men like Ceccani, even though she was every bit as stubborn and self-willed as he was. What was admirable in a man was unseemly in a woman, however, and she had not found a husband, nor was likely to do so. Who, after all, would seek out a penniless servant, with no family, no history? He doubted if even the young Christian, befuddled by her though he was, would be so rash. Gersonides had accepted that the young man was truly besotted, had seen the war rage in him with interest, noted the appalled disgust on his face as the emotion swept over him each time he came. To fall in love with a Jew; so strong was the reaction, so real the complications, he even felt a little sorry for him. And then he saw that same face—a handsome face, he noted, well formed, ringed by curly fair hair that was rarely combed but generally clean—ease as the soul within accepted its fate. And Gersonides also relaxed, for he saw that the young man would not trifle with her, although he knew that there was, for the first time, a possibility that she would now leave him. But what would she do? How would she react? How would it end? He was fearful, for his desire not to leave her mingled with his wish for her happiness and his consciousness of the dangers she faced.

For Gersonides, she was, quite simply, the center point of his life since the death of his wife and six children, all of whom, one by one, had died—three at birth, two when they, in turn, had come to give birth, and one of sickness. For them he grieved, fully and without reservation, although with the stoicism that was his natural character. Rebecca, however, was different, for had she died, he would have died as well. She had come to him by chance, lost and bedraggled, and he had taken her in, fed her, and warmed her. She worked for him selflessly and with absolute honesty, listened to him when he wished to talk, kept quiet when he did not. In the two and a half years since she had come to his door she had replaced wife, daughters, sons, and family. To lose her was the one thing he feared, which was why, on one of the few occasions some hint of a suitor had been mentioned, he had always found reasons to reject the approach. He knew it was selfish, that he should give her up and encourage her to leave. But he could not do so, and he reassured himself with the thought that she evidently had no wish to venture into the world either. Until now, perhaps.

When he left that day, surrounded by papal soldiers, he was alarmed and Rebecca was terrified lest some charge—of necromancy, conjuring, or whatever—had been dreamed up against him. Only a few days previously, news had reached Vaison that near Geneva six Jews had been burned alive in their synagogue. Others in their own town had been spat on and kicked. It required little insight to realize that the atmosphere was becoming dangerous. So far no serious violence had been offered in Provence, but the stories circulated freely and if—or rather when—the plague itself took hold in the towns east of the Rhône, more than blows would be hurled at the handful of Jews who lived there.

A small group had come to Gersonides’s house the previous evening for guidance, as he was known to be the wisest man in the region. He was not, alas, the most practical, nor even the most comforting. As there were no moneylenders in the town, he pointed out, they could hardly do anything of significance, like cancel debts until the plague was gone. If the Christians considered that a philosopher, a tailor, a doctor, and a cloth merchant constituted a serious conspiracy against Christendom, there was little they could do to disabuse them of the notion. All they could do was go about their business in their usual fashion, wear the stars that identified them, offer no remark or action that might be misconstrued.

“And one other thing,” he said to conclude. “Should the plague arrive, it would be well if some of you died, preferably in great pain and in public.”

He gave a watery smile but met no response; the Jews of the town respected the rabbi, listened carefully to his words even when they did not understand them, but never once came close to grasping his sense of humor.

And the following day, the troops came and took him away. There were not that many of them, they were not brutal, even though they had not been told the reason for the deed, but no one would have even thought of offering resistance in any case. Everyone knew full well that, if you resist two soldiers, ten are sent; if you resist ten, a hundred arrive. Best always to do as you are told and offer no provocation. Others might suffer if you do otherwise.

So Rabbi Levi ben Gerson took a few moments to pack what he needed—little enough, to be sure—and presented himself to the soldiers outside his door a few moments later. He got on a horse—a good sign that, for horses are an expensive means of transport, unheard of for prisoners—and went off with the soldiers. They said nothing at all on the journey, although one looked curiously at him and, he felt, would have talked if he had the opportunity; neither looked hostile.

Gersonides did not speak either; idle chatter was not something for which he had ever developed a taste or a skill. Had one of his companions tried to draw him into conversation he would have replied, and would have listened with interest to what was said, but he did not feel inclined to initiate any such discourse. He had quite enough to think about in any case, for he had trained his mind over the years not to waste time on journeys. He was compiling a text on the soul with which he was so far greatly pleased. But it was unfinished and parts were, he thought, ill considered. It was a problem that had sprung into his mind after one of the first meetings—lessons rather—with the young Christian who came to plague him so often.

“You see, Rabbi,” the young man had said, “it does not make sense to me. The man who wrote this was a bishop, after all. And yet he says quite plainly that the soul is eternal. That is, it is godlike and is not created by God. In addition he talks about our lives, how we must ascend back to God, but stay on earth as mortal beings if we do not purify ourselves here. I don’t, of course, want instruction in Christianity from you, yet I was hoping you might be able to explain it to me.”

That had been the opening remark—Gersonides’s mind was wandering a little as his horse clopped along the muddy road—a request put politely but an order nonetheless. Explain this to me. Give me an answer. The young man was nervous, perhaps, or simply had the rudeness of all his type. But it had not stayed like that. Gersonides had replied with a question himself: