Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

“Perhaps the two are irreconcilable. Would you then be able to consider the alternative account with an open mind, or would it merely confirm its worthlessness in your eyes?”

Then another question:

“You must explain something of your theology. Why is it so important that the soul is created by God rather than deriving from him?”

And a third:

“And the resurrection of the body. Is that what it is called? Yes; why the insistence of that, when the superiority of the soul is so clearly acknowledged? Why do Christians need their bodies so much?”

And so on; he knew the answers perfectly well, for the most part, for he had spent long years reading Christian texts—and Moslem ones and classical ones as well as the Torah and the Talmud, seeking out those flashes of light, those God-sent insights that, he had concluded, illuminate the minds of all men who are capable of recognizing them for what they are.

Considering he was neither priest nor scholar, the young man gave sensible, thoughtful replies—the more so, perhaps, for being untrained, for he had not learned what he should believe or should not believe. Present a statement to him in flagrant contradiction to all Christian doctrine and he could be persuaded to agree on its good sense, unless he remembered it was the sort of thing of which pyres are made for the incautious.

“And now you must go,” he had said after two hours had passed and the sun was setting. “I have my prayers to attend to.”

“But you haven’t told me anything again,” Olivier had protested. “All you’ve done is ask me questions.”

“Just so. And if you want to answer more of my questions, then you are welcome to come again. Preferably a little earlier in the day, and, for courtesy, not unannounced next time.”

“I came to you for answers. Very specific answers.”

“So you keep telling me. And I will repeat the only answer I know. I have none. Not that I haven’t spent the last forty years looking, but I find answers are as rare as golden eggs or unicorns. All I can do is help you look for yourself. Think of what Manlius says and apply it to yourself: ‘A good act without understanding is not virtue; nor is an ill act; because understanding and virtue are the same.’ That is what you are seeking. Understanding, not answers. They are different things.”

He peered at Olivier, his face obviously hovering undecided between irritation and perplexity, then went to a box and took out a booklet.

“In your search, you might care to examine this. It is a manuscript I copied out myself, so be careful with it. It came to me via some friends in Seville, who had it from a great Arab scholar. I cannot vouch for its accuracy, for it is a Latin translation of an Arabic translation of a Greek original.”

His heart sank a little when Olivier took the book in his hands, for that eagerness, that glint in the eye, that way he all but tore it from his hands was quite unmistakable. He would not be able to deny him entry the next time he came, would not be able to send him away or dissuade him. For while most of his other pupils—and he had been sent many over the years—had been prepared, willing, ready to learn, had been diligent, with Olivier it was different. He needed to learn; it was why he existed, and he would wither unless he could satisfy that need.

Could a man such as himself ever turn away a fellow soul, he who had also ached with that consuming need? Even if there was a long delay between leaving his room and the door onto the street shutting? Even if he heard the sound of voices below, the animated tones of Olivier, the soft replies of Rebecca that always drifted up to his room after he left, and seemed to get longer on each occasion?

SUCH WERE HIS thoughts on the journey, not about the abstract complexities of the soul; for once his self-discipline abandoned him. He was not especially perturbed, however. The likes of him would hardly be singled out for any real reason. He had no money, no power, and no influence; moreover, all his work—such as it was—had been written in Hebrew. So, the pope had taken lessons in Hebrew, it was said, although when it turned out that these lessons consisted of little more than having the alphabet copied out, the learned Jew, proficient in six languages, none of which had been acquired easily, was less impressed. But, whatever the reason for his being taken to Avignon now, it was unlikely to be because of his philosophy.

In this the old man thought correctly, although even his equanimity was disturbed when he noticed that the little entourage was heading straight for the papal palace, still being extended and rebuilt despite the times. For Avignon in the grip of the plague was truly frightening; scarcely a soul to be seen, in the marketplace only a few traders, miserably trying to sell their wares to no customers. An air of foreboding and of panic all around, the blank expressions on the faces of those few people in the streets saying all that was needed about their terror. Was this in store for his own town? If it was, then dangerous days were ahead of them all. One little spark and their world would be ablaze. Somebody would pay heavily for this catastrophe. Even he could not help considering the possibility that his own journey deep into the palace might be the first installment.

He had been there before, when making one of his reluctant visits to see de Deaux, but the contrast between then and now could hardly have been greater. Whereas before the great courtyard where they all dismounted was full of people—clerics, petitioners, merchants, even a few pilgrims—now it was deserted. The air of authority had dissipated in the face of a far greater power. Even the mighty church was now no more than a feeble collection of mortal, frightened men.

At least, he thought as he was led up a grand staircase, then through a series of rooms, then up a narrower staircase, climbing high into one of the towers; at least the dungeons are underground. We are ascending to the skies, not descending to the depths. Every step upward is one of hope. Unless, of course, they plan to throw me from the battlements.

They came to a small door near the top of the tower; a soldier knocked, opened the door, and stood back to let him past. He stepped in and was almost overcome by the heat, which came blasting over him like a wave from a furnace. He took a step backward, and had to take a deep breath; instantly, little prickles of sweat broke out all over his body, and his thick winter cloak began to feel uncomfortable.

“Take it off, if you find it too warm,” came a voice from the corner, near the huge fire. “Do you wish to speak in Provençal, French, or Latin? They are all I can manage, I’m afraid.”

“Any will do,” the rabbi replied in Provençal.

“Splendid. Latin it is,” said Pope Clement. “Do you wish to kiss my ring?”

He held out his hand, on which was a vast ruby ring, shining brilliantly in the firelight. Gersonides stood absolutely still, not assenting, not refusing. The pope smiled cherubically and withdrew his hand.

“What do you think of these rumors that malefactors have been poisoning wells?” he began. “Please, by the way, do not stand too close to me. I have not been up here sweating myself into an early grave for the last ten days just to succumb to some miasma attached to your body.”

Not only, Gersonides noted, was the pope sitting as close to the fire as was possible without his clothes catching alight, he was also swaddled like a monstrous newborn in clothes, thick piles of cloaks and blankets and scarves, making him look appallingly bloated. His feet were laced up tight in fur slippers and on his head was a fur hat, expensive, possibly brought all the way from Russia. His face, what could be seen of it, was beetroot red, covered in sweat that rolled freely down his forehead and heavy jowls into his clothes. All around, making it even more oppressive, were candles and incense burners, thickening the air with smoke and contrasting, conflicting aromas.