Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

Gersonides had a headache already, and was beginning to feel faint. His replies were not as subtle and considered as they might have been.

“They are nonsense, Excellence. As any sensible man knows, they are nonsense.”

“Cardinal Ceccani today made a strong case that you Jews are behind it all. We have people in the streets saying so as well. Holy men, good men, he tells me. He also says that we must make an example of you. Are you saying, then, that I surround myself with fools, and bestow my patronage on idiots?”

“If you are indeed surrounded by people saying such things, then it is a proposition that deserves consideration, Excellence.”

The pope’s face turned blank with shock at the impudence, and he peered through the smoke at Gersonides’s face. Then he leaned back in his tall oak chair and let out a peal of laughter, his thick, pink jowls shaking from the noise. Gersonides stood as impassively as before.

“By heavens, I am glad we are alone here. You are rude, sir. Very rude, and considering the situation, very unwise. Are you always so?”

“I consider it the best way I know to honor my Creator. He wishes us to strive after the truth, does He not?”

“He wishes us to believe in Him.”

“The one does not exclude the other.”

“It does in the case of Jews, who refuse to believe the truth of their own Messiah. So much so that they murdered Him rather than honoring Him.”

“You know, Excellence, that is a false step in your argument. You can only make such a statement to advance your proposition if the substance of it is accepted by the other side. Only then may you argue for the consequence of that proposition.”

The pope wagged his fat, ringed finger. “So you believe in tempering truth with at least a little cunning. I am not dealing with the Jewish equivalent of a holy fool at least. I am glad of it. You are said to be skilled in medicine, astronomy, philosophy, logic, languages, conversant with all forms of ancient knowledge, your own and that of others, familiar with mathematics and optics as well as theology. Is all this true? Or is it just a story put around by a man as vain as he is foolish?”

“I must confess to being both vain and foolish,” said Gersonides. “But also to having a little knowledge of all the matters you mention.”

“Good. I wish to consult you on a matter of the most vital importance. Will you serve me honestly and truthfully?”

“If I accept the commission, I will perform it to the best of my ability.”

“Another cautious response. Do you know what is happening in the world?”

“I know there is a plague.”

“But do you know how terrible it is?”

“I have heard some reports. And seen that this city is in a state of terror.”

Clement looked dismissive. “This city,” he said scornfully. “They don’t have the slightest inkling of it. So far there have been a few thousand deaths. That is all. And they are already panicking. I have priests, cardinals, and bishops running for their fat little lives when they are most needed. And it has scarcely started yet. Do you know what will happen here, and throughout the rest of the world?”

Gersonides made no answer. The pope picked up a sheet of paper and began reeling off numbers.

“Syracuse: ninety thousand dead out of a population of a hundred thousand. Genoa: sixty thousand out of seventy-five thousand. Florence, less than ten thousand souls left. Aleppo, wiped out entirely. Not a single man, woman, or child still alive. Alexandria a ghost town. And it goes on and on. The whole world is being consumed, and in a matter of months. Do you see what I mean?”

The rabbi was shocked. That the head of the church had better, more precise information than he possessed he did not doubt for a second. That it should be so terrible he had not suspected for a moment. For a few seconds he could think of nothing to say.

“I read also,” the pope continued, “several reports that Jews die as frequently as Christians—and, I might say, as Moslems. God is being very evenhanded, and it seems possible—so many think already—that He intends to wipe out His creation in its entirety. We are in the middle of another flood, except this time He is sparing the animals. Only men and women and children fall to this sickness.”

“If that is His intention, then there is nothing we can do about it, except pray for a reprieve.”

“And if it is not, then we should see what we can do. You as well. Or do you prefer to sit in contemplation while all of creation is destroyed?”

“What do you want of me?”

“You know about astronomy. See if you can find the source of this in the heavens, and try to discover from whence it comes. You know something of medicine, as do many Jews. Consult with others and see if some way of preventing this monstrous sickness can be found. There was, if I am right, a great plague in Athens during the Great War.”

Gersonides nodded. “It is described in Xenophon, of which I have one of the few copies.”

“And another in Constantinople in the time of Justinian.”

Gersonides nodded again.

“Study them. See how they brought it to an end then. They knew more than us; we might learn from them.”

“In that case I must return home.”

“No. I do not permit it.”

“I have to consult my books and my charts. I can do nothing here.”

“They will be brought. My entire library and the resources of the curia will be placed at your disposal. You may have anything you want.”

“I want to return to my home.”

“Except for that,” Clement said with a wintry smile. “Do not force the issue. I have been kind, and will reward you well. Do not make me angry and never challenge an order you receive from me.”

It was a revealing moment. The affable pontiff, willing to speak politely with a man such as Gersonides, showing real signs of learning and concern, yet a Christian prince nonetheless. Their positions were clear; the nature of the courtesy clear also. Gersonides bowed his head.

“I will make a list,” he said. “But I insist that a message be sent to my servant immediately, lest she be afraid for my health.”

“The messenger who collects your papers will tell her.”

A nod. “Please make sure he reassures her.”

And the rabbi was dismissed. The shock of what had happened, and the impact of the fresh, cold night air when he left that room was so intense that he fainted on the staircase and had to be carried to his lodgings by soldiers, ordered to do so by their captain, for they thought he, too, had succumbed to the plague, and their first instinct was to throw him into the moat.

THE HISTORICAL RECORD is silent on the nature of diplomatic missions in the late antique period; unless they were exceptionally grand, little remains to tell how they were organized. Nonetheless, it can be assumed safely that Manlius Hippomanes, when he began the journey north to the court of the Burgundians, made his entourage appear as impressive as possible. He knew, certainly, that King Gundobad was known for being cunning, and violent, but knew also that he had been in contact with the Roman world for long enough to appreciate the fruits of civilization. Gold and silver and jewels and fine cloth he did not take; these the king had in abundance, more than Manlius could assemble. To have taken such presents would merely have underscored his weakness, shown how little he had to offer. Changed days indeed from the time of his forebears, the sheer magnitude of whose embassies could in themselves awe a barbarian princeling into submission by the easy demonstration of excess. Worship me and all this shall be yours. Rome had survived and prospered for centuries by using the devil’s words.