Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

Ordinarily, she would have refused, but now she had no other pupils, and as he stood there, proud but so young and lost, his wish to win Manlius’s respect and affection so clear, she could not turn him away. Instead, with a sigh of misgiving she had smiled, and agreed. “Of course. It would be a pleasure.” His smile of relief and gratitude—a charming smile, with real beauty in it—reassured her.

“And the first thing you can do in my company is to stop standing to attention like that. I will not be your teacher but your guide. I will help you, not instruct you. This means you must speak freely, and I forbid you to believe anything I tell you. Do you understand?”

A look of puzzlement and distress crossed his face. Sophia’s heart sank. “Come in, young man. But if you call me ‘my lady’ once again I will throw you into the street. You will, I hope, think of me with respect. But I have not earned it from you yet. When I have, you may address me thus.”

And so she began with poor, simple discourses. His ignorance was total, the lad was scarcely capable of understanding the basics. Sooner or later, he would say:

“How can you say this? The Bible says . . .”

“What do you mean that life is a quest? What are we looking for? Surely faith should be enough.”

And she would try to explain in a way he could understand, but knew that she lost him, almost every time. “Now, how can we define the difference between understanding and believing?” she would say, continuing because he wanted her to continue, and she was determined not to stop as long as there was any hope that, one day, she might spot some flash of recognition in his eyes.

But she never saw it; his mind was long closed, barricaded by priests and Bibles. She was not strong enough, not a good enough teacher, perhaps, to burst through and let in the light of reason. She should have given up, but she saw also that, although Syagrius’s understanding was feeble, his soul was good. There was no malice or cruelty in him, nor did he ever give up, even though at times he came close to tears in his desperate wish to understand. “Let us take our premise that the individual soul likens himself to God through the refinement of understanding reached through contemplation, and that virtue is a reflection of this understanding . . .”

A cliché of philosophy, repeated endlessly for near eight hundred years; Sophia hardly even thought it controversial. Even in Marseille, she had never had the proposition queried. However, it came to the ears of Caius and he saw it as the pyre on which Manlius might be consumed.

The bishop’s woman taught that men could become God. She challenged the Almighty, taught youth that no savior was necessary, that faith was absurd, that she was the equal of Christ. She contradicted Revelation, poured scorn on believers, and all the while was supported and defended by Manlius himself. What sort of bishop encourages men not to believe?

She was sufficiently unworldly, or perhaps arrogant might be the better term, not to notice that more people looked at her askance as she walked through the streets; that there was more muttering as she emerged from her house. She paid no attention; the opinions of such people had never been of the slightest importance to her; their talking no more registered with her than the noise of buzzing flies occupied her mind.

Southern Gaul was not like the East; monasticism had not taken so strong a hold that hundreds or even thousands of monks were gathered in almost every town. Yet there were many who had gathered informally in such associations, often moving in and taking over abandoned villas or town buildings, asserting—sometimes violently—their ownership and priding themselves on the purity of their faith. More than anyone, perhaps, they feared invasion, for an Arian, heretic king would have little sympathy for them and be open to the complaints of aggrieved property owners.

It took little to persuade them that True Religion must be defended, and that the corruption Sophia represented should be stopped. On the morning before Manlius held his first meeting with the Burgundian king, they gathered outside her house and waited for her.

There were only about a dozen; no more were needed, although the crowd grew larger as time went on. Several were drunk; such things were common, for most were young and were scarcely under any control. For all that, they had no idea what to do but were waiting for someone to give a lead.

When Sophia came out of the house, she paused as she saw them. It crossed her mind to go back inside, for even she sensed the menace in the atmosphere. Had she done so, history would have been subtly changed in innumerable ways. But she remained true to the philosophy she had practiced all her life; she was not afraid, and after a brief moment when the lower, more treacherous part of her mind sent a surge of alarm through her body, she conquered the fear and restored herself to tranquillity.

Then she began walking down the street, toward what had once been the forum but now scarcely merited the name of a market square. Ahead of her was Syagrius, waiting for her. She relaxed, felt the relief flowing through her, and was angry with herself. He would not hurt her, she knew.

“You are in danger,” he said. “You must come to a place of safety now. Come with me.”

And she went with him. He took her to the church, and barricaded her in.

WHEN ISABELLE’S BODY was found, news of the event raced around the town as fast as the plague. Her husband himself came for the body, and even though his sense of outrage was still uppermost in his mind, he also felt regret for the loss of this pretty, feckless, disobedient girl of whom he had been fond. At the same time he was aware, of course, that he had acted justly, and that moreover he was now free to marry again and produce the legitimate heir that she had denied him.

Nor did he want to delay quitting the town more than necessary. He was a thoroughly frightened man; the plague was one reason, but he also wanted to get to the safety of Aquitaine, safe on English territory when the French realized who had been responsible for opening the gates of Aigues-Mortes, due to take place in only a week’s time. But his wife’s foolishness the night before had thrown all these plans into disarray, and he would now have to stay for a few extra days. So he gave instructions that the packing should continue, and concerned himself with laying a complaint to the authorities about the murder. With luck he would still be able to set off before it was too late, and if he went alone, abandoning his household and telling them to follow in their own time, he might yet be able to outrun any pursuers.

It took only a few hours for the magistrate to discover that Isabelle de Fréjus had gone the previous night to the house near the Jewish quarter where Luca Pisano lived. This was clearly stated in two of the depositions contained in an individual folder under Reg. Av. 48 in the Vatican archives, whose existence Julien noted first in 1924 but which he did not pursue until much later. Despite the difficulties of the war, he wrote to Rome in early 1943 and requested that someone copy out this folder for him; it was done because he was known to the archivist, and because he was a man who, at that time, commanded respect as a supporter of Vichy.

He should have had his interest piqued much earlier, and he had a residual annoyance with Julia’s father when it finally arrived. For he remembered well that he had a choice that day, either keep on working in the insufferable heat, or abandon it, walk out the doors, and go for a long lunch with Claude Bronsen. He had also managed to get permission to see the Golden House of Nero, and wished the older man to see it as well. The temptation was too great. The file remained unread for another eighteen years.