Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

When it did arrive, he understood what he had missed, and why he should have paid more attention. The murder should have been dealt with under common legal procedures, yet it had been quickly plucked out of the hands of the magistrates and dealt with by a papal appointee. The report clearly stated that Isabelle de Fréjus had gone to see the painter Luca Pisano. Combined with the fact that his poetry of love had been written for someone else, then the whole tale of Olivier’s end, of how he murdered his mistress and was mutilated in revenge, was demonstrably and totally wrong. Nonetheless, he had been attacked by one of Cardinal Ceccani’s own people. What had happened?

The count himself had a dilemma; Isabelle could not be tainted with the sin of adultery; he had his pride, and yet even a cursory investigation would uncover why she had been in that part of the city. And as he stood in the little alleyway staring at the body he had so grievously assaulted, waiting for his men to come and take her back to his house, he suddenly realized how to extricate himself from the potentially dangerous and embarrassing situation. A crowd had gathered behind him, restless and uneasy, staring at the figure on the ground and the pool of blood, still wet and shining in the morning light, as it ran off in a great stream of scarlet. There was an air of terror that he could feel among these people, who had grown so inured to death over the past few weeks that one more should not have even been noticed. But this was different, of course. As the plague was taking so many, for someone to die of violence seemed ten times worse than usual, an almost unbearable act of evil.

“It was the Jews.” The first time it was muttered, the count did not hear it. Only after it became almost a chant did he pay attention to what was developing all around him. He turned and saw a tall man with a thin beard, his face disfigured by the scabs of poor living, repeating the phrase, looking around him slyly to make sure the refrain was being picked up by others. He began beating time with his fist, so the sound rose and fell; soon it was accompanied by stamping, getting louder and louder.

More and more people joined in; the crowd overflowed into the street, and down the street, young and old men, men and women, women and children, all chanting and stamping their feet, moving restlessly. Then there was a pause and the collective noise petered out. A sudden silence of waiting. “Kill them,” the bearded man shouted. “Revenge.”

“Yes,” shouted the count. “I demand justice.”

The crowd responded with a roar of pleasure.

JULIEN TRAVELED back to Avignon the moment he decided that, even though it was likely to be useless, he had to intervene with Marcel, try to get him to do something to save the hostages. This time there was no help on the road; no military trucks stopped anymore, farmers and their carts had vanished, holed up now on their farms, keeping out of the way. Everyone knew the fighting was getter closer.

It took him eight hours on his bike, but it was now a trip he did almost without noticing, only the heat of midafternoon slowed him down; then he had to stop for an hour or so to seek shelter. He didn’t even feel tired when he arrived to see Marcel.

There was an air of abandonment about the Préfecture; he’d not noticed it before, or perhaps it had grown in his absence; the corridors that once resonated with purpose, with a mission, now seemed desolate and irrelevant. He was recognized at the door, walked in, and went straight to Marcel’s office. It would not have mattered if he had been a total stranger, the lassitude had spread even here. Even the bureaucrats seemed like those who sit idly at night, feeling the thunder approaching, doing nothing except waiting for the first flash of lightning.

Only Marcel, it seemed, was still fighting, hoping that simple activity could fend off what even he now accepted as inevitable. His desk was piled high with papers, files were strewn across the floor; he sat there, head bowed, scribbling furiously in the purple ink he had affected when young and never given up. Julien often wondered what the appeal was. Bernard once remarked he thought he could smell a little touch of incense in his writing.

“Marcel, they’ve taken hostages in Vaison.”

“I know,” he said, not even looking up, still scribbling. “They told me. Good of them, don’t you think?”

Finally he abandoned his bits of paper. “The water gave out in Carpentras a week ago. Did you know that? I’ve been trying to find somebody to repair it. Simple enough, you’d think. I can’t even find anyone to go and look.” He shook his head, then threw his pen down and rubbed his eyes, covering his whole face with his hands before finally looking at Julien.

“If you’ve come to ask for help, there’s nothing I can do. It is entirely out of my hands and I’ve already done everything I can think of. Made representations, of course. Protested. Sent telegrams. Tried to get what is left of the government involved. Even been to see the German High Command. But . . .”

“Nothing?”

“No. Not long ago, pointing out how this would damage relations might have had some effect. You remember when the Resistance blew up those trains? Six railway workers were shot for it. I bargained them down; they wanted to shoot twenty. Now they are desperate. They don’t care who they kill anymore. Do you know any of these people?”

“Several,” Julien replied shortly. “I even took communion lessons with one of them. Marcel, there must be something . . .”

“No,” he snapped. “There isn’t. Nothing I can give them. Believe me, I’ve thought, and asked. And all I’ve got is that if the people responsible are caught, then the hostages will be freed. It’s what they always say, of course.” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m at the end of my tether, Julien. I can’t do this much more. I have responsibility without power. I spend my time trying to restrain people to stop things getting worse, and I am helping people whose war is lost. Everybody knows it now. The Allies will soon land here, in the north, and they are advancing from Russia. The Germans are beaten. Hooray. And here I am, trying to make sure there is something still standing when they go. And that means keeping things as calm as possible. There must be an adminstration of sorts still working when they leave, just as there had to be one when they arrived. But I don’t expect I will get many thanks for it. And, while the world is falling down, do you know what I get? Demands for Jews. Can you believe it? We are not filling our quotas, it seems. Can I order the police to round up some more? Unbelievable.” He looked at Julien curiously, as though an idea had come into his mind.

“Give him to me, Julien,” he said quietly.

“Who?”

“Bernard. I know he’s nearby. It’s obvious from what you said. Who else would choose you to be his errand boy? Why else would you talk of friendship like that? He’s back here. I know it. He would satisfy them. He’d save the hostages. Give me Bernard, and I can trade him for those people.”

Julien stared at him, then shook his head. “I can’t. I couldn’t.”

Marcel considered the reply, then looked at the floor for a few seconds. “My apologies. You must excuse me for a few moments. There is something I must do. But please don’t go; I need to talk to you some more.”

He walked out, and Julien sat, puzzled but patient, for nearly an hour before he returned. His manner had changed; it reminded Julien of something he’d seen before, he couldn’t quite remember what it was.

“Julien,” he said, sitting on the edge of the desk, bending over close, creating a sort of intimacy. “Give me Bernard. Tell me where he is, how I can find him. All I need is a promise, and I can get these executions at least postponed. Please, tell me now, to stop worse happening.”