Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

“Is your name Julia Bronsen?”

Her lips tightened as she realized that the moment she had feared then managed to put in the back of her mind had materialized so suddenly in the middle of a hot, quiet summer afternoon. The words changed everything; the heat became humid, the light sound of the wind through the trees around the little house faded into silence, and she knew she was very afraid. She said nothing; she could have said no, the lady of the house has just gone into Vaison, but did not know the police would have tried to believe her.

“And are you a Jew?”

Again, she could have denied it, produced all her identity cards, all the official bric-a-brac she had made for herself, but did not; she’d been busy that morning working on some new cards for Bernard and was more terrified of their coming in and seeing these than she was of being arrested. There was little she could do; they evidently knew she was not Juliette de Valois anyway. And if the police came in, dozens of Bernard’s associates would be vulnerable, and Julien would also be arrested.

Besides, she realized she did not wish to deny it anymore.

So she looked at them firmly and said, “Yes, I am.”

She begged a few minutes to prepare herself; checked there was nothing incriminating; packed a bag, asked to stop at the village, where she quickly asked the priest to get a message to Julien. The police did not come in the house; they should have done so, but they were hoping she would take the opportunity to run out the back door. She would have been pursued, of course, but they would not have done a very good job of it. It was too hot for running; only those in fear of their lives could run on a day like that.

But she didn’t. Instead she walked to the car and sat peaceably in the back as it drove over the bumpy tracks to the road, then turned onto the main road to Avignon. She felt very calm, if annoyed at her ill fortune. Julien, she knew, would intervene and get her released. Why had he worked for Marcel for all this time if not in anticipation of a moment like this?

OLIVIER WAS IN a state of shock as he walked through the streets, unnaturally quiet now that the fury had abated, with only the smell of burning wood from the Jewish quarter to give a hint of what had happened only an hour or so before. Dozens of people had died, many buildings razed, their possessions—few enough—not even looted. This was holy rage, not to be deameaned by theft. The storm had blown, then suddenly died away; men who were screaming, throwing stones, beating bodies with sticks, suddenly found their fury exhausted, and they stood there seeming not to know what they had been doing or why they had been doing it.

Calm, and the appearance of normality, returned, but as he crossed the town and made his way to the cardinal’s palace, Olivier could feel the chaos lapping at his heels. The feeling that all sense was turned upside down became stronger still when he arrived, made his way to his master’s private chamber, and begged for an audience.

“Not now, Olivier,” Ceccani said. He was staring out the window to where he could just see the papal palace, still covered in the impedimenta of building, though all work had now stopped.

“Forgive me, sir, but this is truly important,” Olivier began.

Ceccani said nothing, and Olivier used the brief moment to catch his attention.

“The wife of the Comte de Fréjus has been murdered, sir.”

Ceccani turned and arched an eyebrow. “So?”

It was gossip, pure and simple. Nothing to attract his attention as yet.

“She was murdered by her husband, I am sure. But the people are blaming the Jews, and there was a riot this morning. Many have been killed, and more will be soon unless something is done.”

Ceccani had not risen so far without being able to unravel implications, and the implications of implications, in an instant. His good fortune was so great that he knew that divine favor was responsible for it.

“Why did the count kill his wife?”

It never occurred to Olivier for a moment not to say; Ceccani was master of them both, nothing could be concealed from him, and in truth, Pisano never intended that it should be when he extracted his promise.

“Because the lady was with Luca Pisano shortly before her death.”

Ceccani said nothing.

“She came to him, sir,” Olivier went on. “He did not seduce her.”

“Spare me the details, Olivier,” Ceccani said with a wave of his hand. He sat down in his chair by the broad oak table covered with papers and parchments, and thought.

“So,” he said after a while. “The Jews are under suspicion of causing the plague by poisoning wells; we have solid evidence of it with Cardinal de Deaux’s creatures caught trying to murder His Holiness, and now they have murdered the innocent young wife of a nobleman. It is God-given, Olivier my boy. Just as the church could put itself at the head of Christendom by calling for a crusade, then again by wiping out the heretical Cathars, so it can do so again, now, by wiping out these people, once and for all.”

His eyes shone as he saw the possibilities. At last, people would have hope once more, convinced they were attacking the source of their troubles. The authority of the church would be restored as it placed itself at the head of the despair, and channeled it into purposeful action. And once Aigues-Mortes had fallen, and the papacy was forced out of Provence, then it would return to Rome as well, immeasurably strengthened and ready, once more, to impose itself on all of Christendom.

This was the first Olivier had heard of the arrest of Gersonides; he had not been to the palace for several days, and the arrests had not yet been broadcast abroad. Would not be, until the battle for power within the palace was decided. He turned pale at the words and gripped the back of the chair to balance himself.

“What? What did you say? Who did you say tried to murder His Holiness?”

He sounded so grieved, so incredulous, that Ceccani omitted to reprimand him for his interest in things that were none of his business. “Just as I say. Gersonides and his servant are both in the dungeons. One of them was caught emptying a phial of poison into the well.”

“But that’s ridiculous. They are innocent, sir. They must be.”

“Maybe they are,” said the cardinal. “Maybe the Jews did not kill Comte de Fréjus’s wife either. But in the current state of panic no one would believe it. We must use what God gives us.”

“They must be freed, sir. Both of them.”

Ceccani looked at him curiously. “Why?”

“But . . . sir—”

“Olivier, you are meddling. We are dealing with great matters here. The whole course of Christendom is at stake and will be determined by this. That is my concern. These two Jews, guilty or not, give me an advantage. They will confess to this crime. If I have to torture them myself, they will confess to it. Now, if you please, leave me in peace.”

But Olivier stood his ground, terrified of his own defiance but unable to retreat. “No, sir,” he said eventually. “You cannot do this. They must go free.”

Ceccani turned toward him. “And you insist on this?” he said coldly.

“I do, sir.”

The cardinal waved his hand. “You are angering me, Olivier. I have always indulged you. You are wayward and foolish, but I have always been kind to you. But you do not—ever—interfere or state your opinions on matters which do not concern you. Do I make myself clear?”

Olivier took a deep breath, his heart pounding with his temerity. “But—”

“Get out of my sight, Olivier. Now. Or we will both regret it.”

Olivier, shaking with terror at his daring, bowed and retreated.

HE’D NOT DRIVEN for nearly four years, had never driven regularly even then, as he had never owned a car, and had almost forgotten how. Only the fact that the roads were deserted prevented him from having an accident within a few minutes of driving off.