Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

Nor was there anyone to talk to. Pisano would have talked him out of it with a laugh, made him see the absurdity of his conundrum, ridiculed him back to sense. Althieux would have been more considered, taking the argument through countless authorities, classical and biblical, before coming to the same conclusion. But one was on the road to Italy, the other was dead.

Olivier had only his own mind, filled with the metaphors of poetry and half-understood readings from philosophy. And the phrases of Sophia, relayed through Manlius, came back to him, hammering inside his skull. “Any amount of disgrace or infamy can be incurred if great advantage may be gained for a friend.” And again: “The action of virtue is rarely understood by those who do not understand philosophy.” Again: “Laws formulated without the understanding of philosophy must be constantly questioned, for the exercise of true virtue is often incomprehensible to the blind.”

He slept on the steps of Saint Agricole, along with half a dozen other beggars, and considered how he had first glimpsed Rebecca some two years before. He again saw her walking past in her heavy dark cloak and remembered the feeling that had torn through him as he looked. And he decided that the emotion that welled up in him that day was itself a sign from God, that he had to obey it.

Dawn came eventually; his companions of the night rolled over and groaned one by one, and as the light rose, Olivier stood up with a sudden surge of determination and walked off, pausing only when he got to the great walls of the palace. He considered going again to Ceccani, considered going to de Deaux, but dismissed both ideas. He thought of begging for Rebecca alone, saying she was not a Jew, but knew this was hopeless. Ceccani was reaching for the whole world; Olivier knew he could never deflect him with anything so simple.

He walked in through the huge gates of the palace, nodding familiarly to the guard, whom he had known for years, but wary lest some alert had been put out for him, in case Ceccani had managed to read the mind he had had such difficulty understanding himself. But all was well; nothing happened, there was no shout or running of feet. In the great courtyard he stood uncertainly, lost and bewildered once more until his confusion was broken into by the clear, pure sound of a bell ringing through the morning air.

He almost fell to the ground in thanks as he heard it. It was the sound for the musicians and the singers to leave their studies and gather in the chapel, dutifully waiting their master. For them to sing their hearts out before God’s earthly representative. Clement, frightened and blockaded in his tower though he was, could not live without music. It was his life and his greatest pleasure. Even the plague could not deflect him from it. Even as the bodies were carried through the streets, he had ordered that any musician who left the palace without his permission would be arrested. If they had to die for his tranquillity, then so be it. There were some things this strange man could not do without.

And as the bell tolled, he would be putting on his robes, descending the stairs, and processing through the great corridors and chambers of the palace to the chapel. He would be alone and isolated, for he had ordered that no man must come near him in case he communicate the plague. Then he would sit until the music had finished and he could scurry, refreshed, back to his protective chamber high in the sky.

Olivier hurried, taking all the shortcuts he knew by instinct after so many years. There was a side door to the chapel where the acolytes entered and left as the services demanded. Olivier got there before anyone else and ducked through it. Then he concealed himself behind one of the huge Flemish tapestries Clement had commissioned to make the place more pleasing to his eye. And waited.

At any more normal time, he would have had no chance of approaching Clement; the moment he stepped forward, the guards who always hovered nearby would have fallen on him and dragged him away. Clement had an affable persona in public, but took the prospect of neither injury nor insult lightly. True, he was at his least exposed in the chapel, the heart of his own palace where only his immediate circle was allowed. Still, the guards remained, for he knew well that men of God were not necessarily men of peace.

The plague had changed the great ceremonies; Clement wanted as few people as possible around him. Moreover, he had a fine sense of occasion, and refused absolutely to look absurd. Rather than entering in with one priest behind him, no assistants and no one to watch, he strolled in alone with a goblet of some drink in his hand, sat heavily on his throne, leaned back, and called out to the officiating priest:

“Come on, then. Get on with it. I haven’t got all morning.”

The priest bowed and made a blessing. The choir, looking solemn or bored or resentful according to their characters, filed in and the singing began. The new music, rising and falling, twisting in and out of itself, doubling back, created in the air for as long as it lasted a perfect resemblance of the wonders of creation, and the love of God. Too complex, it seemed, for man to grasp as a whole, but so beautiful that Olivier again thought of Rebecca and Sophia and their belief in the evil of the world. So it might be, he thought. The world of spirit might be far finer, more pure, and closer to the divine. But nothing that can produce such beauty can be irredeemable; if men can produce such harmonies, hear them with their ears, sing them with their voices and their instruments, there must be goodness in the material.

Then the contrast, between the calm beauty of the music and the dire state of his own predicament, came back to him once more. He stiffened and prepared himself as the music came to an end, and an echoing silence descended on the chapel, broken only by the pope beating on the arm of his throne with his hand and calling out in a loud voice, “Very fine, very fine, boys. My thanks to you all. Makes me feel better already. Now, get out of here, and tomorrow I’d like that piece you did last week again. By that Italian fellow, you remember?”

The choirmaster nodded and bowed, and with a loud cackle of pleasure, Clement bounded out of his throne, bowed solemnly to the altar, then rubbed his hands.

“Nothing like a bit of music for stirring up an appetite, I think. I’m starving.”

He turned, took a step toward the door, then stopped as he saw Olivier, standing in front of him. There was a moment of screaming silence as Olivier realized how alarming he must look—unshaven, swaddled in a dirty cloak, the look of the hunted about him already. He kneeled down swiftly when he saw from the look on the pope’s face that he was frightened out of his wits.

“My deepest apologies, Holiness. My name is Olivier de Noyen, one of Cardinal Ceccani’s people. I wish to beg for an audience.”

Clement peered at him more closely. “De Noyen? Good God, man, what’s with you? You look like a gypsy. How dare you come before me in such a state?”

“I apologize again. I would not have done so if it had not been urgent.”

“You’ll have to wait. I want my breakfast.”

“This is more important than breakfast, Holiness.”

Clement frowned. “Young man, nothing is more important than breakfast.” He looked exasperated, but saw in the dogged look on the young man’s face that there was something he should hear. This was not frivolous, a demand for a favor, or yet another madman who believed he knew how to cure the plague or bring the Muslims to Christ.

“I will not readily forgive this.”

“As you choose, Holiness. What you do with me is of little importance as long as you hear me.”

Clement signaled to one of the guards at the door, who stepped forward. “Search him,” he ordered. “See he has no weapons. Then bring him to my chamber.”