The Dream of Scipio (29 page)

He was, perhaps, twice Olivier’s age, strong but not big, with the precise movements of the craftsman and a gaze quite unlike anything Olivier had ever noted in one of his rank. It was open and inquiring, seeing and assessing Olivier in one glance, and yet he sensed something cautious and watchful as well.

He left it to his savior to speak first. “Come, let us turn your wagon the right way up. It seems undamaged, and it will not take long if both of us are at the job. Some of your goods are a little muddy, I’m afraid, but most seem fine.”

The man nodded, and they moved around the wagon, working out the easiest place to attack the problem. Then, under the craftsman’s direction and taking care not to get his clothes dirty, Olivier and he lifted, pushed, and pulled until at last the wagon balanced precariously on one wheel, then crashed down onto the ground the right way up. His new companion inspected it carefully, then sniffed with satisfaction.

“Thank you,” he said, speaking for the first time. “Grateful.”

As if to make up for his lack of words, and not wishing to seem churlish, he reached inside a large cloth bag that had fallen onto the ground and brought out a flask. This he unstoppered and offered to Olivier.

It was water, fortunately, for the day was young for wine, and Olivier drank gratefully. Not that he needed it; he had more than enough of his own, but it indicated his acknowledgment of the thanks. When he finished, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and handed it back. “The water of the soul,” he said with a smile, unthinking, not even remembering where the phrase came from. It was simply the first thing that came into his head and he wanted to fill in the silence caused by the man’s taciturnity. Or maybe he wished to establish who he was, a person of some importance, of learning, not to be treated with familiarity even though they had just heaved over an old wagon together. Helping a traveler in trouble was one thing, a good Christian act that also broke some of the monotony of the journey. But that didn’t mean that he was encouraging presumption. Olivier was young enough and vain enough to want it known he was a man of mark.

If that was his aim, the result was quite other than the one he anticipated. The older man stared at him in surprise and suspicion, hesitated, then spoke himself. “Flows to the ocean of the divine.”

And now it was Olivier’s turn to stare, dumbstruck with astonishment. For the moment the man spoke, he remembered the source of the words. It was as well there was no one else nearby, for any casual observer would have been piqued by the sight. Two men, of clearly different ranks, standing close and eyeing each other warily. To the left a donkey, unattended, and all around the bric-a-brac of the market. All this in the middle of the countryside, several miles from the nearest habitation. It was a puzzle picture, which someone like Julia would have thought almost surrealist, the meaning there but hidden, needing an explanation that could only come from a particular vantage point. Not that she was ever tempted by such things; her aim was clarity, not games designed to obscure.

“Why did you say that?” Olivier asked. “How do you know that?”

The man now looked frightened, as though he had made a mistake and suddenly realized it. He mumbled something that Olivier didn’t catch and turned away, hurriedly throwing the rest of his goods on the back of the wagon and shouting at the donkey, dragging it away from its meal to hitch it up once more.

Olivier caught him by the arm. “Tell me at once,” he said. “Where did you hear that phrase? I mean you no harm.”

But he was not to be persuaded. “Nothing, nothing. It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, then, his task done, he got back up on the wagon once more and started to move off. Olivier ran alongside. “Stop,” he called out. “I order you to stop.”

It was no use. The man stared stolidly ahead, completely ignoring all of Olivier’s pleadings. And after he had run alongside, shouting some more, Olivier stood in the mud watching as the wagon lumbered down the road. He could have caught him easily; he had a horse, after all. He could have jumped on the wagon and wrestled the man to the ground, for although he was powerful and strong, Olivier was the younger by more than two decades.

He did neither of these things. There was something about the man’s sheer terror that made him stand there until the wagon had rolled over the next hill, giving the man time to get away, so that he wouldn’t be frightened anymore.

He waited an hour before continuing; his horse needed a rest in any case, and while it was munching the grass, continuing the meal that the donkey had so abruptly abandoned, he sat down under a tree and thought. It was wasted time, a frustrating and pointless exercise, for he knew before he started he could not work out how a cobbler could have quoted a luminous phrase written down by the Bishop of Vaison more than eight hundred years previously.

 
 
IT GNAWED AT HIM, this irritating confusion in his life. Olivier was used to a neat division between the world and the mind, between events and writing, between people and ideas. Unlike Julia, who sought consciously to bring all of these together through the fine movements of her hand, or Pisano, who did so without even being aware of it, much of the appeal of books for him was their dissociation from reality. His Cicero, his Horace, his Vergil, all of these were occult knowledge, whose existence and meaning was hidden from the world. His labors were contradictory; he wanted to recover such works, but to recover them for himself alone; he felt that at some level they would be tarnished if exposed to the generality, like silver when exposed to the air.

And yet there was this cobbler. . . . The problem exercised him all the way to his destination, which for that day was the town of Uzès, deep in French territory, but a duchy, whose overlord was of an independent frame of mind. Too lofty a business for someone like Olivier, however; he was not someone who dealt with dukes and kings. The seigneur, unaware of the poet’s visit as well, slept undisturbed in his fortress that night, and Olivier stayed in a small abbey in its shade, where the cardinal’s name ensured him hospitality, and he was surprised and delighted to discover that Althieux of Nîmes, passing through on his way to Tours, was also there, and ready to provide him with good company and conversation.

Althieux, the older man by some fifteen years, was not of Ceccani’s family; he belonged to the entourage of Cardinal de Deaux, Ceccani’s great opponent in the matter of Rome. The two friends had long since learned to negotiate the rocky shore on which one false word might cast all their hopes. Say, for example, that Olivier had let slip to Althieux that (as was the case at that particular moment) Ceccani was maneuvering with his usual skill to place his illegitimate son in the archbishopric of Dijon, a move that would have given an enemy of France access to the Duke of Burgundy—who was wobbling in the matter of England. If Althieux had spoken of this to his master, Olivier’s career would have been ruined. If he had not and it had emerged that he knew about it in advance, then Althieux’s own career would never recover.

Besides, Althieux was as devoted to his lord as Olivier was to Ceccani; both would have had to choose between friendship and obedience, creating a conundrum of irresolvable proportions. Better by far to avoid any such topics; to discuss matters of the mind alone, certain that both of those great princes were quite aware of the connection and smiled on it, as a discreet conduit for messages, should any such need to be sent from one side of the curia to the other.

All the more extraordinary, then, that Althieux should be so awkward, so strained in his company, he who was normally so easygoing. Olivier even asked him directly, but for some time was put off with a wave of the hand. “Nothing, nothing,” he said impatiently.

“Come along, my friend. ‘Nothing, nothing,’ is not true. Something is on your mind quite clearly. Tell me what it is, if you can.”

And eventually his friend began to talk. “I am doing this out of friendship, and against all common sense, but I have come to warn you to be careful as you travel the road back to Avignon.”

“I am always careful,” Olivier replied. “Anyone who has traveled more than ten leagues knows how important that is.”

“I do not mean brigands and robbers. A group of men is waiting for you somewhere. They have been told to take a letter you have on you and kill you if necessary. They will probably find it necessary.”

“Why?” said Olivier, quite astonished at the news, but not doubting it for a moment: his friend’s demeanor was far too serious for it ever to have been a joke.

Althieux shrugged. “I do not know. Do you have some letter?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?

Olivier shook his head. “How should I know? I haven’t read it. Anyway, who has sent these men? Who gives their orders?”

“From the fact that I am telling you this, you may guess. May I count on your absolute discretion? You must never say how it was you evaded these people. If, indeed, you do so. “

“Of course, of course.” Olivier fell silent, pondering what to do. Evidently the rivalry between his master and Althieux’s was reaching some sort of crisis, if de Deaux was prepared to risk a direct attack on him. Whatever the letter said, it must be even more important than he imagined. But now he had the problem of delivering it, and staying alive. Obviously, he would have to take a different road, make a diversion. That would be the best thing. He could head north, pick up the river at Orange, take a boat down to Avignon. That would be easy enough. It would add several days to his journey, but better to arrive late than not at all. In the circumstances, even Ceccani could hardly complain.

“I am deeply grateful to you for telling me this. I do not have to say so, I imagine.”

Althieux clapped him on the back. “One day perhaps you will have to do the same for me. Now, let us go and eat, and say no more of this gloomy topic. I hear this abbot keeps a fine table, and I haven’t eaten properly for days.”

 
 
FOR ONCE, rumor about monastic opulence matched the reality; both men were in a more mellow frame of mind when they retired to the special room reserved for the powerful and well-connected guests of the community, and called a servant to stoke up the fire and bring some warm drinks. Althieux was disinclined to revisit the topic of the ambush, and Olivier readily put the matter to the back of his mind. It would be easy enough to avoid them, after all. He did not pause to wonder at the coincidence of his friend being there to pass the warning on.

And Althieux tried to forget his last conversation with his master, the way he had begged for the opportunity to get this letter before the cardinal’s soldiers were let loose on his friend. Anything, even a sacrifice of his company, to avoid bloodshed.

But he knew that, if he succeeded in his promise of taking it while Olivier slept, and set off for Avignon long before his friend even awoke the next morning, then this would be the last night of their friendship, and he wished to revel in the conversation, the comfort, of a true amity, about to be sacrificed for the sake of that very friendship. Why would he even consider doing such a thing to Olivier if he did not love him? For the number of people who could talk of the things in which both men were interested was small; to lose such a friend would be a dreadful hurt.

So they talked, and in due course, Olivier mentioned his encounter on the road that afternoon, and the way the man had echoed the words of his manuscript. His friend listened with fascination, savoring every drop of the tale: the way the manuscript was found, the time Olivier had taken to transcribe it, his inability to understand it, his meetings with the fearsome Gersonides, and the manner in which it was brought back to his mind that afternoon.

“When I get back, I shall reread it more carefully,” Olivier said. “And I will have a copy made for you, if you like. Then we can write to each other and examine what your cardinal’s Jew says about it. He is a fascinating man; I learned more from him in a few weeks than I did from the most skilled doctors in Avignon in the course of several years. I hope to continue the acquaintanceship. I have scarcely scratched the surface of what he knows.”

“I can think of nothing better than such a project with such a friend,” came the reply. “My one concern, however, is that we might be led onto dangerous areas of inquiry. You must have suspected yourself that this cobbler was a heretic.”

“I considered the idea. It is another area of the rabbi’s expertise. How he became conversant with the details of the heresy I do not know. I thought they’d all long been destroyed.”

Althieux laughed. “Oh, no. It was the usual thing. The soldiers and the priests and the magistrates all came. They attacked, and captured and tried and burned. Hundreds of villages, whole towns burned to the ground, tens of thousands massacred. And many good Christians among them, I think. Then they declared complete victory over the forces of schism and heresy, and went home. I am not saying that most heretics were not killed or forced to change their views; they were. But many were quite untouched, hiding out in the mountains to the north. They have learned greater discretion, that is all.”

“I suppose I should have known,” said Olivier simply. “But there seemed nothing especially dangerous about this man.”

“I don’t doubt it. They are perfectly ordinary people, for the most part. But dangerous nonetheless, every bit as much as the Jews. More so, I should say, as the Jews are plainly visible and use no subterfuge. Nor do they seek converts. These are quite the reverse. Your duty, as I am sure you know, is to report the matter to the magistrate. This man has undoubtedly come to market here. If he can be found and his village identified, then the entire settlement can be destroyed.”

Olivier thought, and once more in a small way Sophia spread out her protective cloak from the past; the man who carried her words, the anonymous messenger in the same way that Olivier was on occasion for Ceccani, was saved by his message.