The Dream of Scipio (45 page)

He snorted. “I don’t care about people’s hearts. They’ll celebrate in the streets soon enough when the Germans are beaten. What is important is that we take a part in that defeat. Nothing more. Otherwise we will either have anarchy when the war is over, or a settlement dictated by the Allies. This is not a time when responsibility matters. Responsibility means not doing anything.”

“Like me, you mean?”

“Dear me, no. You have chosen your side. All those articles, those speeches, your job. We know all about that. What do you think you’re doing, Julien? I know you, or at least I thought I did. I knew you weren’t a raving communist, of course, but what are you doing working for Vichy? For that moron Marcel, of all people. And now for the Germans?”

“I’m not working for the Germans,” he answered stiffly. “I was asked by Marcel to write some things for the newspapers. Give talks, that is all. And then I was asked to be in charge of paper allocation. Which means I decide who gets published, which journals and magazines survive, and which close down because they have no paper to print on. Do you know how hard I have to work to keep some papers going? How often I turn a blind eye to things?”

“But how often do you not turn a blind eye? How often do you say no?”

“Sometimes. But not as often as those who would do my job with more zeal.”

Bernard remained silent, his point made. He found it all so easy.

“Look, Bernard, while the Germans are here life must go on. Not as we would want, not as it was, but it must continue. Not everybody can scuttle off to London and take a high moral tone. And by living with them, cooperating, we can change them, humanize them. Civilize them.”

“I see.”

Bernard stood up, finding the sanctity of the chapel overpowering. He led the way out into the nave, then headed for the fresh air outside. There he stood, all disguise and caution thrown to the winds. It had always been his great weakness, that impatience, Julien thought. It will kill him one day.

“You are being unusually vain, if I may say so,” Bernard said quietly. “You, on your own, are civilizing the Germans and the reptiles they have brought to power here. Are you sure it goes only one way? What if they corrupt you, rather than you civilizing them? Are you ready to risk that possibility? Two years ago, would you have denied anybody the right to publish their magazines, print their books? Even thought of it? And now you do it every day and say you are doing it to protect civilization. And they have lost; you know it as well as I do. They lost the moment they attacked Russia and declared war on the Americans. It is only a matter of time now.”

“And when they are defeated,” Julien replied, “it won’t be because of your efforts. It will be because of the English and Russian and American armies. An act of sabotage here or there will make no difference. It will just make things worse for those who live here. And you will be caught and shot.”

He nodded. “I know. Someone was sent here before me. We think he survived six weeks before he was captured. He accomplished nothing, as you say.”

“So now you come. Why?”

He smiled. “Because I was ordered to. Because these people are in my country and they shouldn’t be, and because the government has been stolen by mediocre gangsters. Someone has to fight them; you’re not going to.”

“Very noble, but I don’t believe you. When did you ever do something because it was right? You do things because you get pleasure out of them.”

“At some stage, probably within three months, I shall be captured, possibly tortured, certainly shot. You think the prospect gives me pleasure?”

“Yes.”

Bernard paused, then laughed. “You’re right, of course. Partly, anyway. It’s the challenge of survival, of doing something. Do you know, I intend to beat the odds? I intend to be there to watch the Americans or whoever march in. And when that’s done, there will be accounts to settle, you know.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No. It’s a fact. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to moderate the rage of those less forgiving than I am.”

“Another threat?”

“A warning, this time.”

“You’ll be doing the same as I am now, then.”

“In a sense. But I shall be on the winning side. And, I might add, on the right one.”

They were walking down the steps and across the
place
and out toward the walls, then on again down to the river’s edge.

“How is little Marcel?”

“Older. More lined. More short-tempered.”

“As are we all. Are you still on good terms with him? Still friends?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Sooner or later,” he said, “I will need to sound him out. He may be contemptible, but he is not stupid, and he is supposed to control what administration is left around here. An empty title, to be sure, but better than nothing. I would like you to be the conduit between us.”

“Your messenger boy?”

Bernard considered this. “Basically, yes. I trust you, he trusts you. Neither of us trusts each other. He might listen to you even if he refuses to listen to me.”

“Are you serious?”

“I thought it would appeal to you. You have always tried to keep the peace between us; now you can do it on a grand scale. If I can reach some sort of understanding with him, then there will be a greater chance of holding things together when the Germans withdraw.”

“If.”

“When. It may take three years, it may take ten, but sooner or later they will be destroyed. My task is to make sure we do not destroy ourselves in the process. So at long last Marcel and I will have a common purpose. I would prefer to have him shot; and he would no doubt be happy to do the same to me. But we will need each other, and eventually he will realize it. I want him to know what to do when he does come to that conclusion.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes,” he said. “Nothing else. Well . . .”

“What?”

“I’m working on my cover story, something which means I can travel often, and without attracting notice. I cannot have a job, as that would mean too many people being involved and having to conceal my journeys. I have to be my own employer, doing something which will account for my income at the same time. So, my dear, I’m going to be an art dealer.”

He bowed solemnly. It was so unexpected, said with such panache, that Julien burst out laughing in surprise. “You?” he said incredulously. “An art dealer? Never say this war doesn’t have its comic side, then.”

Bernard grinned back. “I know. It’s not something which will come naturally. But apart from my incapacity, it’s a perfect occupation, although I have to do it properly to be convincing. I need artists to provide me with pictures, put on a little exhibition or two, invite people, make a show. I also need the names and addresses of painters scattered throughout Provence so I can always say I am visiting them when I am on my travels. They will be in no danger. To them I really will be Paul Masson, dealer in art, struggling to make a living in times of trouble. When I am arrested and they discover who I am they will be as surprised as anybody. Will you help? I’ll need names of painters, that sort of thing. Anything will do. Good, bad, or indifferent. It makes no difference.”

“I’ll give you some names. And I’ll ask Julia. She’ll know some others.”

“She’s still here?”

Julien nodded. “She’s safe.”

“No, she’s not. She’s not safe at all. There are rumors coming through to London about what the Germans are doing.”

“What rumors?”

“That they are killing as many Jews as they can. I don’t know whether it’s true, and I imagine it must be exaggerated, but certainly if she is caught she’ll be sent to a camp in the east.”

“I’ve tried. But it’s not so easy, you know. You couldn’t help, could you? Get her out?”

He shook his head. “I’ve my own people to look after.”

Julien shrugged. “She probably wouldn’t go anyway now. She’s convinced herself she’s safe. She’s in the Italian zone, after all, and the papers she made herself are better than the real ones.”

“Made her own papers? How?”

“She forged them. She is remarkably good at it.”

Bernard thought about that for a moment. “So in theory she could produce dozens of them?”

“Why do you ask?”

He paused, and looked carefully at Julien. “A deal. If she will make false identity papers for, say, a couple of dozen people, then I will get her out of the country when they’re delivered.”

“That’s friendship, is it?”

“It is these days.”

“I’ll ask.” Julien turned on his heel and walked away.

 
 
THE ARRIVAL AT the barbarian court was well prepared. Three days before the main part of the delegation arrived, Manlius sent ahead couriers to alert King Gundobad and ensure a dignified reception. A lengthy message and a portion of the gifts—the books and the manuscripts pillaged mainly from Manlius’s own library—went as well, to emphasize that this was no mere favor seeker who was arriving. They halted for the night a few hours away, set up camp, and sent more messengers, so the king’s emissaries could come out to prepare the final arrival, check who was coming and the magnitude of the delegation, and make all the final arrangements so that no one was unnecessarily offended in the early stages.

Manlius did not receive the king’s messengers when they arrived at his camp, preferring to hold his own appearance in reserve to create a greater effect. He also kept himself out of the initial encounters by saying he was at prayer; all around his tent, guards ensured silence, and a reverent hush was maintained. The bishop was communing with God, a useful reminder of his position and a hint that the king would be negotiating with the supernatural as well as the earthly. He continued to use this technique in years to come, leaving negotiations that were locked in obduracy as if to pray, and finding when he returned—often many hours, and in one case two days, later—that the combination of his godliness and their being imprisoned in a room for so long had resolved the conflicts in his favor.

After all the preparations were made, he approached the king’s court. Manlius changed into a simple white tunic and cloak, unadorned with any jewelry save for his ring, and mounted the donkey. The carefully considered artlessness, the lack of magnificence as he plodded in—being careful to be some way ahead of the rest of his party, to suggest he came alone, needing no help but God’s, mindless of the things of this world—created a wonderful effect on the Burgundians, by now used to delegations from all over Gaul striving for grandeur and instead appearing pathetic.

The king responded in kind; this had been arranged in advance. He stood with half a dozen courtiers, and came forward to help Manlius off the donkey himself in a gesture of respect, then kissed the ring on Manlius’s outstretched hand. A murmur of approval went up from Manlius’s party, all of whom could be relied on to spread details of the scene around the province on their return.

The king was respectful of the church; he was humble before God, even more, he gave his support to the offices of Rome. All this from a schismatic Arian, all this in stark contrast to Euric of the Visigoths, who humiliated the ministers of the church, all this to indicate the degree to which he had absorbed civilization during his years as a hostage in Italy.

Half the work was done in this single gesture, indeed Gundobad’s standing was the higher because he was a heretic and was still so respectful. The other half, perhaps, had already been done. It may be surmised that chance was an absent deity at the meeting; that the warm welcome, the deference, and even the conclusion of the meeting had been hammered out in the shade, through countless letters of varying precision, and innumerable meetings between the envoys of Manlius and the representatives of the king.

It was little more than theater that the multitude witnessed that bright morning—the encounter canceled from the previous day, supposedly because of a slight indisposition on Manlius’s part but in fact because the weather was dull and overcast, a bad omen for the superstitious, an altogether too gloomy atmosphere for the more practical, not conducive to optimism. The clear skies, the warm sunshine that enveloped the actual encounter instead was a sign of the light and safety to come, a new morning, the dawn of tranquillity after the storms and threats of the all too recent past.

Then the king and Manlius went into the basilica, which had been roughly converted into the royal palace, its sound roof the main reason for its choice, and retired to a suite of rooms in the back, once part of the law courts, for the private discussion. Again a symbol; Manlius was received as an equal, not as a supplicant; the books and manuscripts, the small statues and the holy relics he presented were to mark a man of justice and cultivation, not a bribe to assuage the violence of the barbarian. Once more, the fine details were noted with approval. The diplomatic work was already completed; Manlius’s battle for the hearts and minds of his flock was under way. Manlius even allowed himself a small burst of confidence; what he desired was within reach. He, not Felix, would conjure up the armies to march to Clermont and block Euric’s designs.

 
 
 
 
SHE TOLD JULIA about his encounter with Bernard when he again made his pilgrimage to the little house in Roaix, and they talked about the offer.

“In fact, I’d be quite prepared to do a little light forging in any case,” she said. “If he can get me out of the country, then all the better.”

“You’re prepared to go?”

“Probably. Although I’m not sure it might not draw more attention to myself, make it more likely that I get noticed. You look doubtful.”

“It’s an extra risk,” he said simply. “That’s all.”

“And it would be doing something. With the added bonus of getting out of here to somewhere truly safe. Will he keep his word about it?”

Julien thought. “I’ve never known him not to. On the other hand, I do know I’ve never put myself in the position of having to rely on him for anything important. And this is important.”