A cliché of philosophy, repeated endlessly for near eight hundred years; Sophia hardly even thought it controversial. Even in Marseille, she had never had the proposition queried. However, it came to the ears of Caius and he saw it as the pyre on which Manlius might be consumed.
The bishop’s woman taught that men could become God. She challenged the Almighty, taught youth that no savior was necessary, that faith was absurd, that she was the equal of Christ. She contradicted Revelation, poured scorn on believers, and all the while was supported and defended by Manlius himself. What sort of bishop encourages men not to believe?
She was sufficiently unworldly, or perhaps arrogant might be the better term, not to notice that more people looked at her askance as she walked through the streets; that there was more muttering as she emerged from her house. She paid no attention; the opinions of such people had never been of the slightest importance to her; their talking no more registered with her than the noise of buzzing flies occupied her mind.
Southern Gaul was not like the East; monasticism had not taken so strong a hold that hundreds or even thousands of monks were gathered in almost every town. Yet there were many who had gathered informally in such associations, often moving in and taking over abandoned villas or town buildings, asserting—sometimes violently—their ownership and priding themselves on the purity of their faith. More than anyone, perhaps, they feared invasion, for an Arian, heretic king would have little sympathy for them and be open to the complaints of aggrieved property owners.
It took little to persuade them that True Religion must be defended, and that the corruption Sophia represented should be stopped. On the morning before Manlius held his first meeting with the Burgundian king, they gathered outside her house and waited for her.
There were only about a dozen; no more were needed, although the crowd grew larger as time went on. Several were drunk; such things were common, for most were young and were scarcely under any control. For all that, they had no idea what to do but were waiting for someone to give a lead.
When Sophia came out of the house, she paused as she saw them. It crossed her mind to go back inside, for even she sensed the menace in the atmosphere. Had she done so, history would have been subtly changed in innumerable ways. But she remained true to the philosophy she had practiced all her life; she was not afraid, and after a brief moment when the lower, more treacherous part of her mind sent a surge of alarm through her body, she conquered the fear and restored herself to tranquillity.
Then she began walking down the street, toward what had once been the forum but now scarcely merited the name of a market square. Ahead of her was Syagrius, waiting for her. She relaxed, felt the relief flowing through her, and was angry with herself. He would not hurt her, she knew.
“You are in danger,” he said. “You must come to a place of safety now. Come with me.”
And she went with him. He took her to the church, and barricaded her in.
WHEN ISABELLE ’ S BODY was found, news of the event raced around the town as fast as the plague. Her husband himself came for the body, and even though his sense of outrage was still uppermost in his mind, he also felt regret for the loss of this pretty, feckless, disobedient girl of whom he had been fond. At the same time he was aware, of course, that he had acted justly, and that moreover he was now free to marry again and produce the legitimate heir that she had denied him.
Nor did he want to delay quitting the town more than necessary. He was a thoroughly frightened man; the plague was one reason, but he also wanted to get to the safety of Aquitaine, safe on English territory when the French realized who had been responsible for opening the gates of Aigues-Mortes, due to take place in only a week’s time. But his wife’s foolishness the night before had thrown all these plans into disarray, and he would now have to stay for a few extra days. So he gave instructions that the packing should continue, and concerned himself with laying a complaint to the authorities about the murder. With luck he would still be able to set off before it was too late, and if he went alone, abandoning his household and telling them to follow in their own time, he might yet be able to outrun any pursuers.
It took only a few hours for the magistrate to discover that Isabelle de Fréjus had gone the previous night to the house near the Jewish quarter where Luca Pisano lived. This was clearly stated in two of the depositions contained in an individual folder under Reg. Av. 48 in the Vatican archives, whose existence Julien noted first in 1924 but which he did not pursue until much later. Despite the difficulties of the war, he wrote to Rome in early 1943 and requested that someone copy out this folder for him; it was done because he was known to the archivist, and because he was a man who, at that time, commanded respect as a supporter of Vichy.
He should have had his interest piqued much earlier, and he had a residual annoyance with Julia’s father when it finally arrived. For he remembered well that he had a choice that day, either keep on working in the insufferable heat, or abandon it, walk out the doors, and go for a long lunch with Claude Bronsen. He had also managed to get permission to see the Golden House of Nero, and wished the older man to see it as well. The temptation was too great. The file remained unread for another eighteen years.
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.”
“I can’t,” he replied sadly. “You mustn’t ask me that. You know you shouldn’t.”
“I must have him,” Marcel continued. “It’s a matter of life and death, don’t you see? I cannot allow twenty-six innocent people to die if there is anything I can do to stop it. Don’t think I’m doing this lightly. I know full well that if you give him to me, I’ll be signing my own death warrant. I know what will happen to me the moment the Germans go and the Resistance move in. “
Julien shook his head. “No. Arrest me if you must. But the answer is no.”
And Marcel, still undecided, broke the moment of friendship, got up and walked to the window, stared out over the
place
so he would not have to meet Julien’s eye.
“I have telephoned the police in Vaison,” he said softly. “I have told them to go to Roaix and arrest Julia Bronsen and take her into custody. You can have her back if you give me Bernard.”