“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.
The liberty he felt was extraordinary; sitting behind the wheel of the black Citroën, wheezing along at forty kilometers an hour in a machine that had scarcely seen any new parts since the war began, and that had been patched and mended with true ingenuity by mechanics to keep it on the road. Under any other circumstances he would have found it exhilarating, almost godlike to travel thus, alone in the world to be so privileged.
He had no such sensation, though; in his mind there was only one thought and the rest of him was cold and numb. He did not think of the consequences of what he was about to do, or debate the nature of the choice. Had Marcel been responsible alone, had it been German investigators who had uncovered Julia’s secret, he could have understood. It was something he was even half prepared for. But it was not. The only thought that had gone through his mind was that Julia had been denounced by Elizabeth Duveau, someone he had known for thirty years, someone whom he had befriended as a child and who, he thought, had befriended Julia in her turn. And that she had been arrested because he had come into Avignon on Julia’s urging to try to save the woman who had denounced her. And that all of this had happened because one day Elizabeth had come to him, and he had reached out to her.
He arrived in Carpentras at three o’clock and went to the post office, where he asked to see the postmaster.
“I need to send a telegram to a Monsieur Blanchard in Amiens,” he said. “It’s very urgent, about his sister who is ill. Is that possible these days?”
“I’m afraid not,” the man replied, cautiously and steadily. “Perhaps you might step into my office, and I will see what can be done for you?”
He led the way into a back room, and there Julien delivered the message, specifically designed to lead his friend to his death. Marcel, it said, wished to talk, tomorrow at his mother’s old house. He would meet him there.
THERE WAS LITTLE enough time. Already the Burgundians were on the march; by his estimate it would take them fifteen days to make the journey south along the river. The news of their advance would travel faster. The whole region was buzzing with rumor and gossip by the time Manlius returned; the fact that he had told no one the details of his private discussions made the tongues wag all the more. Several versions were in circulation: that he had used his gold to buy off the Burgundians, had deceived them into launching an all-out attack on the Visigoths; that he had successfully persuaded them to attempt confederate status; that they had agreed to declare their support for the emperor. And so on; the nature of the imaginings suggested all too clearly that the populace was not yet ready for the truth, which was the only possibility not generally canvassed.
Manlius had only a few days to prepare the region for what was to come next. He also knew that he could not permit his opponents to intervene again, for once Felix returned they would be that much more formidable. The imbecilic Caius Valerius was no serious foe; Felix with his reputation and ability was very much more daunting an opponent. Manlius had to win over the people to his side, and had to ensure Felix did not get the chance to offer any alternative. He must present the result of his maneuverings and compromises as though they were God-willed. Shouting and dispute—however admirable in principle, however much in the tradition of the Rome they admired—was unacceptable.
He also had to persuade the great landowners to follow him, and they required different sorts of arguments to the ones that would sway the townspeople. However devout they might be in their souls, in all other respects they were hard-nosed. What sort of deal had Manlius achieved? Would Gundobad rule with a heavy hand? Would he enforce the laws on tax that were beginning now to slip? Would he defend their rights and return errant serfs? If Gundobad would serve them, enrich them, strengthen their position, and rule in a way Rome no longer could, then they would accept him. And those who would soon lie outside Burgundian protection would simply have to fend for themselves. He had saved what he could. It was better than nothing.
Successful governance with no true authority in law depends on convincing others to do your bidding, which in turn means acting in ways that they consider appropriate. From this need came the event that won Manlius his later sanctity, the conversion of the Jews of Vaison because of his miraculous powers. It was this occurrence—transmitted in garbled form through an interpolation in Gregory of Tours’
Historia Francorum,
although this is merely a summation of his work on lives of the Gallican saints, lost now but available to Gersonides when he was teaching Olivier de Noyen in his study in Carpentras—that won Manlius the authority to proceed as he wished, winning over his diocese and convincing his brother bishops that he was indeed now a true Christian. It says much of Manlius’s skills as a politician that the moment the events took place he saw their potential and moved to exploit them.
Was it a considered policy, though, this dramatic event that seems to have led to the conversion of some 150 Jews, the razing of the one synagogue in the town, and the expulsion or death of those recalcitrants who refused to comply with his will? Certainly Manlius was not greatly exercised by the presence of so many Jews in Vaison, for although they remained a self-enclosed enclave, they paid their taxes and kept themselves quiet. Their existence did not offend him. And yet he must have known full well that moving against them would strengthen his hand immeasurably. As he himself had bowed his knee at the altar without in any way feeling as though he had betrayed his beliefs, so it is unlikely that he considered for a moment that the reluctance of the Jews to embrace Christ in their heart was a proper reason for them not to do so in public. And he was a ruthless man, short of time, born to authority but never yet having had the opportunity of exercising it. Gentle, eloquent, cultured, and refined he might be, but these qualities were bestowed on those who deserved them, and that was a narrow circle. To others he was, all admitted, just and fair, but he would brook no interference with the proper exercise of his authority.
The great events were begun three days after he had reentered Vaison by a Jew called Daniel, an utterly dissipated young man all but shunned by his community because of his criminality, violence, and cheating. He had always been so, cruel to his family, idle and insulting, so much so that he was, in effect, expelled from their midst. He was a woodworker, but of no great skill or application, and it was generally accepted that he spent much of his time in theft. When a priest went to his family’s house one day and demanded either compensation for someone he had defrauded or that Daniel leave the town, he responded by going to the church, throwing himself in front of the first priest he saw, and demanding to be baptized. He had heard that converts such as himself were greatly welcomed, showered with money and opportunity and, as he now had nothing to lose except a family that hated him and a community that wished only his absence, the prospect of such favor became irresistible.
He was conducted to Manlius, who interviewed him and was repelled by his evidently low character; but, as the deacon pointed out, we were all sinners in the eyes of God, and Daniel’s character might change once accepted into the church. Manlius was more skeptical, but could find no reason to deny the request and, in any case, was well aware of the value of such an event, especially once stories went into circulation that his own interview had been the cause of the young Jew’s dramatic request. So Daniel was given rapid and cursory instruction in doctrine, and the following Sunday, a ceremony of some noise and grandeur was prepared for the baptism. This was the occasion of Manlius’s first sermon, in which he inflected orthodox doctrine with the teachings he had absorbed since his youth. It is not the case that he stated baldly that the life of man is but part of a journey, that the soul cannot ascend to God until it is purified and clean. The implication was there, however, and it was a conception that derived from Pythagorus, and was restated by Plato before finding its place in Christianity through the idea of Purgatory.
His argument was far too complex for most of the congregation; rather it was a clarion call, a warning to his fellows that, although he might be a neophyte, he did not intend to abandon his beliefs through gratitude. From then on, and for the rest of his life, he delivered his sermons, arcane, erudite, and complex, knowing that his audience would not understand them but knowing also that the repeated presentation of such sophisticated ideas would indeed have an effect, if only a small one, deepening and refining the bundle of coarse superstitions that Christians called their religion.
Even had he ventured into complete and coherent heresy, however, the congregation would have forgiven him. For Manlius spent a considerable sum of money to provide a spectacle the likes of which they had not seen for years. He had already begun rebuilding and extending the church, now he rerobed the priests and offered food in plenty and at no cost after the event. For this, they were all to parade through the streets to the now generally disused forum, led by Manlius and with the new convert, robed in white, just behind him.
However, the route from the basilica ran alongside the street where most of the town’s Jews lived, and they were enraged by the way the church’s triumph was being so noisily proclaimed. Even so, there was little anyone could do, but Daniel’s brother, deeply shamed by his elder sibling, climbed to the top of a building and, when Daniel passed by underneath, tipped a large jar of oil over him.
Fortunately, none hit the bishop, else the consequences would have been very much worse; had his cloak been touched, even the slightest drop staining the pure white wool, then the anger of the crowd would have been uncontrollable. But the aim was true; only the newly baptized Daniel was touched, and he shrank down with a scream, thinking that worse was about to follow.
His fear ran through the crowd, and when one pointed up at the roof to the departing brother, they all cried out and began to give chase. It was a hopeless task; Vaison was hardly a big town anymore, but it was more than large enough to conceal one person who did not wish to be discovered. Their anger could find no outlet, and so they went to the one place where they knew Jews could be found. The synagogue was not grand, and did not in any way resemble the buildings that either Olivier or Julien would recognize. Rather, it was an ordinary house, with one larger than average room at the back, big enough to accommodate fifty or so people at one time; when there were more, on holy days, the extra would congregate in the small courtyard outside. It had been there a long time, more than a century, since the number of Jews in the town had increased enough to support it, and everyone knew where it was.
There was no plan to what happened next; the building was set on fire because, once the crowd arrived outside its doors, no one knew what to do next. Had someone with authority managed to keep up, worked his way to the head of the crowd and taken control, there would have been no violence. But, in the absence of such a figure, leadership descended to the most brutal, and it was one of these who first picked up a stone and threw it into the building, then kicked in the door. Half a dozen charged in and only one of these took some embers from the fire glowing in the grate and used them to light the hangings.
It was a small fire, which did little damage in itself; its main effect was to enflame the crowd, who sensed that the thin curl of smoke and little flicker gave the permission to continue. From then the destruction increased and engulfed the whole building. When the real fire, the one that reduced it to ashes, took hold, there was not a piece of furniture, hanging, or book left intact. The noise of the crowd increased to a pitch, then gave way and sank back to silence as the flames blazed, the energy of their anger transferring to the conflagration, and reducing them to mere spectators. Then they simply stood and watched what they had done, scarcely even remembering that it was they who had begun this. And after a while they began to disperse, their anger spent, their vengeance taken, and their lust satisfied.
In terms of violence, it was not a serious business. Compare it with the orgy that convulsed Constantinople a few decades later and left fifteen thousand dead after a week of riots. Compare it to some of the coups and civil wars that had engulfed the empire in the past century. Compare it to the traditional and accepted behavior of troops taking control of a city after a siege. The violence of Vaison killed no one; even Daniel’s brother escaped unscathed, and while Jews felt obliged to stay indoors for a day or so, even they did not consider themselves under great threat. Indeed, their anger was directed not so much against the Christians who had destroyed their synagogue—even though they deeply resented the assault—as against the family that had brought this calamity upon them: the useless Daniel and his equally violent, headstrong brother. Neither of them was worth any loss.