Olivier had made a protest against great ideas for the sake of a small humanity, and had illuminated it with his own suffering. Julien could not even do that; his life was already over and with it any opportunity to accomplish something of worth. All he could do was signal that he understood, at least, how much in error he had been, and hope that someone might, in turn, understand him.
He closed the door of the chapel carefully, breathed in the warm air, so fresh after the slight dankness inside, and began walking down the hill.
FELIX LEFT THAT EVENING, his retinue bumping along the unrepaired roads, the few soldiers with him on the lookout for brigands, who were becoming ever more adventurous in their depredations. They were in something of a hurry, for Felix had much to do before the confrontation with Manlius. Supporters to prepare, soldiers to ready, for he did not doubt that fighting was likely, and much though he regretted it, he felt there was now no choice. One of them would have to give way; only one person could emerge triumphant, for the stakes were too high for compromise.
They went some ten miles before they paused, and stopped by a stream to water the horses. It was then that the attackers struck. There were perhaps six of them, although as no one survived, the number remained conjecture. Felix himself was the last to die, his head severed from his body in such a way that it went rolling down the slight incline and came to rest in a patch of primroses growing on the riverbank.
But at least he died knowing who had killed him. The last thing he saw before his life was extinguished was the blade of the long-handled axe as it swung through the air, glinting brightly in the spring sunshine, and he recognized the man who had been hewing wood on Manlius’s estate the day before.
WHEN THE BURGUNDIANS arrived, they behaved with exemplary correctness, eliciting admiration from the population for the way in which they were kept in order, without looting or pillaging. A contrast to soldiers in the pay of Rome, it was pointed out by more than one person. Only in one area did they act with less restraint; the estates of the family of Felix were attacked immediately and by the end almost the entire clan was eliminated, the villas burned, the land transferred to the king for distribution to his own people.
This was as it should be; no one mourned them, for by then they knew his true duplicity, and were the more won over by their bishop, their savior. For Manlius told them, with trembling voice, eyes filled with tears, how he had discovered the truth about his friend, how he had been in secret negotiation with Euric, planning to hand over the land to him in exchange for favors. This had been the true reason, he announced in a dull, resigned voice, why he had moved so fast to invite King Gundobad to move south, why he had abandoned the idea of going to the emperor for troops. There was no time if Felix’s treachery was to be countered.
The news came as a shock, but the impact was salutary. Gundobad was hailed as a savior and entered into his new patrimony without a sword being drawn in protest. And Manlius, his chief advisor, began teaching him about ruling, about the law, and about justice. About how to be a king, not merely a chieftain.
He was at his greatest in those years; he felt it was what he had been born to accomplish. The constant, intricate details of administration, of justice, of reevaluating and reassigning tax revenues, the delicate discussions and persuasions needed to steer both rulers and ruled toward an understanding and even appreciation of each other. It was due to him that war never came between the Burgundians and Visigoths, that the destruction all had feared never happened. And the culmination of his achievement was the code of law, the
Lex Gundobada
as it was known to Julien, which encapsulated the triumph of Roman civilization over its tribal successors. The Roman people submitted to barbarian rule, but the barbarian rulers submitted to Roman law.
It took years of unremitting work before his labors were complete, and when he was satisfied, he went back to the great villa that had been almost desolate for so many years and opened up the doors and lived in peace once more. It was much changed; the huddling masses of laborers had been cleared away, but there had been no time and no money to restore the garden. Cracks had appeared in the fabric, holes in the pavements and mosaics, for despite his efforts the labor force had continued to evaporate, the towns to shrink. Cut off from much of its old places of trade, with travel ever more dififcult, society continued to wither, albeit at a slower, more gentle pace.
He was satisfied, nonetheless; he had achieved all he had aimed at, and more. And now he could rest. So he hoped, but no peace came to him. The hole in his soul grew bigger by the day, for he had lost Sophia, the woman who had guided him and taught him for all his adult life. He had wanted her praise, her thanks, or at least her understanding, and had gotten none of these, even when he finally finished his last work, the
Dream,
and sent it to her.
HE HAD SEEN little of her since the arrival of the Burgundians, for he had much to do and she had withdrawn to her little house on the hill. When he had secured her release from captivity she had not even thanked him. He thought he understood why; for Sophia yearned for the release of death, and would have no gratitude for the man who had postponed what she so ardently desired. She had left with scarcely a word, and he had been too busy to follow, although he made sure that she was properly protected and looked after. His occasional letters went unanswered, and eventually, after he had sent her his manuscript, with a dedication to the great god Apollo and his consort Wisdom, he went to see her. He was puzzled, offended even, by her silence. And he wanted her praise.
“That you will not have,” she said when she divined this part of the reason for his visit. She was sitting under a tree beneath which a servant had fixed up an awning of white cloth; there she sat on the ground, knees crossed and hands together.
“I never thought that I had managed to teach you so little,” she continued, with a sadness and a distance in her voice that he had never known before. Often in the past, she had been angry with him, furious at his obstinacy or his inability to understand. But that had been part of her love; this time she talked like an acquaintance, someone who cared nothing for him. The realization sent a chill through him.
“I admit it,” he said with a forced smile. “But what there is is all due to you.”
“Then let me be cursed for it,” she said quietly, “for if I am responsible for what you have done then I bear a heavy guilt. I taught you as much as I could and you used it to massacre your son, your friend, and the Jews. And you have become a saint. You are a saint, Manlius; the people say so already. When you are dead you will have your shrine and your prayers.”
“They are nothing to me if I do not have your good opinion, my lady.”
“And you do not have it. The moment you ordered the death of Syagrius you lost it forever. He did not betray you; he stayed in Vaison to ensure I came to no danger. He kept watch on me night and day, offered himself as a hostage until you came back. Your response was to kill him, without inquiry, so you could make a grand gesture before all the town. And to yourself, and to the shade of your father. You would not show weakness, would you, Lord Bishop? You would not expose yourself as your father did, and hesitate, and be merciful. He did, and died for it. His cause was lost. That was not a mistake you would make. You learned from him as you learned from me.”
“What he did—or what he failed to do—is the cause of our current distress,” Manlius said stiffly.
“Nonsense,” she replied harshly. “Do you think one man can make a difference? If he had lived another twenty years, would it have conjured up armies? Given the people of this region the will to fight? Made Rome able to defend itself? No. Your father’s quest was doomed from the start. He knew it, and he died as a man of honor, choosing not to do wrong, so that at least he would leave behind something noble. Would that you had his qualities. You have chosen instead to pile injustice on injustice, corpse on corpse. Felix knew nothing of what his cousin was doing, but your response was to kill him, and to kill his entire line, because you wanted to deliver a peaceful province to Gundobad. And because you needed to win the minds of the people, you slaughtered the Jews, who had done neither you nor anyone else any ill. On such things do you build your civilization, and you use me to justify it all.”
“I have brought peace to this land, and security,” he began.
“And what of your soul, when you use the cleverness of argument to cloak such acts? Do you think that the peace of a thousand cancels out the unjust death of one single person? It may be desirable, it may win you praise from those who have happily survived you and prospered from your deeds, but you have committed ignoble acts, and have been too proud to own them. I have waited patiently here, hoping that you would come to me, for if you understood, then some of your acts would be mitigated. But instead you send me this manuscript, proud, magisterial, and demonstrating only that you have understood nothing at all.”
“I returned to public life on your advice, madam,” he said stiffly.
“Yes; I advised it. I said if learning must die it should do so with a friend by its bedside. Not an assassin.”
She looked up at him, with tears in her eyes. “You were my last pupil, Manlius. And you have made what you have done into my legacy, as well as your own. You have taken what I had and corrupted it. Used what I taught you to kill and justify your killing. For that I will never forgive you. Please leave me alone now.”
She turned back to face the valley and closed her eyes in contemplation. Manlius waited for a moment, hoping she would begin talking to him once more, then turned and walked away. He never spoke to her again.
JULIEN HAD ONLY glimpses of what Olivier did in the last few hours before he was attacked. Olivier himself scarcely understood what he was doing; he did not proceed rationally, but rather went by instinct, almost in a dream. In many ways, he was behaving purely selfishly, in contrast to the idealism that motivated both Ceccani and Cardinal de Deaux in their different ways.
He left the palace and walked through the streets of Avignon until he saw a servant of the Comte de Fréjus, someone he had seen before. He walked up to him. “Say, my friend,” he said. “Would you do me a favor?”
The man turned and nodded in vague recognition.
“Would you run straight to your master and say you saw me? Say I am going to the house of the Italian painter Pisano. Tell him the news: that I said I know who murdered his wife, saw the culprit with my own eyes, and that I will inform the magistrates this afternoon. Make sure he understands. I know who murdered his wife.”
The man frowned in puzzlement.
“Do not ask me questions,” Olivier said urgently. “Just discharge this service, and I will be in your debt forever.”
And he turned and walked away. He went back to Pisano’s lodgings. He waited for four hours, during which time he wrote his last poems, the final four that came down to Julien, including the most puzzling of them all, the one that begins “Our lonely souls swim to the light . . .” a verse that only Julien ever properly understood, its strange imagery, and tone oscillating between the regretful and the joyous being too eccentric to be readily appreciated.
And then they came, as he knew they would. Olivier folded his papers and pushed them under the door of Pisano’s neighbor, with a note that he should take them to the pope. Then he knelt down to pray as he heard the footsteps coming softly up the stairs. He looked up and saw the Comte de Fréjus himself with three other men standing in the doorway.
“I have been expecting you,” he said quietly as they came in.
THE REST OF the story took place in public, although what it meant was swiftly obscured. Only Clement, perhaps, held all the strands. When de Fréjus fled, leaving Olivier bleeding on the floor all but dead, his hands smashed beyond use, his tongue cut off so that he could never tell his secret to anyone, the news traveled fast. The count was seen entering the building, seen leaving it two hours later covered in blood; the screams as Olivier was tortured were heard for hundreds of yards around. No one dared intervene. It was then that the story began to circulate that the assault was revenge for Olivier’s murder of Isabelle de Fréjus; the tale protected the count’s reputation, for no one wanted the truth made public, but it did not fool Clement. A horse-man left the papal palace within the hour, heading for the Countess of Provence’s court; the comte’s seneschal was removed from Aigues-Mortes and the command taken over by her own cousin; extra soldiers were sent in. The English force materialized off the coast, waited three days, then sailed back to Bordeaux.
As a power, Ceccani was finished, his desire for the papacy to return to Rome dead. He even returned to his bishoprics, visiting each in turn and winning a reputation as a good shepherd of his flock, in contrast to the absentees of Avignon, who took their dues but gave precious little in exchange.
And three days after the attack, Olivier had his reward as he lay in a quiet room in the papal palace, attended by the pope’s own physician. For Clement was a thorough man; he not only blocked Ceccani’s plan for Aigues-Mortes, he moved to demolish the power base his cardinal had built himself as well. The great bull
Cum Natura Humana
, a thunderous declamation that echoed across the whole world, was issued. The Jews were innocent of any charges laid against them in the matter of the plague. They were the fathers of nations, as was now the pope himself. To injure them was to injure the pope, and all Christians as well. Clement took them under his personal protection. Anyone who harmed them in any way would be excommunicated and would have to answer to the pope himself. They were not to be attacked, nor to be forcibly converted, for obedience without faith was pointless. They were to be left alone.