Citadel

  He sat, uneasy, uncomfortable, conscious of the man watching him, until he could bear it no longer. Then he smiled, and excused himself. He got out of the hot waters, walked a little way along the bank to dry and to dress then, as quickly as he could manage, and without making it obvious, he retraced his steps back up to the road.

  Only when he had climbed up out of the gorge and was standing close to the thermae did he turn around. He was disquieted to see the man was now nowhere to be seen.

  ‡

  Chapter 80

  COUSTAUSSA

  AUGUST 1942

  Dawn. The first of the birds were beginning to sing. Light was giving shape back to the room. The heavy dresser, the objects collected over a lifetime.

  Sandrine and Raoul were lying side by side in her father’s bedroom at the back of the house. A mirror image of one another, his dark hair and hers, his suntanned face and arms and her shoulders, lying bone to bone, skin against skin.

  ‘Are you frightened of what might happen?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘No, I’m serious,’ she said.

  Raoul smiled. ‘So am I.’

  Sandrine sat up. They were lying on top of the sheet, almost dressed, a layer of innocent cotton and silk still between them. She looked towards the open window, the shutters left open to let the new day in, pinching herself. She was astonished that she didn’t feel the slightest bit self-conscious or awkward. She glanced at him, then away. She didn’t know if he had spent the night with a girl before; she assumed he had.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said, sensing the shift in her. ‘You don’t want me to go?’

  ‘No. Stay.’

  A small voice in her head wondered what Marianne would say, what Marieta would say, but she didn’t feel guilty. Nothing about it felt wrong.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked again.

  Sandrine wrapped her bare arms around her knees. ‘Just thinking.’

  ‘That way madness lies.’

  ‘Yes.’

  For a little while, they were quiet again.

  ‘Do you think Monsieur Baillard’s plan will work?’ she said eventually.

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘You can’t be seen in Tarascon,’ she said. ‘The posters are everywhere now.’

  ‘I’ll be all right. I’m more worried about you,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re the one taking the risk.’

  ‘Monsieur Baillard will be there. And Geneviève and Eloise.’

  ‘I’m not happy. I don’t like the idea of Coursan – whatever his name actually is – being anywhere near you.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, echoing his words. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘You can’t blame me for wanting to look after you.’

  ‘I don’t, it’s just . . .’

  From downstairs, the sounds of breakfast being prepared floated up the stairs, intruding into their private world.

  ‘We’d better get up,’ she said.

  She dressed in a pair of shorts and a sleeveless shirt, then ran downstairs to the kitchen. Marieta was sitting in the armchair darning a tea towel. Liesl was reading a book on photography, which Sandrine recognised from her father’s study. Monsieur Baillard sat at the table. If any of them realised that she and Raoul had spent the night together in the same room, nobody said anything.

  Sandrine poured herself a cup of ersatz coffee from the pan on the stove, then joined Monsieur Baillard at the table. She looked at the sheet of paper, which had been transformed into a heavy yellow papyrus, the texture veined and covered with sharp black geometric letters.

  ‘Are you making progress, Monsieur Baillard?’

  ‘The age of the paper will not deceive an expert – it is many centuries too recent – but with what we have done, I believe it should be sufficient to deceive an untrained eye. For a short time, at least.’

  ‘What language is it?’

  ‘Coptic. Many of the early Christian texts, although originally in Greek, were translated into local languages. In Egypt, in this time period, Coptic was the language of theology and thought.’

  ‘Monsieur Baillard speaks and reads many ancient languages,’ said Marieta. ‘Hieroglyphics even, medieval Latin and Arabic, Hebrew . . .’

  ‘Now, Marieta,’ he said softly, raising his hands in embarrassment.

  Sandrine grinned at the pride on Marieta’s face, relieved to see she was ever more like her old self. She heard footsteps, then Raoul appeared in the doorway. She felt Marieta’s eyes on her and suddenly worried she might guess, as she always did, what was going on.

  ‘Are you all right, Madomaisèla?’ Marieta said under her breath.

  Sandrine smiled at her, then nodded. ‘I’m happy,’ she said.

  Marieta held her gaze a moment, then turned to Raoul. ‘Sénher Pelletier, I hope you slept well. There is coffee on the stove.’

  Chapter 81

  CARCASSONNE

  Lucie was waiting in the blue Peugeot 202 at the corner of the rue Mazagran. Marianne came out of the front door with her usual shopping basket. Suzanne went out of the back with the luggage. They didn’t want to risk Madame Fournier seeing the suitcase and putting two and two together.

  Marianne and Lucie were both dressed for summer, in short-sleeved cotton dresses and straw hats. If they were stopped, they would look like any other girls out for a summer outing. Suzanne was wearing her customary slacks and shirt.

  ‘How did you get the car?’ Marianne said, putting her things in the boot.

  ‘My father went back to the Café Edouard last evening. His drinking companions carried him home, out for the count. I waited until I could hear him snoring, then crept in through the workshop, took the key and the car. By the time he wakes up, we’ll be south of Limoux.’

  ‘How did you manage to get enough fuel?’ Suzanne was peering at the three full cans of petrol on the floor in the back of the car.

  ‘From the “official” pumps,’ Lucie said. ‘I said it was for him. Returning POW and all that . . .’

  They drove out on the Route de Toulouse, heading for the Montréal road. A few kilometres out of town, they saw their first roadblock. Ahead of them, a car was pulled over, the doors and bonnet open, being searched by police.

  ‘Shall we take another road?’ suggested Marianne.

  Lucie turned off and doubled back, then followed a smaller road heading south.

  They arrived in Couiza a little after midday. Lucie turned off the engine, then slumped theatrically back in her seat.

  ‘I know it’s not much further, but she’s got to cool down a little. I need to put fresh water in the radiator, otherwise she won’t cope with the hill. It’s steep, you said?’

  Marianne nodded. She got out, then Suzanne climbed through from the back.

  ‘Hot,’ she said.

  Lucie rolled her neck, to shake the drive out of her shoulders, then reached into the glove compartment, pulled out her powder compact and lipstick, tilted the rear-view mirror and started to do her face.

  ‘I look a sight,’ she said.

  Suzanne lit a cigarette and walked away from the car.

  ‘She always has tobacco, how come?’

  ‘She claims her father’s allowance, I think,’ Marianne said, not adding the fact that it came more often from people Suzanne and she had helped. ‘How long do you think we’ll need? I’m keen to be there.’

  ‘Once I’ve filled her up with water, it won’t be long.’

  The girls went to the Grand Café Guilhem on the bridge. One or two people recognised Marianne and nodded, but mostly people kept themselves to themselves. They took a table in the shade, close to the door, and ordered three glasses of wine.

  Suzanne nodded to Marianne. ‘You think we’re safe here?’

  Marianne shrugged.

  ‘How are you holding up, Lucie?’ she said quietly.

  ‘Fine and dandy,’ Lucie replied, though her eyes were anxious.

  In the heat
of the day, nothing was stirring. Few sounds were heard, just the occasional clatter of a plate or a glass from somewhere in the dark interior. They finished up, paid and walked back out into the blistering August sun.

  Lucie fanned herself with her hat, Marianne looked around at the familiar landmarks, then her eyes widened.

  ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘What?’ Suzanne said.

  ‘There, look.’

  Coming towards them, on the far side of the concourse, was Sandrine, accompanied by an elderly man in a pale linen suit.

  Chapter 82

  At first Sandrine thought she was imagining it. She lifted her hand to shield her eyes and saw she wasn’t mistaken. Lucie’s corn-coloured hair and Suzanne’s short crop were so distinctive. And her sister was wearing her favourite blue dress.

  ‘Marianne!’ she cried. She walked faster, then broke into a run. ‘Marianne, I can’t believe it.’

  She flung her arms around her, then kissed Suzanne and Lucie.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said again. ‘What are you doing here? More to the point, how did you even get here? We had such a storm, the line’s still closed at Alet-les-Bains. There’ve been no trains for days.’

  ‘Lucie “borrowed” one of her father’s cars,’ Marianne said, making inverted commas in the air with her hands. ‘As for why, since you didn’t call – and didn’t answer the telegram I sent – Suzanne and I thought we had better come to see for ourselves everything was all right.’

  ‘Telegram?’ Sandrine shook her head. ‘Didn’t get anything, but never mind. Marieta will be so pleased to see you. I’m so pleased to see you.’

  ‘It’s nice to be out of Carcassonne,’ said Marianne. ‘How’s it been? Everything all right?’

  ‘A bit odd at first, without you and Papa,’ Sandrine admitted, ‘but then . . .’ She paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘But the thing is – and there’s nothing to worry about now, because she’s going to be fine – the thing is, Marieta was taken ill almost immediately we arrived.’

  ‘What kind of ill?’ Marianne said quickly.

  ‘A heart attack,’ Sandrine said, then, seeing Marianne’s expression, rushed on. ‘Very mild.’

  Marianne put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God.’

  Sandrine hugged her. ‘She’s on the mend, really she is. It was more of a warning, but it was pretty frightening at the time. The doctor says there’s no reason she shouldn’t make a full recovery. She just has to keep off her legs and let us do the work.’

  ‘How’s she managing that?’

  ‘Not awfully well. But Liesl’s been wonderful. And without Monsieur Baillard, well . . . Let me introduce you.’ He was standing a little apart, his hat held in his hands. ‘He’s the friend Marieta wrote to, remember?’ ‘She used to work for him in Rennes-les-Bains when she was young and why she was so keen to come to Coustaussa in the first instance.’ She smiled. ‘Monsieur Baillard, may I present my sister Marianne.’

  He held out his hand. ‘Madomaisèla Vidal.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Baillard.’

  ‘The pleasure is mine,’ he said formally. He turned to Sandrine. ‘I will leave you to your reunions. You are certain, filha? There is still time for you to change your mind.’

  Sandrine shook her head. ‘No. I want to do it.’

  He nodded. ‘Very well. Until Wednesday, then. Dimècres.’

  Sandrine dropped her voice. ‘Promise me you’ll look after Raoul, Monsieur Baillard. Don’t let any harm come to him.’

  ‘I will do my best,’ he said.

  He raised his hat again, then slowly walked across the concourse towards the Espéraza road. Sandrine watched him go with a catch in her throat, something about his unruffled presence reminding her of her father. She sighed.

  ‘What’s happening on Wednesday?’ Marianne asked.

  Sandrine turned to her sister. ‘Antoine Déjean’s funeral in Tarascon.’

  ‘Yes, we saw in the newspaper he had been found,’ she said quietly, ‘though I’m not sure—’

  ‘Antoine was working for Monsieur Baillard.’

  Marianne looked doubtfully after the frail white figure, like a ghost on the far corner of the square.

  ‘Working for him? In what capacity?’

  ‘I’ll explain when we’re home,’ said Sandrine, dropping her voice even lower. ‘Raoul’s stepped in to help now.’

  Marianne’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s been in touch?’

  A brief smiled played across her sister’s lips. ‘Better. He came in person.’

  ‘How did he know you were here?’ she said.

  Sandrine shrugged. ‘He took a chance. He was worried that now Antoine has been found, Coursan would make renewed efforts to track me down.’ She shrugged again. ‘I don’t know if he’s right.’

  ‘Coursan . . .’

  ‘Coursan, or whatever his name is. The man who set Raoul up.’

  ‘Authié,’ Marianne said. ‘It’s Authié.’

  ‘It is? How do you know?’

  ‘I had his description from several people, in the end,’ Marianne said, going on to explain what had happened in Carcassonne. ‘Attached to the Deuxième Bureau.’

  ‘Well,’ Sandrine said, keeping her voice steady. ‘I’m sure everyone’s worrying too much. If he – Authié, Coursan – wanted to find me, he could. Everyone knows we have a house here. And as Lucie said, it was me who handed my details to the police in the first place. It’s not her fault.’

  ‘All the same . . .’ Marianne started, then decided to hold her tongue. ‘Where’s Raoul now? Still in Coustaussa?’

  Sandrine shook her head. ‘He left this morning with Geneviève. She’s taking him to somewhere south of Belcaire, where Eloise will meet him and take him on to Tarascon. He can’t travel openly, there are posters everywhere.’

  ‘Seen them,’ Suzanne said. ‘And I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you ready to get going? The waiter wants the table and Lucie needs to lie down.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with Lucie?’ asked Sandrine.

  Marianne sighed. ‘We have a lot more to tell you too.’

  ‡

  Codex XIII

  ‡

  GAUL

  AQUIS CALIDIS

  AUGUST AD 342

  Arinius walked quickly up through the woods. He was breathless and his chest was tight, but he didn’t slow his pace, despite the heat. He could see no one and heard nothing unusual, nothing more than sounds of the land – rabbits in the undergrowth, the occasional bird on the wing, the stridulation of crickets in the dry grasslands. Common sounds that somehow now carried a sense of threat within them. There was no one around, the hillside was deserted, but he felt he was being watched.

  In the deepest part of the wood, he paused. Faint but unmistakable, he heard it. The crack of a twig, the sound of footsteps in the bone-dry undergrowth, the indication that there was someone – or something – on the slopes below. An animal, a boar or stag? A person? Arinius stood still, straining to hear, but the wood echoed silent around him.

  After a minute or two more, he set off again, walking even faster. Turning round, looking into the ancient evergreen shadows of the wood. Breaking into a run, his own fear snapping at his heels.

  Without warning, he felt himself flying backwards. His cloak wrenched hard at his neck and he felt the clasp on his mother’s brooch snap and fly off into the undergrowth as his feet went from under him. He started to fall, tumbling off the path into the thick undergrowth. Arinius threw out his hands to protect himself, trying to grasp at a root or the trunk of a tree to slow himself down, but he kept somersaulting down the slope.

  Finally he came to a halt. For a moment he lay sprawled on the steep ground, looking up through the canopy of leaves to the blue sky, dazed and disorientated. Little by little the world came back into focus. He rolled on to his side, then got himself into a sitting position. He put his hand to his leg, and his fingers came back sticky with blood. His hand
s were scratched too.

  He looked back up to where he’d slipped, and realised he hadn’t lost his footing, but had rather walked into a rope tied between two trees. A trapper’s net. At least, he hoped that was what it was. The alternative was more disquieting.

  Then he heard the sound again. There was no doubt that someone was walking up the path, following the route he had taken, someone trying not to make any noise. A steady and careful placing of one foot after the other.

  Arinius looked around in panic, then realised that in fact his fall might be the saving of him. Unless the person tracking him left the path and descended into the thicket of the slopes, they wouldn’t see him. Struggling not to make any noise that would betray his hiding place, he slithered into the narrow gap between the thickest of the laurel bushes, and pulled his cloak around him. He had a clear view of the path and, above and to his left, the trapper’s net itself.

  The footsteps got closer, closer. Arinius held his breath, certain the frantic beating of his heart would give him away. He peered up through the veil of leaves. Feet, legs, a hand resting on the hilt of a hunting knife. Broad shoulders and back, a shock of grizzled grey hair. Even though he had been expecting it, it was a blow to find his suspicions confirmed. The man had followed him from Aquis Calidis.

  Suddenly Arinius felt the familiar rasping in his throat. Desperate to prevent an attack, he swallowed hard, then again to stop himself coughing. He put his hand over his mouth, steadying his breathing as he had learnt to do, and gradually felt the irritation recede.

  He crossed himself in silent thanks.

  He watched the man bend down and touch the rope, as if he was hoping to see some indication that his quarry had passed this way. Then he straightened up, stepped over it and carried on up to where the path diverged. The left-hand spur led towards the shepherds’ settlement. The right-hand route doubled back towards the villages to the east of Aquis Calidis.