The Dream of Scipio

  And Marcel stayed with him, saying nothing, hoping only to give some comfort with his presence, the assurance of his friendship. Eventually, Julien began to talk.

  “When I was at Verdun,” he said quietly, “I saw things which were more appalling than you can imagine. I saw civilization coming apart at the seams. As it weakened, people felt free to act as they pleased, and did so, which weakened it still more. And I decided then it was the most important thing, that it had to survive and be protected. Without that tissue of beliefs and habits we are worse than beasts. Animals are constrained by their limitations and their lack of imagination. We are not.

  “So that is what I have tried to do, all my life in a small and insignificant way. Anything would be better than another collapse like that, because I was certain that another would be final. No coming back. And I told myself that no matter what politicians or generals did, they were merely the barbarians, and everyone else had to defend what was truly important from them; keep the flickering flame going. People like Bernard and you were what I detested most of all. Neither of you was even honest enough to admit you wanted power.

  “I was wrong, and I only realized it when you told me Julia had been denounced by the wife of our local blacksmith. Odd, don’t you think? I have seen war, and invasions and riots. I have heard of massacres and brutalities beyond imagining, and I have kept my faith in the power of civilization to bring men back from the brink. And yet one woman writes a letter, and my whole world falls to pieces.

  “You see, she is an ordinary woman. A good one, even. That’s the point. You are not a good man. Bernard is not a good man. Nothing either of you do can surprise or shock me, or worry me. But she denounced Julia and sent her to her death because she resented her, and because Julia is a Jew.

  “I thought in this simple contrast between the civilized and the barbaric, but I was wrong. It is the civilized who are the truly barbaric, and the Germans are merely the supreme expression of it. They are our greatest achievement. They are building a monument which will never be dismantled, even when they are swept away. They are teaching us a lesson which will echo for hundreds of years. Manlius Hippomanes buried his ideas in the church, and those ideas survived the end of his world. The Nazis are doing the same. They are holding up a mirror and saying, ‘Look at what we have all achieved.’ And they are the same ideas, Marcel. That was my mistake.”

  “The Germans are trying to win a war, Julien,” Marcel said. “And they’re losing. They’re desperate, and that makes them even more brutal than they are usually.”

  “You know that’s not true. They knew the moment the Americans entered the war they’d lost. Before then, even. They may be mad, but they’re not fools. What they’re doing goes far beyond the war. Something unparalleled in human history. The ultimate achievement of civilization. Just think about it. How do you annihilate so many people? You need contributions from so many quarters. Scientists to prove Jews are inferior; theologians to provide the moral tone. Industrialists to build the trains and the camps. Technicians to design the guns. Administrators to solve the vast problems of identifying and moving so many people. Writers and artists to make sure nobody notices or cares. Hundreds of years spent honing skills and developing techniques have been necessary before such a thing can even be imagined, let alone put into effect. And now is the moment. Now is the time for all the skills of civilization to be put to use.

  “Can you imagine a greater, a more enduring achievement? This will last forever, and cannot be undone. Whatever benefits we bring to mankind in the future, we killed the Jews. No matter how great the advances of medicine, we killed them. However high our achievements may soar, however perfect we become, this is what is at our heart. We killed them all; not by accident, or in a fit of passion. We did it deliberately, and after centuries of preparation.

  “When all this is over, people will try to blame the Germans alone, and the Germans will try to blame the Nazis alone, and the Nazis will try to blame Hitler alone. They will make him bear the sins of the world. But it’s not true. You suspected what was happening, and so did I. It was already too late over a year ago. I caused a reporter to lose his job because you told me to. He was deported. The day I did that I made my little contribution to civilization, the only one that matters.”

  “If you think that, why didn’t you throw your lot in with Bernard, then?”

  “Because he’s no better. He promised to get Julia out of France and then did nothing about it, because he needed her to forge papers for him. If that placed her at risk, then so be it. If she got caught, it didn’t matter. He spends his time thinking about the future, and in the present his people kill soldiers and bomb barracks. They don’t sabotage many convoys taking away the Jews. It’s not a priority. There are more important things to do.

  “ ‘The evil done by men of goodwill is the worst of all.’ That’s what my Neoplatonic bishop said, and he was right. He knew. He had firsthand experience of it. We have done terrible things, for the best of reasons, and that makes it worse.”

  Marcel was trying to lead him back to his apartment; they got to the entrance to the museum, closed now. “I think you should go and sleep. You haven’t had any rest for a long time.”

  “What about Bernard, Marcel?”

  “It’s out of my hands. All the information has been given to the Germans.”

  “ ‘Has been given’? You mean you gave it to them already?”

  “Yes. I gave it to them. I had to, otherwise those people would have been shot this evening. If they manage to arrest Bernard, they will be let go.”

  “And then what? He is tortured to death?”

  Marcel sighed. “What can I do, Julien? What would you do?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Go home and sleep. It is out of your hands. And out of mine. We are powerless. We always have been.”

  And Julien did go home, but before he did so, he watched Marcel slowly and heavily go into the church across the road. He was going to pray; he found it a comfort. Not for the first time, Julien envied him the solace.

  Afterward, he begged Felix to come to his villa for more substantive talks. The invitation was accompanied by all sorts of reassurances that the friendship of the soul must always triumph over minor material estrangements. That Manlius was, and always would be, his true friend. In these dangerous times any sort of disunity amongst those who truly were of importance would allow civil strife to come to the surface. In the name of the rationality they had always espoused, Manlius begged Felix to come and talk to him, that their differences might be settled.

  Felix responded—not enthusiastically, but readily enough; it was the last flickering of their old friendship. Besides, Manlius now had the upper hand in the delicate balance of the town’s affections; he had come to some accommodation with the Burgundians; and Felix needed to know urgently what exactly he had agreed to do.

  So he came, and the spirit of peace returned. They retired to his villa, and arm in arm they walked once more, and for a while the comfort of civility extended itself over them both.

  “I wish this had not happened,” Felix said. “Much will be lost if we are separated.”

  “We needn’t be,” Manlius replied. “We will always walk through these gardens, smelling the flowers in bloom and watching the sun on the water’s surface.”

  Neither wanted to break the moment, to talk about why they were meeting. To do so would have acknowledged that their last afternoon together was a chimera, existing now only in their desires, not in any reality. The hearts of both men ached for what was passing from their grasp. The days spent in conversation, the letters received and read, the responses made to them. Their shared pleasure in a well-cropped fruit tree, an admirable vista recalling some work of literature, a subtle blend of spices at an agreeable dinner party.

  “Do you remember,” Felix said eventually, “that time we heard of the Greek musician in Marseille? How we both went down there as fast as we c
ould, and bid to hire him for a month? How the price went up and up, until the poor man was bewildered and thought we were making fun of him?”

  Manlius laughed. “And eventually he had to intervene, and promise to come to both of us, one after the other. But you got him first.”

  “And you discovered that he knew the whole of the Iliad, and could recite it in the old mode. So beautiful it was.”

  “And all the more enjoyable for watching the faces of our guests when they realized they were expected to stay and listen to it for eleven days.”

  They walked some more, basking in the warmth, until Felix finally broke the spell. “I think that Gundobad does not read Greek,” he said quietly.

  Manlius almost cried out in protest. Not yet. Let us enjoy this a little while longer before it is taken away forever. But he knew that sooner or later it would come. It could not be delayed.

  “He is a good ruler, educated in Rome. Willing to take advice from people he trusts. His wife is a Catholic and he will not interfere there. And he can block Euric.”

  “He is a barbarian, come what may.”

  “So was Ricimer, and Rome itself bowed before him happily enough.”

  “But Ricimer bowed in turn to Constantinople. Gundobad will not do so. Will he?”

  “No. He wishes to be king, owing allegiance to no man.”

  “And the Burgundians are not numerous. Do you seriously think that they can relieve Clermont and defend the whole of Provence from Euric?”

  And here was the moment. The end of it all, for civilization was merely another name for friendship, and friendship was coming to an end. Manlius wished not to speak, wished he could say something else, suddenly come up with a great plan that would convince his friend so they could meet the coming challenges together. But he could not.

  “He does not intend to.”

  Felix took some time to absorb the implications of this. He was not a slow man; far from it. He simply had trouble believing what he heard.

  “Go on,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  Manlius took a deep breath. “I did my best to persuade the Burgundians to march to Clermont and block Euric there. They would not do so. Instead, they will move south to a line a little beyond Vaison, on the left bank, so that they command the river. That is all I could get them to do. And I believe they have begun their march already. Clermont is lost. So is all the land down to the coast. Those who live there had best make what peace they can with Euric, or he will impose his own terms later.”

  He glanced at his friend and saw that there were tears in his eyes. “Manlius, Manlius, what have you done?” he said eventually. “You have betrayed us all. Sold yourself and abandoned everyone else. Did he reward you well, this new master of yours? Did you go down and kiss his feet? Are you learning his language, so you can lie to him the better?”

  “My friend . . .” Manlius said, resting his hand on Felix’s arm.

  “You are no friend of mine. A man of honor would have preferred to fight to the last, side by side with his friends. Not sell them into slavery to save himself and his estates.”

  “The way is open for you to bring troops from Italy. Did you find any?”

  “There is no time now. The moment Euric hears the Burgundians have moved, he will move as well. He must. You know that, don’t you?”

  Manlius nodded.

  “Not that it will concern you. You will be safe, all your lands protected by Gundobad.”

  “And if I hadn’t? What then? Do you seriously think that even if you had a year, or two years, you would have found any troops worth having?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know there are none. Any you found would have put up a paltry show of fighting then joined the winning side. And the Goths would have destroyed everything in vengeance. As it is now, they will be blocked. The sea on one side, the mountains on the other, and the Burgundians on the third. They have to keep moving. Eventually they will wither and die.”

  “And will anything be left when they leave?”

  Manlius shrugged. “There is a chance.”

  “Yes. There is one chance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A show of strength, to demonstrate that we are not to be walked over. If we can throw back the Burgundians, then Euric will think twice about trying as well. He is besieging Clermont still. He cannot commit his forces to little wars all over Gaul. It will give him pause. And in that time we can raise troops from somewhere, even if we have to melt down every statue in the land to pay for it. That is our chance. Give me your aid, your money, and your men. We could leave in a few days, you and I, and others would join us.”

  “I have already given my word.”

  “The Bishop of Vaison gave his word. After tomorrow, you may not be the bishop. You have called a meeting. Very well, then. We will see who is the more persuasive.”

  Manlius nodded, distracted by the noise of two slaves standing nearby, hewing at a log with a long-handled axe.

  “We must not argue now,” he said sadly. “Too much is at stake for heated words. Let us pause and think, and talk again later.”

  When she came out, dirty and disheveled, she looked confused, uncertain, and frightened, not knowing whether she was being released or taken off to be tortured or killed. Then she turned, ever so slightly, and saw Olivier. She couldn’t even smile, she just ran to him and gripped hold of him so tightly it seemed that they must become one person, inseparable and indistinguishable. He bent his head down and smelled her hair, felt it against his cheek, rocked to and fro delighting in her touch. Neither said anything; even the guards stood back and let them be.

  With the greatest reluctance, they had to pull apart; such moments do not last in this world, they merely offer a hint, then are whisked away.

  “You are free. I’ve come to take you away.” It was all he said; he had used up all his poetry and needed to say nothing else. “Come quickly.”

  The old rabbi, standing by and seeing all, needed little encouragement. He had no idea what had happened to him; it was what Christians did. He sought no further explanation. Philosopher he was, but no fool; he now wanted to get out of the palace and the town as swiftly as his old legs could carry him. He had no money, and no donkey or horse. Weighed down with books and manuscripts—for these he refused to abandon—the three of them walked up to the ground and out into a courtyard. It was still morning, a fine and beautiful day, the most beautiful there had ever been.

  They walked slowly through the streets of the town until Olivier made them sit down and wait while he ran to find a donkey. As he left them, he was overcome with a fit of shivering despite the heat of the morning sun. The realization of what he had done came over him like a sickness, and he felt the chill of loneliness. He was alone, and without any protection. He had no one to go to for help. As he walked he felt hunted already, knowing that retribution would be swift and hideous. He dared not go back to Ceccani’s palace, his home for the last ten years, but could not behave as Pisano had done and run away. He wanted to, though, wanted to race across the countryside as fast as he could and catch up with his friend Pisano. Then they would journey to Italy together, and Olivier would—what? He did not know; all he knew was that the greater the distance between himself and Avignon, the safer he would be.

  But what of his other friends? What about this woman he had fallen in love with, and her master, grumpy and ill-humored though he was? If he left, they would die sooner or later, and it says much again for the limitations of Olivier’s vision that this was the way he saw it. If all the Jews died, so would they. He was making no grand gesture, did not want to guarantee his own eternal fame. He did not even want to save the Jews; they were not his business. All he wanted to do was make sure that these two people were not harmed when they deserved to be left in peace. A foolish, wasteful, and futile gesture; even he knew that.

  He came back with a donkey, after giving all the money he had in exchange. He walked it back to them in bare fee
t, and helped load Gersonides’s books—he was coming to hate books, he thought as he struggled to tie them in place—then the old man himself. And he handed the halter over to Rebecca.

  “Leave the city immediately. Do not go home, or anywhere where there are Jews until you are sure you can do so safely.” He said it brusquely, without detail. He knew that if he started talking to her properly, he would never be able to stop.

  “But you are coming with us?”

  “I have things to do here.”

  “What things?”

  He shrugged. “Important things. Things which don’t concern you. I would like to go but I can’t. And you must. It is too dangerous to stay here.”

  “No,” she said. “You have to come, too.”

  He turned to Gersonides, sitting as patiently on the donkey as it was bearing his weight. “Sir?” he appealed. “Tell her to go with you.”

  “I think it would be best, my dear,” he said gently. “Olivier will no doubt race to catch up once his business is done.” He looked at Olivier and saw there was little chance of it, whatever he had planned.

  “Of course,” Olivier said stoutly. Then he moved over to talk to him quietly.

  “You will make sure she stays with you and doesn’t come back here?”

  “Of course. A counterfeit Jew can die as readily as a real one, I think.”

  “I cannot say goodbye to her properly.”

  The old man nodded. “Probably not.”

  Olivier smiled. “Goodbye, sir. I think you sense how much I have valued knowing you.”

  “No. But I will comfort myself with guessing until you return.”