He slept on the steps of Saint Agricole, along with half a dozen other beggars, and considered how he had first glimpsed Rebecca some two years before. He again saw her walking past in her heavy dark cloak and remembered the feeling that had torn through him as he looked. And he decided that the emotion that welled up in him that day was itself a sign from God, that he had to obey it.
Dawn came eventually; his companions of the night rolled over and groaned one by one, and as the light rose, Olivier stood up with a sudden surge of determination and walked off, pausing only when he got to the great walls of the palace. He considered going again to Ceccani, considered going to de Deaux, but dismissed both ideas. He thought of begging for Rebecca alone, saying she was not a Jew, but knew this was hopeless. Ceccani was reaching for the whole world; Olivier knew he could never deflect him with anything so simple.
He walked in through the huge gates of the palace, nodding familiarly to the guard, whom he had known for years, but wary lest some alert had been put out for him, in case Ceccani had managed to read the mind he had had such difficulty understanding himself. But all was well; nothing happened, there was no shout or running of feet. In the great courtyard he stood uncertainly, lost and bewildered once more until his confusion was broken into by the clear, pure sound of a bell ringing through the morning air.
He almost fell to the ground in thanks as he heard it. It was the sound for the musicians and the singers to leave their studies and gather in the chapel, dutifully waiting their master. For them to sing their hearts out before God’s earthly representative. Clement, frightened and blockaded in his tower though he was, could not live without music. It was his life and his greatest pleasure. Even the plague could not deflect him from it. Even as the bodies were carried through the streets, he had ordered that any musician who left the palace without his permission would be arrested. If they had to die for his tranquillity, then so be it. There were some things this strange man could not do without.
And as the bell tolled, he would be putting on his robes, descending the stairs, and processing through the great corridors and chambers of the palace to the chapel. He would be alone and isolated, for he had ordered that no man must come near him in case he communicate the plague. Then he would sit until the music had finished and he could scurry, refreshed, back to his protective chamber high in the sky.
Olivier hurried, taking all the shortcuts he knew by instinct after so many years. There was a side door to the chapel where the acolytes entered and left as the services demanded. Olivier got there before anyone else and ducked through it. Then he concealed himself behind one of the huge Flemish tapestries Clement had commissioned to make the place more pleasing to his eye. And waited.
At any more normal time, he would have had no chance of approaching Clement; the moment he stepped forward, the guards who always hovered nearby would have fallen on him and dragged him away. Clement had an affable persona in public, but took the prospect of neither injury nor insult lightly. True, he was at his least exposed in the chapel, the heart of his own palace where only his immediate circle was allowed. Still, the guards remained, for he knew well that men of God were not necessarily men of peace.
The plague had changed the great ceremonies; Clement wanted as few people as possible around him. Moreover, he had a fine sense of occasion, and refused absolutely to look absurd. Rather than entering in with one priest behind him, no assistants and no one to watch, he strolled in alone with a goblet of some drink in his hand, sat heavily on his throne, leaned back, and called out to the officiating priest:
“Come on, then. Get on with it. I haven’t got all morning.”
The priest bowed and made a blessing. The choir, looking solemn or bored or resentful according to their characters, filed in and the singing began. The new music, rising and falling, twisting in and out of itself, doubling back, created in the air for as long as it lasted a perfect resemblance of the wonders of creation, and the love of God. Too complex, it seemed, for man to grasp as a whole, but so beautiful that Olivier again thought of Rebecca and Sophia and their belief in the evil of the world. So it might be, he thought. The world of spirit might be far finer, more pure, and closer to the divine. But nothing that can produce such beauty can be irredeemable; if men can produce such harmonies, hear them with their ears, sing them with their voices and their instruments, there must be goodness in the material.
Then the contrast, between the calm beauty of the music and the dire state of his own predicament, came back to him once more. He stiffened and prepared himself as the music came to an end, and an echoing silence descended on the chapel, broken only by the pope beating on the arm of his throne with his hand and calling out in a loud voice, “Very fine, very fine, boys. My thanks to you all. Makes me feel better already. Now, get out of here, and tomorrow I’d like that piece you did last week again. By that Italian fellow, you remember?”
The choirmaster nodded and bowed, and with a loud cackle of pleasure, Clement bounded out of his throne, bowed solemnly to the altar, then rubbed his hands.
“Nothing like a bit of music for stirring up an appetite, I think. I’m starving.”
He turned, took a step toward the door, then stopped as he saw Olivier, standing in front of him. There was a moment of screaming silence as Olivier realized how alarming he must look—unshaven, swaddled in a dirty cloak, the look of the hunted about him already. He kneeled down swiftly when he saw from the look on the pope’s face that he was frightened out of his wits.
“My deepest apologies, Holiness. My name is Olivier de Noyen, one of Cardinal Ceccani’s people. I wish to beg for an audience.”
Clement peered at him more closely. “De Noyen? Good God, man, what’s with you? You look like a gypsy. How dare you come before me in such a state?”
“I apologize again. I would not have done so if it had not been urgent.”
“You’ll have to wait. I want my breakfast.”
“This is more important than breakfast, Holiness.”
Clement frowned. “Young man, nothing is more important than breakfast.” He looked exasperated, but saw in the dogged look on the young man’s face that there was something he should hear. This was not frivolous, a demand for a favor, or yet another madman who believed he knew how to cure the plague or bring the Muslims to Christ.
“I will not readily forgive this.”
“As you choose, Holiness. What you do with me is of little importance as long as you hear me.”
Clement signaled to one of the guards at the door, who stepped forward. “Search him,” he ordered. “See he has no weapons. Then bring him to my chamber.”
And with a mighty scowl and a ruined morning, God’s vicegerent on earth stamped out of the chapel.
“WELL THEN? Get on with it. What is so important that you ruin my music, my breakfast, and my morning?”
“Holiness, do you wish to take the papacy to Rome?” “A strange way to start. Why do you ask such a thing?”
“Because you may have to. There is a plan to make sure you have no alternative but to leave this city. Aigues-Mortes is to be delivered to the English. When it is, the king of France will blame the Countess of Provence and want you to condemn her. You will have a hard time refusing him, I think. And if you condemn her, your chances of buying this city from her, or even remaining in it, will be small.”
Clement’s mind, subtle in matters of theology, was direct when it came to statesmanship, but now it hardly needed either. He scarcely needed to think at all to grasp that such an unfolding of events would be catastrophic. He would be reduced in an instant from serene overlord of Christendom to wandering priest, or at best a local magnate, battling against the petty warlords of Rome. Who would allow him to be peace-maker between French and English, to dictate the policies of the empire, to call up and direct a crusade, when he could not even keep his own house in order?
“You know this? Or is it something you have imagined to win my attention?”
“I
am a mere servant, and a poet, Holiness. I have no taste for intrigue. I could not have invented this. I have read a letter, setting out just such a plan.”
“From? To?”
“It was written by the Bishop of Winchester. To Cardinal Ceccani.”
Clement sat down and thought. Then he wagged his finger at Olivier. “I know you, young man. You are Ceccani’s favorite. And yet you come here to tell me this? Why would you do such a thing?”
“Because I want a reward.” He could have given a long justification to exculpate himself, to demonstrate that he acted with honor, appealed to higher motives. He did not do so; he was selling his master; he knew it and did not wish to disguise it.
“And that is?”
“I want my teacher and his servant released from this place. The two Jews. They have done no wrong, the accusation was made simply to weaken Cardinal de Deaux. And I want you to stop this campaign against the Jews before any more people die. If all Jews are threatened, then so are they, as long as they live.”
Clement waved his hands in irritation as if to dismiss the very idea. “The world is crumbling into ruin. Armies are marching. Men and women are dying everywhere, in huge numbers. Fields are abandoned and towns deserted. The wrath of the Lord is upon us and He may be intending to destroy the whole of creation. People are without leaders and direction. They want to be given a reason for this, so they can be reassured, so they will return to their prayers and their obediences. All this is going on, and you are concerned about the safety of two Jews?”
Olivier stayed silent. He was not meant to reply.
“I wish to do something which will make my name light up history,” Clement said. “I will be remembered as the man who rid the world, once and for all, of the scourge of these people. Who eradicated a daily offense against God. For more than a thousand years they have had their chance, and for all that, they have spat on the truth as they once spat on Our Lord. This is the moment to strike against them. Do you doubt it is a noble thing? A necessary, justified act, delayed for too long already? The Jews must convert, or be killed. Ceccani is right; it will bring men back together with a common purpose; reunite them with the church. I have merely to say the word, and it will be done.”
Olivier lifted his head and looked at him. “Then do not say it, sir. A conversion by force cannot be pleasing to God, only to men. The Lord built His church on love and faith, not on lies and threats. Obedience is nothing without faith. When Saint Peter took up a sword against the soldier, He took that sword from him and healed the man’s ear. And you are his heir on earth; take the sword from Ceccani’s hand as well; do not do what he suggests. Rather, do the opposite; extend your protection and love to these people, just as Christ loved sinners as much as He loved those who had faith. Live up to the name you chose when you ascended to Peter’s chair. Be clement by nature, as well as by name. Let that be your memorial. So that in the future men will think of you and say, ‘He had such love for humanity he gave the cloak of his protection even to the Jews. And by doing so, let all men see that as God is love, so is His church, even for the worst sinners, and for those most deserving punishment.’ ”
Olivier took a deep breath, then continued: “Otherwise, you will spend the rest of your life wandering the world, homeless and friendless. Men will laugh at you, no one will listen to you. Because I will not tell you how the gates of Aigues-Mortes will be opened, or when, and you will not be able to discover enough in time to stop it.”
Clement was sitting, listening to his words carefully, not throwing him from the room as he deserved. Olivier had touched something in him, he knew. But he was not there yet. “You have not yet convinced me this is anything other than some sort of elaborate trick,” he said. “You say you have seen a letter, but you do not produce it. Is there such a thing? If there is, perhaps it was written by one of his enemies? You say you have a letter proving Cardinal Ceccani is guilty of the most terrible betrayal of me, and yet here you are, wandering around this town in broad daylight, quite unmolested. If I were Ceccani, I would have cut your throat before you came near me.”
“He does not know I am here. But there is a letter.”
“Give it to me, then.”
“I cannot. There is no time. Either for you or for me. The torture of the two Jews will start soon, if it has not already. There will be more riots in the streets when night falls. And you must move quickly if you are to save Aigues-Mortes for the French.”
“You are suggesting I take severe measures against a cardinal who is my closest advisor, on your word alone? No, young man. How do I know you have not been suborned by de Deaux? Or maybe you have a dispute of your own with Ceccani and wish to ruin him in revenge? You are unconvincing. I will do nothing on the basis of what you say.”
He was half-convinced, Olivier knew, and very worried. Clement knew quite well that it was a scheme Ceccani was capable of devising. But he was not sure enough to act. Not ruthless enough, perhaps. Ceccani would have done so already, on half the evidence. But the pontiff was a gentler, more pacific man, less able to think ill of people, and who found disturbance almost painful. Olivier found his prize slipping from his fingers, and so tried his final throw.
“Holiness, you say you are surprised I have not been silenced. So am I. I do not think my safety will last long.”
He paused. “Send someone to find me this evening. If I am still unmolested, then I have not proved my case, for why would anyone wish to do me harm?”
Olivier stopped, and looked carefully at the pontiff. “If someone has attacked me, then arrest him as the person who will deliver Aigues-Mortes to the English for the cardinal. Interrogate him, and discover the truth. You will also remember that the man who conceived this plan is the one who is also urging you to begin a crusade against the Jews. And you will think about that carefully before you follow his advice to soak your name in blood for his purposes.”
Clement considered. “Very well. I accept your offer. By this evening we will know whether you are a liar or a fool.”
“As for my friends, I am not trying to force you to save these two people; I leave them to your mercy and ask for no more.”
The pope rose; he liked nothing more than to demonstrate his generosity and his mercy. “The pope must know how to behave like a prince” was his belief. He liked no man to leave his presence unsatisified.
“You may take them,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I give them to you. One condition though. And that is that you tell me why any Christian should place himself at risk to save Jews, either a brace of them or the entire people.”
Olivier thought, and then accepted his failure. He had spent much of his time in the last few months trying to wrestle with the thorny questions Manlius Hippomanes had thrown at him, and he now understood for the first time the difference between clever patterns of words and the answers of the soul. “I do not know, sir,” he said. “I can discover no reason or justification for it, and do not wish to. I am neither a theologian nor a philosopher, a lawyer nor a politician. I cannot find reasons; my skill is to sing about the impulsions of the heart, and that is enough.”
Clement grunted. “Very well. If you want to play the fool, then so be it. Go away. Give me a convincing demonstration of your case by this evening, and I will reconsider. But if you don’t . . .”
He paused and thought.
“But if I don’t . . . ?” Olivier prompted.
The pope did not smile. “Then I will kill every Jew in Christendom, including your teacher and his servant.”
Eventually he shook himself, walked away, and found himself going back to the Préfecture. There was nothing else he could do. Only Marcel now could help in any way; so he went to beg.
He was, as usual, sitting neatly at his desk, going through papers, oblivious of the heat and the little trickle of sweat running down his temple into the frayed collar of his shirt. He looked up at Julien, with the defiant glance of a guilty man.
“What have you done?”
Julien said quietly.
He shook his head. “It wasn’t me, Julien. Believe me, I didn’t do this. She was taken to the detention center, then the people from Jewish Affairs came. They didn’t know she was not to be moved. They wanted all the Jews. She had admitted she was one, so they took her. I only heard about it five minutes ago.”
“A mistake?” he said incredulously.
Marcel nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Get her back, Marcel. Phone ahead, say there’s been an error. Say she’s wanted for interrogation. Say something. Say anything. You can do it. You’re the préfet, for God’s sake.”
“It can’t be done, Julien. These convoys are run by the Gestapo. They don’t stop them because of requests from French officials. If she hadn’t signed a statement saying she was a Jew, I could have done something, perhaps. Why did she do that?”
Julien shook his head, dismissing the question. “What happens to her now?”
Marcel paused. “Do you want the official, reassuring answer? Or the one we both know?”
He didn’t reply, so Marcel continued. “Officially she will go to a labor camp. Conditions will be harsh but fair. She will be kept there until the war is over and then, no doubt, released.”
He hesitated, got up, and stood facing Julien, his hands in his pockets, his face looking down at the floor for a few moments.
“But you know as well as I do that is a lie, and that she will die there,” he said. “They are killing them, Julien. They said that’s what they were going to do, and they’re doing it. I’m sorry. I truly am. This is not what I intended. I wanted only to save the lives of twenty-six innocent hostages.”
Julien stood there, quite immobile, until Marcel came and touched him on the arm. “Come with me,” he said. “Let’s get out of here for a while.”
He allowed himself to be led, along the corridor with the worn linoleum, down the stone stairs, and out into the oppressive heat of the afternoon. They walked, quietly and companionably and for a long while silently; good friends, almost. The sort of walk that Marcel had always valued, and which Bernard so disdained. Together they crisscrossed the city, seeking out the dark and shadowy streets where the sun could not penetrate; past the steps where Olivier had first seen Rebecca, past the place where he had been attacked and where Isabelle had been murdered.