The Dream of Scipio

by Iain Pears

  “If they stay they’ll be captured in days. It’s all over here. The only choice is to retreat and start again. The Germans are not prepared for a massive advance; it wasn’t part of their plans. Their lines of communication will be too stretched. They’ll have to pause to regroup, and then we can counterattack.”

  He stopped, then looked at Julien, a curious half-smile on his face.

  “But we won’t,” Bernard said softly. “The generals and the politicians have already given in. They had before it even began. They’re going to a place where they can surrender. They will call it an armistice. More peace with honor. How much honor do these people have? It seems they have an inexhaustible supply.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I thought of going to Brittany. Rumor has it that the English may try to hold it, although I can’t imagine they will do so for long. On the other hand, the government is going south. Perhaps I should go, too.” He laughed. “Extraordinary, isn’t it? Four days ago, we were convinced we could withstand anything the Germans threw at us. All the talk was of attack, the offensive. Now look. We don’t even know who is in charge of the government or what it plans to do. So we must follow our instincts, and we must do something, even if it is only with a gesture,” he continued, thinking aloud and quite oblivious to Julien’s presence. “I will go to Brittany, I think. I must be on the Germans’ list of undesirables, so I can’t stay here.” As ever, vanity had its place in determining his understanding of the world.

  He turned to Julien. “Come with me?” he said. “You’ll get no thanks from anyone for it, not from the government or from the English, I suspect. But it will be a lark. You and me together against the world, just like when we broke the window of the church.”

  “What good would a forty-year-old classicist be to anyone?” Julien asked.

  “What good will a thirty-eight-year-old windbag journalist be?” came the reply. Bernard was, in fact, the same age as Julien, and both knew it.

  Julien shook his head. “You like gestures too much,” he said. “Besides, I’ve fought my war. I can’t do it again. It accomplished nothing last time, and won’t this time either.”

  “A pity more Germans are not of your opinion. And that fewer French generals are. But I can’t blame you. You are right, after all. Go home then. At least no one will bother you—assuming you get there.”

  Bernard turned and took Julien’s hand. “Go to the Ministry of the Interior this afternoon; I’ll talk to contacts and make sure there is some suitable piece of paper to get you onto the convoy. But after that you’ll be on your own.”

  Julien nodded, and stood watching as his friend strode off down the corridor to the newsroom, suddenly purposeful where he felt no purpose whatsoever except for the need to get home. There was something in his friend’s step, a bounce almost, that hinted that Bernard was actually enjoying all of this, that he sensed an opportunity. More than anything else that day, that made Julien uneasy.

  Bernard, the youngest by a few months, is the most exuberant, jumping off walls recklessly, laughing loudly. Every now and then, a head appears in the window of one of the houses, and a voice—old or young, male or female, angry or amused—tells them to keep the noise down. They try, for a few minutes, until Bernard finds something else to laugh about.

  Marcel, the eldest by a year, uncertain whether he is too old to be with such young children, stands aside, then is drawn into the play. They throw stones at the splashing water fountain, just below the window of the church. Their faces reflect their characters. Bernard tosses the pebbles with abandon, joyfully seeing if he can lob his missile into the water trough, but not caring whether he succeeds or not. His pleasure is in the movement of his arm, and in seeing the stone curl through the air. He tries different ways of throwing—fast, parallel to the ground. Slowly and elegantly, curving upward in a great parabola. Standing with his back to the target and closing his eyes before throwing it over his shoulder, whooping with as much pleasure when he misses as when he doesn’t. He lands his pebble in the water fairly often; he is a natural sportsman.

  Julien has no such frivolity, and much less ability. He concentrates hard, trying to overcome nature. He misses, time and again, but keeps on going, methodically working the stone nearer and nearer to the target, until at last he drops one into the trough.

  He laughs with pleasure, and Bernard cheers him, dancing around him and clapping.

  Marcel is displeased at the attention. He throws his pebble hard, and incautiously. It smashes through a window of the church, scattering slivers of glass and noise across the little square. He runs, leaving Bernard and Julien standing alone. When the priest comes out of his house, Bernard claims ownership of the deed, knowing that if Marcel’s father—a brutal man—hears of the event, he will be savagely beaten.

  Marcel never thanks him, although he is not ungrateful.

  Except that Julien remembered it like that only because Bernard retold the story many years later and brought it back to his mind. Imposed his narrative on what had become the faintest of recollections; created memories by his skill as raconteur. Julien did not query the account and even came to remember the look of panic on Marcel’s face, the quirky little smile of bravado as Bernard stepped forward.

  But, on a few occasions, he was almost certain he remembered that it was Bernard who had thrown the stone and run away, and Marcel who had been beaten.

  The Dream of Scipio, Manlius’s philosophic testament, was one that he copied himself with diligence, declining to slip the original into his bag simply because the old monk who let him see it was so kind and, in a strange way, so respectful of those manuscripts he had never troubled to read for himself. A short little fellow—old, but with a wiry resilience—he had, it seemed, been put in charge of the library because he was held in some contempt by the others in the monastery. Olivier did not understand why; he was, certainly, a little vague, a bit of a dreamer, absent-minded, occasionally gruff and ill-humored, but easily placated and responsive to any show of interest. Initially, when Olivier showed up—brought by the abbot who had read Ceccani’s letter of introduction—he had been indifferent, even hostile, putting innumerable obstacles in the way. The second day, after Olivier had invested many moments in conversation, he brought manuscripts himself for Olivier to see. The third day he gave him a large key and told him to help himself to whatever took his fancy.

  And, although many, perhaps most, of the old documents had never been read, he yet had some pride in his domain; all the shelves were clean and dusted, the manuscripts neat and well ordered. There was no way of telling what was there—the only works identified were the ones that were used. Olivier offered to make a list as he went through, so that all would know in future what was where, but the suggestion was turned down. Cardinal Ceccani’s servant was welcome to inspect and read whatever he wished; the monk did not anticipate anyone else being so foolish, and for his part he had no desire at all to know what he guarded and tended so diligently. He had his task and that was enough; its purpose did not concern him in the slightest.

  Initially Olivier thought the manuscript was another copy of Cicero’s essay that bears the same name. As it was one of the best-known classical works in existence, finding another version was of little excitement. Perhaps it might enable him to correct a mistake or two—for Olivier hazily saw that the constant comparison of differing sources could lead to the purification of errors that had crept in in transmission, although he never proceeded very far along this route—but it would be a labor of duty, not of love, to copy it down. It was only when he read the first few pages that he realized that this was something else altogether.

  Still, his excitement was limited, for his concern was above all with the golden age of Rome, the age of Catullus, of Vergil, of Horace and Ovid, and, above all, of Cicero. Even this period was perceived only dimly, but everybody knew that it was the most valuable. The dying songs of the Roman world were secondary, interesting
only insofar as they cast a light back still further to the glorious days of Augustus and Athens. This is why Olivier copied, and why, perched unsteadily on his horse the next day, he found his mind wandering back to what the manuscript had said. He knew little enough of ancient philosophy, and these words he had been reading were scarcely comprehensible to him.

  “A man worthy of God would be a god himself, and can achieve this state through death alone; the man dies when the soul leaves the body, yet the soul dies a sort of death when it leaves its source and falls to earth. Man’s striving for virtue is the soul’s desire to return whence it came. Until the soul achieves virtue, it must remain below the moon. Pure love is a reminiscence of the beautiful and a striving to return to it. Only through its accomplishment is the soul freed.”

  In word, clear enough perhaps, but there were many things Olivier found disturbing. A man becoming a god himself; souls dying when they are born; love a reminiscence; all these were turns of the mind he found baffling to the point of being nonsensical. Perhaps indeed they were ravings, but there was a lyricism to the writing and a sureness to the prose that made him hesitate to dismiss the manuscript so readily. He said as much to his cardinal when he handed the work, and seven others, over to him. They were the payment, at last, for his shoes.

  “And who wrote this?” the cardinal asked.

  They were sitting together in Ceccani’s summer study halfway up the great tower, a room dark and dank in winter, but perfectly refreshing in the fierce brilliance of June, a blissful refuge from the overpowering heat of the day. Ceccani had a jug of fresh water on his desk, kept cool by being collected as ice from the hills in winter, brought by cart to his palace, and stored deep underground, far below the cellars, until it was needed. This precious, delicious liquid he poured by himself; he enjoyed his conversations with Olivier and wanted no interruptions to them. Every time his wayward protégé came back from his travels, Ceccani cleared at least an hour or two from his busy schedule and looked forward with the eagerness of a schoolboy to hearing about the young man’s adventures and discoveries. It was, indeed, uncertain who had infected whom with the passion for manuscripts, or indeed which of the strange couple most envied the other, for while Olivier saw the cardinal’s power and glory, Ceccani saw only Olivier’s freedom and exuberant youth.

  “It begins, ‘Manlius Hippomanes, servant of philosophy, to Lady Wisdom, greetings.’ There is also a reference to deeds done in the reign of Majorian, who was, I think, one of the last emperors.”

  “But not a Christian document?”

  “There is not a single reference to Christianity in it. On the other hand, Saint Manlius is still revered and lived in the same period; he is a saint from the town where I was born. It is not a common name; they must be one and the same person. And if that is the case, then Lady Wisdom, Lady Sophia as he calls her, may well have some connection with the Saint Sophia you know well. That is only a guess, of course. And it makes it all the more perplexing.”

  “Why?”

  Olivier thought, trying to explain what were little more than feelings. “It stays in my mind, although I don’t know why,” he said eventually. “Parts of it I am sure I have heard before somewhere. Others I feel I understand but when I think more carefully, I realize I don’t understand them at all. And I do not know how to find out whether it contains sense or nonsense.”

  “What is it about?”

  “Partly it is a commentary on Cicero, hence its name. Partly it is a discourse on love and friendship, and the connections between those and the life of the soul and the exercise of virtue. That much I can understand. But not much more. Then there is the last section, in which the teacher takes this Manlius into the heavens and shows him all eternity. This is the most baffling part. All I know is that anyone who wrote this sort of thing down now might find themselves in grave difficulties. So I don’t know who I can talk to about it.”

  “You will have to go and ask Cardinal de Deaux’s Jew,” said Ceccani with a smile. “He might know. And he will hardly denounce you. I will ask Brother de Deaux to give you an introduction. He will not deny me the favor, I think, despite the fact that we loathe each other cordially. Knowledge is neutral territory in our warfare.”

  Olivier was half surprised, half excited by the prospect. He had, of course, heard of the cardinal’s Jew, but had never met him; few people had. How he had attached himself to Bertrand de Deaux no one knew, although it was known that even the pope brought him in, on occasion, for some form of advice. When he arrived in Avignon he talked to no one, and those curious who tried to engage him in conversation were met with a quizzical sort of disdain, a polite but utterly distant response that suggested that their good opinion really was not necessary to him in any way. Many, not surprisingly, found this offensive, considering that such a person should be flattered and honored by their willingness to converse with him at all, but their opinions seemed to count for little in his mind.

  Olivier had always assumed that this Gersonides was, if not a money changer, then a physician; such being the most notable occupations that Jews followed, and because the law forbidding Christians to use their services was universally ignored. Certainly the curia had need of the former; not to lend money, for its revenues were titanic, but to channel that great river of gold throughout Europe, so that it reached the right people with dispatch. Well-connected Jews were ideal for such purposes and, in return for protection, could be relied on to perform such services honestly and cheaply. Such people, however, were not obvious choices for the elucidation of obscure manuscripts from the evening of Rome.

  “Oh, he is not a money man,” said Ceccani with a chuckle. “He is as poor as can be, and has no sense in that direction at all. I have consulted him myself on occasion but have long since stopped giving him gold; he only gives it away before he is a dozen paces outside the door. Asceticism and poverty are noble and holy things, but I confess I do find them annoying in a client.”

  “So? What is he?”

  “He is a man of learning, my dear Olivier, and his people value this so much that they give him money merely to make himself more learned. You, no doubt, would appreciate this habit of theirs. He is what they call a rabbi, and what we would call a philosopher, as he seems to exercise no priestly functions at all. He lives in Carpentras and rarely leaves his house. Even the pope almost has to beg him to answer his letters. You can take it as an indication of his worth that His Holiness is willing to do so. I will get you a letter of introduction and you must go and see him. He will talk to you if de Deaux insists. Do not expect to like him, however, for he tries hard to make himself disagreeable and generally succeeds very well.”

  Instead, there is his work, one of the most extraordinary outpourings of his, or any other, age. Gersonides was a polymath who turned his mind at various stages to astronomy, chemistry, the Talmud, ancient philosophy, medicine, and botany. Only politics, the art of statecraft, did he leave well alone, perhaps a wise decision considering his position. Few people would have thanked him for his thoughts. Instead he turned his particular situation—utterly isolated from the society around him, devoid of any influence but rather vulnerable and subject to any of its whims—into an aspect of the philosophic position that he painstakingly created over so many years. In contrast to his great predecessor Maimonides, he advanced the proposition of the superiority of the contemplative life to the active one, dismissing the notion of an ideal balance between action in this life and preparation for the one that comes after. For one of his most important works was on the existence of the soul, a matter that had also concerned Sophia but which Christian thought rather tended to take for granted as something that needed no demonstration.

  He had once—with some considerable reluctance—set out his line of argument to Ceccani, who had struggled to grasp the concepts that the Jew had brought to bear on the problem, and it was because of this conversation that the cardinal, a few years later, dispatched Olivier to see him. It should not be tho
ught that Ceccani had befriended him in any way; both were much too proper for any such connection, and in any case, Gersonides belonged to Cardinal de Deaux. Ceccani would no more have broken the law by breaking bread with Gersonides than Gersonides would have accepted any such invitation. Ceccani, equally, did not hurry to let anyone know of his occasional contact, even though he consulted him on matters such as medicines and astrological forecasts—another area in which the Jew had a more profound knowledge than anyone except, perhaps, a professor in Paris fully in the pay of the king of France and hence somewhat unreliable.

  Nor did Ceccani like him much, although he was intrigued by the man’s demeanor, a sense of his own worth that was haughty and unflinching. Other Jews he had met—not that there had been many, and even these had always been purely business meetings—had been well mannered, excessively so. Ceccani knew that it was insubstantial, this persistent politeness, a mask to disguise their nervousness at dealing with one as powerful as he, but did nothing to discourage it or set them at greater ease. With the rabbi there was no such uncertainty.

  “Why,” he said to himself after one of their earlier meetings, “I do believe the man feels sorry for me! He talks to me like a backward pupil.” It was a measure of the cardinal’s qualities—one which Gersonides also sensed—that he was faintly amused, rather than outraged, by the realization.

  As for Gersonides himself, he found the assorted prelates who badgered him a distraction, not quite an irritant but certainly an honor he was quite ready to do without. He did not wish to be consulted by princes of the church, and took no satisfaction from their attentions. It was a service that might, perhaps, do some good one day. He did not wish to turn away anyone with a genuine desire to know, and both cardinals de Deaux and Ceccani—though no philosophers, and too much men of power to cultivate any true passion—perhaps had some spark within them.