The Dream of Scipio

by Iain Pears

  When he left that day, surrounded by papal soldiers, he was alarmed and Rebecca was terrified lest some charge—of necromancy, conjuring, or whatever—had been dreamed up against him. Only a few days previously, news had reached Vaison that near Geneva six Jews had been burned alive in their synagogue. Others in their own town had been spat on and kicked. It required little insight to realize that the atmosphere was becoming dangerous. So far no serious violence had been offered in Provence, but the stories circulated freely and if—or rather when—the plague itself took hold in the towns east of the Rhône, more than blows would be hurled at the handful of Jews who lived there.

  A small group had come to Gersonides’s house the previous evening for guidance, as he was known to be the wisest man in the region. He was not, alas, the most practical, nor even the most comforting. As there were no moneylenders in the town, he pointed out, they could hardly do anything of significance, like cancel debts until the plague was gone. If the Christians considered that a philosopher, a tailor, a doctor, and a cloth merchant constituted a serious conspiracy against Christendom, there was little they could do to disabuse them of the notion. All they could do was go about their business in their usual fashion, wear the stars that identified them, offer no remark or action that might be misconstrued.

  “And one other thing,” he said to conclude. “Should the plague arrive, it would be well if some of you died, preferably in great pain and in public.”

  He gave a watery smile but met no response; the Jews of the town respected the rabbi, listened carefully to his words even when they did not understand them, but never once came close to grasping his sense of humor.

  And the following day, the troops came and took him away. There were not that many of them, they were not brutal, even though they had not been told the reason for the deed, but no one would have even thought of offering resistance in any case. Everyone knew full well that, if you resist two soldiers, ten are sent; if you resist ten, a hundred arrive. Best always to do as you are told and offer no provocation. Others might suffer if you do otherwise.

  So Rabbi Levi ben Gerson took a few moments to pack what he needed—little enough, to be sure—and presented himself to the soldiers outside his door a few moments later. He got on a horse—a good sign that, for horses are an expensive means of transport, unheard of for prisoners—and went off with the soldiers. They said nothing at all on the journey, although one looked curiously at him and, he felt, would have talked if he had the opportunity; neither looked hostile.

  Gersonides did not speak either; idle chatter was not something for which he had ever developed a taste or a skill. Had one of his companions tried to draw him into conversation he would have replied, and would have listened with interest to what was said, but he did not feel inclined to initiate any such discourse. He had quite enough to think about in any case, for he had trained his mind over the years not to waste time on journeys. He was compiling a text on the soul with which he was so far greatly pleased. But it was unfinished and parts were, he thought, ill considered. It was a problem that had sprung into his mind after one of the first meetings—lessons rather—with the young Christian who came to plague him so often.

  “You see, Rabbi,” the young man had said, “it does not make sense to me. The man who wrote this was a bishop, after all. And yet he says quite plainly that the soul is eternal. That is, it is godlike and is not created by God. In addition he talks about our lives, how we must ascend back to God, but stay on earth as mortal beings if we do not purify ourselves here. I don’t, of course, want instruction in Christianity from you, yet I was hoping you might be able to explain it to me.”

  That had been the opening remark—Gersonides’s mind was wandering a little as his horse clopped along the muddy road—a request put politely but an order nonetheless. Explain this to me. Give me an answer. The young man was nervous, perhaps, or simply had the rudeness of all his type. But it had not stayed like that. Gersonides had replied with a question himself:

  “Perhaps the two are irreconcilable. Would you then be able to consider the alternative account with an open mind, or would it merely confirm its worthlessness in your eyes?”

  Then another question:

  “You must explain something of your theology. Why is it so important that the soul is created by God rather than deriving from him?”

  And a third:

  “And the resurrection of the body. Is that what it is called? Yes; why the insistence of that, when the superiority of the soul is so clearly acknowledged? Why do Christians need their bodies so much?”

  And so on; he knew the answers perfectly well, for the most part, for he had spent long years reading Christian texts—and Moslem ones and classical ones as well as the Torah and the Talmud, seeking out those flashes of light, those God-sent insights that, he had concluded, illuminate the minds of all men who are capable of recognizing them for what they are.

  Considering he was neither priest nor scholar, the young man gave sensible, thoughtful replies—the more so, perhaps, for being untrained, for he had not learned what he should believe or should not believe. Present a statement to him in flagrant contradiction to all Christian doctrine and he could be persuaded to agree on its good sense, unless he remembered it was the sort of thing of which pyres are made for the incautious.

  “And now you must go,” he had said after two hours had passed and the sun was setting. “I have my prayers to attend to.”

  “But you haven’t told me anything again,” Olivier had protested. “All you’ve done is ask me questions.”

  “Just so. And if you want to answer more of my questions, then you are welcome to come again. Preferably a little earlier in the day, and, for courtesy, not unannounced next time.”

  “I came to you for answers. Very specific answers.”

  “So you keep telling me. And I will repeat the only answer I know. I have none. Not that I haven’t spent the last forty years looking, but I find answers are as rare as golden eggs or unicorns. All I can do is help you look for yourself. Think of what Manlius says and apply it to yourself: ‘A good act without understanding is not virtue; nor is an ill act; because understanding and virtue are the same.’ That is what you are seeking. Understanding, not answers. They are different things.”

  He peered at Olivier, his face obviously hovering undecided between irritation and perplexity, then went to a box and took out a booklet.

  “In your search, you might care to examine this. It is a manuscript I copied out myself, so be careful with it. It came to me via some friends in Seville, who had it from a great Arab scholar. I cannot vouch for its accuracy, for it is a Latin translation of an Arabic translation of a Greek original.”

  His heart sank a little when Olivier took the book in his hands, for that eagerness, that glint in the eye, that way he all but tore it from his hands was quite unmistakable. He would not be able to deny him entry the next time he came, would not be able to send him away or dissuade him. For while most of his other pupils—and he had been sent many over the years—had been prepared, willing, ready to learn, had been diligent, with Olivier it was different. He needed to learn; it was why he existed, and he would wither unless he could satisfy that need.

  Could a man such as himself ever turn away a fellow soul, he who had also ached with that consuming need? Even if there was a long delay between leaving his room and the door onto the street shutting? Even if he heard the sound of voices below, the animated tones of Olivier, the soft replies of Rebecca that always drifted up to his room after he left, and seemed to get longer on each occasion?

  In this the old man thought correctly, although even his equanimity was disturbed when he noticed that the little entourage was heading straight for the papal palace, still being extended and rebuilt despite the times. For Avignon in the grip of the plague was truly frightening; scarcely a soul to be seen, in the marketplace only a few traders, miserably trying to sell their wares to no customers. An air of foreboding and of p
anic all around, the blank expressions on the faces of those few people in the streets saying all that was needed about their terror. Was this in store for his own town? If it was, then dangerous days were ahead of them all. One little spark and their world would be ablaze. Somebody would pay heavily for this catastrophe. Even he could not help considering the possibility that his own journey deep into the palace might be the first installment.

  He had been there before, when making one of his reluctant visits to see de Deaux, but the contrast between then and now could hardly have been greater. Whereas before the great courtyard where they all dismounted was full of people—clerics, petitioners, merchants, even a few pilgrims—now it was deserted. The air of authority had dissipated in the face of a far greater power. Even the mighty church was now no more than a feeble collection of mortal, frightened men.

  At least, he thought as he was led up a grand staircase, then through a series of rooms, then up a narrower staircase, climbing high into one of the towers; at least the dungeons are underground. We are ascending to the skies, not descending to the depths. Every step upward is one of hope. Unless, of course, they plan to throw me from the battlements.

  They came to a small door near the top of the tower; a soldier knocked, opened the door, and stood back to let him past. He stepped in and was almost overcome by the heat, which came blasting over him like a wave from a furnace. He took a step backward, and had to take a deep breath; instantly, little prickles of sweat broke out all over his body, and his thick winter cloak began to feel uncomfortable.

  “Take it off, if you find it too warm,” came a voice from the corner, near the huge fire. “Do you wish to speak in Provençal, French, or Latin? They are all I can manage, I’m afraid.”

  “Any will do,” the rabbi replied in Provençal.

  “Splendid. Latin it is,” said Pope Clement. “Do you wish to kiss my ring?”

  He held out his hand, on which was a vast ruby ring, shining brilliantly in the firelight. Gersonides stood absolutely still, not assenting, not refusing. The pope smiled cherubically and withdrew his hand.

  “What do you think of these rumors that malefactors have been poisoning wells?” he began. “Please, by the way, do not stand too close to me. I have not been up here sweating myself into an early grave for the last ten days just to succumb to some miasma attached to your body.”

  Not only, Gersonides noted, was the pope sitting as close to the fire as was possible without his clothes catching alight, he was also swaddled like a monstrous newborn in clothes, thick piles of cloaks and blankets and scarves, making him look appallingly bloated. His feet were laced up tight in fur slippers and on his head was a fur hat, expensive, possibly brought all the way from Russia. His face, what could be seen of it, was beetroot red, covered in sweat that rolled freely down his forehead and heavy jowls into his clothes. All around, making it even more oppressive, were candles and incense burners, thickening the air with smoke and contrasting, conflicting aromas.

  Gersonides had a headache already, and was beginning to feel faint. His replies were not as subtle and considered as they might have been.

  “They are nonsense, Excellence. As any sensible man knows, they are nonsense.”

  “Cardinal Ceccani today made a strong case that you Jews are behind it all. We have people in the streets saying so as well. Holy men, good men, he tells me. He also says that we must make an example of you. Are you saying, then, that I surround myself with fools, and bestow my patronage on idiots?”

  “If you are indeed surrounded by people saying such things, then it is a proposition that deserves consideration, Excellence.”

  The pope’s face turned blank with shock at the impudence, and he peered through the smoke at Gersonides’s face. Then he leaned back in his tall oak chair and let out a peal of laughter, his thick, pink jowls shaking from the noise. Gersonides stood as impassively as before.

  “By heavens, I am glad we are alone here. You are rude, sir. Very rude, and considering the situation, very unwise. Are you always so?”

  “I consider it the best way I know to honor my Creator. He wishes us to strive after the truth, does He not?”

  “He wishes us to believe in Him.”

  “The one does not exclude the other.”

  “It does in the case of Jews, who refuse to believe the truth of their own Messiah. So much so that they murdered Him rather than honoring Him.”

  “You know, Excellence, that is a false step in your argument. You can only make such a statement to advance your proposition if the substance of it is accepted by the other side. Only then may you argue for the consequence of that proposition.”

  The pope wagged his fat, ringed finger. “So you believe in tempering truth with at least a little cunning. I am not dealing with the Jewish equivalent of a holy fool at least. I am glad of it. You are said to be skilled in medicine, astronomy, philosophy, logic, languages, conversant with all forms of ancient knowledge, your own and that of others, familiar with mathematics and optics as well as theology. Is all this true? Or is it just a story put around by a man as vain as he is foolish?”

  “I must confess to being both vain and foolish,” said Gersonides. “But also to having a little knowledge of all the matters you mention.”

  “Good. I wish to consult you on a matter of the most vital importance. Will you serve me honestly and truthfully?”

  “If I accept the commission, I will perform it to the best of my ability.”

  “Another cautious response. Do you know what is happening in the world?”

  “I know there is a plague.”

  “But do you know how terrible it is?”

  “I have heard some reports. And seen that this city is in a state of terror.”

  Clement looked dismissive. “This city,” he said scornfully. “They don’t have the slightest inkling of it. So far there have been a few thousand deaths. That is all. And they are already panicking. I have priests, cardinals, and bishops running for their fat little lives when they are most needed. And it has scarcely started yet. Do you know what will happen here, and throughout the rest of the world?”

  Gersonides made no answer. The pope picked up a sheet of paper and began reeling off numbers.

  “Syracuse: ninety thousand dead out of a population of a hundred thousand. Genoa: sixty thousand out of seventy-five thousand. Florence, less than ten thousand souls left. Aleppo, wiped out entirely. Not a single man, woman, or child still alive. Alexandria a ghost town. And it goes on and on. The whole world is being consumed, and in a matter of months. Do you see what I mean?”

  The rabbi was shocked. That the head of the church had better, more precise information than he possessed he did not doubt for a second. That it should be so terrible he had not suspected for a moment. For a few seconds he could think of nothing to say.

  “I read also,” the pope continued, “several reports that Jews die as frequently as Christians—and, I might say, as Moslems. God is being very evenhanded, and it seems possible—so many think already—that He intends to wipe out His creation in its entirety. We are in the middle of another flood, except this time He is sparing the animals. Only men and women and children fall to this sickness.”

  “If that is His intention, then there is nothing we can do about it, except pray for a reprieve.”

  “And if it is not, then we should see what we can do. You as well. Or do you prefer to sit in contemplation while all of creation is destroyed?”

  “What do you want of me?”

  “You know about astronomy. See if you can find the source of this in the heavens, and try to discover from whence it comes. You know something of medicine, as do many Jews. Consult with others and see if some way of preventing this monstrous sickness can be found. There was, if I am right, a great plague in Athens during the Great War.”

  Gersonides nodded. “It is described in Xenophon, of which I have one of the few copies.”

  “And another in Constantinople in the time of Ju
stinian.”

  Gersonides nodded again.

  “Study them. See how they brought it to an end then. They knew more than us; we might learn from them.”

  “In that case I must return home.”

  “No. I do not permit it.”

  “I have to consult my books and my charts. I can do nothing here.”

  “They will be brought. My entire library and the resources of the curia will be placed at your disposal. You may have anything you want.”

  “I want to return to my home.”

  “Except for that,” Clement said with a wintry smile. “Do not force the issue. I have been kind, and will reward you well. Do not make me angry and never challenge an order you receive from me.”

  It was a revealing moment. The affable pontiff, willing to speak politely with a man such as Gersonides, showing real signs of learning and concern, yet a Christian prince nonetheless. Their positions were clear; the nature of the courtesy clear also. Gersonides bowed his head.

  “I will make a list,” he said. “But I insist that a message be sent to my servant immediately, lest she be afraid for my health.”

  “The messenger who collects your papers will tell her.”

  A nod. “Please make sure he reassures her.”

  And the rabbi was dismissed. The shock of what had happened, and the impact of the fresh, cold night air when he left that room was so intense that he fainted on the staircase and had to be carried to his lodgings by soldiers, ordered to do so by their captain, for they thought he, too, had succumbed to the plague, and their first instinct was to throw him into the moat.