City of Wisdom and Blood

by Robert Merle

  “Miroul,” I hissed, “don’t turn around, nor you, Samson. We have a troop behind us who weren’t on the road, since Caudebec would never have let them pass. They’ve come out of the hills. And who are these rogues who are cutting us off from Caudebec? We have to find out while there’s still time. Miroul, I want you to hide in the thicket yonder, let them approach close enough to see them but not close enough to catch you. Then hurry back through the fields and tell me what they look like and how they’re armed and mounted.”

  Miroul said not a word, but, as we reached the turn, hid himself so well that three toises away I couldn’t have distinguished him or his mare from the leaves. As we distanced ourselves from him, leaving him alone, my heart was beating double time despite the fact that I was entirely sure of his skill and marvellous agility, and of the speed of his Arabian. Nevertheless, however much I tried to reassure Samson, I could not repress a profound sigh of relief when suddenly Miroul was there, smiling.

  “There are five of them,” he whispered, “ugly men and bloodthirsty, mounted on worthless nags, but well armed with pikes and lances, cutlasses and swords.”

  “Do they have firearms?”

  “I didn’t see either pistols or arquebuses, but from where I was, I couldn’t really see their saddlebags.”

  “I’m thinking,” I said after a moment’s reflection, “these rogues have accomplices up ahead and when these men attack, the others will attack us from behind and on both sides using only swords so as not to alert Caudebec. If they crush the vanguard, they’ll easily surprise the pilgrims and wipe them out.”

  To this, neither Samson nor Miroul replied, waiting for me to continue.

  “Well then,” I added, “let’s not wait to be attacked and wiped out from two sides. At the next turn in the road, we’ll hide and wait for them to come within ten paces of us, and as they reach the bend in the road, we’ll gallop out, reins in our teeth and pistols in both hands.”

  “But what if they’re peaceable workers?” said Samson.

  “My brother, you’re not serious?”

  “No,” said Samson, turning bright red. “I’ll shut up and obey as I promised.”

  “My master,” said Miroul, turning to Samson, “I’ve seen these rogues, and if they’re peaceful workers and not the atrocious rascals I believe they are, I’ll happily sell my part of eternity to the Devil.”

  “Miroul,” replied Samson sadly, “please don’t speak this way, especially in the teeth of death.”

  “Well, Death will sink his teeth into them and not us,” I said categorically. “Enough talk, time is wasting. I will gallop into the middle of the road. Miroul, on my left, will fire on the two rogues in front of him. I’ll take the two in the middle. And Samson, you must shoot dead the rascal who comes at you.”

  “I’ll do as you command,” said Samson, lowering his head.

  He didn’t. Either by chance or by secret will, despite the fact that of the three of us he was by far the best shot, his ball missed its target so that of our five assailants, his was the only one still on his horse when our horses ran down their nags, which were terrified by our detonations and the strange shouts we hurled at them. This survivor fled, but I ran him down and was lucky enough to wound him in the shoulder with my sword and cause him to drop his weapon. He surrendered himself to our mercy, Miroul strapped him to his horse, and we bore him back to Caudebec, our heads held high, right proud of our night’s work.

  3

  BEFORE REJOINING CAUDEBEC, I slowed my little band to a walk, fearing that if we arrived at a gallop and in a cloud of dust the baron might mistake us for brigands and open fire. And indeed, I found the pilgrims, both men and women, in a state of alarm over the gunfire they’d heard so that some had drawn their pistols and others had readied their arquebuses and were lighting their fuses. As for Caudebec, his face was especially red and his hair was on end, unsure of what action to take as he was altogether better at bartering than fighting.

  Nevertheless, as soon as he saw my prisoner and before I could open my mouth, he had two of his soldiers throw the man from his horse and set about torturing him in order to find out everything he knew about the brigands of the Corbières. This was done in the blink of an eye; they threw a hemp rope about his neck and brought him to his knees, all bloodied, on the stony road, and began tightening the rope by twisting it with a stick.

  “Monsieur,” I intervened, “this rogue is my prisoner, he’s losing blood, he’s terrified, and your soldiers don’t speak his language and risk killing him before he’s been able to speak. I request that you tell them to remove the garrotte and return him to me. I will interrogate him fully, but not right now when we are in immediate danger. I think what we must do is to abandon the road and move up the hill to our left, where, for lack of ramparts, we’ll be able to see anyone who intends to attack, plus have the advantage of being above them.”

  As the pilgrims standing behind Caudebec were all overwrought, chattering and milling about in the most disorderly way, he agreed to everything I proposed since he had no plan of his own. Apparently he was also certain that I had inherited my father’s knowledge of military science—an absurd idea, but nonetheless a common belief among gentlemen.

  The summit of the hill that I had indicated was reached only with great difficulty since it sloped quite abruptly down on all sides (but that difficulty would also hinder our assailants). Everyone dismounted; we herded our horses into a copse nearby and posted several sentries to protect them. Of course the baron “gave” these orders, but he was simply following my advice. This hill would have been a sad place to end one’s days, or even to live out one’s days since it was rocky and treeless, as is often the case in this terrain, so different from the sunny and verdant one I’d known. Here the sun beat down and withered the frail and yellowing grasses that even the hungriest sheep would have disdained.

  I pulled my prisoner off to one side, so that Miroul, Samson and I could guard him, and untied his bonds, washed his wounds with vinegar, bandaged them and gave him something to drink. He was astonished at this treatment, expecting only torture and death, which he accepted with the kind of brutal courage my father had observed in Sarlat among the gravediggers who were burying the victims of the plague.

  This rogue was named Espoumel, spoke in a Catalan laced with Provençal, and although dirty and hairy, had a pleasant face and a look that was more naive than wicked.

  “Espoumel,” I began, “how many are in your band?”

  “I can’t say, Monsieur, I don’t know my numbers.”

  “But you know their names.”

  “Surely.”

  “Then name them—all of them except the ones I killed.”

  The rogue named them all, one by one, and I counted nineteen on my fingers. Not so many. Rumours on the road from Narbonne to Toulouse had increased their number to at least double or triple the size of their present company.

  “Espoumel, which of your fellows have firearms?”

  “The captain and the lieutenant.”

  His answer relieved me enormously, and, leaving the prisoner under Samson’s guard, I took Miroul with me to see Caudebec, who was ensconced under a meagre little oak tree, trying to get shade from the torrid heat of the noonday sun.

  “Monsieur, you have among your provisions a small cask of Malvoisie wine that you take very good care of. I want you to give it to me in recognition of my good services.”

  I couldn’t help laughing at his expression when he heard this. Certainly he didn’t give this wine up gracefully—he simply didn’t know how to refuse my request. With Miroul carrying the cask on his shoulder, we came back to our prisoner.

  “Espoumel,” I said, “how many firearms have you seen among our people since we brought you here?”

  “I couldn’t say how many, Monsieur, but lots, and even in the hands of your women.”

  “And how many of us are there?”

  “Lots.”

  “More than your band?”<
br />
  “’Tis certain.”

  “You’re right. There are more than a hundred of us” (a figure that raised Samson’s right eyebrow, since he hated to see me lie). “Well then, Espoumel, go tell your captain what you know about us and take him this cask that my valet is tying to your horse. Tell him that the high and mighty Baron de Caudebec sends it to repay your loss of the four men we killed.”

  At this, Espoumel opened wide his little eyes and, standing there terrified, knew not what to do or say. Miroul brought him his nag and helped him mount, since the poor rascal was still weak from loss of blood.

  “On your way, Espoumel!” I commanded, but he hesitated to spur his horse to leave.

  “Monsieur,” the rogue asked after some hesitation, “after I’ve said everything to my captain as you instructed me, must I return here to be hanged?”

  “No, no, no!” I laughed. “Stay with your people and pray to God to forgive your sins.”

  At these words, Espoumel crossed himself, and with neither a word nor a look in my direction, fearing no doubt that I might change my mind, he gave spurs to his nag and rode down the embankment as fast as her legs would carry them.

  “’Sblood, Siorac!” shouted Caudebec, rushing towards me and beating the air with his arms. “Your prisoner is escaping and with my cask of wine!”

  “Not in the least, Monsieur, I released him. The man doesn’t know how to count and he’s going to tell his captain on my behalf that there are more than a hundred of us and that we’re all armed with arquebuses. As for your delicious nectar, the bandit captain will suspect nothing, but in less than an hour he’ll be sleeping like a babe.”

  To tell the truth, I would have been content to double the number of pilgrims without depriving the baron of his Malvoisie, but, in any event, Caudebec’s inquisition had left a very bitter aftertaste, and I felt that since I had risked three lives in serving as his vanguard, it was certainly his turn to suffer some inconvenience.

  I walked Caudebec back to the little bent oak tree that served as his shelter. He was stricken by the loss of his cask of wine but also pricked by the moral avarice that was so deeply rooted in his character, and he rather coolly—and very offhandedly—thanked me for what I’d done. I must say that, for my part, I would gladly have left his company altogether had it not been for the continuing danger that threatened us on the road. Ingratitude is a strange vice, despite the ironic truth that it is very widespread and none the less hideous for being such a common disease, for it despoils your soul like a bubo of the plague despoils the most beautiful body.

  I consoled myself with these thoughts, yet I couldn’t help feeling saddened by the baron’s gracelessness in thanking me. My father often remarked that, for my age, and despite my temper, which I’d need to learn to control, I was very wise, despite my obvious need to subdue my passions, and even subtle in my observations of the world, with a certain instinct about others—wenches especially—which allowed me to deal effectively with all kinds of people. These were useful qualities in any man, of course, but especially in a Huguenot who was a member of the most persecuted group in the kingdom and who lived in constant apprehension of the potential wickedness of others. But I must qualify these observations by adding that I was but newly released from Mespech and from my native Périgord, and I knew but little of the outside world, so that my first exposure to it through these pilgrims, though it provided obvious pleasures, also left me feeling sad. Despite my success with ruses, I was still very green and very sensitive.

  The baron had finally given the order to decamp, and when I came back to Samson and Miroul I found them standing by their horses; while Miroul was girthing them, Samson was leaning up against Albière with a very languorous expression and, at his side, Dame Gertrude du Luc was busily attending to him with great compassion, refreshing his temples with her perfumed silk handkerchief, these attentions necessitating her very close proximity to his person.

  “Monsieur de Siorac,” she said, giving me a pert nod, “isn’t it amazing that your brother, weakened as he is by his slow fever, should have fought so valiantly against those rogues? Look at how he perspires with the return of his fever. I’m afraid lest he faint away again.”

  “And so he might,” I replied gravely. “Given the condition he’s in, he could collapse at any minute. Might I ask you, noble lady, to give him your arm while I regirth Accla?”

  “Ah, gladly, Monsieur!” she answered. “I will indeed, for I love him like my child, despite being of an age to be his sister.” And so saying, she put her arm around his waist and held him fast to prevent him from falling, although he was leaning comfortably against Albière, one hand behind him gripping the cantle of the saddle, the other holding the reins on the pommel, yet with eyes half closed and his body almost limp with his “fever”.

  “Samson, my beautiful angel,” I mused, “you’re doing exactly the right thing to close your eyes, if only on your virtue, for it is indeed on perilous footing, being so craftily circumvented.”

  Miroul’s two Arabians and my mare, Accla, hid this scene from the rest of the pilgrims, clearly to Dame Gertrude’s relief, since the most Christian of attentions are sometimes best accomplished without witnesses. I myself was scarcely present, so occupied was I with attending to my horse, and likewise Miroul to his, although his brown eye was all atwinkle when we glanced each other’s way.

  “Dear me,” exclaimed Dame Gertrude, “he’s fainting again!”

  “Madame,” I explained, “give him a couple of hard slaps and you’ll revive him instantly!”

  “God forbid!” she sighed. “I am a woman! It ill suits the modesty of my sex to strike a gentleman!”

  “Well, in that case,” I suggested, “do as our nurse Barberine has always done to revive him. Give him a couple of kisses in the Périgordian way.”

  “Ah,” she sighed, “now that sits better with my natural sympathies!”

  And whether she accorded him what I suggested I couldn’t say, for her wide-brimmed sun bonnet, as broad as a shield, hid her face and Samson’s as well from view for the entire time it took her to effect this resurrection. She hadn’t quite finished when the whole hillside resounded to Caudebec’s stentorian order: “Saddle up! Saddle up!”—cries that became all the more imperious the less he felt sure of his command in the present danger.

  “Monsieur de Siorac,” sighed Dame Gertrude, turning in my direction, “I must, alas, abandon my care here and find my horse. Will you permit me to visit from time to time during the day to learn of my patient’s condition?”

  “Madame,” I replied, bowing, “I would with the greatest pleasure welcome such visits and any care you can provide my poor brother!” I spoke with entire sincerity, for if there were any imperfection in my beloved Samson, it was the distance he had always kept before this voyage from the gentler sex, without whom the green paradise God has provided would be but a mournful prison. The therapy to which he had just submitted was quite reassuring in this regard. To see how powerful Dame Gertrude’s cure had been, and how quickly my brother had regained his usual colour and warmth, I understood that until now it wasn’t so much lack of sensitivity but awkwardness—perhaps due to his being my father’s bastard—that had inspired his secret resentment of women.

  Without doing so too obviously, I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he mounted his horse in a kind of daze, his face flushed red enough to suggest he was still prey to the fever I had invented. For feverish he was, certainly, but this fever would never be cured except by the snows of future years. Throughout our ride to Narbonne, I could see he never lost the flame that turned his cheeks blood red. He kept to himself, eyes lowered, with a marvellously chaste expression—looking, broad-shouldered, his copper-coloured locks flowing over his collar, like the archangel in the stained-glass windows of the papist churches—and, indeed, hadn’t Dame Gertrude compared him to St Michael? Looking at his candid face, I couldn’t help thinking that, newly aware of the pleasures of the flesh,
Samson preferred not to be too conscious of them, in order to keep his Huguenot conscience as clear as possible. And however much I was itching to trouble this hypocritical innocence, I invoked all the compassion I could muster to suppress the barbs I would have liked to prick him with.

  And so it was that, with Samson all dreamy, my own attention focused on any possible surprises that might await us, and Dame Gertrude coming and going, her worries about her patient matched only by her concern for her reputation (which had already been the subject of much gossip) we quietly reached Lézignan well after nightfall, our horses, for once, put through their paces. At the Unicorn, where we put up, the Baron de Caudebec, as puffed up as a chickpea in brine, filled his hostess’s ears with tales of his victory over the bandits. I had little role in his narration, as you may well imagine.

  Our hostess at the Unicorn (I know not why so many of the women in this profession are widows, though perhaps it’s because so many men require their attention that they have none left for their husbands) assured me the next morning, in response to my enquiries, that the Lézignan road was entirely safe, since so many merchants were headed for Lyons and Marseilles that they tended to travel in caravans as far as Montpellier. Of these, most appeared armed to the teeth and so resolute that no attacks had been reported for at least two years. She added, laughing, that she would have gladly kept me longer as her guest, so gracious were my manners, but that she well understood my impatience to be rid of these Norman pilgrims and their tendency to tarry too long at each inn where the food, drink and comfort were a welcome diversion from the apparent sanctity of their presumed goal. She also offered to introduce me to some merchants of her acquaintance who were heading out the next day—an introduction that would kill two birds with one stone since both parties would be the stronger for having joined forces. (She’d heard from Miroul what valiant service we had performed in killing the bandits in the hills.) I accepted her offer with effusive thanks and added a few cajoleries appropriate to my age. My hostess gently deflected my advances, bowing deeply and displaying with her pretty teeth such a gracious and knowing smile that I was overcome with passion. “Ah!” I mused as I watched her walk away. “Travel is such an education and the world so vast and full of infinite pleasures!”