Englishwoman in France (18 page)

‘And you, Modeste? Do you have children?'

‘Alas, no. My scholarly vocation does not allow for children.'

I frown at this, offended on his behalf. ‘Is that forbidden then?'

He shakes his head. ‘No one demands this of me. But since I became a free citizen I've lived this itinerant life, curing and teaching. My gifts have been offered to other people's children – and now to Tib! He's no son of mine but he's my fate. He is the son of my heart,' he says simply.

I reach up then to kiss him on the cheek as he takes a smaller map out of a slender leather tube and lays it on the larger one. He squeezes my hand then flattens the map with his hand, trying to smooth the curl out of it. In the end he finds stones to hold it down. It's very old and faded but has pathways drawn on it in a fresh hand. ‘And what's this?' I say.

‘This is where we are. See? Here is the estuary of the great river and the lagoons running down the coast that make the harbour safe. And across here is Setus, a greater city than Good Fortune. And here is Nemausus, the place of many monuments to the Emperors that has the great games ring. The place is a thing of beauty and awe. I've heard of many good men of faith killed here for sport,' he adds soberly. His finger moves across. ‘And here is Good Fortune and here . . .' His finger moves up and left. ‘Marked by me, is Cessero. This is the great bridge I told you about. See the way the land rises just here? This is where the village is.' His finger moves along the river, following his drawn line. ‘And here is our camp.'

It seems a simple enough map to me. I saw it on Louis' wall in the rue de la Poissonnerie. I point on the map to the river – clearly the River Herault. ‘And this is the river you rowed with Tib? From Good Fortune?'

‘It is so,' he says. ‘And here by Cessero is the road built for the Empire. Like all roads, it leads to Rome. I've checked this map in many different times. I've walked these pathways in many different shoes.'

‘But,' I say, ‘why
do
you search this map? Why
have
you walked
these
pathways? What is this fascination?'

He looks up at me and then looks beyond me towards the river. ‘Once, Florence, hundreds of years ago now, three women and two men landed here, after a journey more than twice as long and twice as dangerous as mine.' He pauses and seems to concentrate very hard for a second. ‘What do you know of the story of Jesus the Nazarene, the great rabbi and prophet?'

‘He was crucified, died and after three days he rose up again.' I chanted the words from the Easter services at school. It was ordinary as cheese, like the sun rising in the morning. It was ordinary, undramatic, its meaning thinned with over-use.

‘Well. There are documents in the possession of my family in Corinth that tell other stories, originally written by people who were actually there.'

‘Other stories?'

He shrugs. ‘They don't
all
tell the
same
stories. When we write things down we tend to add, to decorate, to make up. It's the way of things. Some are stories of people who claim the rabbi actually
survived
crucifixion. Then others say the Nazarene was nurtured in his tomb for a single day by his uncle and his wife and his mother and emerged miraculously fit and well. And there are stories of how the verifiers went and found the empty tomb and became very afraid. And others tell of how some people saw the rabbi days later, fine and well with no marks on him. For them it showed he had gone to heaven and returned. The prophesy had been fulfilled and here was a miracle that would take an emerging religion on to its next great stage. This rabbi, this great teacher rising from the dead and then returning to Heaven, fulfilled the prophesy.'

Of course I have a vague notion of all this. I've read accounts in some of the more esoteric magazines. I don't believe them or disbelieve them. What do we really know, anyway, about what really happened two thousand years ago? ‘Right. I get it,' I say now. ‘But what has all that to do with Cessero?'

‘There are other stories. One story is that the teacher actually did die and the soldiers were coming to take the body elsewhere to be burned so that this place did not become a place of pilgrimage. So, this story says, the rabbi's friends and family took away the body and brought it by a perilous journey here to Gaul. They thought it would be safe here, not destroyed by the vengeful Romans in the Judea uprising. Or got rid of by jealous people of his own race who feared his breaking of their rules and his advocacy of love and tolerance.' Modeste put the flat of his hand on the map and drew it across the whole area from Cessero to Marseilles –
Masallia
on this map.

‘After a perilous journey across the great middle sea they sailed on to this place. It seems such a simple thing, doesn't it? Such a great thing that ordinary, brave women and men should do such extraordinary things to save their own great idea, that their story should survive the ravages of their age?'

‘And you believe this?'

‘I've been taught to believe in the resurrection; that is a matter of belief. But five travellers
did
come here. I have notes, maps and letters that account for such a journey.'

‘Who were they?' I remember something from a rather soapy film. ‘The Magdalene?'

‘The woman from Magdala? Some stories say this.' He strokes the surface of the vellum.

I look around at the river, the woodland and the rising ridge where Cessero lay. ‘So these stories are important, Modeste? Even in these times?'

He nods. ‘Our fragile church has gone through many changes since those first days. And now in these days there are new waves of vengeance from the Emperor, who wishes us extinguished like light from a candle. Even so, we become stronger and our people willingly sacrifice themselves for our beliefs.' He pauses. ‘But I feel we need the best truth from these stories, Starr – Florence. The best truth. Our church fears what we may find.'

I'm still puzzled. ‘So you are following the stories and hoping to find . . . nothing?'

‘There will be something. The stories are too strong for that. But I hope not the bones of a man who survived crucifixion. That would break us apart.' He pauses. ‘That's why I'm here, if you like, to prove the stories wrong.'

I look at him, loving the silver strands in his black hair, the broad planes of his cheeks. ‘I thought you were here to nurture Tib, to help him survive?'

He blinks hard and looks at me, frowning. ‘Why am I telling you all this? I've sworn not to speak of it to a living soul.'

I put up a finger to smooth the frown from his brow. ‘I don't count, though, do I, Modeste? I'm in a dream. I'm dreaming you, and you're dreaming me.'

‘It's not quite as simple as that, Florence. Starr is dreaming, but
you
, Florence, are here. Just as Tib is here.
He
is not my dream.'

I struggle to get all this, to understand. ‘If Florence were really here, Modeste, she'd be a person with a real past. But I was never here until you found me on the riverbank. I'm Alice through the Looking Glass!'

He shakes his head. ‘It's beyond ordinary explanation, Florence. Just leave it. Let it lie.'

I cannot let him off that hook. ‘Anyway,' I say, ‘you're really here on
two
missions, aren't you? One to disprove that story. One to take care of Tib. Is that not so?'

He hesitates, then decides to trust me. ‘I have this . . . patroness, a friend. A woman who is a brave, deep thinker and a secret friend of our church. She recognizes the dilemmas of uncovering this truth. It's she who saw Tibery as a reason for me to come here. She told me to try these stories till they break. Or prove them. This has been my task through time. This is how I met you in another place.' He frowns. ‘I can't quite remember now, when that was.'

‘Don't you remember making love to me in your little room?' I am disappointed. ‘You don't remember that?'

His brow clears and he smiles. ‘I would never forget. Such things are beyond time.'

I'm reassured. ‘So, what about this patroness woman?'

‘My patroness risks death or assassination in contemplating these ideas and discussing them with me. More, she bravely risks exclusion from our church, if my findings here do not accord with their traditions. This is why my search has become more than one life's study, Florence.'

‘And Tib?'

‘He was the very best excuse. My patroness thought that if his talents lived up to their reputation he would be a benefit to the Empire and also a good advocate for our church from inside the court. There was no doubt that his father, being a loyal servant of the Emperor, would want him to become a loyal citizen of Rome.'

‘A spy? A sacrificial lamb?'

He shrugs. ‘One way to put it. But see how it has turned out? Now the Empire, and his father, they both threaten him. Amazingly the boy has embraced our beliefs and practices. His very innocence is a great resource. And now, through his gifts, his great spirit, he has become a vessel for our church, for what we call The Way.'

‘You believe all this, Modeste? Every bit of it? The church? The teaching of Paul of Tarsus? The divinity of the Nazarene?'

He looks at me and he is both Louis and Modeste. ‘My search has been very long. I think there is more.'

I push him. ‘More?' The air between us is shimmering with energy. It's like the other day – yesterday? – just after we made love.

Just then a movement in the shrubbery beyond the edge of the garden breaks our bond and I see the gleam of Tib's head. Alongside that head is another one, with a familiar halo of dark curls. I leap to my feet and race to the boundary. Tib walks jauntily down the path to meet me.

‘Where is she?' I say, angry at his nonchalance.

‘Who?' he says.

‘Siri! I saw her.' I take his face in my hands. ‘Tib! Look at me! I saw her. She was alongside you. She was holding your hand!'

Those bright blue eyes, too large for life, stare into mine. ‘So, Florence, you saw her,' he said distinctly, pulling his face away. ‘
You
saw her!'

I fall to my knees and he steps round me. I'm crying and laughing at the same time. Modeste is beside me, pulling me to my feet and wiping the tears from my eyes. ‘Come now, Florence. Tib needs you. I need you. There's time for that other thing. Lots of time.'

After sunset Modeste cooks the fish while Tib writes on his slender rolls of vellum, listing his finds in order and then adding them to his store. We eat the slightly burned fish with some bread and cheese washed down by water from above the bridge. I can feel Modeste's eyes watching me closely as we eat.

At last Tib retires to his palliasse to sleep his serene and well-deserved sleep. That's when Modeste takes my hand and leads me to the little grove, the hidden garden where I go to look at the stars and where now Modeste and I make love. I think that's what we'll do now: make love properly to dry my recent tears and allow my heart to warm with proper memories of Siri. I wait for him to turn and take me in his arms. But he doesn't do this. He lies by my side, takes my hand and continues the conversation of the afternoon.

‘I've told you of my experience, Florence. And my belief.' He pauses. ‘But I feel it's even more important than all that. My greatest and most profound belief is that great souls are invested again and again in great people, generation upon generation. See up there? See your beloved stars? I believe we all live in many times, in many places. This is the adventure of our essential spirit, what we call our souls. I've experienced this as a living dream, just as you do now. I've experienced it and sometimes I remember it. Sometimes not. Mostly I do and that makes me unusual.'

I struggle to get to grips with this.

He goes on. ‘Even more, I think all times exist together. Or twist around each other like spinning tops occasionally bumping into each other. I don't know how this can happen – although men will discover that one day. I do not know why it happens but I believe it is something about our improvement. We cannot think yet at a high enough level to understand the proper
how
and
why
. That would be like the bees in the beehive understanding Tibery, who tends them every day.'

He lies there, silent for a moment. It must be tiring, framing up such thoughts. But he goes on. ‘Given that as Tibery is to the bees so to us there is a being, an entity, an energy greater than the self-serving pagan gods and the creeping tide of rule-bound public virtue that seeks to confine the human spirit. Such confinements happen even in my own church.'

I tell you, I'm really struggling with this. ‘So . . .?' I say, both helpful and helpless.

He coughs. ‘Well, what I do think is that there are great souls, suffering, significant souls which are somehow reinvested in new people, to keep our world in balance, to help it survive. These souls live in one guise in one time and another guise in another time. They may be great leaders or much simpler souls who do good things. Each of them, however, all take us forward in some way.' He's speaking very fast. ‘As I said, it's even harder to understand that periods of time are not like beads in a row. They are more like beads in a jar being shaken and crashing into each other all the time. Or sand being pounded in a mortar, or heated at high temperatures to change form. And out of this process new thoughts emerge – unthinkable before – clear as glass.' He pauses, out of breath now.

‘You're right, Modeste.' I squeeze his hand. ‘It
is
hard to understand.' I reach for an idea. ‘And the Nazarene is one of these great souls?'

‘Perhaps the greatest. Or perhaps belief in his virtue and his resurrection was the pestle that has transformed forever the nature of time and place. I'm still trying hard myself, and failing to grasp it all.' He reaches for me and now I'm where I want to be: in his arms with his hard body close to mine. ‘But one thing is not hard to understand, dearest Starr, dearest Florence. It is the simplest thing in the world to love you in whatever time, whatever place we meet.'