Englishwoman in France (21 page)

The barge turns a wide sweep of the river and we can see now the port of Good Fortune. My eye searches in vain for the familiar mass of the black stone cathedral but all I see are a cluster of streets and houses and a busy wharf tumbling with ships. One of the rowers mounts the prow of our barge, puts a long horn to his lips and blows a high piercing signal. As we watch, other rowers cut the water frantically, making several boats pull away, clearing the way to a yellow and green painted landing stage under a wooden arch topped by a carving of an eagle.

Modeste puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Here we go, Florence!' he says, his lips close to my ear.

T
he journey from Good Fortune, then to Massalia was simple compared to the longer, much more perilous journey to the coast near the city of Nicomedia where the Imperial Court sits. We endured chilling storms at sea and three times I had to be tied to the mast to keep me from falling overboard.

But as we travelled south and then east, the air became hotter, the sky an unrelenting blue. I have to say the heat was good.

But it's not all been good. We were seized as soon as we landed. And here I am, flat on my face, arms spread, on a marble floor as big as a tennis court. The marble's not as cold as you'd think; rather it's kind of warm and soapy. Being so much further east, Nicomedia is much hotter than Good Fortune – the air, the bright plastered walls and the stones beneath your feet have the ambient warmth of storage heaters switched up high.

During those long days heaving up and down at sea I had time to think about this Imperial capital. I imagined buildings of grey stone like Durham Cathedral or the Houses of Parliament; I envisaged that sandy stone you generally associate with ancient ruins. But this place is all coloured marble, bright painted walls and gold flourishes on fluted stone pediments that flaunt statues in solid gold. On the floor beneath my flattened body horses are writhing in battle and heroes are vanquishing enemies. The image is so fine it could be a painting, but in fact it's made up of millions of tiny shards of coloured stone.

You might say art appreciation is slightly inappropriate for a woman in my position and you might be right. The truth is I've been examining all of this with such concentration to take my mind off the much more dangerous matter in hand.

Alongside me – equally prone – is Modeste. Our fingertips are touching. In front of us I can see the soles of Tib's sandals as he too lies like a starfish on this gorgeous floor. Because he's the most important person of the three of us, he lies ahead of us.

My neck aches. I turn my face to the other side to see the silver and gold leather of banquette couches and the heavy-duty studded leather soldiers' tabards – so many soldiers! Modeste says this Emperor is more of a soldier than an Emperor, keeping the whole of the world under his pagan heel.

Then I see jewelled sandal straps, the brown horny feet and the sweeping hem of the long cloaks of courtiers in a cluster alongside the plain leather sandals, the brown legs and the shorter gear of lesser mortals. The air smells of burning sandalwood oil and lemon balm, cut through with the foetid canteen stench of the great city.

It seems like hours ago, just when I was pushed on to my knees, that I caught a glimpse of a woman, who, by her clothes, must be the Empress. She was sitting on a great throne, one of two. Beside her was an elegant, muscular black man fluttering a great fan, creating some movement in this dense, scent-laden air, saturated as it is with the breath of supplicants.

I can hear the chirruping sound and the occasional shriek of birds in cages. The only other distinct sound is the murmur of voices of the men clustering around the Imperial thrones as they mutter into the ears of the august couple, elaborating on the earnest pleas of the people like ourselves who have come here for an audience. It is these interlocutors, not the Emperor, who transmit the judgements he mutters in their ears.

Twisting further and lifting my head a bit I catch a glimpse of the Emperor's face. It's more rough-hewn than I expected – chunky and strained, with heavy shadows under his eyes: a soldier's face with the folded straight lip line of a leader.

Then at last amongst the murmurs I hear the name
Tibery.
My heart beats loudly in my ears. Tib gets to his feet. Modeste tries to get up too, but he's kept down by a narrow-faced flunkey who taps his shoulder sharply with what looks like a golden wand stuck with jewels as big as jelly babies. The gems are genuine; they glow brightly in the light from the torches that flicker on the walls.

Even without seeing Modeste's face I can feel his frustration. He doesn't want to leave Tib standing there alone. Then we hear Tib's clear young voice piercing the throb of sound, as he answers the questions put to him. ‘That is so, my lady.'

I hope he's looking straight at the Empress with those wide blue eyes of his. I hope he's not looking over her shoulder, as is sometimes his habit.

He goes on. ‘I am well known in Gaul, my lady, for curing the sick and those troubled and afflicted in mind.'

Now there is more muttering between the Empress and the interlocutors. One of them speaks and Tib answers. ‘Yes, my lady. It truly is my power to help the afflicted, to calm them down and make them kinder to themselves and those around them.' His voice is steady, composed.

I am proud of him.

Now the Emperor's interlocutor asks him a question.

‘No, my lord, I do not invoke the power of Jupiter or any of the God Emperors in affecting my cures.' He pauses and I know Modeste's warnings are ringing in his ears. But Tib is incapable of dissembling. He goes on. ‘I feel, my lord Emperor, that there is something in me that . . . sort of . . . straightens out the creases inside a person. As well as this I have some simple potions and tinctures that sustain the cure, make it last longer than my presence. So, you see, my lord, it really is quite a simple thing. There is no need to call on the gods or the God Emperors. It is a simple cure.'

More murmuring and the rustling of a parchment, then the Empress puts up a hand. I hear the clatter of heavy bracelets. And I hear her clear voice. ‘You are very young, master Tibery, to be a healer of such reputation. I hear you healed your own father – a great servant of our empire – of his blindness?'

‘That is so, my lady. I have a great mind and a great gift. This is undeniable. I have the knowledge of someone twice my height and twice my age. It is proven. My mother tells me this has been so since I was in my cradle. She tells me I cured my nursemaid of a dreadful pox by laying my small hand on her face.'

‘And you think that this gift of yours will cure our poor benighted grandson of his mad affliction?' The clear round tones of her voice echo in my mind somewhere and a shiver goes down my spine.

Now Tib says, ‘I am sure of it, gracious lady.'

Beside me I hear Modeste draw in a loud breath, worried, I know, at the direct boldness of Tib's claim. I know there have been times in their wanderings when a cure has not been affected, even though the afflicted one may be calmer, less agitated.

Then at last Tib moves backwards in our direction and Mr Goldwand taps both Modeste and me on the shoulder and leads us out of the chamber with Tib at his side. We trail him through anterooms, past fountains and pools, through a great atrium where one whole side is a great cage with two lions prowling amongst greenery. Tib is intrigued by what are to him very strange creatures, but Mr Goldwand sweeps us along like a housewife clearing her kitchen of rubbish. We're hurried up a staircase and through some wide double doors. Now we are in a high chamber with window grilles inset above eye level. There are paintings on the wall, of great landscapes dotted around with strange animals, only some of which I recognize.

The room is scattered with couches and long tables decorated in gold leaf. On one of these is a clock that works with water. Mr Goldwand lifts it and puts it down again. ‘Wait here!' he says.

We watch the water clock until the double doors open again and the Empress sweeps in, dressed in a long silk tunic and an embroidered velvet over-gown. She has a gauze veil over her head and across her face. Beside her is a soldier, a great giant of a man whose skin shines like ebony. In his arms is a waif of a child of about six or seven with a pale face and rough hair and bite and scratch marks on his arm from wrist to elbow. Occasionally he clamps his mouth to his forearm to muffle the screams and sobs.

Ignoring the noise the Empress speaks quietly to Modeste. I can tell somehow that they know each other. Then she turns to Tib. He bows to her, a very low bow. I have never seen him bow so low to anyone before.
Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's
. Those words from the Bible flash though my mind.

The Empress looks down at Tib and says gravely, ‘Thank you for making such a great journey to come to our aid, Master Tibery. Your gifts and your spirit are greatly needed here.'

No glance in my direction. I might not be here.

The Empress nods to the soldier. He sets the boy down but still he clings to the soldier's beefy thigh, his eyes wide with fear, one wrist clamped in his mouth.

Tib goes and stands before the child and then glances back at the Empress. ‘Is there some small place, lady, where I can sit with the boy? This place is too high, too wide. A person cannot find their size in a place like this.'

She nods at the stout serving woman who stands close behind her. The woman opens the narrow door to what looks like a closet or dressing room. Tib puts out a hand towards the boy, palm up. And he waits. Finally the child unclamps his hand from his mouth and puts it, shining with spit and beaded with blood, into Tib's hand. The serving woman directs the two boys into the room and closes the door behind them.

Then the Empress glides across the marble floor to a window grille set in the wall. Modeste and I follow her. Through the grille we see a small room lined with great wooden chests. A tall mirror of polished silver set with shadowy glass stands at one end, and a long sleeping couch at the other. I wonder to myself whether her husband, or some other person, watches the Empress robe or disrobe through this same grille.

Now we watch Tib as he puts an arm round the shoulder of the trembling child and whispers in his ear. With his other hand he strokes the boy's tear-stained face. This goes on for an endless twenty minutes. But finally the boy is perfectly calm, his hands quietly on his knees. Tib makes a sign on his brow. There is a flicker between the Empress and Modeste. He nods and she smiles very faintly.

Then Tib takes the child's hand and leads him out of the small room and up to his great soldier-nurse who nods gravely at Tib then sweeps the child up, up on to his shoulder. The child hugs his broad head and smiles.

The Empress and her serving woman clap their hands. ‘A cure indeed!' she says. ‘Thank you, Master Tibery and thank you, Doctor Modeste.' She graces him with a title.

Now I'm feeling far too invisible. I long for the Empress to look at me, directly into my eyes as she does into theirs.

Tib takes out two horn containers from the satchel that Modeste has been carrying and hands them to the big soldier, looking into his eyes. ‘Add a pinch of this to hot water for the boy to drink at sunset and sunrise. Be kind to him. Stay calm in yourself. I will return tomorrow to see him.' The great man bows to Tib, then turns to bow more deeply to the Empress and, the boy clinging happily to his head, he leaves the room.

The Empress turns to Modeste. ‘You will stay here in rooms tonight, Doctor?'

He shakes his head. ‘You are gracious, my lady. But we have lodging nearby with good friends.' He pauses. ‘Friends who might be known to you.'

She stares at him and nods slowly. ‘I see this. You must go to your friends.' It's hard to see her eyes under her veil but clearly there's a familiarity between them.

Then my knees sag and I realize just how exhausted I am with all this strangeness and uncertainty. This is turning out to be a very hard dream. Modeste reaches out to catch me, his arm tight round my shoulder. I can feel him nodding over my head to the Empress. I want to be away from here, on my own with Modeste and Tib. More than that, at this moment I want to be out, out of this dream while I know it for what it is.

The Empress turns to follow the boy, lifting her veil back over her head as she goes. On her way through the door she throws a backwards, smiling glance in my direction. My brain freezes and I clutch Modeste tightly to stop me falling over again.

As the stout serving woman leads us down steps, my brain is racing. We follow her through rooms and anterooms, past fountains and bright pagan sanctuaries smoky with votive candles, carefully placed to illuminate statues and painted portraits. As we near the colonnade that will take us outside, I tug Modeste's arm. ‘Who was that woman? Who was that really?'

‘The Empress. You know who it was.'

‘But you know her. You know her more than that.'

His voice loses its humour. ‘Wait, Florence! Hold your tongue,' he says sharply, glancing around.

The serving woman hands us over now to Mr Goldwand who sniffs in general displeasure before stalking on under the colonnade, indicating that we should follow him.

When we are outside, clear of the great gates, away from all these dangerous strangers, Modeste taps Tib on the shoulder. ‘You did well there, Tib. Even in one encounter you made great progress with that benighted child.'

Tib smiles up at him then glances sideways. ‘With the blessing of our great teacher, and of our own God-given medicines, the boy will be calmer, less fearful. He'll not hate his very own flesh. He'll seem calmer to others and they will not fear him. He may even now be able to cure himself. It's in the hands of our Lord.'

Modeste draws in a deep breath. He seems less sure of himself. It might seem simple to Tibery but none of this is straightforward for him. At present he is bent on our survival, which involves pleasing the Empress, who, it seems, is his friend. He puts an arm around Tib's shoulder. ‘We need to be discreet, Tib, if we are to continue our work. The Emperor is about to move again against our church . . .'