Englishwoman in France (22 page)

So
that
was what they were whispering about.

‘One slip could mean death for us. Be discreet!'

Tib twists out of his grasp. ‘We must not deny our faith, Modeste! You taught me this.' He says this severely as though, of the two of them, he were the adult.

‘But discretion is essential my dear lad, here in the shadow of the Imperial Palace Martyrdom may seem sweet to some but we'll be of no use to anyone with our heads separated from our shoulders. We've worked too hard to get to this moment. Come!' He charges on ahead, stamping his displeasure into the glittering black stones that line the road.
He
is every inch the adult now, and we are the children trailing behind.

He leads the way without pause to a row of narrow shop fronts and knocks on a door. The door is opened by a dark, thickset man in a knee-length felt tunic with bound leggings underneath. When he sees Modeste he reaches out to hug him, a broad toothless smile splitting his face. He steps outside the house and shuts the door. ‘Come! Come,' he says and leads the way through a series of narrower alleyways and lets himself into a house with steps up to the roof, where we find another doorway on a superstructure on top of the roof. Inside are three wooden sleeping bunks and two stools. A small shelf holds a stoneware jug and a lump of bread. Underneath it is a wooden bucket of clear water.

‘Latrine on the corner of the roof, lets down into the stream below,' the man says briefly. ‘You should sleep now. And tomorrow I'll bring you food and we'll talk. There's a meeting at dawn.' Then he vanishes into the darkness. At this moment I'm relieved, pleased when he goes. I've seen enough strange things today to last a lifetime.

What I really want to do is sit and think about that brief backward glance that the Empress cast in my direction. I tell you here and now that what I saw in that glance was my Siri absolutely to the life – not in the face nor the person just that particular, peculiar
look.
But I'm too tired now, even to think about this. Not now. All I can do is fall on to the couch and let the muttering chat between my companions lull me gratefully into a dreamless sleep.

Later. I'll think about all that later.

I
t's dark when I wake up. My thighs and the small of my back ache, and my mouth feels full of dry sandpaper. I lean over to rake around in my sack, take out my monk's habit and pull it over the now dusty court clothes given to me by the Lady Serina all those weeks ago just as we left Good Fortune.

This hut on the roof of the shop is deserted. No Modeste. No Tib. I dip my hands into the wooden bucket and splash water on my face, drag my fingers through my hair and re-tie the cue. Then I take a deep breath and make my way down into the house. I follow the sound of murmuring voices through the ground floor rooms into a broad space that smells of horses and chickens. Three doors lead off it. From behind the narrowest door I can hear the prayers and invocations familiar to me now from Modeste and Tib's morning rituals.

Suddenly I'm pushed from behind with a force that flings the door open. The people inside look around, startled. A circle of people are standing around a table with three smoking candles at its centre. In the circle are Modeste and Tib, the man from last night and a woman who must be his wife. At the end of the table are two grander ladies in long hooded cloaks: the Empress and her servant woman. The Empress catches me with her glance and I feel again that iron clutch at my heart.

Someone is holding me by the neck of my habit and I'm nearly choking. His deep voice is in my ear. ‘I found her listening at the door, my lady.' It's the tall man from the palace: the one who cooled the Empress with the fan no doubt keeping watch for her.

Modeste comes forward, removes the man's hands from my neck, and smooths down my habit. Even here, in this situation, my body thrills to this touch. He puts one arm around me and brings me into the circle of light. ‘You recall our friend Florence, my lady? She was with us at the palace. She's not one of us but she's no threat. She travelled with us from Gaul.'

‘Does she not follow the Way?' The Empress's voice is quite sharp.

Modeste hesitates. ‘She's a learner, my lady. A student. She wishes to understand us.'

I move further into the light so I can see this woman properly and she can see me. Again I have to tell you, no kidding, that when I look into her eyes I see Siri. There you are! I'm as mad as that boy who bites his arms. I'm mad and this is a mad dream. I look into the eyes of this fifty-year-old woman and I see Siri, my little girl.

She stares at me, frowning. ‘Your name is—'

Tib interjects. ‘Her name is Florence. She came to us with flowers in her hair.'

I keep my eyes on hers. ‘But . . . in another world,' I say slowly and clearly forcing myself to remember in the fog of the dream. ‘In another life, my lady, my name is Estella, sometimes called Starr. And in that life I had a daughter called Siri . . .'

A flicker of light catches those grave eyes. ‘That is a pretty name.
Siri.
How did you come by such a name?'

Hard, this. ‘It was given to her by the midwife who delivered her.' I pause. ‘She looked into my baby's eyes and said she had a
very
old soul, as though she'd been here before. I called my daughter after this woman.'

The Empress stares at me, hard, for a very long moment. Then she blinks and turns back to Modeste. ‘You and the boy must be very careful, Modeste. Whether or not you cure my grandson you will still be in danger. Already I've been told I myself must sacrifice to the old gods to appease them for calling for your help. And sacrifice more to ensure that it appears the old gods have affected a cure.' She pauses. ‘I hear that you and the boy will also be called on to make offerings to the old gods.'

‘Never!' says Modeste.

‘Never!' echoes Tib.

She sighs and turns to me.

‘Never ever!' My turn to echo.

This is interesting. I've never joined in the prayers of those two in our camp, and they've never asked me to. I've watched with respect as they went about their worship. I've watched them at their work in Cessero and the wider countryside of Gaul. I've watched them at prayer in travelling wagons and on the deck of the ships on the endless journey here. I've seen them heal sailors and beggars. I've done all this and never been tempted to join in their worship. But now they're in danger and I must stand up for their beliefs.

It's even more complicated, of course. I know that Modeste himself has a secret, even from his devoted and beloved Tib. His great faith in this growing church of theirs, in their brave cause, in their One God is compromised by his intellectual problem with the fundamental tenet of their faith: a man-made God who died and rose again to be taken up into Heaven. In this lower room only
I
know this, only
I
know of his search for the bones – or even the person – of the Nazarene brought to Gaul in the aftermath of those events more than two hundred years ago. Even Tib doesn't know that.

I've learned so much from Modeste. And now, having glimpsed Madame Patrice in Tib's mother, and seen Siri in the eyes of Diocletian's Empress, I have a lot more time for Modeste's idea of the reinvestment of great spirits. His theory now makes more sense to me, but it leads him down the road of yet another heresy against his own young church: that their Nazarene did not rise again but died like any mortal man, his bones protected by a journey to Gaul and secret burial there.

So where does that leave me, in this dream? I'm in the company of an Empress who is a member of a proscribed church where having one's head chopped off for one's faith is the best death among the most grizzly fates. Weird.
Alice Through the Looking Glass
has nothing on this.
Off with his head! Off with her head!

Now the room is filled with bustle as the Empress and her maid take their leave. As she passes me she puts a hand on my arm and kisses my cheek with soft lips. ‘God's blessings on you, stranger. You have a good soul.'

I put my hand up to my cheek. Tib catches my eye and stares straight at me. He nods his head. ‘I told you,' he says quietly.

I
t takes Tib and Modeste five days and five nights to establish the cure for the Emperor's grandson. As well as Tib attending and soothing the boy by the laying on of hands, the process involves Tib and Modeste consulting at night in our lodgings and praying with others in the lower room. We all talk a good deal with the boy's soldier nursemaid, who loves the boy and never leaves his side. Modeste explains to him about the calming herbs and the need for fresh fruit and clean water every day without fail. He shows him how to pound fresh chicken liver into a paste with herbs to make it palatable on bread.

The Empress and her maid come and watch through the grille as Tib and Modeste go about their work. She is gracious with me, but guarded. I know she has felt our connection but grand as she is, is unsure of what it means. Here is this woman, the greatest in her land, beloved of the Emperor, who must be the envy of the women of her time. Modeste tells me she's more than this; she is a fine scholar and seeker of the truth. I realize now that she's Modeste's sponsor at court, and even perhaps the inspiration for his quest for the truth about the fate of the Nazarene. I wonder if she, like Modeste, hangs on to this core of scepticism that could threaten their fragile young church.

As well as these strictures, on two sunny afternoons we take the boy outside the city walls for walks in the countryside with the soldier nursemaid carrying the boy on his shoulders. We point out the birds and show him flowers and Tib manufactures a simple press for him to use to preserve the flowers and begin to make a collection. The boy begins to find his own flowers and hold them up in delight. Modeste forages with the soldier for herbs and teaches him how to use them for the boy.

On the second afternoon the boy lets me hold his hand and leads me to a shrub to show me the flowers he has found. I remember doing this with Siri and it makes me smile, glad to think of the half-remembered pleasure.

On the fifth day the Empress sends a chariot for us and we take the boy to the coast. Modeste and I sit side by side on the shore and watch as the soldier and Tib entice the boy into the water. They play this game of ducking into the sea and coming up like porpoises. The boy laughs at the merry game and stands quite still as Tib makes the fish mark on his forehead.

Beside me Modeste stirs. ‘Time, I think, that we travel back to Gaul to continue our work. The boy is cured. See? The bite marks have healed completely.'

On the shore they all strip off to their bare skin before rubbing themselves with dry cloths and putting on the fresh clothes we have brought. Later the boy sits on my knee as the soldier guides the chariot past farms and along narrow track-ways back into the city. Men leaning on tools and boys up trees watch our progress through the streets. Some of them bow very low indeed.

On that last night Modeste and Tib go out alone and when they return to the lower room they have the boy with them. Modeste says they had to put a potion into the soldier's drink to get the boy away. ‘He visits Lethe for a long while. We will get the boy back before he knows a thing.'

The boy is here to be blessed by the larger local community of believers. Modeste has his doubts about this. He recognizes the risk and thinks it's unnecessary. But Tib insists it must be done. ‘Otherwise, dear Modeste, the cure will not be fixed. The boy will tumble backwards into his old ways.'

There are strangers in the room. Modeste assures me that no one here knows the identity of the child in their midst. But I am uneasy. They must know from his fine tunic that he's no ordinary boy.

The little ceremony has become familiar to me. A man reads from a scroll, which is a copy of those in Modeste's possession – a letter of Paul of Tarsus to the citizens of Corinth. Then Modeste talks about the greatness of Paul: ‘The letter urges us to keep the faith and not quarrel amongst ourselves,' he says firmly.

Then Tib blesses the wine and bread and takes it around to everyone in the circle. They all take turns in doing this. Tonight it is Tib's turn. When he reaches the boy he turns to the company and says something about him. The boy is watching the proceedings with wide eyes. He's calm now. He has lost his wild look and the deep bite marks on his arms are entirely gone. I know this is more than just ordinary healing.

Now Tib puts a hand on the boy's shoulder and looks him deep in the eyes before making the fish mark on his forehead. Then, one by one, each person in the circle does the same. That is except me. I shake my head. I look round and protest that I'm a simple stargazer, no expert in these things.

The Empress is waiting in a closed chariot in a nearby alleyway. Her sturdy servant woman is holding the head of the horse. Tib holds a flaring torch and Modeste lifts the boy into the chariot and he climbs on to her knee. He puts an arm around her neck and sits there, still and content. She lifts her veil and peers at Tib. ‘Thank you, Master Tibery. You have restored to us our child shorn of his affliction. I honour you.'

Tib and Modeste bow very deeply and I follow suit. Modeste speaks clearly in the darkness. ‘You keep the faith, my lady. You know the Way. That is enough.'

She bows her head to him and turns those eyes – Siri's eyes – on me. ‘And you, Florence. Do you keep the faith?'

I look into those eyes for a few seconds, willing her to know who I really am. Who she really is. ‘I am a stranger in these places, my lady. A mere stargazer out of my time. But I love and honour the work of Doctor Modeste and Master Tibery. I honour it, and I keep its secrets.'

Her veil lifts in the air as she shakes her head. ‘There is something particular about you, madam. Something I can't quite put my finger on. Something that renders my mind into a fog.' She pauses. ‘I sense we must have met before, Florence. But that can't be so.' Then she blinks and adjusts her veil. I can see her shaking the feeling off and I am deeply sad. Bereft. All around us is the rustle of the night, the rush of the stream that serves the latrines.