“Did you point out that he was being a little inconsiderate, keeping everyone waiting like that?”
“Ah, no. He is an admirable fellow, honest, kind, and diligent. A sense of humor was not easily detectable in him, though. It may be that he doesn’t find it funny. And, truth to say, these Christians believe the absurdity so strongly that there have been occasions when their efforts at persuasion have gone beyond mere argument. My dear friend, it makes me sad.”
“What does?”
“To see the triumph of something so crude and coarse. Think of Sophia, and the wisdom and elegance of what we learned from her. Think of the beauty of her philosophy and the completeness of the contemplative ideal. The sophistication of her conceptions and demonstrations of God. Then think of this smelly rabble and their beliefs. These poor Jews being screamed at simply because these vulgarians think it a way of getting into heaven.”
“You could hardly explain her doctrine of the soul to the Christians,” Lucontius replied. “Let alone instruct them in the formal nature of her logic.”
“I know. They want results. They want someone to come along and say, ‘Repeat after me, and live forever. The less you know, the better it is.’ ”
He smiled. “It’s not that I plan to invite Joseph for dinner. He is a merchant, after all, and would not accept the invitation in any case. But I talked to him a bit, and he seems decent enough, if as strange as most of his people. He, after all, doesn’t insist that his salvation lies in anyone else’s behavior. He just believes, in a perfectly polite way, that everyone else is wrong about everything.”
He stood up and took a cup from a servant. “Long may he do so, say I, for it is worth it just to see the look of outrage on the Christians’ faces at the very thought of such people.”
And, smiling ironically, they drank a toast to Joseph the Jew.
MANLIUS THOUGHT carefully before she arrived, and prepared one of his houses in Vaison for her use, a building near the forum and one of the areas that remained busy and fully occupied. It was a compromise; as simple as she wanted and as grand as he required, for she would be under his protection and could not embarrass him with her frugality. The slaves, however, she insisted be removed.
“I have my one slave, and that is enough for me,” she said. “What would I do with a dozen?”
He tried to answer.
“I know. You are worried. ‘There goes a protégée of the great Manlius and he only gives her one slave.’ You are concerned about your reputation. Take them away, my boy. There must be better things for them to do.”
So he did; also, he removed nearly all of the furniture, shut off many of the rooms, painted over the frescoes (thus preserving them for Père Sautel when he began to excavate), and let her be.
Eventually, she came to him again. “I am weary of town life,” she said. “It weighs on me, this provincial little place.”
“You told me that philosophy could only exist in the society of men.”
“Cities, my boy. Not small towns. And certainly not towns so shrunken they are scarcely more than villages. Do you know, they call me the pagan, these worthy citizens? They spotted in a day that I do not go to church, and actually came to ask me why. I thought I might give some lectures here, but I might as well try to instruct a herd of goats.”
He knew what she saw, she whose father had come from Alexandria, one of the greatest cities on earth, who had grown up in Marseille, still a city even though diminished. Vaison was a poor thing now, though once rich and prosperous. Several quarters had been sacked a century before and never rebuilt; slowly they were being quarried as the fitful work to build a wall continued. Even this project was not complete; the town could not even act with dispatch over its own defense. The builders would not work without pay, and there was no money. The citizens would not do the job themselves, for they considered it unfitting. There were not enough slaves and servants left to be forced to the task. The public buildings were small and crumbling; houses once great were divided up, or abandoned or dismantled. He felt the conflicting loyalties of a man who belonged here, a member of the tribe of the Vocontii, which had occupied this land when Rome itself was still a few huts on an Italian hill, and of a Roman aristocrat who had seen better and greater things.
“I was told you have established a reputation for yourself,” he commented.
“As a giver of good advice. People come to me with their aches and their worries. I pour balm on both. Do not misunderstand me; I am happy to do so. But all they are really concerned about is the state of the roads, the level of taxes, and how long the water supply will remain fresh.”
“All pressing problems.”
“I know. But sometimes the noise of their chirruping and gossip drives me close to madness.”
“So what do you want?”
“Somewhere to be quiet. Peaceful. Where I can meditate without being interrupted by the rabble, or harangued by a deacon about the love of Jesus. Do you know, the only people I can have a conversation with are the Jews? At least when they quote scripture at you they are not merely repeating something some priest has babbled in their ear. They have the great merit of disagreeing with nearly everything I say. In fact, they disagree with almost everything they say themselves. And most importantly, they don’t think that shouting strengthens their argument. They just talk loudly out of habit. I have been entertaining myself by reading the Bible with one of their priests or whatever you call them. It has been most instructive.”
“You astonish me.”
“I astonish myself. But fascinating though I find Moses, I still want a little peace and quiet. Do you have anywhere in the country I can go to?”
Manlius laughed. “My lady, you know quite well that I own nearly all the country. According to the tax collectors, I have some forty-nine villas, many of which are now unoccupied and falling into ruin for lack of labor. Not that they take this into account.”
She sighed. “Don’t you start. I would like to borrow something small, about two days from here. As isolated as possible.”
Manlius thought. “I know just the place,” he said.
A fortnight later, the repair work had been carried out, a dozen serfs transferred to provide basic services, and the lady Sophia was escorted to the villa he had in mind about four kilometers from his own principal residence. It lay among a group of hills that provided coolness in the summer and protection from the winds in the winter. It was much too grand for her, consisting of some twenty-five rooms, and she hated it on sight. But, as she was leaving, she saw the tiny dwelling on the hill—with a clear view over the countryside, a copse of trees to provide shelter—and on the instant decided this was perfect. Clean water nearby, a path for bread and other supplies to be brought from the valley. Fresh air, and the simplicity she desired. Once the family of farmers had been ejected on Manlius’s orders—for Sophia never thought that philosophy should bow its head to equity—she took it over and achieved something of the tranquillity she had long sought. When she finally decided that this was where she would stay, he gave it to her, along with the neighboring farms and about forty laborers. Within a few years all but six of the laborers had run away, and the farmland had turned back into scrub. What did he expect? That she was going to turn farmer? Fret about the wheat? Examine the olive trees for blight? The waste annoyed Manlius, he who worked so hard to keep production going on his own lands, but he said nothing. Nonetheless, she was a difficult, impossible woman, sometimes.
She lived there, on and off, for near twenty years before she died, and much to her annoyance, she became genuinely respected by the rough country folk who lived nearby and adopted the habit of coming to her with their illnesses and concerns. She even outlived Manlius himself, and on his death, the tax revenues of the land passed to a Burgundian soldier, who collected them, every quarter, in person.
They even came to have a grudging affection for each other, this representative of Greek sophistication and the rough, unlettered barbarian who was now her effective overlord. She was lucky, and she knew it; her new master—such he was, although only she, with characteristic bluntness, ever referred to him in this way—wished to be more polished, and had a crude, rough sense of fairness that made her life more fortunate than many enjoyed. Ordric—middle-aged, fat, and powerful—was one of the better men in an age with few shining examples of virtue left. It was strange to find such qualities in such an unlikely place, but the times themselves were strange. She taught him nothing, he did not wish to learn; rather, they learned only to appreciate the kindness of the other, and in the end, she left him all her remaining lands in her will, not merely the taxes of them, as she could think of no
