AS HE APPROACHED Avignon once more from the east, Olivier passed unmolested through the two small groups of papal soldiers who stopped everyone they saw and searched them. He watched them for an hour before plucking up courage and marching down the road.
“What’s this?” he asked as they grabbed him and made him stand while they searched his clothes and bag.
“Orders,” said one. “Nothing there. Thank you.”
“Come on, tell me. What’s this about?”
“Sorry.”
And then he was through, and went safely on his way. Just outside the city, on the approach to the great bridge that led over the river to its gates, he came across a sight that initially made him laugh out loud, and he rushed to Ceccani to recite his letter and tell him of what he had seen.
“Fifty men and women,” he said later, “all roped together, beating the hell out of each other with rods and ropes, singing psalms while they did it. Not very well, I must say, as they weren’t hitting each other for show. They were really hurting. What is going on that we have so many mad-men on the road?”
Ceccani did not smile. “They call themselves flagellants, for reasons that are obvious. They believe they can fend off the plague through self-mortification.”
“Judging by the state of this town, they are not succeeding. Is it as bad as it seems?”
“Worse,” Ceccani said grimly. “And by all accounts there is still worse to come. Do not laugh at these people, Olivier. Much has changed in your absence, and you will not find anything so amusing when you see what is happening.”
“I saw some things on the way across town, my lord.” And he had; never would he have thought it possible that a city could change so quickly and so drastically. Not the buildings, of course; the town looked exactly as before, every house and church and palace was as it had been. But the streets, denuded of their people, the stalls, the noise, the movement, were like ghosts. Olivier had never thought about it before; only now did he realize how much he had come to like, even to love, this greedy, corrupt, sinful, excessive town, a byword throughout the world for its extravagance. To live in Avignon, survive amid the cruelty and venality, mingle with Italians and French and Germans and Flemings, was to encounter the whole world at once. And now, it seemed, it was gone forever; all that was left of the pageantry were the bells of the body collectors, and the harsh rumbling of their carts as they pulled another load of corpses to the river; it was difficult to imagine it would ever come back. No city, he thought, could recover from such a blow.
“How many are dead?”
“So far? About seven thousand, maybe ten. We thought that perhaps it was abating, that the miasma was heading elsewhere, but it seems not. There will be many more deaths yet. There is nothing to be done, Olivier. No human assistance has had any effect. Nonetheless, I wish you to do me a service, when you are rested.”
“Willingly, my lord.”
“Go to these people you find so amusing, they must have a leader, and bring him to me. I do not know whether they are dangerous or not, and we must find out what sort of men they are.”
He had already told Ceccani about his voyage, and apologized profusely for having taken such a long time. Ceccani listened, silently, nodding as he spoke.
“And he’s dead, this Althieux?”
“Yes, my lord. I buried him myself.”
He grunted. “You tell me you read the letter?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied a little nervously. “I did not intend to or want to. But I decided the only way of bringing it to you safely was in my head.”
Ceccani thought of this, then smiled. “You did well. Very well indeed. I am pleased with you. So tell me.”
And like a schoolboy before a master, Olivier recited, calling up every word from his prodigious memory. How the proposal was acceptable to the king. How it would take some time to get troops into position. How the English needed eight weeks before any action could be taken, but that they would be ready outside the walls of Aigues- Mortes by the end of May. And how they undertook to provide any and all assistance to Cardinal Ceccani when the time was right.
Ceccani nodded. “Do you understand this letter?”
“I believe so, my lord.”
“And?”
“I believe the English wish to wrest control of Aigues-Mortes from the king of France, to take from him his only port on the Mediterranean Sea. And that you intend to help them do so.”
“Go on.”
Olivier looked perplexed. “That is all, sir.”
“Your opinion?”
“I have none, sir.”
“Do you not find it shocking? Fascinating?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am your servant, my lord, indebted to you for everything I have. And because the doings of princes are not my affair. Whether Aigues-Mortes is French, or whether it is English, or whether it belongs to the emperor of China is of no matter to me. I serve you to the best of my ability. What else should concern me?”
Ceccani rose and gave him a warm embrace, the first time he had ever done such a thing. “By God, I choose my servants well,” he said. “Now go to my chancellor and get the money to buy yourself some new clothes. Get enough for expensive ones. And go and see if there are any clothes merchants left in this town. If you choose to buy modest attire and spend the rest on a manuscript or two for yourself, then—then I’ll bless you anew.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Olivier did as he was told, although with some foreboding. The group of penitents were not hard to find; a considerable crowd had gathered around them and the noise of screaming could be heard from some distance. Olivier indeed had to push his way through to reach the front.
What he saw revolted him once more. There were about fifty of them, stripped to the waist, dirty, filthy men and women all drawn from the dregs of society, uncouth, loud, and vulgar, standing in a circle. Time and again one would step into the center to be set upon by the others, all of whom carried weighted scourges. Evidently Olivier had missed much of the spectacle, for the ground was as red with blood as the sand after a bear baiting. Several had collapsed, and when they did so, the others rejoiced and ignored them, turning their attention to the next. Olivier could barely contain his disgust, then slowly realized that he was alone in the crowd in feeling this antipathy. Many of the others were on their knees, singing. Others prayed with tears in their eyes, others ran up with handkerchiefs to wipe the blood, which they carried away reverently. He saw one woman grab one of the men and lick his wounds before collapsing in a heap on the ground. A tall man with a thin, wispy beard, his face covered in scabs, walked over to her, picked her up, and gave her a blessing.
Olivier called out to him. He had to repeat himself several times before he was noticed. “Are you the leader of these people?”
“I am their captain,” he replied. Alone of the group he did not seem taken with a madness. Alone, Olivier noticed, he did not submit himself to a beating either.
“I have a message for you. Cardinal Ceccani orders you to attend him.”
“I take no orders from a priest,” the man replied with a sneer.
Olivier turned and indicated the ten guards he had brought from Ceccani’s palace. “Then perhaps a polite request would be honored with a reply?”
The man eyed the troops, who looked nervous and unready to do their duty, but decided not to risk it. “You may tell the priest,” he said, “that I am desirous of saving all souls, even his. I will come to him this evening.”
And he terminated the interview, walking back to the center of the circle, and continued. Olivier retreated; he heard the snigger of the crowd as he did so.
STRANGELY, Ceccani was not offended by the response when he reported it. He laughed, merely. “But, my
