In this the old man thought correctly, although even his equanimity was disturbed when he noticed that the little entourage was heading straight for the papal palace, still being extended and rebuilt despite the times. For Avignon in the grip of the plague was truly frightening; scarcely a soul to be seen, in the marketplace only a few traders, miserably trying to sell their wares to no customers. An air of foreboding and of panic all around, the blank expressions on the faces of those few people in the streets saying all that was needed about their terror. Was this in store for his own town? If it was, then dangerous days were ahead of them all. One little spark and their world would be ablaze. Somebody would pay heavily for this catastrophe. Even he could not help considering the possibility that his own journey deep into the palace might be the first installment.
He had been there before, when making one of his reluctant visits to see de Deaux, but the contrast between then and now could hardly have been greater. Whereas before the great courtyard where they all dismounted was full of people—clerics, petitioners, merchants, even a few pilgrims—now it was deserted. The air of authority had dissipated in the face of a far greater power. Even the mighty church was now no more than a feeble collection of mortal, frightened men.
At least, he thought as he was led up a grand staircase, then through a series of rooms, then up a narrower staircase, climbing high into one of the towers; at least the dungeons are underground. We are ascending to the skies, not descending to the depths. Every step upward is one of hope. Unless, of course, they plan to throw me from the battlements.
They came to a small door near the top of the tower; a soldier knocked, opened the door, and stood back to let him past. He stepped in and was almost overcome by the heat, which came blasting over him like a wave from a furnace. He took a step backward, and had to take a deep breath; instantly, little prickles of sweat broke out all over his body, and his thick winter cloak began to feel uncomfortable.
“Take it off, if you find it too warm,” came a voice from the corner, near the huge fire. “Do you wish to speak in Provençal, French, or Latin? They are all I can manage, I’m afraid.”
“Any will do,” the rabbi replied in Provençal.
“Splendid. Latin it is,” said Pope Clement. “Do you wish to kiss my ring?”
He held out his hand, on which was a vast ruby ring, shining brilliantly in the firelight. Gersonides stood absolutely still, not assenting, not refusing. The pope smiled cherubically and withdrew his hand.
“What do you think of these rumors that malefactors have been poisoning wells?” he began. “Please, by the way, do not stand too close to me. I have not been up here sweating myself into an early grave for the last ten days just to succumb to some miasma attached to your body.”
Not only, Gersonides noted, was the pope sitting as close to the fire as was possible without his clothes catching alight, he was also swaddled like a monstrous newborn in clothes, thick piles of cloaks and blankets and scarves, making him look appallingly bloated. His feet were laced up tight in fur slippers and on his head was a fur hat, expensive, possibly brought all the way from Russia. His face, what could be seen of it, was beetroot red, covered in sweat that rolled freely down his forehead and heavy jowls into his clothes. All around, making it even more oppressive, were candles and incense burners, thickening the air with smoke and contrasting, conflicting aromas.
Gersonides had a headache already, and was beginning to feel faint. His replies were not as subtle and considered as they might have been.
“They are nonsense, Excellence. As any sensible man knows, they are nonsense.”
“Cardinal Ceccani today made a strong case that you Jews are behind it all. We have people in the streets saying so as well. Holy men, good men, he tells me. He also says that we must make an example of you. Are you saying, then, that I surround myself with fools, and bestow my patronage on idiots?”
“If you are indeed surrounded by people saying such things, then it is a proposition that deserves consideration, Excellence.”
The pope’s face turned blank with shock at the impudence, and he peered through the smoke at Gersonides’s face. Then he leaned back in his tall oak chair and let out a peal of laughter, his thick, pink jowls shaking from the noise. Gersonides stood as impassively as before.
“By heavens, I am glad we are alone here. You are rude, sir. Very rude, and considering the situation, very unwise. Are you always so?”
“I consider it the best way I know to honor my Creator. He wishes us to strive after the truth, does He not?”
“He wishes us to believe in Him.”
“The one does not exclude the other.”
“It does in the case of Jews, who refuse to believe the truth of their own Messiah. So much so that they murdered Him rather than honoring Him.”
“You know, Excellence, that is a false step in your argument. You can only make such a statement to advance your proposition if the substance of it is accepted by the other side. Only then may you argue for the consequence of that proposition.”
The pope wagged his fat, ringed finger. “So you believe in tempering truth with at least a little cunning. I am not dealing with the Jewish equivalent of a holy fool at least. I am glad of it. You are said to be skilled in medicine, astronomy, philosophy, logic, languages, conversant with all forms of ancient knowledge, your own and that of others, familiar with mathematics and optics as well as theology. Is all this true? Or is it just a story put around by a man as vain as he is foolish?”
“I must confess to being both vain and foolish,” said Gersonides. “But also to having a little knowledge of all the matters you mention.”
“Good. I wish to consult you on a matter of the most vital importance. Will you serve me honestly and truthfully?”
“If I accept the commission, I will perform it to the best of my ability.”
“Another cautious response. Do you know what is happening in the world?”
“I know there is a plague.”
“But do you know how terrible it is?”
“I have heard some reports. And seen that this city is in a state of terror.”
Clement looked dismissive. “This city,” he said scornfully. “They don’t have the slightest inkling of it. So far there have been a few thousand deaths. That is all. And they are already panicking. I have priests, cardinals, and bishops running for their fat little lives when they are most needed. And it has scarcely started yet. Do you know what will happen here, and throughout the rest of the world?”
Gersonides made no answer. The pope picked up a sheet of paper and began reeling off numbers.
“Syracuse: ninety thousand dead out of a population of a hundred thousand. Genoa: sixty thousand out of seventy-five thousand. Florence, less than ten thousand souls left. Aleppo, wiped out entirely. Not a single man, woman, or child still alive. Alexandria a ghost town. And it goes on and on. The whole world is being consumed, and in a matter of months. Do you see what I mean?”
The rabbi was shocked. That the head of the church had better, more precise information than he possessed he did not doubt for a second. That it should be so terrible he had not suspected for a moment. For a few seconds he could think of nothing to say.
“I read also,” the pope continued, “several reports that Jews die as frequently as Christians—and, I might say, as Moslems. God is being very evenhanded, and it seems possible—so many think already—that He intends to wipe out His creation in its entirety. We are in the middle of another flood, except this time He is sparing the animals. Only men and women and children fall to this sickness.”