GAUL
TARASCO
AUGUST AD 344
July gave way to August. And although the stories of atrocities in the settlements in the valleys continued to be carried on the wind to Tarasco, still the soldiers never arrived. Arinius waited as the days tipped over, one into the next. The men grew less vigilant, more resentful of the lives they were being asked to live.
By the third week, they were restless. Some wanted to bring the women and children back down to the village, believing the threat had gone. Others wanted to muster as many troops as possible and head north to attack their enemy first. Only Arinius and a few stalwart allies held firm. He could feel evil stalking the valley like a living creature. He knew the time was coming and he was torn. He, too, made journeys up into the mountains to visit his family from time to time. His son, Marcellus, was growing stronger by the day. But Arinius always came back at night, to keep watch.
Finally, after the moon had waxed and waned once more, the moment they had feared so long, that had ruled their lives for so long, arrived. A fine August day, when the birds were flying and the sky was clear. The sort of day to give thanks for the world, Arinius thought, not one for bloodshed or death or ruin.
At first, an awareness of a disturbance. A hint of time suspended, waiting, like a whisper through the trees. All but imperceptible at first, then louder and louder again, the sound of men moving through the oak and pine of the lower slopes, the juniper disrupted and the rustle of the fallen leaves underfoot, dry and brittle like kindling. A little closer, and the unmistakable sound of metal on leather, swords unsheathed and the rattle of shield and knife.
Arinius looked for his brother-in-law. He, too, never missed his watch.
‘It is time,’ he said. ‘We must summon the others. We have too few men. We must bring everyone back.’
He called his nephew, a boy of eight, but strong and fearless, and instructed him to gather what support he could.
‘Quick, now,’ he said. ‘There is little time.’
The truth was, as Arinius knew, that it would be a matter of numbers and the nature of the forces marching against them. If they were trained soldiers, soldiers deserting their commissions, then Tarasco would have little chance. But if they were only bandits, dispossessed and ramshackle themselves, worthy more of pity than resistance, Arinius prayed there might be hope of winning the battle.
He organised a line of defence, checking that the ditches surrounding the settlement were filled with dried leaves and twigs to burn. Then he ordered everyone to the higher ground, where javelins or spears would be most effective and they had an uninterrupted view of the path as it climbed towards them. The noise grew louder, a tramping of feet on the lower paths, the murmuring of voices as the attackers came closer. Arinius looked back up the mountain, desperate for the sight of his nephew returning with reinforcements, but saw nothing.
Below, he saw someone emerge from the distant tree line. A scout? He was a huge bear of a man with arms broader than Arinius’ legs. He looked around, then darted back into the safety of the trees. How many were there? How many would come?
Arinius tried to pray, but he found he could not. Fear had driven every word of intercession from his head. Then, behind him, he sensed movement. He turned, and, as his eyes focused, he saw a host of men coming down the hill. Not just those from their own village, but men from neighbouring communities, some Christian, some not, but each armed and walking down the path.
And at the head of the line were Lupa and her two sisters, Calista and Anona. Arinius was unable to trust the evidence of his own eyes. He simply stood, staring at his wife as she grew bigger, drew closer, until she was standing in front of him. He found he did not know what to say.
Lupa looked at him, a little shyly at first, then stretched up and kissed him on the lips.
‘You sent me away. I did as you asked. I went.’
‘But . . .’ He indicated the mass of people standing behind her.
‘I asked for help,’ she said simply, ‘and God heard.’
Arinius shook his head. ‘No, what I mean is, where have all these people come from?’
Lupa smiled. ‘They are all who remain of the villages that have already been put to the sword, the men of the woods. While you have kept guard, I have travelled from settlement to settlement to ask them to stand beside us to fight.’ She waved her hand. ‘And they have come.’
Arinius looked round at the army his wife had mustered, men with different faces and different tongues, yet standing ready to fight shoulder to shoulder with them. Then he let his gaze return to his extraordinary wife.
‘Lupa,’ he said with admiration.
She smiled, then stepped back into line. Arinius held her gaze for a moment longer, then he climbed up on to a rock and stretched his arms wide.
‘Salvete,’ he said. ‘Friends, you are most welcome. You know the ill that has been done by the men in the valley below. My wife – Lupa – tells me that many of you have already suffered at their hands. I thank you for your courage in coming to our aid. Whatever happens today, you will have God’s blessing.’
Some of the men bowed their heads and made the sign of the cross. Others watched with open-eyed curiosity. A few shuffled awkwardly.
‘May God be with us,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Amen.’
A small chorus repeated the word after him, Lupa’s voice the clearest and strongest of them all.
Arinius stepped down from the rock. ‘If we survive what is to come, it will be in no small part because of you.’
He drew his sword from his belt and handed it to his wife.
‘You’re not going to send me away?’
‘How could I?’ Arinius said. ‘This is your army, Lupa. These are your men to command, not mine.’
She smiled. ‘They will follow you, Arinius,’ she said proudly. ‘But I shall stand at your side. We will show these barbarians what it is to fight.’ She looked around. ‘Are the defences complete?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we are ready for them.’
Only then did Arinius notice that Lupa was no longer wearing the iridescent bottle on the leather thong around her neck.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I gave it into the safe keeping of my grandmother. She will keep it – and our beloved Marcellus – safe until we return.’
COUSTAUSSA
AUGUST 1944
Baillard looked up at the sky. It was a perfect black tonight, unbroken by clouds and scattered with stars.
And they shall sleep once more.
He had studied the verses over the past three weeks, translating them from the Coptic. His understanding of the transcendent promise concealed within the Codex had grown with each reading.
Intimation, incantation, prophecy.
Those of fair heart and true, from the blood of the land where once they fell, come forth in the final hour.
The words ran through his mind, spoken only inside his head. An incomplete song without a tune. He had not said the words out loud. Not yet. He knew that, once spoken, there would be no turning back, though he feared that time was nearly upon them.
Come forth in the final hour.
He stood a moment longer in the silver starlight, then heard the door open and sensed someone making their way across the garden.
He turned.
‘Are you ready, Monsieur Baillard?’
‘Yes, filha.’
Sandrine had cut her hair, so it was as short as Suzanne’s, while the clumps pulled out by Laval grew back. She was very thin, though her skin was tanned from the sun so it wasn’t so obvious. She had taken to wearing slacks to hide the scars on her legs and loose shirts so as not to aggravate the burn scars on her shoulder.
‘Raoul is saying goodbye to the others,’ she said. ‘He won’t be long.’
Three weeks had passed since the events at the villa on the route de Toulouse and most of Sandrine’s injuries had healed. The mark of the cross on her back and a small scar above her right eye, a little finger that hadn’t properly healed, were the outward evidence of what she had endured. But the worst of the damage was inside, body and spirit. She was in pain much of the time. Her hand often went to her stomach when she thought no one was looking, grieving for the children she would no longer be able to bear.
Sandrine hadn’t told anyone else what had happened in the cell on the route de Toulouse, and no one had pressed her. She felt the details of the assault would be more than Raoul or Marianne or Lucie could bear, and Baillard knew she was right. They saw only what she wanted them to see. She had suffered and she had survived, but the experience had changed her. And she told no one but Monsieur Baillard about the voice she had heard. About the warrior angel in stone who seemed to give her courage.
Over the same three weeks, the violence in Languedoc had got worse and worse. There were rumours that the Allies were about to invade from the Mediterranean. That the Germans would withdraw. In the Haute Vallée, Resistance activity continued – at the Port d’Alzau, in Alet-les-Bains, in Limoux. But Allied advances in the North led to increased conflict in the South. German attacks on partisans had intensified, growing ever more brutal. The Maquis in Villezby, Faïta and Picaussel were routed and there were spies and informers everywhere. In Carcassonne, Leo Authié’s iron grip tightened. Every day, more men were taken, friends and comrades fell. Robert and Gaston Bonnet and Jean-Marc Giraud were arrested in the same Gestapo raid that claimed the FFI departmental leader, Jean Bringer – ‘Myriel’ – as well as Aimé Ramond, Maurice Sevajols and Docteur Delteil, Giraud’s colleague at the Clinique du Bastion. Two attempts to rescue them from the prison on the route de Narbonne had been unsuccessful.
Throughout all of this, Raoul refused to leave Sandrine’s side. Baillard’s heart went out to the young man. He did not yet understand there was nothing he could do. Sandrine would recover in her own time, or she would not, but his constant presence – his desperation to see her condition improve – was not helping.
Then the previous evening, they’d received word that the airdrop of weapons for a proposed attack on the local Nazi arms depot had missed its target, jeopardising the operation. It was common for the Allies to be a few kilometres out, but help was urgently needed to transport the equipment to the partisans’ temporary base in the hills above Alet-les-Bains. Sandrine had enlisted Baillard’s help to persuade Raoul to go. She had spent hours reassuring him she would be all right without him, for a few days at most. In the end, Raoul had agreed.
Baillard knew Sandrine had an ulterior motive. It wasn’t just that Raoul’s concern for her well-being was overwhelming. With him constantly at her side, she was unable to put her own plan into action. She knew Raoul would try to stop her, and that for all his courage and experience, he didn’t understand that there was only one way left to end things.
Though it grieved him, Baillard agreed. He was appalled by what they intended to do – what they had to do – but the final hour was approaching.
‘You are resolved to go through with this, filha?’
‘I can’t see we have a choice. Do you, Monsieur Baillard?’
He hesitated, then slowly he shook his head. ‘I do not.’
‘How will I know when you’ve arrived?’ she asked.
‘I will try to get a message to you, madomaisèla. If I cannot, we shall trust that we are each able to fulfil our side of the arrangement. And at the appropriate time it will be done.’
‘Is a week enough?’
‘I believe it is.’
Sandrine sighed. ‘So soon,’ she whispered.
For the first time since they had begun to make their plans, Baillard heard fear in her voice. He felt a glimmer of hope. If Sandrine was starting to experience normal emotions again, that was a good sign – an encouraging sign – that she might recover.
‘You are sure you have to go back to the Pic de Vicdessos, Monsieur Baillard?’ she said. ‘Isn’t there a way you could stay in Coustaussa?’
He gave a long, weary sigh. ‘I am not sure of anything about this matter,’ he said quietly. ‘Instinct draws me back to the Vallée des Trois Loups. Perhaps to speak the words there, where the Codex lay hidden for so long, will give our endeavours a greater chance of success.’ He went to put his hand on her shoulder, then thought better of it. ‘That is what we want, is it not?’
‘Perhaps,’ she said.
Baillard looked at her, holding her safe in his gaze for a while longer. She sounded so very lost.
‘You stand in a long line of women of the Midi, Madomaisèla Sandrine. Courageous, brave women, warriors all, who fought for what they believed to be right.’ He paused. ‘What we attempt to do is not without danger. What we attempt to do may not succeed. But it is right and it is just. We act for the good of all.’
‘Yes,’ she said more forcefully.
He smiled at her. ‘And we shall triumph, I feel sure of it.’
The sound of someone coming down the wooden steps drew their attention. They both turned and saw it was Raoul. The time had come.
‘Good luck,’ Baillard said quickly. ‘And be careful.’ He raised his voice. ‘Now I will allow you to take your leave of your young man. Tell Sénher Pelletier I will be waiting for him at the crossroads.’
Before she could say anything else, Baillard was walking across the garden and out into the garrigue.
Sandrine watched him go, then felt Raoul take her hand in the dark. She turned.
‘Monsieur Baillard says he will meet you at the crossroads.’
‘I don’t want to leave you,’ he said.
‘Raoul,’ she said gently, ‘we’ve been through this. I’ll be fine for a day or two. Everyone’s here. They’ll look after me.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘Of course it’s not,’ she said, quickly kissing him on the lips, then stepping away again. ‘But it’s important you go. You’re needed. You can’t stop fighting because of me, I couldn’t bear that.’
Raoul sighed. He reached forward and put his arms around her. Sandrine flinched, then quickly tried to cover her reaction.
‘What? Did I hurt you, did I . . .?’
‘No, it’s all right. It’s nothing.’
She couldn’t bear him to touch her. However gentle he was, however careful, she couldn’t keep the ugly memories out of her head. Laval’s hands around her neck, Authié forcing her legs apart, the thrust of hard metal, the stench of burning flesh as he pressed the poker against her back. Raoul was patient and he was understanding. But even when they lay down to sleep, the slightest movement of his skin against hers had Sandrine shaking with fear. Awake in the dark, reliving each black second she had suffered in that airless room.
She put her arms around him and held him tight. And, for a moment, she was able to make herself forget. Only for a moment.
‘Monsieur Baillard’s waiting,’ she said softly, stepping away.
‘He won’t mind,’ he said.
‘No.’
Carefully, he reached down and took her hand. ‘How many times have we done this, do you think?’
‘Done what?’
‘Said goodbye. Not knowing when we’re going to see each other again.’
‘It’s different this time,’ she said, trying to raise a smile. ‘I know where you’re going and you’ll only be gone a few days.’
‘I have a bad feeling. I don’t want to leave you.’
Sandrine smiled. ‘You always say that,’ she said. ‘You always think something’s going to go wrong, but it never does.’
Raoul didn’t answer.
‘Look, they desperately need the weapons, Raoul,’ she said firmly. ‘The longer the consignment’s left where it came down, the more likely the Gestapo will hear about it.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, then.’
He stared at her for a moment longer, as if trying to commit every tiny feature to memory. Then he leant forward and kissed her on the forehead.
‘I love you, you know.’
Sandrine smiled. ‘I know.’
She felt his fingers loosen their hold, then the connection between them was broken.
‘Be careful,’ she said.
‘I will. I always am.’
‘Go, then.’
This time, he did what she asked. Raoul was walking away from her, as he had done many times before. Grief suddenly overwhelmed her. Having been so desperate for him to go, Sandrine had underestimated how broken she would feel if he did.
‘Raoul!’ she called after him into the darkness.
She saw him turn and start to run, back towards her, gathering her into his arms. She hung on tight, holding him as if she would never let him go. Her skin touching his without fear, his hair against her cheek, like the very first kiss they had shared on the corner of the rue Mazagran. And now, at last, everything was forgotten but the smell of him and the feel of him and how they fitted so perfectly with one another.
‘I love you, you know,’ she said, echoing his words.
‘I know,’ he said.