GAUL
CARCASO
JULY AD 342
Arinius climbed the ladder to the top of the wall between the towers. Over the past days, the limitanei on the first watch of the day had become used to the company of this silent young monk. They nodded a greeting and continued their patrol.
He looked north, over the plain, to the river Atax, shimmering silver in the first light. Then he turned to the south. On clear mornings, before the burning heat of the sun fell over the town in a white haze, the peaks of the distant mountains were visible. Somewhere, someone was singing. A woman’s voice, an old song about exile, about the endless sands of the deserts. About being far from home.
Arinius had become used to the different languages, the various smells of food and wine, the mixture of peoples who made their homes in Carcaso. He no longer heard the murmurings of the Liturgy of the Hours in his mind, but rather the whispering of the wind across the plains, the call of linnets and sparrows. The baleful howl of wolves in the hills at night.
From time to time, he unswaddled his precious cargo and stared at the beauty of the Coptic letters on the papyrus. He read Latin, but none of the other ancient languages. He wished he knew what the words meant, why they were considered so dangerous. But the letters, the pattern of them, the shape, imprinted themselves on his eyes and, through his eyes, on his soul. He feared them and revered them in equal measure.
Arinius felt God spoke to him through every line. His growing grief that Christianity had turned on itself had faded. His sorrow that, after the years of persecution by Rome, the new Church should have adopted the same weapons of oppression and judgement and martyrdom, this too had faded.
Here, in the frontier settlement of Carcaso, he felt at peace, even though the streets were not always tranquil. Arguments flared up easily out of nowhere, weapons drawn, then just as quickly sheathed. It felt like home and it saddened him that he had to leave. Even though his health had improved, the racking cough that tore through his thin frame and made his ribs ache was a constant reminder of how the illness still crouched within him. He did not believe he would live to make old bones.
Arinius was not afraid to die, though he feared the journey itself might kill him. All he could hope was God might grant him the time to ensure that the Codex was safe. In the future, in better times, he prayed, the holy words would be found and read, honoured and understood. Spoken as he had heard them spoken in the stone silence of the community in Lugdunum.
Arinius stood for a while longer, looking south towards the mountains, wondering what lay ahead.
CARCASSONNE
JULY 1942
The man known as Leo Coursan knelt at the screen in the confessional in the cathédrale Saint-Michel, aware of the presence of the priest behind the grille.
‘O God,’ he continued, ‘I am sorry for having offended you and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell. But most of all because I have offended you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life. Amen.’
His hand went to the silver crucifix pinned to his left lapel. He had been obliged not to wear so visible a sign of his faith over the past few months and had felt naked without it. He had been forced to take on another name, another man’s characteristics, and he had played his part well. Finally, this morning, he could return to himself once again.
The cathedral was deserted at this time of day. The only sounds were the song of the birds in the lime trees lining the boulevard Barbès. The plaster figures of St Bernard and St Benoît listened to him in contemplative silence.
‘I have dissembled and lied for the purpose of bringing the enemies of the Church into plain view. I have consorted with those who deny God. I have neglected my spiritual salvation.’ He paused. ‘I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life.’
His confession seemed to hang like mist in the air. The silence from behind the screen was deafening, so palpable that he almost felt he could reach out and touch it. Then, an intake of breath and the priest began to speak. A low, steady collection of vowels and syllables, intoned so very many times before, though he could hear the fear in the man’s voice.
The words of absolution and forgiveness washed over him as white sound. He felt a lightness in his limbs, coursing through his veins, a sense of grace and of peace and the deep and certain knowledge that today he was doing God’s work.
‘Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.’
He could hear the relief in the priest’s voice as he came to the end of the ritual.
‘For His mercy endures for ever,’ Coursan gave the response.
He made the sign of the cross, then stood up. He ran his hand over his newly cut hair, straightened his jacket and his trousers, then leant forward and whispered through the grille.
‘Remain where you are for five minutes. Then leave and lock the cathedral behind you. Allow no one access today.’
‘I cannot possibly—’
He smacked the wire mesh with his hand. The sound was loud, discordant, violent in the confined confessional. He felt the priest flinch behind the wire.
‘Do it,’ he said in a cold, level voice. ‘You will thank me for this, Father. I give you my word.’
He pulled back the curtain, feeling the dust and imprint of ages in the thick material. Left, right, left, the heels of his shoes clipping loudly on the stone floor. He stopped, turned back to the altar, towards the rising sun, and made the sign of the cross with the holy water from the bénitier. Then he pulled open the heavy wooden door and rejoined the world.
For an instant, he paused and looked out over the Garden of Remembrance. To the stone plaques of the war memorial commemorating the men of Carcassonne who’d given their lives in the Grande Guerre. He regretted the damage that would be done in this honoured place, but it was unavoidable.
He put his hands to his face, relishing the feel of smooth, clean skin, after the weeks of not shaving properly. It was Leo Coursan, partisan, Occitan freedom fighter, who had entered the cathedral. A borrowed identity, stolen from a murdered man. It was Leo Authié, member of the Deuxième Bureau and servant of God, who left it and walked out into the early morning sun.