by Tony Moyle
“If you do not believe that Nostradamus wrote it, does that also mean you do not believe in the prophecy at all?”
“Of course I don’t believe it. I may be the only single female over the age of forty who doesn’t read horoscopes, isn’t of the belief that ‘anything is possible’, and doesn’t post pointless inspirational quotes on her social media accounts.”
“But there is so much in this world that cannot be explained.”
“True, but that does not give anyone the right to argue that something supernatural is responsibility. It just means we haven’t found a plausible explanation yet.”
“But what about all the times Nostradamus was right?” said Antoine with an expression which shrouded whether he was being genuine or mischievous.
“That’ll be never, then.”
“Surely not. And the others that went before him, what about them? There were plenty of seers down the ages who had an uncanny ability to predict the future. I believe there is a power in people that cannot always be proven or disproven.”
“We will have to disagree on the basis that you are wrong and I am not. Anyway it really doesn’t concern me. All that does is finding out who wrote the prophecy.”
“I find it curious how two experts in the same subject can so wildly disagree with each other.”
“Other expert?” asked Ally directly.
“Bernard Baptiste.”
“I thought you said two experts,” huffed Ally.
“You don’t agree?”
“No. Baptiste is no expert. He’s a fanatic. He takes a rather far-fetched view when it comes to Nostradamus’s work. He likes to think he knows what he’s talking about and yet he expects us to believe that every event in history lies within ‘Les Prophéties’. It’s ridiculous. He’s more a collector of memorabilia than an actual scholar.”
“He speaks rather highly of you.”
“I doubt that.”
“Yes…you should,” said Antoine smiling kindly. There was a twinkle in this man’s eye that gave away tiny secrets of the personality that lay beneath its aging body. Courteous and suave he might be, but there was something quietly mysterious about this unusual gentleman.
“So who do you believe most?” asked Ally.
“I have no reason to believe either of you. I know neither of you, nor your motives. But I do believe something here doesn’t add up.”
“Of course it doesn’t. The book is discovered at the same time the circumstances it predicts appear to be happening for real. The book is definitely over five hundred years old, there is no doubt about that, so it could have come to light at anytime since.”
“Often when we are in need of a sign, a sign presents itself,” replied Antoine philosophically. “Or we decide to invent the sign to secure our own beliefs.”
Ally didn’t reply immediately. Antoine appeared genuine in his comments and manner but she thought there was more to him than met the eye. Above all else, though, he was no liar, she was sure of that. There appeared no motive for it, or sense of him holding information back. Who he knew may be more important than what he knew.
“Do you know the Oblivion Doctrine?” asked Ally.
“No. I don’t think anyone truly knows the identity of those who masquerade on the internet. It could be one person or many.”
“But the reading of the prophecy made it into their hands: surely you must know something about that?”
“All I can tell you is that Bernard contacted me about the book and was most persuasive about seeing it for himself.”
“And how did he hear about it? Depuis told me you informed them almost immediately?”
“I did, the very next day. But it was Bernard who told us about the book’s existence, even before the builders broke through the walls.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“But if the walls have stood for all that time, how could he possibly know it was in there?”
“Well, either he’s hundreds of years old or he found out in some other way.”
- Chapter 8 -
Rats, Fleas, Tramps and Thieves
Of the potential threats to life in the middle of the fifteenth century, nothing struck fear in the heart more than the plague. Unlike hunger, which could be remedied by food, death in war, which could be remedied by hiding, cold, which could be remedied by warmth, dysentery, which could be remedied by waiting for the entire contents of the world to fall from your bottom in the hope that enough of you remained afterwards to go again, nothing could remedy the plague.
It had no bias. It killed almost everyone that it infected whatever their age or background. And the bacteria responsible wasn’t in a hurry to kill either. It was a vindictive infection that kept you alive just long enough for it to personally benefit, while simultaneously providing the host with constant agony. It started with flu-like symptoms, no more concerning than the common cold, before recruiting new symptoms to join the party at the victim’s expense. Unbearable fever turned your body into a furnace, excruciating headaches were strong enough to dislodge your skull, profuse bleeding from the mouth, and the characteristic blackening of the skin around the hands and feet.
The only certain way to avoid contraction was to get as far away from the outbreak as possible, if the authorities allowed it. Which they didn’t. Anyone might secretly harbour the infection weeks before any symptoms were obvious. So to avoid the rapid spread of the disease from person to person, villages and cities were effectively sealed off from the outside world. Like an infamous Californian hotel you could check out anytime you liked, but you could never leave. Only those who felt they possessed the skills to treat the infection, or simply wanted to study the disease to learn about its effects, came to visit. It was the ultimate version of an extreme sport, and spectators were not welcome. If it happened these days it was guaranteed that a countless mass of reckless idiots would be holding up mobile phones to capture it before trying to post their videos to personal channels, only to find that their fingers dropped off the moment they tried to press the upload button.
The Aix outbreak was small compared to those from history, although that fact didn’t reassure any who’d caught it. It came as no consolation to you that ‘fewer people were dying this time,’ when your feet went black and most of your blood flow was seeping out of your ears. No one would suddenly cheer up if you told them ‘it was nothing compared to the plague of the mid-fourteenth century’.
The first plague pandemic had spread from its origins in Asia to the edge of the Atlantic Coast like an out of control forest fire, devastatingly every country that it passed through and ultimately wiping out millions of Europeans in just a few years. Although diseases were common, nothing on this scale had ever been witnessed. Biblical in its destructive power, almost everything, other than God Himself, got the finger of blame.
Initially everyone blamed the rats. Stinking, black rodents the size of chickens who’d received an unexpected commute aboard the carts of tradesmen that travelled along the Silk Road, or on boats sent around the continents in search of war. In court the rats had pleaded their innocence, putting the blame squarely at the door of the fleas who, they argued, had travelled without permission on their hairy backs. The flees took umbrage and constructed a ridiculous story about having nasty, invisible monsters in their bloodstream. When called as witnesses the ‘monsters’ made no defence at all, knowing that doing so would bring unwanted attention. They decided instead to keep a low profile until someone invented a microscope. Unable to prove the existence of such microscopic miscreants, both rats and fleas conspired to blame globalisation.
More than a hundred years on, the outbreaks that occurred routinely up and down the continent were isolated and fortunately temporary events. But it would never be completely defeated. The bacteria had become epizootic within the localised flea and rat population, which meant it was now a fundamental part of the genetic make-up. This spring it was Aix-en-Provence’s turn to
suffer and an extraordinary number of people died as a result.
Churchyards swelled with dead bodies to such an extent that no one knew of any ground in which to bury them. The infection was said to be so virulent that one only had to approach within five paces of a victim to catch it. Doctors tried everything they could to treat the victims. Blood lettings, restorative medicines and sacred hymns were found to be as effective as doing nothing at all. When the city was surrounded by areas of good health it was no surprise that the residents believed their punishment was divined by God Himself.
Only one man disagreed. He was confident in his ability to cure them.
Aix wasn’t the first outbreak in the area. That occurred forty miles down the road in Marseille one year before. The city was a perfect doorway to disease carriers stowed away on galleys that brought soldiers and supplies from across the world. When every doctor in Aix fled, one even quoted as saying as he did so, ‘Get out fast, stay well away, come back later,’ the authorities looked to Marseille for assistance. But that outbreak was still ongoing. The highly respected man leading the resistance against it, Louis Serre, was unable to assist them. So he sent his protégé.
“Let me get this straight,” said Philibert, somewhat bemused. “You volunteered to come to Aix because of the plague?”
“I didn’t volunteer,” replied Michel. “I was hired.”
“Hired for what?”
“To stop the plague.”
“You can’t stop a plague. It decides to stop of its own accord, usually when all the people are dead and there’s no one left to give it a lift to the next town.”
“That’s not true. I did help stop it.”
“What? No, you didn’t.”
“Is there any plague there now?” asked Michel calmly.
“Well, no, but…”
“And was it there when I arrived?”
“Yes, but…”
“There you go, then.”
“Well, congratulations,” said Phil, clapping ironically, “Maybe you could have done that before it wiped out my entire family.”
Phil stood up and walked over to the window, sorrow welling in his heart as he watched the morning sun creep over the horizon. The plague had stolen everything from him other than life itself, and he often wished it hadn’t left him with that.
“I’m sorry,” said Michel showing real empathy for the first time in their fledgling relationship. “I know how it feels.”
“No, you don’t. You’ve never watched a loved one suffer in front of your very eyes, knowing that you can’t even risk getting close enough to comfort or treat them for fear of catching it yourself. To watch each member of your family die, one after another, week by week. A father, a mother, a grandmother, a sister, a brother, a cousin, a neighbour, a community consigned to memory in little more than a month. And still after all that to be left to live with that burning fear inside you that one day you will be next. That one day it’ll catch up with you and you’ll finally join them.”
“You’re wrong, you know,” said Michel standing up and placing a hand on Phil’s shoulder. “I do know how that feels. I have also lost those closest to me.”
“Really. Who?”
“My first wife, a son and a daughter.”
“Then you do know. But why would you actively put yourself back in its path?” asked Phil who’d spent the last fifteen years running from it.
“Because I have medical talents. I tried to treat my own family, but my skills had not developed sufficiently back then. I lived with the plague all around me, but I fought it off. I defeated it. I believe that I am now immune to its effects. Maybe you are, too?”
“Perhaps. I’m not really sure how anyone survives it. Luck, prayer, strength…who knows? I can tell you one thing for certain, it wasn’t because of the funny medicine that was being recommended at the time.”
“What medicine was that, then?” asked Michel.
“If I remember rightly it involved taking an ounce of sawdust, the greener the better, three ounces of clove, six drams of aloeswood, which had to be crushed into powder, and then pounding them together with three to four hundred red rose petals. Those had to be picked before dewfall, that was very important, apparently.”
Michel nodded in agreement although Phil didn’t notice.
“Can you imagine how hard it is to find red roses when everyone around you is sneezing and vomiting? Then, if you did manage to do all that, you had to mould them into a lozenge shape and leave them to dry, which, given the unseasonably wet weather we had that spring, could take more than a week. If you hadn’t already died by the time it dried out then you could take it.”
“And did you?”
“Yes, it was disgusting. God knows who came up with that codswallop?”
“That would be me,” replied Michel proudly.
“You?”
“You’re welcome.”
“Welcome?”
“Yes. How else do you think we beat the plague.”
Phil was certain that it wasn’t because of some hocus-pocus pill. Although how could he argue against it without an alternative explanation? In truth he’d put his survival down to luck, and that wasn’t easy to explain scientifically either.
“Powerful remedy, that one. I still keep the formula and a stockpile of the lozenges in the oak coffer over there,” he pointed to the black piece of furniture that he’d earlier used as a writing desk. “These outbreaks can happen without warning. You never know when they might come in useful. How old were you when the plague struck?”
“Fourteen.”
“Count your blessings. You were one of the lucky ones. Use it to inspire you. A second chance. That’s what I did.”
“I did,” said Philibert.
“My successes in Aix were lauded far and wide and it led to great opportunities to learn from others about medicine, astrology, art and history. That’s when I realised fame and riches wouldn’t come from cook books and herbal remedies. If you want to get noticed in this life you have to offer something that no one else can give. The future.”
Light was now trying desperately to penetrate their ground-floor window in order to introduce them to a new day. Phil didn’t know how many more he’d spend here or whether the next one would bring news of his fate. Michel welcomed the arrival of morning by moving over to a small porcelain bowl and he proceeded to wash his face and hands ready for whatever schedule he’d planned for himself today. There was little stress in Michel’s attitude towards his imprisonment, as if he already knew what the outcome would be.
“How did you survive on your own after the plague?” said Michel, now more intrigued by Phil’s backstory and seeing similarities to his own.
“I had Chambard to thank for that.”
“Where’s that? Belgium?”
“It’s not a place. It’s a person.”
*****
He walked as far as they would allow him. The direction didn’t matter as long as it was as far as possible from the piled-high corpses discarded in untidy heaps next to deserted barns or in boggy fields unfit for crops or livestock. Even the finely crafted Italian fountains that had made the city famous couldn’t escape from the signs of death. Bodies lay against the stone as the victim had made one final lunge for the clean water that might abate their thirst, before life had been cut off like a tap. They’d died where they lay and the few who remained alive would be unwilling to remove them.
Above in the distance the clock tower cast a lonely figure against the skyline. It no longer rang out the hours of the day, waiting forlornly for the bell-ringers of Aix to re-establish themselves and remember their responsibilities to her. He stumbled under the weight of tiredness and grief towards the city’s perimeter wall where a sentry guard, mouth covered with scarf and hand, warded him away with the other.
“None shall leave,” he said in a muffled yell.
“But I have nothing left,” said Philibert, whose entire existence was being worn on his body.
“Then you have more than some.”
The guard pointed for him to return to the city. He’d been. There was nothing left for him to stay for. Avoiding any potential confrontation that his weak body wouldn’t thank him for, he made his way along the inner edge of wall. Along the stonework that encircled the city he searched for a section that was damaged enough for him to scale to reach freedom on the other side. There might be guards patrolling, but what was the worst they could do? They wouldn’t want to get close to him in case he was infected. They might shoot an arrow at him in warning, and if he was really lucky they might even hit him.
Eventually he located an easy route up the side where several bricks had been dislodged, leaving holes big enough for his hands and feet. On this side of the wall it was deathly quiet. The city’s population had been halved in only a few months. Almost everyone who’d been left, whether in positions of authority or not, were more interested in their own survival than a scrawny teenage boy’s bid for freedom.
He dropped down on the other side and collapsed in a heap from the effort. To his relief there was no one there. He remained motionless waiting to get his bearings and to give his heart a chance to normalise. A few hundred feet from this stretch of wall were the sandy-coloured stones of a church. Philibert knew from casual Sunday morning strolls he’d taken with his sibling in happier times that it was L’Église-Saint Jean-de-Malte. Amongst the olive groves that grew in its grounds was a priory. It might just offer some sanctuary for the wounded and lost. The walk took Phil towards the deserted church whose doors were characteristically swung open on their hinges, a sign that God’s house was available to anyone in need of solace or comfort.
Atheism wasn’t popular in the Middle Ages. Everyone was religious. It wasn’t even considered an option not to be. Each and every one of the victims that Phil had seen strewn across the streets, having passed from one existence to the next before his very eyes, had faith. Their prayers may not have been answered, but they died in the knowledge that God would carry them to a better place. There was no question in people’s minds of that fact. Whether Catholic or Protestant you believed in the word of your Lord delivered by your local bishop or priest in places often less grand than this one. And it was just this type of guidance that Philibert needed right now.