by Jack Whyte
"Merlyn? May I disturb you?"
"Of course!" I rose quickly to my feet to welcome him, making no attempt to hide my surprise and pleasure. "Come in, please, Bishop. You are not disturbing me at all. I was just finishing off here and thinking about having a cup of wine or mead."
"Think no more." He produced a flask from behind his back with a flourish. "I bring an offering in return for my impertinence in thrusting myself upon you. They told me at the Carpe Diem you were here, labouring alone, so I sought you out."
"The Carpe Diem ? You went there?"
"He heard the surprise in my voice and grinned at me as he stepped into the tent. "I did. A minor sin of intolerance leading to another of self-indulgence. I could not stand the thought of any more learned debate this night, so chose to seek the company of soldiers." He was looking around the tent, enjoying the warmth and brightness. "You are well set up, here, for working late at least." His eyes crinkled in raillery. "Are you sure you have enough light?"
I laughed. "Aye, thanks to the excellence of your clerics supplies. From now on, when I hear mention of the light of learning carried by the Church, I'll know what it means. Please, sit down." I unfolded a stool for him by the fire and; found two cups while he withdrew the stopper from his flask and poured for both of us.
For a time we talked of inconsequential things as we enjoyed the comfort of the glowing brazier and the luxury of his excellent honeyed mead, each of us glad to idle away some pleasant time without any urgency imposing itself on us. When we ran out of trivialities, we talked of the condition of the town of Verulamium and of the similar fate that seemed to be settling upon all the towns of Britain now that Rome, with its urban influences, was no longer part of the life of the country. Germanus was convinced that all towns would eventually fall completely into disuse, an idea that sat uncomfortably with me. He pointed out that, without a unifying, centralizing force such as the Army, and lacking the necessary volume of road traffic moving from region to region in organized trading ventures, there could be no real need or use for townships in the sense in which they had grown up. Not all towns would die out, however, he opined. There would always be points of natural confluence at which colonies would cluster, much as our own Camulod had grown out of our need to defend our farms, but he convinced me that the civically governed towns of Britain, as we knew them now, would continue to decline swiftly until such times as regular commerce and traffic re-emerged on a large scale. When I asked him for an opinion as to when that might be, he shook his head and looked grim. He had no hopes that it would be soon, he said, or even within the lifetime of anyone now living. He had seen the homelands of the Saxons who were now raiding Britain so regularly, and nothing he had seen there encouraged him to think the raids would lessen. The Saxons, in his opinion, looked upon Britain much as the ancient Israelites had looked upon Canaan: as a land flowing with milk and honey, containing all the blessings that their own lands lacked. He could see no hope of freedom from invasion for this land of ours. The raiding would continue, he believed, and would escalate until God Himself saw fit to bring an ending.
That disheartening observation led us on to talk of the organization of defences against the peril, and he spoke now as Germanus the Legate as we discussed the matter of Vortigern. From there, looking for brighter skies, we talked of my new-found brother, and then of dreams and symbolism. His views on the latter surprised me, for I had believed—somewhat foolishly, I soon realized—that both as a professional soldier and as a bishop he would have little patience with either of these insubstantial, almost superstitious notions. He disabused me quickly, pointing out that, as a bishop at least, he dealt with and made use of symbolism constantly. The Christian Cross was, after all, the symbol of our Faith. I could not argue with that, but we discussed the Cross and the emerging use of the crucifix at length. The two were not the same, Germanus told me. The crucifix, with its pain-racked victim, symbolized crucifixion, as it was meant to, glorifying the horrifying fate of the Divine Saviour at the hands of man. The Cross, however, was a different entity. He assured me that it was a much older symbol of light and revelation, revered in ancient Egypt and even earlier in Babylon. The Cross was also one of the distinguishing symbols of Mithras, the god of light, whose cult had worshipped in secrecy. Mithras had also been for centuries the Roman soldiers' god of militancy, masculinity and the manly virtues. I had known these things, but I listened to him in silence, unsure of what to make of it all—coming, as it did, from a Christian bishop.
One thing was certain, he summed up, making me feel much better: an emblem, some form of simple, immediately recognizable symbol—a signet of belonging, of conformity, of identity—was essential to the success of any great popular movement. I listened and nodded my head wisely, feeling the mead making my head spin, and completely unaware that Germanus, bishop militant of God's Church in Rome, was implanting a seed in my consciousness that was to grow and influence an entire people.
More than two hours had passed before we allowed the conversation to turn towards the debate that had filled the past two weeks, and even then we approached it cautiously, he graciously avoiding the temptation to talk in terms of polemics and theology.
"Well," he asked me, "as a soldier, what did you think?"
I made a face. "As a soldier? I thought the same as I thought as a man. I was totally lost from the first day. Hardly understood a word, let alone the ideas that were being thrown around so strenuously."
He smiled, gently. "Yes, I noticed your presence became harder to detect from day to day. I warned you, however, the first time we met."
"True, Bishop, you did." I thought about that, remembering my reaction to his surprise that I should wish to be here at all. "But I wanted to be there, as I told you at the time, to witness this, because of its importance to us all. I tell you frankly, though, there were times I wanted to jump to my feet and scream for someone to say something in plain language, something a man might have a hope of understanding. Finally I lost hope, trusting instead that somehow I might have a chance to talk to you, to ask you what had happened, what had been decided."
"Well, I'm here. Ask me."
I looked at him, seeing the man and not the cleric. We had done serious damage to the contents of his flask since he arrived, and he was relaxed and comfortable. Donuil had replenished the brazier some time earlier, before he went to bed, graciously refusing our invitation to join us. Now the coals glowed at their peak, throwing out an hospitable, smokeless warmth that had lulled both of us into a condition of perfect equanimity. I smiled at him, enjoying the mood.
"Bishop, I don't know where to begin...I don't know what to ask."
He sniffed, and reached for the flask again, pouring the few remaining drops into his own cup after I had waved it away from mine. "Well then," he murmured, "let me help you, since I know what you need to know but may be loath to ask." He sipped, sighed and placed his cup by his feet. "In the matter of excommunication for past sins, I issued no decrees. I had taken to heart, you see, your eloquent observation that, in the absence of formal guidance from outside, from Rome, you and your people were and are honour bound to live by the teachings of your bishops and your early faith. No man could find fault with that, Merlyn; its truth is self-evident." He paused, mulling over his next words, then continued. "The benefit of the doubt, therefore—that sophisticated wisdom propounded by your father and so ably transmitted by you to me—must be applied to all in like case. So there have been no major..." He sought the correct word. ".. .proscriptions ordained. And yet heresy is heresy and cannot be countenanced." He stopped again, eyeing me shrewdly.
"I know how your soldier's mind works, I believe. I know you have no patience with sophistry, so I'll speak plainly." He hitched himself erect and the pleasant mellowness faded visibly from his features. "As a soldier and an officer, you have high regard for the law. You must have; it goes with the responsibility...It is the law itself I speak of now; the Church's law, with all the awesome re
sponsibility that entails. Apart and aside from all of the polemical and theological discussions that have unfolded here in Verulamium these past two weeks, one truth has been brought home, I believe, to the bishops assembled here from all over Britain: without law there is chaos. We saw the truth of that on our arrival here. That truth loses nothing of verity in the governance of God's affairs on earth. Somehow, somewhere, there must exist a central core of ratified, accepted truth—of dogma, if you like—if existence is to continue sanely. The confrontation of philosophies between Pelagius and Augustine of Hippo resulted in an impasse that had to be resolved. A reasoning, educated man can see much apparent truth, much plausibility, on either side of the debate. But those differences are merely philosophical, Merlyn, and therefore human. They are not, at bottom, theological. Within that difference lies the ordinary man's inability to comprehend the nature, and the seriousness, of the dispute." He paused again, watching me to see how I was responding to his words. I schooled my face to impassivity, however, and he eventually resumed.
"The law requires the existence of judges—arbitrators— learned men who, by virtue of their wisdom, are considered capable of assessing and assimilating all the materials relevant to the situation under dispute and arriving thereafter at a just, compassionate and humane resolution. The bishops of the Roman Conclave, and of those of Antioch and the other major Sees, perform the same function and, in their wisdom, they have chosen to decide this issue as they have. Pelagius stands apostate, and his philosophy and teachings are condemned. You, as one man, may rail against the judgment, but you must, perforce, accept it. There is no other recourse. The case has been considered at great length, over many years and by many people, and judgment has been passed." He sighed. "The bishops of Britain have now been informed, formally, by me, of how matters stand. They may choose hereafter to ignore my message, but if they do, they will do so in full and conscious knowledge that they proceed thenceforth in defiance of the verdict of the Church at large. They will thus proceed in sin, and ipso facto under pain of excommunication and damnation... No man, however, bishop or other, will stand excommunicate for how he has believed or behaved prior to this time." He paused again, his forehead wrinkled in a frown.
"Merlyn," he said at last, "I cannot utter words of condemnation to you personally. You will live, as you must, according to your conscience. You are a good man and I see no wickedness in you. When you go to Judgment, God will know how to deal with you, and He is merciful where mercy is warranted. Bishops, however, are another matter altogether. They are the teachers, the exemplars, and their lives are subject to intense scrutiny by God and His Angels. I have decreed the establishment of schools—theological schools dedicated to the teaching of orthodox doctrine to the bishops of Britain now and in the future. The teachings of Pelagius will be heard no more in Britain's Christian instruction... That is what has been achieved here, and I believe, with all my heart and soul, that the achievement is significant and good."
There was not much I could say after that. He had put my mind at ease and absolved me of concern about Bishop Alaric and his eternal fate, and had as much as promised that, if I continued to live as I had in the past, without falling into evil behaviour, I might approach my God with rectitude and confidence. Peculiarly Pelagian attitudes from the champion of orthodoxy.
The mead was gone and we seemed to be the two last people left alive in the whole encampment. It was very late when I walked with Germanus to the edge of our camp and saw him escorted safely on his way to his own quarters.
XXXVII
The Great Debate ended in an atmosphere very different from the one that had surrounded its beginnings two short weeks before. The vast crowds of revellers had dispersed in the preceding days, and at the end there remained only the clerics and the military presence supplied by ourselves and by Jacob of Lindum's people. The town of Verulamium, so briefly resurrected, had already fallen back into emptiness and decay, it seemed, and Michelus and his lawkeepers were once again empowered to maintain the peace in their small village within the original walls. Outside the town, the great amphitheatre sat empty again, its ranked and tiered seats and empty stage awaiting a future performance that might never occur.
On the day of our departure, after a late breakfast and a last round of farewells, we took our separate paths homeward. Vortigern and Jacob's party, including Ambrose, rode off first, heading east to join the great road north that ran the length of Britain. Saddened as I was to part from my newfound sibling, I took pleasure in the knowledge that we would meet again soon, when he came west, as promised, to Camulod. Germanus and his retinue, with their cavalry escort, rode south towards Londinium, whence they would travel south-westward to the coast, avoiding the new Saxon coastal settlements in the south-east, and thence to Gaul. We of Camulod struck out directly west, as we had planned, for Alchester and Corinium, where we would swing south through Aquae Sulis and home.
It was cold when we set out, and it grew colder as we proceeded. We were less than a day's ride from Verulamium, on a featureless road that climbed steadily through a fog of trailing, water-laden clouds, when heavy snow began to fall in thick, large flakes that swirled in a treacherous, bone- chilling wind and cut visibility to a few dozen paces. Our men reacted to snow this early in the year with shock and anger, despite the warning cold of the previous week. It was not yet full autumn, and the trees, though browning steadily, were still in leaf! I called my squadron commanders together and issued orders that we would encamp immediately and wait for this untimely storm to blow itself out. We made a cold and miserable bivouac and remained there for three long, wintry days, during which the unseasonable storm alternated between calm, silent periods of dense, thick- falling snow and lengthy periods of Hadean savagery when the shrieking, icy wind drove pellets of frozen snow before it like lethal weapons. Its fury finally abated, however, and we were able to ride on eventually through a now alien landscape, labouring heavily through deep drifts of snow beneath a sky still thickly shrouded with heavy, sullen clouds, and belaboured by a wind that had lost little of its malignity. We were high up, so the few trees we passed were small and hardy, but their leaves had been frozen by the snow and icy winds and how hung dead and crumpled, many of them fallen from their branches while yet green, their fruit unripe, their seeds stillborn and blasted. We were too high and too far from habitation for cropped fields, but I wondered uneasily how the harvest would fare if this unusual weather was widespread.
By noon the following day, nevertheless, we were well along on the road again and the air was warming rapidly, the cloud cover breaking up and scattering to allow weak sunlight to fall through so that the spirits of our men brightened visibly. I rode in a pensive frame® of mind, once again mulling over the conversation I had had with Bishop Patricius regarding the fate of the priest Remus. I pulled my mount around at one point and rode back towards the tail of our column looking for Lucanus, feeling a sudden need to talk with him, but I found him talking earnestly with Cyrus Appius, his concentration wholly taken up with their conversation and his efforts to keep up with Appius's superb horsemanship. I turned back before I reached them, suddenly unwilling to interrupt their colloquy simply to allay my own boredom. At the head of the column once more, I cleared my mind of my previous thoughts, straightened my shoulders and increased the pace slightly, smiling to myself as I did so, feeling a small, malicious pleasure in knowing that poor Luke would have to work harder than ever now to keep his mind on the two matters demanding his attention. The sun shone fully on my shoulders, warm and pleasant, and I felt better than I had in days.
Later that afternoon, breasting a hill crest, I saw a green, unbroken meadow falling gently away before me with no sign of snow anywhere and, acting purely on impulse, I reined in my horse and waited until the head of the column caught up to me. Cyrus Appius approached me, a question on his face, and I grinned at him.
"Our horses need a ran, Cyrus, and we need to blow away some cobwebs. There's an empty valle
y below us, on a long, easy slope. Deploy your men in squadrons. We're going to attack it." I turned to Donuil. "Take my standard to Rufio and tell him to ride with it until he is half-way up the opposite slope yonder. When our men reach the valley bottom, he is free to go where he will. The first man to reach him and claim the standard wins a flask of my own best wine for each of his squad mates tonight when we make camp. But tell Rufio I don't want him easily caught." I spoke again to Cyrus Appius. "It's about two miles, plus whatever Rufio can gain. What do you think?" He grinned at me, saluted, and swung away to issue his orders.
I rode with them, exulting in the exhilaration of the charge and trying to be at the finish when Rufio was finally run down, but I was a hundred paces distant, my big horse faltering, when one of Cyrus's own squadron claimed the prize amid cheers and jeers and groans of disappointment. By the time the confusion and merriment had worn itself out and some kind of order had been restored, the sun was beginning to sink low and I called for my officers to set up camp again. It was a happy camp that night, and I went to sleep well pleased with myself and my men.
Two days later, we sat, stunned, at the top of another hill, gazing at the smouldering ruins of what had been the little town of Alchester. Pellus had brought the news personally, and we had ridden hard for three hours to arrive here, although we knew we were far too late to be of any assistance to anyone. His scouts had found only smouldering ruins early drat morning, which meant that the conflagration had occurred at least the day before, since they would have seen the flames had they burned at night. In the tiny forum in front of the town hall lay a heaped pile of bodies, more than seventy of them, and another thirty charred, hideous, doll-like obscenities had been found within the basilica itself. Most of the corpses in the square were men, boys and infants of both sexes. Only four ancient, withered female corpses were counted. The remains in the basilica could have been anything.