The Eagles' Brood

XXXIII

My first impressions of Bishop Germanus and his associates were chaotic—a series of disconnected images rendered the more haphazard by the giddiness and excitement of victory, with the milling, undisciplined euphoria it generated, and then further befuddled by my profound shock over Germanus's revelation of his own identity. A warrior bishop was alien to my experience, a complete contradiction in terms to one who had grown to manhood knowing bishops only as gentle, frequently reclusive men of peace and pacifism. I had known, of course, that Germanus had been a soldier, with a long and successful career as an Army Staff Officer, and that he had retired as a full Legate—a General commanding an entire Army Group. But I had given no thought at all to the means by which the transition from general to bishop, from man of war to man of God, had been achieved. Somehow, through sheer indifference, I had allowed myself to accept, without consideration or question, the notion of a nebulous, mystical metamorphosis of the nature of the man involved—from militant to penitent; from chalk to cheese; from one archetype to another. Now that I was shocked into confronting my own malformed expectations, I immediately acknowledged the impossibility involved. It was inconceivable that Germanus the Bishop would react to aggression and physical threat in a way that was fundamentally different from the reaction one would expect of Germanus the Legate. The man before me now was an anomaly unlike any other in my experience: a devout man of God, thoroughly trained and experienced in warfare. It was a radical and unexpected combination.

Germanus must have read my consternation in my eyes, for he laughed suddenly and pulled his mount into a high, prancing turn that left him close to me on my left side, and leant forward to speak for my ears alone.

"Our gentle Master bade us turn the other cheek to those who would defame us, Caius Merlyn, but he seized a whip Himself when He was outraged in the Temple." He nodded towards the Saxon corpses that littered the hillside. "Turn the other cheek to such as these, my friend, and they'll rip off your Christian ears, before they remove your head." He smiled at me then, a warm and friendly smile. "See to your troops. We'll talk back at our camp yonder."

We exchanged nods and I watched him ride off with his followers before I turned to my own men, who were even now assembling their formations. Lucanus, I saw, had already sent the wounded, on a series of litters, down to the camp below and was now riding slowly towards me. I waited until he reached me and then gave the signal to my men to move off, pulling aside with him to watch them ride past. In the distance, behind them, our heavy wagons were trundling slowly down the road from the ridge above.

"Well, Lucanus? How badly did we fare?"

"Six wounded, none seriously now. The seventh died— the one with the axe wound. We were fortunate to escape so lightly. Who was that you were talking to? Their leader?"

"Yes, in more ways than one. That's the man we came to hear. Bishop Germanus."

I watched his eyes widen in amazement, much as my own must have done.

"A bishop? Leading cavalry?"

"No," I told him, grinning. "A soldier, doing God's work as best he can."

"That is obscene."

"No it's not, Luke. It's different, I'll grant you, but there's nothing unnatural about it when you consider the man and his life." I stopped and sniffed, scenting my own hypocrisy. "Mind you," I went on, "I must admit I thought as you did, at first—until I'd had time to adjust to the reality of the situation." I told him then what Germanus had said to me. Lucanus looked around him at the scattered Saxon corpses and sighed.

"Do warrior bishops drink good wine?"

I laughed. "I have no idea, but I hope so. Let's find out."

We followed our men down to the ruined farm.

Our original estimate from the top of the ridge had been quite accurate. There were twenty-eight men in Germanus's retinue, and of those, fourteen were clerics of varying description. Four of them, I discovered later, were bishops like Germanus, from Gaul and Italia. They were a strangely featureless group, these clerics, ranging in age from the late teens to the mid-forties, I guessed, all of them distinguished by their lack of individual distinctiveness. They were dressed alike, for the most part, in long, plain robes of brown, black or grey homespun cloth, and while several of them wore stout leather belts to waist their robes, there were others who wore a plain length of rope as a girdle, reminding me unpleasantly of the zealot priests who had invaded Camulod. I would discover later from Germanus that these symbols of poverty were manifestations of a growing inclination towards austerity among some churchmen, a proclivity being fostered by the adherents of the Monasticism that was now becoming an increasingly prevalent influence among the religious community in Rome, having spread there from Greece and the Eastern Empire.

The remainder of the party, who had formed the wedge of cavalry that had rescued us, were very different, both in character and in appearance. These men were soldiers, with the uniform, bearing, and manner of soldiers, although the latter was restrained out of respect for the piety of the group they were escorting.

Their commander, a tribune called Marius Tribo, was a gregarious young man who treated his two young subalterns, the decurions Plato and Rufus, with strict yet tolerant authority and goodwill. Plato and Rufus, for their part, used a similar approach with their troopers, a nine-man squad who had obviously served together long enough to be the kind of close friends that only serving soldiers can be. Tribo told me, over a cup of excellent wine, that they had been stationed in Gaul for the past four years, campaigning against the Burgundians, who were threatening to take over the entire country. They had already done so, for all intents and purposes, he admitted. There was now no more than a corridor along the north-western coast where Roman forces could feel any degree of security. He, his two subalterns and nine men were all that remained of his original force of eighty—two complete cavalry squadrons. Replacements had stopped reaching them a year before, and they had been delighted when they were ordered to escort Bishop Germanus and his four episcopal companions to Britain to attend the debate in Verulamium. The rest of Germanus's party would assemble there. The lesser churchmen in the present group had joined them in Britain, on the road from the south coast.

As Lucanus and I stood talking with Tribo and his two decurions, Germanus himself approached the fireside where we stood and, taking me by the elbow, nodded pleasantly and made an excuse for taking me away. I followed him to another fire set apart, where no one was cooking and none could overhear us. He had removed his armour and now wore only his simple, white tunic and leggings.

He seated himself on a stool and waved me to another beside him. I sat down, feeling his eyes on me but not wishing to give offence by staring frankly back. It was a beautiful, warm day and I wondered about the fire. Every other fire in the camp was crowned with cooking stones, but this appeared to be built for heat alone.

"A cold land you have here, Caius Merlyn, even on a warm day." Germanus reached out his hands towards the flames. I looked at him in surprise and he smiled. "I am still unused to being far from the sun of Africa. My blood is thin. Even in Italia, which is far warmer than this, I am constantly beset with chills." He was gazing into the flames as he said this, and I looked at him openly now.

I guessed his age at between forty-five and fifty, and probably in the upper part of that range. His hair was dark, crisp and curly and shorn close to his scalp in the Roman military fashion. His skin was dark, deeply tanned by years of exposure to burning sunlight, and his deep-set brown eyes were creased around the outlines with wrinkles. It was a strong, good face, and the rest of the man was made to match it. His shoulders were broad and his chest deep, his arms strong and clean-muscled with no sign of advancing age. His legs, the right stretched out towards the fire, were solid and well-shaped. Altogether a formidable man, I thought, for a soldier, let alone a churchman.

He cleared his throat and spoke without looking at me. "Caius Merlyn Britannicus ...I served at one time with a man called Britannicus ...Picus Britannicus. Any relation?"

"He was my father, sir."

"Was he indeed?" Now he looked at me. "The golden hair should have told me so without my having to ask. I knew him well, once. He was my friend for many years, under Stilicho." He paused. "When did he die?"

"Some months ago."

"That recently? My condolences. He was a fine man and an inspired cavalryman."

"Thank you, sir. He thought well of you, too. When my great-aunt Luceiia heard your name, she recognized it instantly from my father's letters. It was she who told me who you were...are. She was sorry not to be able to come with us, but she is a very old lady now."

Germanus was looking at me thoughtfully, his upper lip caught between his teeth. I lapsed into silence, waiting for him to voice what was in his mind. He did not keep me waiting long.

"Caius? Merlyn? What do your friends call you?"

"Either," I told him, smiling. "But mostly Merlyn."

"Well, Merlyn then.. .an unusual name.. .Is it British?"

"Celtic, from Cambria. Merlyn is one of the Celtic gods."

"I see. Well, Merlyn, I came here to Britain to debate the theories of the Church in Rome and elsewhere with the British.. .adherents—I almost said disciples—of a man who stands condemned for apostasy, if not outright heresy."

I nodded. "I know. Pelagius."

"Yes, Pelagius. I'm surprised you know of him. How do you know of him?"

"My father knew him."

"Aah!" Germanus nodded, smiling to himself. "Why would I even ask? Of course your father would have known him. The man came from Britain and made a name for himself. Your father would have sought him out for that alone. Picus was fiercely proud of being from Britain." He paused, frowning now. "But that alters nothing. As I was saying, I came to debate the teachings of Pelagius—his beliefs, which have been proved heretical. But this debate is theological, bishop to bishop. It can have little significance—the form and content of the debate itself, I mean, not the outcome—for ordinary men. And none at all for women, I should think. So tell me, if you please, about this great-aunt of yours...Luceiia, you said? How would she have learned of this? And why would she wish to attend? And why," he drove on, "having decided she wanted to attend, would she not then do so, in spite of being hampered by her age? I should have thought that if her mind is clear enough to conceive of the issues involved, and her interest keen enough to discover the date and the place, then her age alone should not have deterred her."

I was nodding my head in agreement before he had finished speaking. "It didn't, but the distance did."

"Distance?" I heard his surprise. "How far have you come?"

"More than a hundred miles."

"Great God! To hear bishops argue?" His amazement was clearly unfeigned. "Why? What possessed you to make such a journey to such an end?"

I hesitated, thinking over the response that trembled on my lips, fully aware that he expected me to be out of my depth amid the technicalities and doctrinal points under debate. Well, I might be, but I would discover that for myself. I emptied my cup at a gulp and threw the lees into the fire.

"I think I came for the correct reasons, Bishop..." I hesitated again, then continued, suddenly convinced of the truth of what I would say. "And I think you may be wrong in claiming this debate to be of no interest to ordinary people. You misjudge us here in Britain, I believe, and the quality of our beliefs."

He was staring at me, his expression difficult to interpret, although I detected only interest there and no sign of censure, nor of umbrage at the temerity of my words. A silence grew until he broke it. "Go on. You have not finished, I think." His tone was gentle.

"No, I have not." I stored again, then coughed to clear my throat before continuing. "But I came to hear you debate the error of Pelagius's teachings as the Church in Rome sees them, not to debate with you, or to talk about my own problems."

"Do you fear to speak of those?"

"No, not at all."

"Then speak on. I'm listening."

Still I held back, rapidly reviewing the arguments and viewpoints I had heard my father formulate and defend. Germanus betrayed no impatience with my silence. A voice nearby rose into a shout of laughter then died away. Birds sang above me. The sound of the flames consuming the wood of the fire seemed very loud. Finally I began to speak, and once I had begun, the words came fluently.

"My father's father had a lifelong friend, a bishop named Alaric, from Verulamium, the site of your debate. I knew him when I was a child, but I can recall little of him now, yet I know much about him. I know about his life, because my grandfather, and then his friend, my great-uncle, both wrote much about him, and I read all of their writings.

"He was a simple, godly man of great faith and deep humanity. He lived his life as an example of Christian piety to all who knew him, or knew of him. He never harmed any man, never behaved with anything less than perfect decorum and perfect charity, never swore a false oath in his life, never abjured his God or his beliefs, and never, ever, dealt in treachery of any kind.

"He died, eighteen years ago, just before my eleventh birthday, leaving this life as he had lived it, borne up by his belief and his trust in God and His perfection."

I stopped again, pausing until Germanus glanced at me. Then, when I held his eyes, I said, "You said Pelagius had been condemned for apostasy, if not outright heresy..."

He nodded, and I continued. "I understand apostasy, in the sense of abandonment of established policy or doctrine—and I must tell you that I cannot see how anyone could accuse Pelagius of abandoning Christianity or its teachings—but I don't understand the meaning of heresy. I have heard the term—my aunt Luceiia used it—but I don't know what is involved in it. Apostasy sounds ominous, but heresy must be worse."

Germanus stirred and looked away from me towards the fire, which collapsed upon itself, hurling up pale, barely visible sparks into the bright afternoon air. "It is," he said, sighing deeply. "Much worse. Apostasy, as you correctly define it, is the abandonment of religious faith and principles. Heresy is the adoption, and the teaching, of an opinion that runs directly counter to the orthodox teachings of the Church. It is mortal sin."

"Hmm!" I tucked my hands beneath me, flat on my stool, and leaned forward. "According to whom? That troubles me, Bishop. It troubles me deeply. I have difficulty in imagining how anyone could accuse Pelagius of being unchristian, but this heresy is frightening." He was watching me again as I continued, "It is a mortal sin to hold an opinion that runs counter to the orthodox teachings of the Church. Is that what you are saying?" He nodded, and I shook my head. "That is something new to me. Tell me, if you will, who defines the orthodoxy?"

He was looking concerned now. A deep cleft had appeared between his brows.

"The Church Fathers."

"And who are these fathers?"

"The senior bishops."

"Forgive me, but which senior bishops?"

"The bishops of the Primary Sees: Rome, Antioch, Hippo and several others."

"Hippo. The Bishop Augustine."

"Yes." His eyebrows had shot up. "You know of the holy Augustine?"

"Only by hearsay, and not of his holiness, merely his opinions, though it would seem they bear great weight."

Another frown. "You sound distressed."

"I am!" I rose from my stool and stepped to the far side of the fire, looking down at him and speaking across the flames. "Bishop Alaric, of whom I spoke moments ago, was one of the finest men my grandfather, my great-uncle and my father ever knew. He was truly a holy man. And towards the end of his life, he recognized the teachings of the man Pelagius as being divinely inspired. He saw no grounds in them for questioning the beliefs of any Christian man—no conflict, no transgression, no shame and certainly no sin.

"But the Bishop of Hippo did, most certainly, and now Pelagius stands condemned by Hippo's power. And now you tell me Bishop Alaric died in a condition of mortal sin, because of that conflict? Because his opinion differed from that of Bishop Augustine? And Augustine is a holy man? You leave the rest of us little ground for hope of salvation if such as Alaric may stand condemned to eternal perdition by such a holy man!"

I could see how deeply my outburst was troubling him. His face was wrinkled with concern, but still I saw no anger there, no judgment.

"Merlyn," he said, his words slow and measured, "you do not know Augustine. I do. He is a brilliant and worthy man, gifted by God himself, and has spent his life, since coming to the Church, in contemplation and in penitence, seeking the way of God."

"No, you must pardon me if I offend you, but I cannot accept that. He may be brilliant, as you say, but he is a man, Bishop, as am I, as are you. No man can be God. Whence comes this orthodoxy?" I almost spat the word, so great was my disgust, but hurried on, giving him no chance to interrupt me. "Alaric taught us of a loving Christ who came to bring men amity and peace, gentleness and forgiveness, tolerance and charity.. .A simple carpenter who spoke in parables and defined beatitudes and died in ignominy that men might be redeemed through infinite mercy. Where has that teaching, that example gone? There is little of it in the Church of the Christus today, it seems, when men—men, Bishop—grasp power and abrogate and negate and annul the role of the Saviour, designing and redefining the Words and Will of God to their own ends in the name of orthodoxy, and consigning others to eternal damnation because their opinions differ!"

I ran out of words and breath and realized that I was glaring at him across the fire, my eyes aware of, yet ignoring, the sting of the smoke. He was staring directly back at me, motionless, his eyes wide. My heart hammered in my breast and I felt the stirring of a formless shame, or dread, in my belly. I knew beyond doubt that his next words, his immediate response to my outburst, would cast a die that would shape my attitudes and my behaviour forever from that moment on.

Germanus evidently perceived the importance of his response as well as I did, for he withheld it. He held up his right hand, palm towards me, in an unmistakable gesture bidding me remain where I was, and moved away from the fire into the nearest tent. I stood there, watching the entrance where he had disappeared, clenching and unclenching my fists in agitation, willing my heart to slow down and behave normally.

Moments later, he reappeared, carrying two clean goblets and a flask of wine.

"Sit down, Caius Merlyn."

I resumed my stool and he poured the wine wordlessly, handing one cup to me. It was cold, the wine it held a pale yellow colour. I took it and sipped, savouring the taste in spite of my agitation. Germanus replaced the stopper in the flask and sat back down on his own stool, sipping reflectively. The fire crackled, and settled in upon itself again. It would need fuel soon.

"There is nothing to gain in bitterness, Merlyn, and you are bitter. You are also in error." I glanced at him, prepared to question, but he went on, "Your friend Alaric is in God's own hands and has nothing to fear. His error, at the time he made it, was no error, since it had not then been defined as such. So put your mind to rest on that affair."

"But..."

He looked at me. "But what?"

I shook my head, baffled. "How can you know that, Bishop? If to hold a particular opinion is mortal sin today, how could holding the same opinion be blameless less than two decades ago? I cannot understand that."

He shrugged his wide shoulders. "I appreciate your dilemma. Nevertheless, that is the way of these things. The Church, in its wisdom, has decided that Pelagius was gravely in error in his teachings."

"But the Church is composed of men, Bishop, ordinary mortals. How can those men decide for all others on matters so portentous?"

"Because they are empowered to do so—to construe the law-—and the mass of men must have clear laws to guide their steps."

I shook my head in denial, feeling the frustration building up in me again. "No. Power is more at stake here than is law. You quote a paradox, Bishop. Pelagius defended the law. He was a lawyer. His contention was that the theory of Divine Grace—the need for direct, supernatural intervention in order for mankind to win salvation—denied any requirement for human law, since no one could condemn a criminal who pleaded that God had not given him the Grace to withstand temptation. And now you speak of men's need for laws—the major part being defined by a few men—to condemn such champions of law."

He dismissed my contention with a solemn headshake. "You misconstrue my words. By any rule of judgment, these fathers of the Church are far from ordinary. They are all extraordinary men, of great erudition, piety and worthiness."

"By whose definition?"

Now he appeared to be growing impatient. His mouth pursed, and his tone grew cold.

"By definition of the bishops of the Church in conclave."

"Men, again, pre-empting the words of God."

"Be careful, Caius Merlyn! You may go too far."

"No, Bishop Germanus, I have come this far, and I am here because of the type of men who brought the words of today's Rome—today's Church in Rome—into my father's house and forced him to banish them for their presumption. Men who entitled themselves men of God, and demanded that Picus Britannicus accept them, their intolerance, and their intolerable hubris, upon their word alone."

He was wide-eyed again, astonished by my words. "What? What hubris is this? You say your father banished them? Bishops from Rome? I have heard nothing of this."

"These were not bishops. They called themselves priests. But yes, my father threw them from our lands, under restraint."

"Great God! Tell me about this."

I took another mouthful of delicious wine, and then told him the entire tale of the wild-eyed zealots who enraged my father, and then me. He listened in silence, without interrupting me. When I had finished speaking, he gave a great, deep sigh.

"Zealots," he said, using the word I had not spoken. "I fear they are becoming numerous. And the damage they cause may be irredeemable. I begin now to understand your hostility, not to me, for I sense none of that, but to the Church and its authority." I said nothing, encouraged, nevertheless, by his acceptance of my tale. He sighed again. "And it was this...event...that caused you to make this journey?"

I nodded.

"I ask you again, to what end?"

I finished my wine and refused his offer of another with a raised palm and a headshake.

"My father told them he might reconsider his decision, if and when he received instructions, or at least some communication, from the Church authorities in Rome. None came, and now my father is dead. Yours is the first mission of any import of which we have heard since that time, and we felt, my aunt and I, that it would be important to hear your message at first hand."

"I see. Well, hear it you will, most certainly. I can assure you of that. But you are a soldier, hence a pragmatist, and here is talk for clerics—theology, semantics and metaphysical theoretics. What will you do if you cannot understand the gist of it?"

I grinned at him, my good humour suddenly returned. "Ask you to explain it to me, Bishop, in words a soldier can understand."

He grimaced. "That is simplistic. I am both fish and fowl in one sense, that is true, but never simultaneously. When I assume the one persona, I abandon the other completely. I have to, else I could not subsist in either role." He paused to think, then resumed. "Tell me, Caius Merlyn, if you can, if there were one...element, one attribute of this debate for which you would be waiting, searching perhaps...what might it be?"

I barely had to think before responding, "Power." I saw his frown of puzzlement and explained. "As I have said, you are the first senior bishop to have come to Britain since the legions left—the first, at least, with any mission of great purpose of which I am aware—and the message you bring with you possesses power, great power, and great potency. Sufficient of each, perhaps, should you convince your peers here in this land, to change the very way our people think and act. That power will be unveiled 'and exercised in Verulamium. I want to witness it and gauge its temper." I paused, giving him time to respond, but he said nothing.

"By extension of that," I resumed, "should your debate prove inconclusive, or insufficient to convince our own bishops of the Tightness of your cause and the stance of these Fathers of the Church of whom you speak, then I, and my people, will continue to live by the rules taught to us by Bishop Alaric and his like. These rules hold that all men and all women are born equal in the sight of God, each with unique strengths, each with a role to fill, and each with the God-given power to recognize and assess both Good and Evil and to assume the burden of choosing between the two. And all Christians accept personal responsibility for their own actions and choices, in the eyes of God and by the exercise of their own free will."

Germanus sat erect throughout this diatribe, gazing at me with narrowed eyes, his chin cupped in one hand, his elbow resting on the back of the other arm across his middle. When I had finished, he looked away, into the heart of the dying fire. Then he sighed again.

"You should have been an advocate."

"No, sir," I responded, "I am a soldier. Pelagius is advocate enough for me, and for my people."

"Hmm. You know he is dead?"

I nodded, saying nothing.

Germanus rose to his feet. "Merlyn, I could respond to what you have said, but I will not, not now. Your words, and the simplicity with which you state them, seem irrefutable, I know, and I will not condemn your evident faith in the truth of them." Again he sighed, a gusty, heaving sound of breath drawn, it appeared to me, from the soles of his feet. "But there is more to it than you can know. Which is, of course, why I am sent here."

He smiled at me and held out his hand. "Again, Caius Merlyn, let me thank you for your assistance today. Without it, we might never have seen Verulamium, and there would be no debate for several more years. I must go now and become the bishop again, discarding arms and armour and praying for humility to arm me in grace against the task ahead." He hesitated for an instant. "We will talk more on this, I promise you."

I stood by the fire and watched him enter the tent that was obviously his, and from that moment on I saw no more of Germanus the Legate. We rode thereafter in escort of Germanus the Cleric.