For all the intriguing that had bought it, the title of universal bishop meant nothing in the East, where the Churches hated or feared or despised all things Roman. It meant little in much of the West, where the Churches claimed an autonomy of discipline based on their own long foundation, and mostly dealt with Rome though their local kings. But the English Church was a new Church, subject directly to Rome. Bishops were appointed by Rome. Local rulers were to be honoured, but obeyed only so far as was consistent with a primary loyalty to Rome. So far as England was concerned, the Lateran was ‘ omnium orbis ecclesiarum Mater et Caput ’ – the Mother and Head of all the Churches of the world.
There was, the dispensator granted, a Celtic Church in the country that had survived my people’s invasion. This Church denied the primacy of Rome, and held heretical views about the date of Easter – as if this latter would have counted but for the former dereliction. Our duty was to bring the Celts over. If they refused our hand of loving friendship, we should use all secular means available to smash them.
On the model established for England, a new order was to be established in the West, and then elsewhere – of a unified, centralised Church, subject in all matters to Rome. The dispensator quoted the relevant text of Scripture: ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.’
He gave it in Latin – ‘ Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram.. .’
The pun, you see, is the same in Greek and Latin – though I hope you will also notice that it isn’t a very good pun. ‘Peter’ and ‘ petra ’ are not substantives of the same gender. Now, would God really sanction a universal Church based on such slipshod grammar? I don’t think so. Indeed, I assume Christ addressed Peter in Aramaic, which I know pretty well, and the pun doesn’t work. Nor does it in Coptic or Syriac or Hebrew or Slavic or Germanic or English.
I looked at that semicircle of the great sitting still in their formal robes. Some of the faces were ravaged by fanatic penances, others softened by lives of sybaritic luxury. Some were educated men. Others could truly boast that they had never opened a single book of pagan learning. But they had an absolutely common purpose. This was the aggrandisement of their Church. They had taken this from those who went before them. They would hand it on to those who followed. You can achieve much in your own lifetime. But this is nothing compared to what can be done in the lifetime of a corporate entity. This never tires and never sleeps and never grows old and feeble. It recovers from mistakes and reverses. Like the waves on Richborough beach, individual follows individual, sometimes pressing forward, sometimes falling back. But the tide comes in with unbroken force. It can, by sheer perseverance, change the manners of whole nations, and can by unending repetition make statements that, considered rationally, are nonsense, gain acceptance even by the wise as self-evident truths.
Such I gathered from my first real encounter with the Imperial Church of Rome.
That was what made our book-gathering mission so important. I had thought the books were brought over to entertain the likes of me. Not so – or not entirely so. Through the English Church, Rome would conquer not only by example. Our nation was to be reshaped as a race of Christians and Christian missionaries. Our priests would then be sent forth – to France, to Germany, to Spain, even back to Italy – with purified Latin and no tinge of heresy and no loyalty but to Rome, to reshape all other nations in the image established for us. The books were not incidental. They were central to the plan.
‘So, Maximin of Ravenna,’ the dispensator concluded at length, ‘you have our fullest confidence. You have unlimited funding. State what you have achieved for us in England, and state what more you want of us.’
Maximin stood and began a monstrously long speech of his own. He’d been working on this ever since we took ship from Richborough. We were told of the conversion of Ethelbert and his many works of piety. I barely recognised the drunken, demented savage I’d last seen with mutton fat dripping off his chin and a gelding knife in his hand.
From this, we proceeded to the multitudes of converts – true enough, if you allow for the fact that their sacred trees had all been cut down and their witch doctors killed or chased out of Kent. I was produced as evidence of the miracles of learning that my people could achieve. One of the clerics gave me a long and appreciative inspection, abstractedly wetting his lips. The others marvelled at my command of the language as I uttered a few sentences in Latin.
Then there were the official miracles. Oh, I had trouble keeping a straight face during that recitation of lies. Did Maximin believe it? I rather think he did. I’m sure he believed all his own lies. I am myself an accomplished liar. But I’ve always felt constrained by a clear distinction in my mind between the truth of a matter and what I was saying at any one moment. Maximin was a natural liar. He really should have tried a career in diplomacy or intelligence or finance. He’d have prospered.
Needless to say, everyone else believed him. His description of how, on Bishop Lawrence’s approach, the sacred grove outside Dover had spontaneously uprooted itself and run into the sea drew murmurs of pious approbation. When I was with Theodore last Christmas, I made a point of struggling to Dover. The rotted stumps were still in place – untouched since I had myself supervised the churls with their axes. The timbers still roofed the little church we’d started in the same place.
And we got the promise of books. This being said, the assumption of the meeting was rather different from my original understanding. I thought Maximin was here for books, and I was tagging along. Now, it seemed, I was to be the primary collector of books. Maximin was to be given other duties in Rome.
I wasn’t told this in so many words. But it was so. I can’t say I was put out. Find the right man for the job has ever been the practice of the Church. Or, when the right man appears, adapt the job.
Afterwards, in his drab little office, the dispensator made the necessary arrangements with us.
‘We have a considerable library here in the Lateran,’ he said. ‘It dates back to before the Triumph of the Faith, and has been much enlarged over the years. We had a good harvest after the great wars. So many noble palaces lay in ruins. Our people went digging out their libraries, rescuing what could be repaired…
‘Martin, I’ll be glad of your presence,’ he called suddenly in a raised voice.
A clerk entered from an adjoining room. Taller, thinner, somewhat older than me, he had the freckles and red hair I hadn’t seen since I was deep into Wessex. I suddenly realised what a contrast I must have made beside all those sallow little Mediterraneans. Though he was dressed in good linen, and though he dressed his hair with obvious attention to effect, something about his cringing manner suggested he was a slave.
‘Martin handles all my correspondence with the East,’ the dispensator explained. ‘Though growing up in Constantinople, he is originally from an island to the west of Britain. I can assure you, however, he is neither a Celtic heretic nor a Greek semi-schismatic. He is a true son of the Church. He has my trust in all things. He has drawn an entry permit for the young man to our own library.’
Martin handed over a sheet of parchment covered in the smooth, clear hand of the Roman Chancery.
The dispensator continued: ‘He has also drawn an introduction to Anicius, an elderly nobleman of eccentric views who still has a library in his house. You’ll not find much there of spiritual sustenance. But one must read the pagan classics for their style.’
Martin handed over another sheet drawn in similar form.
The dispensator paused, looking at Maximin. Martin remained where he was and coughed gently.