He snorted. “I have. But it’s a complete waste of time; he will rabbit on about discipline and order. I sometimes think he should have gone to Rome, not me. Then he could have seen the new society in the making. He would have had a lovely time singing the praises of Mussolini. Although I don’t think he could ever bring himself to march around in a black shirt. He would find it too ostentatious. Besides, his abstract beliefs have never to my knowledge got in the way of perfect kindness when dealing with individuals. He is a good man. It may surprise you to hear it now you’ve spent an evening in his company, but he is.”
“And Bernard isn’t?”
He thought about it; she had picked up a parallel he had never bothered to consider. “No. He isn’t. He has many fine qualities—he’s intelligent, funny, dynamic, capable of good advice if he doesn’t have a personal stake in the outcome. But he is not a kind man. He has no time for people, and doesn’t understand them. He loves the working class, but the workers revolt him. Marcel, in contrast, likes the workers but loathes the working class.”
“And these are your friends?”
“I’m afraid so. If I confined myself to friends who were perfect I’d only be left with you.”
She gave him a push. “Stupid thing to say,” she said, and began walking once more.
“I mean it,” he said, catching up with her and walking alongside her, close but not touching. “I put up with their imperfections, and they put up with mine.”
“And what are yours?”
“Mine? Oh, dear, where can I start? Pride, excessive caution, unwillingness to take risks, a general disdain for humanity masquerading as humanism. An inability to love what can be loved, and a fascination with what cannot be.”
He stopped, and she laughed. “You’re letting yourself off very lightly this evening, if that’s all you can come up with.”
“I know you could do better. That’s the trouble.” He paused, sensing the atmosphere, and retreated once more. “Anyway, all three of us have many faults. Unfortunately they cannot manage to tolerate each other in the same way that they put up with me. It was a mistake to have invited them both. I should have just gone out with you.”
“Why?”
He completed his withdrawal. “It would have been cheaper. Did you see how much both of them ate?”
FOR FELIX, the elevation of Manlius was an attack on his family. Moreover, he knew perfectly well that the election—presented here in mimicry of the bishop’s own version—was only partially true. While a holy man might be pressed to become a cleric by a grateful village or rustic town converted through his influence, or under the impact of a miracle wrought before their very eyes, a town as old and as sophisticated as Vaison was not to be overwhelmed in such a fashion.
Manlius and his family had undoubtedly worked hard at securing the position, setting up contacts long before the previous bishop had died, dropping hints about his availability, laying out policies to be pursued should the prize become his. What he had offered was unclear. His wealth was certainly a factor. His estates were large enough to build the walls and man them should the need arise, and few doubted that soon it would. His granaries could feed all the poor and still have enough left over for others. His influence across Gaul and into Italy might be of use if help was needed—although whether anyone had any help to give was a matter for debate.
But his action was a slight against Felix’s family nonetheless, pushing them into a subordinate position in a region that the two families had shared. For four generations the Hippomanes and the Adenii had competed for office, and in the region east of the Rhône, Manlius’s family had come to dominate the secular positions while Felix’s clan had taken the ecclesiastical ones. Manlius had broken the unspoken treaty; moreover, he was still young. He could be bishop for two decades or more, and the Adenii would have to watch their influence slowly but steadily wane.
Felix had no choice, in fact; the most important members of his family made that clear. During a heated meeting, he was informed by young and old that, although his leadership was undisputed, that position could change. He was expected to act in their best interest.
“We know that this man is your friend, has been your friend since boyhood,” said Anacleius, a cousin of his wife’s. “We applaud your loyalty to him. But we must remind you that your loyalty to us must come first. How will you be able to defend us, enrich us, look after our interests in a hundred and one ways if you are powerless, having to go to your friend and beg favors? I do not even doubt his friendship to you; I do him the honor of believing him an honorable man in this respect at least. But he has his own family. Will he put your interest above theirs?”
The question went unanswered. There was no need to answer it. Felix dismissed the meeting with sweet words and reassurances, then went to pray, for he was devout in a manner that Manlius could scarcely understand. In his youth he had grasped this problem and saw the disjunction between Sophia’s logic and the faith of the church, and placed her reason in a secondary position. His faith was an area she could not penetrate, the more valuable because it defied her rationality.
And when he had finished praying he knew what he must do. He could not risk open enmity with Manlius, for that might lead to violence; rather he had to bide his time. Whatever Manlius wished to do, he had to be allowed to argue his case, and it was not inconceivable that he would deserve their support. Justice demanded that he get his hearing. Their friendship was gravely wounded, but he could not bring himself to dispatch it yet.
This he told his family, noting that Caius Valerius, the cousin who otherwise might have won the bishopric had Manlius not intervened, fortunately seemed willing to accept his disappointment.
In fact, Caius Valerius stayed quiet because Felix’s reticence gave him an unparalleled opportunity, and he had resolved to make the best possible use of it. For years he had smarted under his cousin’s leadership of the family, and saw a chance to take what he considered his due; he considered himself the better Christian and the better man, for all of Felix’s accomplishments. He would now outclass Felix in the area where he had been unchallenged: in that of action. But not yet; like Felix, he saw the virtue of waiting.
SHORTLY AFTER this family gathering dispersed, Manlius traveled the seventy kilometers to the south and west to Felix’s principal villa. He arrived on his own, with no attendants except half a dozen guards. He was astonished at what he saw, for the great, elegant building he had known since his youth was transformed beyond recognition. He stood and gazed at what had happened, the arching columns vanished as dark, heavy walls were built around, the baths abandoned and plundered for stone, the immaculate lawns and flower beds dug out to make defenses. And all around the noise, the shouts of laborers, pulling stones and fitting them in place. The workmanship was terrible; great gaps were filled with rubble and concrete; it seemed like something children would make with building blocks, and seemed as strong, as well.
Felix came out to greet him, and saw the look on his face. “Not a decision taken easily,” he said sadly. “This place has been in my family for two hundred years, grown and added to and nurtured.”
“Are you sure it is necessary?”
“You know it is. If Clermont falls and Euric moves east into this region he will inevitably have to take this area. Like you, we have been attacked already by brigands. Lawns and ponds are for a time of peace. These walls are as weak as you think, but the skills to do better have gone. We have run out of choices.”
“Are you sure?”
“Or we roll on our backs and pray for mercy. That, I suppose, is another option.”