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.