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."