IN APRIL 475, the day after his encounter with the abandoned urchin on his estates, Manlius Hippomanes traveled to Arles and summoned a meeting of all the bishops from areas threatened by the barbarian armies. His insolence in doing so was extreme; the most junior of them all, and a priest who had never yet given communion, did not even know how the service was conducted; he should have spent the next decade in humble supplication before his superiors.
And yet this was why old Faustus had chosen him, and why Faustus wrote, quite independently, a covering letter to his fellow bishops instructing them to obey Manlius’s summons. So, over the next month, they assembled, some twenty-four of them in all, finding lodgings of assorted quality in the town—some severe and austere, others aristocratic and opulent. Manlius himself stayed as a guest in the house belonging to a relation, and it was in this still impressive residence that the meeting—or rather the series of meetings—took place.
For although they were leaders of their flocks, they were desperate to be led themselves through the maze of this dark and troubled world. They were now well used to raising and spending charitable donations, to looking after the poor, to getting hold of corn in times of hardness, to raising work duties to repair roads and water supplies; all the things that the civil government had once done and could do no longer. They maintained, on the whole, good relations with their brother priests and bishops both nearby and far away. But dealing with the secular powers, with generals and armies—with politics and diplomacy at a high level—was something of which few had any experience, and they were worldly enough to know that skill and dexterity in such matters was now vitally required. They were Romans and they were Catholics; the barbarians—Euric to the west, the Burgundians to the north—were neither.
So they turned to Manlius, who had been to Rome, who had even accompanied a member of his family to the court of Euric’s father at Toulouse, and who, as a result, was considered to have an unrivaled insight into the barbarian mind. Such was the poverty of the empire at this final sputtering moment that this judgment was correct.
To Manlius, looking around the table, it seemed like a sad parody of the great days of the past, when the emperor would summon ministers and councillors to give advice and take orders. Such meetings, glorious and full of pomp, perhaps still took place in Constantinople, although no one was certain anymore; no one he knew had ever been there, not even Sophia. Here, instead of emperors in their purple, senators, generals, and councillors, there was a group of dowdy and anxious men, most of them old, whose main remedy for any political problem was prayer. So let them pray, he thought; it might do some good. It would give him more freedom of action.
Despite their trust, the look of happy confidence in him, he found it hard to keep the brusqueness out of his voice, to remember that he was supposed to be taking orders, not giving them. “Remember,” Faustus had told him, “you are their servant, selected to do their bidding, to translate their wishes into action. They are good and holy people, for the most part, but have a sense of their dignity, which it is unwise to offend. You will not insult them; it cannot be done. But you can so easily insult their office, and the church itself, and they will not easily forgive you for it.”
A wise old man, this Faustus; someone who would have made a place for himself in whatever world he was born into. Even half a century before, he might have advised emperors, perhaps even become one himself, for he had a quick and active mind coupled with membership of a powerful family. Such were the times, however, that he had turned his back on the world that so desperately needed his talents, and crossed the sea to the island of Lérins, there to spend near twenty years as a virtual hermit. He had come back to the world quite against his will, for Riez had appealed to the abbot for a bishop, and he had seen that Faustus had the skills to manage such a disputatious bunch of people. It was the first and only time he had rebelled and disobeyed, refusing for a whole week to accept the order, begging that it be withdrawn, praying to God for a deliverance that the Almighty, in His wisdom, had no intention of permitting. God needed Faustus for more than contemplative prayer, and eventually he had accepted his fate, leaving the island monastery at the age of forty-five for the first time in nineteen years.
His sanctity—news of which arrived before he did—made him a resounding success; his very shadow, it was said, could make the infirm whole once more should it fall on them. Such holiness was held in awe, and few dared to question the authority of such a man. On top of this, he was wise, not just in matters of theology, but also in the ways of the world; he had no need to think that all men were naturally good to believe in the goodness of his Lord. Thus, he knew the efficacy of prayer but also when God required men to help themselves. It was his decision to push Manlius forward. The church had many good men already, he reasoned; it could afford to have a few effective ones as well.
In his quiet and efficient manner, it was Faustus who managed the meeting, just as he had managed the diocesan assembly that elevated Manlius to the chair. He said little; just a look now and then, a quiet murmur, a raised eyebrow, and a suggestion or two. Only Manlius saw the skill, and he was grateful for it, as he knew he had no understanding whatsoever of such people and could easily make a mistake. Indeed, Manlius had a better understanding of the minds of barbarian chieftains than of these people. He knew already what was necessary, but had no idea how to persuade them of it.
“Perhaps,” Faustus said after a while, “we should see in what direction the Spirit has moved this meeting so far; then its wishes might be all the more clear. We are agreed on the need to restore order in the region . . .”
Here at least was general assent; all of the bishops controlled lands, given by the pious, whose output was declining month by month and year by year as slaves absconded, making their way to lands outside their control. And that was the best that could be hoped for; some stayed and went to the uplands, banding together into marauders and sweeping down to take what they wanted. Bagaudae, they were called in the far north where they first appeared, and the name had become commonplace.
“. . . and that we should proceed to raise the siege of Clermont. For both these ends, it is desired that the Bishop of Vaison should travel to the emperor to request an army . . .”
A murmur of assent.
“This army to be dispatched immediately, and without delay. We accept the full burden of payment, on condition that a general of suitable merit is put in command. Funds to come out of church resources, donations, and taxation. Should this fail, our brother will investigate any other means to salvage the situation.”
Manlius sighed; he knew the purpose of this was to give him as much freedom of action as possible, but the woolliness of it all made him despair. The bishops seemed to think that all you had to do was tap the emperor on the shoulder, point out that an army was needed, and it would suddenly arrive. At least when you negotiated with the Goths or the Burgundians, you knew who was in control, and that any agreement would be kept. And that thought, which had been with him for some time, niggled at him still.
“You must bear in mind,” said Manlius with as much restraint as he could manage, “that any army is likely to cause more damage and chaos than it prevents. I do not know much yet about the finances of the church, but I know something of the tax revenues, and I can tell you that this whole region will be strained to pay for one campaign. Any more than that and there would be precious little left worth defending.”
“Nevertheless, something must be done,” said the Bishop of Orange. “The situation is intolerable. I have lost two hundred slaves in the past six months, and another three hundred serfs have run away as well. Last season two farms were raided just after the harvest and all the corn taken, as well as animals. This cannot go on.”