One thing was certain, he summed up, making me feel much better: an emblem, some form of simple, immediately recognizable symbol—a signet of belonging, of conformity, of identity—was essential to the success of any great popular movement. I listened and nodded my head wisely, feeling the mead making my head spin, and completely unaware that Germanus, bishop militant of God's Church in Rome, was implanting a seed in my consciousness that was to grow and influence an entire people.
More than two hours had passed before we allowed the conversation to turn towards the debate that had filled the past two weeks, and even then we approached it cautiously, he graciously avoiding the temptation to talk in terms of polemics and theology.
"Well," he asked me, "as a soldier, what did you think?"
I made a face. "As a soldier? I thought the same as I thought as a man. I was totally lost from the first day. Hardly understood a word, let alone the ideas that were being thrown around so strenuously."
He smiled, gently. "Yes, I noticed your presence became harder to detect from day to day. I warned you, however, the first time we met."
"True, Bishop, you did." I thought about that, remembering my reaction to his surprise that I should wish to be here at all. "But I wanted to be there, as I told you at the time, to witness this, because of its importance to us all. I tell you frankly, though, there were times I wanted to jump to my feet and scream for someone to say something in plain language, something a man might have a hope of understanding. Finally I lost hope, trusting instead that somehow I might have a chance to talk to you, to ask you what had happened, what had been decided."
"Well, I'm here. Ask me."
I looked at him, seeing the man and not the cleric. We had done serious damage to the contents of his flask since he arrived, and he was relaxed and comfortable. Donuil had replenished the brazier some time earlier, before he went to bed, graciously refusing our invitation to join us. Now the coals glowed at their peak, throwing out an hospitable, smokeless warmth that had lulled both of us into a condition of perfect equanimity. I smiled at him, enjoying the mood.
"Bishop, I don't know where to begin...I don't know what to ask."
He sniffed, and reached for the flask again, pouring the few remaining drops into his own cup after I had waved it away from mine. "Well then," he murmured, "let me help you, since I know what you need to know but may be loath to ask." He sipped, sighed and placed his cup by his feet. "In the matter of excommunication for past sins, I issued no decrees. I had taken to heart, you see, your eloquent observation that, in the absence of formal guidance from outside, from Rome, you and your people were and are honour bound to live by the teachings of your bishops and your early faith. No man could find fault with that, Merlyn; its truth is self-evident." He paused, mulling over his next words, then continued. "The benefit of the doubt, therefore—that sophisticated wisdom propounded by your father and so ably transmitted by you to me—must be applied to all in like case. So there have been no major..." He sought the correct word. ".. .proscriptions ordained. And yet heresy is heresy and cannot be countenanced." He stopped again, eyeing me shrewdly.
"I know how your soldier's mind works, I believe. I know you have no patience with sophistry, so I'll speak plainly." He hitched himself erect and the pleasant mellowness faded visibly from his features. "As a soldier and an officer, you have high regard for the law. You must have; it goes with the responsibility...It is the law itself I speak of now; the Church's law, with all the awesome responsibility that entails. Apart and aside from all of the polemical and theological discussions that have unfolded here in Verulamium these past two weeks, one truth has been brought home, I believe, to the bishops assembled here from all over Britain: without law there is chaos. We saw the truth of that on our arrival here. That truth loses nothing of verity in the governance of God's affairs on earth. Somehow, somewhere, there must exist a central core of ratified, accepted truth—of dogma, if you like—if existence is to continue sanely. The confrontation of philosophies between Pelagius and Augustine of Hippo resulted in an impasse that had to be resolved. A reasoning, educated man can see much apparent truth, much plausibility, on either side of the debate. But those differences are merely philosophical, Merlyn, and therefore human. They are not, at bottom, theological. Within that difference lies the ordinary man's inability to comprehend the nature, and the seriousness, of the dispute." He paused again, watching me to see how I was responding to his words. I schooled my face to impassivity, however, and he eventually resumed.
"The law requires the existence of judges—arbitrators— learned men who, by virtue of their wisdom, are considered capable of assessing and assimilating all the materials relevant to the situation under dispute and arriving thereafter at a just, compassionate and humane resolution. The bishops of the Roman Conclave, and of those of Antioch and the other major Sees, perform the same function and, in their wisdom, they have chosen to decide this issue as they have. Pelagius stands apostate, and his philosophy and teachings are condemned. You, as one man, may rail against the judgment, but you must, perforce, accept it. There is no other recourse. The case has been considered at great length, over many years and by many people, and judgment has been passed." He sighed. "The bishops of Britain have now been informed, formally, by me, of how matters stand. They may choose hereafter to ignore my message, but if they do, they will do so in full and conscious knowledge that they proceed thenceforth in defiance of the verdict of the Church at large. They will thus proceed in sin, and ipso facto under pain of excommunication and damnation... No man, however, bishop or other, will stand excommunicate for how he has believed or behaved prior to this time." He paused again, his forehead wrinkled in a frown.
"Merlyn," he said at last, "I cannot utter words of condemnation to you personally. You will live, as you must, according to your conscience. You are a good man and I see no wickedness in you. When you go to Judgment, God will know how to deal with you, and He is merciful where mercy is warranted. Bishops, however, are another matter altogether. They are the teachers, the exemplars, and their lives are subject to intense scrutiny by God and His Angels. I have decreed the establishment of schools—theological schools dedicated to the teaching of orthodox doctrine to the bishops of Britain now and in the future. The teachings of Pelagius will be heard no more in Britain's Christian instruction... That is what has been achieved here, and I believe, with all my heart and soul, that the achievement is significant and good."
There was not much I could say after that. He had put my mind at ease and absolved me of concern about Bishop Alaric and his eternal fate, and had as much as promised that, if I continued to live as I had in the past, without falling into evil behaviour, I might approach my God with rectitude and confidence. Peculiarly Pelagian attitudes from the champion of orthodoxy.