Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

“You are making windy speeches when you know the answer,” she said impatiently. “When Socrates was accused of corrupting the young he was also accused of contempt for the gods of Athens. He replied that he honored all the city’s deities. And it was true; he sacrificed assiduously. Did he believe they were anything but stories, to comfort the unlettered and present the great ideas of the divine to the simple? Of course not, but as they were so believed, then he maintained a necessary decorum in public. And so must you do, to the gods of your time.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very much so. Worship the three gods of the Christians, the father, son, and holy ghost. Make them the sacrifices they require. The church has a power that the old offices no longer have. If you do not fill its grand positions, others will do so. Why do you live, Manlius Hippomanes? Why do you walk this earth, if not to show virtue in your deeds, and how can you do that except by exercise of public office? For generations your family, and your friends’ families, have brought honor amongst themselves with these baubles, and convinced yourselves that honor and virtue were one and the same. You have been what, in your time? Procurator, Comes, all these things. Your father had more such offices before you. What do they mean, except that you have vaunted yourself above rivals? You have been like children with toys, fighting over little bits of painted wood. Once upon a time all these places were worth something; their holders ensured good government and gave good advice. That has not been the case for generations now, and still you squabble for the outward show, thinking it distinguishes you from others. It does; it shows how much greater a fool you are.”

“I hold no such office anymore. Not since my father was killed.”

“Even worse. You give delicate dinner parties and entertain your friends, and write letters and verse which get cleverer by the day. But what when there is no one left to read those letters? No friends to invite, no food to put on the table? What then? The schools of Marseille are long gone. No teachers, no pupils. The schools of Bordeaux, even, are growing feeble. Do children care anything for philosophy, for letters, for thought? Will their children even be able to read?”

“And you think joining the church will help?” he asked, scarcely keeping the amused incredulity out of his voice.

“Of course not,” she said scornfully. “I think running the church will help. Perhaps even that will accomplish nothing, but at least learning will die with a friend by its bedside, rather than abandoned in a ditch. Virtue comes through contemplation of the divine, and the exercise of philosophy. But it also comes through public service. The one is incomplete without the other. Power without wisdom is tyranny; wisdom without power is pointless. Who, for example, is likely to be the new bishop?”

“Caius Valerius.”

“And will he do a good job?”

“No. He is a contemptible fool.” He did not mention that he was also a cousin of his friend Felix.

“So do a better job,” she said simply. “Take that authority and use it. Defend all you hold dear. Use your skills and your intelligence, for you have both. Can Euric be stopped? If not, can his rule be moderated, or put under constraint?”

“Perhaps,” Manlius said.

“ ‘Perhaps,’ ” she repeated. “A possibility, with no guarantee of success, but said without hesitation. You have thought of this already, I see.”

“Of course. I see a possibility.”

“And yet you do nothing about it. Shame on you.”

He looked at her. “I am concerned about what would be necessary, about what I might have to do.”

“Then double the shame on you, and double it again,” she said sharply. “You are like a general who will not send his troops into battle for fear they will get their breastplates dirty. You have your mind and your soul, Manlius, trained and honed, and will not act for fear of tarnishing them. You should be afraid; you are vain and arrogant, full of error. But I never thought you were a coward as well.”

The next day Manlius summoned Syagrius and dictated a letter to Bishop Faustus; there followed a lengthy exchange of views, and a visit to the bishop a few months later. During this Manlius was perfectly honest. He could not claim to be a good Christian, but he was perhaps the most powerful man in the region. The church could have his help, or not. With heretic barbarians to the north and the west, with most of Gaul already gone and the ability of the emperor to protect what remained all but nonexistent, could the church do without him?

Eight weeks and three days later he was baptized, ordained, and elevated to the bishopric of Vaison, taking charge of a diocese that was already some two hundred years old and becoming, in effect, the sole authority in a region in which all others had crumbled into uselessness.

THE BISHOP’S manuscript came to Julien’s attention because, at the age of fifteen, Olivier de Noyen stole some money. He was working in the cardinal’s chancellery, carefully watching the money coming in, the money going out again. Counting the gold and silver pieces, marking it all down in the ledger. There were twelve of the cardinal’s people, all sitting at little desks, working from dawn to dusk to keep the great engine of the cardinal’s power running smoothly.

It was not work to which he was greatly fitted; he was sent there as a punishment, and as he was constantly offending against the rules of the cardinal’s household, he spent much time there, being bored to tears and failing to learn anything at all about the need for discipline. He ran too fast and collided with a cook carrying the cardinal’s meal; one week of tallying figures. He disappeared for several days; two weeks. He went out late one night and had his first experience of drinking to excess, leaving the evidence of his debauch on the floor of the great entrance hall of the cardinal’s palace; one month’s hard counting resulted.

It was after this last adventure—of which even Olivier was ashamed—that he noted that a remittance from one of the cardinal’s benefices in England was too great by one gold piece. At that time, he considered himself something of a dandy, delighting in the company of a band of fellows who dressed in the finest clothes they could find, and thought themselves grand indeed when they marched down the street singing, and making fun—normally good-humored—of passersby. Most bore their merriment well; only the Jews did not when they were taunted. They were not agreeable objects of tricks; they hurried by, their heads down, cloaks bundled around them, never answering back or replying with some remark. It was why comments turned to insults, insults to stones. Olivier sometimes joined in, just as he had, on occasion, tormented stray dogs and cats in his youth. He saw little difference, and stopped mainly because he found it poor sport.

His holiday outfit delighted him; it was scarlet and blue and well sewn. But he had no shoes, and the whole appearance was (he thought) spoiled by the wood and cloth sabots that he wore on his feet. What woman of elegance—what serving girl even—could ever be fooled by a man who clattered down the street, making as much noise as donkey and cart? Who could take seriously someone who had to dance barefoot, and often was forced to retire when a stamping boot crunched down on his toes?

The lack of good shoes tormented him, the gold piece tempted him. He took the money and bought a fine pair of leather-soled slippers, soft and so comfortable they scarcely seemed to have any weight at all. He sat in bed looking at them, and delayed a month before he would risk wearing them out of doors, in case they got dirty.