Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

The real discussions took place that evening, with the king and the bishop alone. And it was at this moment that Manlius was confronted with the choice that he had hoped to avoid, for he was too intelligent a man not to realize that it was a possibility. All his skills, all his wisdom were brought to bear, probing the king, finding out his strengths and weaknesses, seeing how far he could be controlled and where he must be left alone.

Gundobad did not want to rule in the name of Rome. Did not want to continue with the pretense of being a servant of something that was a mere phantom in the mind. His sense of pride, of his own importance, matched his full awareness of Manlius’s need. He had made the calculations carefully: He would lose some standing amongst the landowners, but would gain mightily amongst his own people and his personal reputation would rise hugely. He would rule as king of the Burgundians, beholden to no one, acknowledging no one greater than himself.

Manlius then had the choice: He could have stability, safety, the freedom to live in peace without Rome. Or he could have a short while—perhaps only months—to be a Roman still.

He accepted Gundobad’s demand, had decided to do so well in advance of the need to do so. To sacrifice a name was a small thing. The deal was as good as any man could achieve and better than most could dream of. Gundobad was no fool and was endowed with more of the human virtues than many an emperor. He was also aware that, for all the acting, Manlius had few other options. He admired the bishop for the consummate skill by which he made best use of his resources; realized he would make a fine and useful ally, was impressed by the open-eyed way in which he grasped at an outcome that would have been anathema to most of his contemporaries, but still had no intention of going beyond the bounds of common sense.

And he would not, he said almost as an afterthought, move much farther south than Vaison itself. The rest of the province would have to fend for itself. Nor would he march to relieve Clermont.

By this stage, all artifice had been laid aside; windy words and compliments were abandoned. Rather two men of power were sounding each other out, each grappling with the will of the other, wishing to avoid failure.

“Clermont is vital; it must be saved,” Manlius said icily. “Relieve it, block Euric there, and the entire region will greet you as a savior.”

The king nodded. “I realize this, My Lord Bishop. But I also know full well that Euric is not a man to challenge lightly. I could, as you say, relieve Clermont. At the moment this is no great problem. He has committed a fraction of his men to the siege. But what then? He commands incomparably greater resources than I do. In order to ensure success, I would have to send every man I have there. And that would leave much more open to him. Let me put it plainly: I can save Clermont for a while or I can save your territories permanently. Not both.”

“I was sent here to find a guardian for the whole of Provence. Am I to go back and say that I have saved my own part of it, and am abandoning the rest to Euric?”

“I am afraid that is the choice you must make.”

The meeting ended there; Manlius needed to think. For the first time he wished he could pray as well. Later, as he lay on the bed in the accommodation the king had provided, he was scornful of his hesitation. Prayer, indeed. Even he, it seemed, was being corrupted by the weakness of the Christians. This was not a matter for God; this was a matter for himself. This was why he existed, to take decisions, to make choices.

It is hard to describe his mood as he lay there for so many hours. If not prayer, it was a form of contemplation, although of a fiercely active variety. He did not glory in his power to affect the destiny of so many people, that he held their fate in his hands, that his decision would mean so much. Nor did he fret about what others would think of him, wonder whether he would be considered a traitor if he did this, or weak if he did that. He considered what would be the best decision, and as he understood all too well, the choice was simple. Either part of Provence would be saved, consigned to the hands of a man who, although barbarian, had been educated at Rome, was tolerant of its religion, would respect its laws and enforce them justly, or none of it would be.

So he formulated the problem, simplifying his options by not considering alternatives. He could have raced back, thrown his all behind Felix, and taken the risk. His friend’s military skills were formidable; if he stripped all his estates and handed over every man to him, then perhaps he could win a victory that would reverberate through the world.

But that would mean exposing his own lands to depredation; it would mean there would be no one to prevent his labor abandoning their tasks and walking away. It would mean admitting the error of his own strategy, and undermining his own authority, which was desperately needed to maintain order. All for a possibility. Perhaps Felix could win a victory that had eluded emperors for half a century. But it was more likely he would fail, and achieve nothing but to bring the wrath of King Euric down on the whole region. He had said that, if all else failed, he would stand by his friend and they would die together. He had meant it. But all else had not yet failed. The choice was not so stark.

HE RETURNED to Gundobad the next morning and accepted the terms. “Can you guarantee there will be no opposition to my troops? I will not weaken myself in civil disturbance or opposition.”

“No. But if you move quickly there will not be much. You must arrive with sufficient troops within a month. Otherwise opposition may coalesce.”

“And who might be the leader of it?”

Manlius thought for a moment, staring into the dead, empty grate. “A man called Felix,” he said eventually. “He is wedded to the Roman solution, and is liable to oppose this arrangement. He is popular, and holds large properties. He could mobilize a small army if you give him enough time.”

“We had better not do so, then,” said the king with a smile. “And it would be as well to make sure that he presents no danger afterwards either.”

“Handled properly he would be a valuable ally, and a good advisor. You have virtues enough to win his support, in time.”

Gundobad grunted. “I will be the judge of that,” he said. “And I will not take risks for your sake. Euric will take Clermont and will move east, as you say, and I must be impregnable by the time he does. I cannot afford to be distracted by internal opposition. The matter must be solved before I move, otherwise you will get no help from me.”

Manlius said no more. He left the king’s presence and went back to his quarters to reflect some more. He left for home the following morning.

IT WAS ONE of the little ironies that, for many months, the only real outcome of the encounter in the cathedral was that Julia once more began to sell her work. It was a bizarre arrangement, but Bernard needed pictures of all sorts to carry off the illusion of being a dealer, and she, stripped of her identity in all other respects, wished to have some existence in a world in which she was otherwise invisible. Besides, money was short, and the prospect of earning anything by selling her work was irresistible. Periodically, Julien would meet a go-between in Avignon, and would give him a bundle of paper—sketches, watercolors, and etchings, the chronicles of her life and her encounter with Saint Sophia. She even signed them in her own name, but carefully dated each one 1938, to give the impression they were coming from some long-stored stock of work. Inside the packages were some freshly made, newly aged identity cards of different varieties.