Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [184]
“They say that I’m a heretic.”
She said nothing, but waited.
“They say that I am damned.”
She went across and sat beside him.
“Why should they say such a thing?”
“That’s not all,” he moaned. “They say that to be a Pelagian – a heretic as they call it – is worse even than being a pagan. Think of that! According to them I’m worse than my accursed son who stands in that pit of iniquity the taurobolium! Worse!”
“But why?” Even Placidia was taken aback.
He shook his head in disgust.
“Their reasoning, these men of God from Gaul: they say that the pagans have not seen the light, and so they are damned. But the heretic is worse: he, they say, has seen the light, and having seen, has turned his face from God – not damned but double damned. That’s me, it seems.”
“Who says this terrible thing?”
“Ah.” He stood up. “Who indeed? Lupus, Bishop of Troyes said it. To my face. Told me I’d be damned as a heretic and a lot more besides.”
He slumped down; and for once Placidia did not know what to say.
It had been a magnificent occasion. The visit of St Germanus and his conversion of the Pelagians would go down in history as one of the most notable events in the story of the early British Church. A large group of the island’s magnates attended, many with substantial retinues. They were splendidly dressed in the brightly coloured tunics and cloaks that were fashionable in the Roman world of that day – a far cry from the sober white toga of earlier times – and Constantius had felt his heart swell with pride to be amongst them. The grandees arranged themselves in a large circle to hear the debate between the two parties, and behind them was a large crowd of onlookers. By good luck Constantius found himself standing with a number of the important landowners at the front.
The two great churchmen had positioned themselves in the centre: and facing them were ranged a number of prominent members of the Pelagian party who were thought to be distinguished in the arts of scholarly and religious dispute.
It was an impressive debate. The Pelagians led off, making their case bravely and, it seemed to Constantius, soundly. The bishops said nothing until they had finished. Then they rose to reply. And now Constantius saw why the two men had such awesome reputations: for the islanders had never heard anything like it. With wonderful eloquence, with compelling power of argument, the two churchmen from Gaul attacked the Pelagian position, demonstrated its shortcomings, begged and persuaded the listeners to come back to the true Church. They spoke vehemently, and soon there were heads nodding in grudging admiration all around the circle. As Constantius watched, he could sense the tide beginning to turn in the visitors’ favour. Several times Germanus paused, inviting the Pelagian speakers to rebut him, but they were unable to do so. Even Constantius had to confess that he had never witnessed anything better.
But the triumph of the visitors was not yet complete. Many of the landowners were unwilling to be so quickly influenced. Here and there around the circle there were murmurs. These bishops from Gaul might be eloquent and holy men, but Pelagius came from Britain and was not to be so lightly thrown over. The doctrine of submission that the visitors insisted upon did not appeal to them.
“Give what Thou commandest, O Lord,” cried Lupus of Troyes, “and command what Thou wilt. We have no will but Thine. We submit.”
Submit? It semed to deny all their freedom, their claims to self-discipline, their proud island independence. In several places there was a shaking of heads.
It was now that Constantius made his great mistake. Though he had had difficulty in following the arguments, it suddenly seemed to him that he knew where he stood. Self-discipline, the exercise of the will – the things which he never achieved in his own daily life – these, he thought, were the things he most passionately believed in. Suddenly seized with courage, he stepped forward into the circle and, catching the eye of Lupus