Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [191]
At once Martinus became serious.
“You attach too much importance to the man, too little to God,” he said. “Man is sinful and imperfect. He’s noble, if you like, only in so far as he turns his mind over to God directly. It’s not that I or Patrick,” he used the non-Roman form of the missionary’s name, “can do anything in Ireland: but God will work through us. That’s exactly Augustine’s point, he wants us to know that as a man, he was a pagan, a sinner, a fornicator. Whatever he’s done – and believe me, in Africa he’s done more than ten others could have – has only been done through God’s providence and will, not his own. His own spirit, which knew only confusion before, is now at rest in the service of God.”
As he spoke, the boyishness of his former manner had left him and Petrus suddenly felt himself to be in the company of a man who, although about the same age in years, was far ahead of him in maturity.
“And you – are you at peace?” he asked.
“Yes,” the monk answered simply. And Petrus could see that it was true.
But to Petrus the answers the missionary gave still seemed incomplete. He might be going to heathen Ireland, but what about Britannia – and what of Rome? He thought of the deserted baths at Aquae Sulis, the cities of Venta and Corinium, fortifying themselves against the Saxons, and of the villa at Sarum under threat at this very moment.
“You may be at peace,” he accused, “but our towns and villas are not. I want to restore them. I want to see Rome great again – the theatres, the temples, the baths all restored.”
Martinus smiled.
“Like the shining city on its seven hills – Rome in all its glory. Civilisation, you mean?”
“Yes.”
Martinus nodded understandingly.
“Even the great Jerome, a saintly Christian scholar, even he could not speak when he heard that Rome had fallen,” the monk agreed. “And Augustine, too – his great work of theology is not called De Civitate Dei – the City of God – by chance. Many Christians love Rome and all it stands for. But there is a greater city still,” he went on eagerly, “a city that no man can corrupt, no army destroy. And that is the city of the spirit – God’s citadel that shines like the eternal sun. Think, my friend,” he urged, with sudden passion, “if you are prepared to defend a city made by man, how much more you should be anxious to defend the faith, which is the city of the Creator of the heavens Himself.”
It was a fine speech, and Petrus could not help being moved by his companion’s passion. But he still shook his head doubtfully.
To his surprise, Martinus stretched out his big hand and took him gently by the arm.
“I see, my friend, that though you are a pagan you are a seeker after truth. One day you will find it when God commands you, and then you will know peace.” He gave his arm a friendly pat. “Time we slept. We both have journeys tomorrow.”
Petrus considered. Had he found peace? He thought of his parents, of the girl Sulicena, of the taurobolium, of the tangled events and violent urges of his young life. No, whether the missionary’s religion or his own were the true one, he had not found peace. As they rose, a thought occurred to him.
“When you first left your farm, you said, God commanded you. What command did God give you, Martinus?” he asked.
“The same that he gave to the apostle who bore your own name Petrus – Peter the rock,” the monk replied. “He said: ‘Feed my sheep’.”
Petrus nodded. He knew the text.
“God does not speak to me,” he admitted frankly.
Martinus gazed at him carefully.
“You have to listen, Petrus,” he replied. “Sometimes He speaks very quietly.”
For the rest of his life Petrus always explained that his conversion took place that night, shortly before dawn. It happened in a dream.
He was on a huge, empty downland – similar to the ridges around Sarum. “But I was not at Sarum,” he would say, “I was in some other country which I took to be Ireland.” The landscape was full of white sheep. But as he rode through them, he came upon a single lamb. “It was a lamb, yet bigger than the sheep; and it came towards me and