“Very well,” he said irritably.
But the German had not finished.
“We have fought. Now we need women,” he stated. “A woman each.”
There were a few slave girls in Sarum of course, which Numincus had already supplied, but not enough for all the Germans. Something in the fellow’s manner told him that it might be dangerous to argue.
“Numincus will find you women.” Perhaps some slaves could be found in Venta or Durnovaria. Angry with himself for giving in, he turned towards the gates from which Numincus was now emerging.
The day before, in one of his more lucid moments, Constantius had warned him: “Your Germans will give you more trouble than you think. Take care.” It irked him to think that his father could be right.
But later that day, as he was riding slowly back towards the villa, and remembering the details of the battle and his part in it, a flush of elation came over him. Whatever his father’s weakness, he had proved that he at least was a good Roman and a man.
And it was then, when he was half way to the villa, that the figure of the girl, Tarquinus’s niece, stepped out onto the track in front of him.
He stopped, surprised. Since the episode of the
taurobolium
he had almost forgotten her; but as he gazed down at her now, he remembered her slim, pale body.
She was looking straight into his eyes.
“You fought today.”
He nodded.
“You beat them.”
He grinned. “We did.”
“They say you fought as well as the Germans.”
“Perhaps.” He was glad to hear it.
She continued to stare up at him, saying nothing else, but now there could be no mistaking her purpose.
He thought of the words of the German, and nodded to himself. How simple it was, and how right: when a man has fought, he should have a woman.
He dismounted and followed the girl as she led the way to the place she had prepared.
The second event took place the next summer, in the year 429.
It concerned Constantius.
For some time now, the Christians of Rome and Gaul had been disturbed by the large number of followers that the Pelagian heresy had attracted in the island of Britain. It was late in the previous century that the British monk Pelagius had begun to live and teach in Rome. At first his teachings had met with only mild disapproval or even tolerance from such church leaders as Ambrose of Milan or even the great St Augustine of Hippo himself. The well-meaning monk only said that the good Christian must exercise his free will, rouse himself from his lethargy, and actively choose to serve God. Such a teaching might have been nothing more than a moral exhortation and perfectly acceptable. But unfortunately it did not stop at that, and it soon became clear that his doctrines were being developed by his followers into a full-blown heresy.
For the followers of the monk held that a man, if he was truly to serve God and win his way to Heaven, must choose God, for himself, of his own free will. And this, of course, was an obnoxious heresy.
For were it to be true that a man could really make such a choice for himself, then that man would be a separate being, an individual entity with absolute power to choose to embrace God or the Devil as he liked. How could any right thinking Christian suggest such a thing when the Church taught that man, like everything in the universe, was created by God and belonged to Him? A man could not even exercise his free will except through Providence and God’s grace. “If a man could act unilaterally like that, then the nature of God is reduced to that of any pagan god, like Apollo or Minerva, that he could as well have chosen instead,” they argued. The old British monk might have been harmless, but the doctrines of his followers were a dangerous heresy and they must be stamped out.
As for Britain, not only had his doctrines been popular with many on the island, but when a number of Pelagians were successfully driven out of Rome, they exiled themselves to the distant province and continued to spread their pernicious doctrines there.
It was not to be borne.
Accordingly, in 429, at the request of the outraged Church in Gaul, and with the blessing of the Pope himself, two important Churchmen, Germanus of Auxerre and Lupus, Bishop of Troyes, made a visit to the island. The Pelagians would be spoken to sternly.
A huge meeting was arranged at the city of Verulamium, where the bishops would argue their case before the leaders of the British Pelagian party. Many of these were prominent landowners, proud and powerful; and it was the thought of being present at such an august gathering that made Constantius for once pull himself together enough to make the journey.
He made careful preparations; Placidia had not seen her husband so in control of himself or so eager for many years. Neither she nor the pagan Petrus were to accompany him. He took one attendant, his two best horses, and his finest clothes, including the magnificent blue cloak that he had worn on his wedding day. He set off on a bright morning, taking the old road that led first to Londinium and then north to Verulamium.
“These bishops from Gaul may be important men,” he told Placidia as he was leaving, “but they’ll find we are Christians every bit as good as they are.”
And though she herself had little interest in such controversies, Placidia was glad to see Constantius so roused. Perhaps this journey would be good for him, and even lessen his drinking.
It was ten days later that he returned.
Placidia was alone when he approached the villa; Petrus had gone to Durnovaria and was not expected back for three days. When the servants ran in to tell her of his arrival, she went quickly to the door of the house to welcome him. But when she saw him her face fell.
He was pale, unshaven and spattered with mud. The attendant leading the horses, one of whom was lame, looked downcast, and as Constantius stumbled into the villa without a word, Placidia could smell that he had been drinking. He disappeared to his room and was not seen again for several hours.
For two days Constantius moved about the villa quietly, drinking as usual and speaking to no one. Placidia wisely said nothing to him, and when she discreetly asked the servant who had been with him what had happened, the man could only tell her that his master had returned from the great meeting very angry and that he had been drinking ever since.
It was not until the third day that she learned the truth, when Constantius came into the room where she was sitting, sat down heavily on a couch, and blurted out:
“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 while the curious crowd fell silent, he addressed him.
Nervously fumbling for his words, not very coherently, he began to speak. He tried to say something about the Christian soldier, the man of free will who stood unaided against paganism and fought the good fight for God. Such a man, he reminded them, was not to be despised. He spoke badly, but he spoke with genuine feeling, for this was how he saw himself: was he not just such a Christian soldier fighting against his son and the heathen Germans, and the
taurobolium
? And though his words were fumbled and confused, they began to draw murmurs of sympathy and approval from others like him around the circle. Here was a man who felt as they did, and who had the courage to speak against these clever bishops from Gaul. When he finished, there was applause, and he smiled with a sense of accomplishment he had not felt in years. Constantius Porteus, decurion of Sorviodunum, has spoken, he told himself.
Lupus eyed him angrily. Here was exactly the kind of landowner, a provincial heretic steeped in pride, that he had come to defeat. Here and now, the last of these doubters must be stamped out.
“
Superbus
!” he bellowed. “Proud man, who thinks he can do anything without God.” And he launched into his attack.
It was masterly. It was lacerating. Each word of it seemed to embed itself in Constantius’s mind. He felt his face flush red, first with embarrassment, then with humiliation as Lupus tore his arguments apart, poured scorn on his ambitions and told him he was worse than a pagan.
Was everything he stood for wrong? Had he no friends – neither at home where his wife believed nothing and his son was a pagan, nor here where he had come to find honour amongst his fellow landowners and Christians? By the end of his speech, Lupus had converted many of the waverers, and shamed the others into submission. Constantius he had broken.
That night he returned to his lodgings alone and drank until morning. Then he had called for his horse and made his way down the long empty road.
“If I’m no better than a pagan,” he confessed to Placidia, “then I’ve nothing left.”
“You have the estate and your family,” she said gently.
But she saw that he was not listening.
At the turn of the year 432 news came to Sarum that a major invasion was confidently predicted for that summer, and the evidence this time seemed definite.
Petrus faced the prospect with confidence. In the last two years he had not been idle, and nor had many other communities in the south. Settlements like Venta, if they could, had strengthened their defences still further. More mercenaries had been drafted. And in the far west, he had learned of an interesting development when a group of vigorous young men, mostly of his own age, had ridden into Sarum one day from the west and asked for him by name.