“I would like to do it, though. There are times when merely surviving is not enough.”
“There are times when merely surviving is a major achievement,” he said.
“Two different outlooks on life, there,” she commented ironically. “But I will do it, in any case. Depending on what he wants, of course. How do we get hold of him?”
“Through a postman in Carpentras, apparently. He always had a sense of melodrama, I’m afraid. That is how I am meant to get a message to him about Marcel, if he ever decides he wants to discuss things.”
“And this will be your contribution, will it? A go-between?”
He nodded. “When needed. Unless those two are brought together, they—or rather the people they represent—will fight each other. Marcel’s police, Bernard’s resisters. The Germans will go, and civil war will result. Bernard needs Marcel to counter the communists, and Marcel needs Bernard.”
“Why?”
“Because otherwise someone will shoot him.”
And then he got on his bike once more and pedaled to Carpentras, leaving a message that Julia would prepare the plates and do the work; Bernard should supply the names and photographs, and also lay plans for getting her across the border into Switzerland or Spain. Then he went to see the préfet and talked to him.
Marcel gave a dismissive wave. “The Resistance?” he said with a sneer. “What do I think of them? What are they? Communists? Gaullists? Monarchists even, so I understand. Their ranks swelling every day with opportunists willing to risk the lives of others so they can pose as heroes when other people have won the war for them. They care about France and are willing to sacrifice French people in its name. But I do not pursue them anymore, if that’s what you’re asking me. The Germans have occupied us, they can do it. I am happy to leave it to them. Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering if it might be a good idea to talk to them.”
“Talk to them? To a bunch of criminals? You must be joking.”
“One day it might be wise.”
“One day it might be. I am not a politician, nor a turncoat, Julien.”
“No. You are an administrator. And it is your job to see that good governance continues. That’s what you told me in 1940. You have the same task now, surely.”
“Why do you ask all this, Julien?”
Julien hesitated. “Because I have been given a message to pass on to you. That when you wish to talk, or make any sort of contact, then there will be people ready to listen.”
Marcel gazed at him. “I could have you arrested merely for saying that, you know.”
“I know. But it would not serve any purpose. I am not in the Resistance, Marcel. You know me well enough for that, I think. My opinion of these people is not so very different from your own. But I was given this message—which I did not seek out—and I promised to pass it on. Now I have done so. And if ever you want a message passed back, then let me know, and I will discharge that duty as well. For friendship’s sake.”
“For friendship’s sake . . .” Marcel said thoughtfully. “I see. Now, whose friend are you, Julien?”
He shrugged. “That is all I will do. I did not volunteer, but you can trust me.”
“I see.”
Marcel changed the subject. They never spoke of it again. Not in those terms, at least.
IN MANY WAYS, Manlius’s task was simple; settling the price was the only complex part. He wanted Gundobad to move into Provence; Gundobad was perfectly happy to do so, up to a point. The price was high; higher even than Manlius had dreamed: He had imagined that the king would ask to assume all the rights, titles, and revenues of a Roman governor. It would preserve the form, if not the reality of
romanitas,
and give Manlius enough space to persuade his fellow landowners to accept the offer. They would get, after all, a firm hand capable of ending the constant bleeding away of the population, able to put down—with whatever savagery was necessary—the incursions of the landless.
The annexation, of course, had to be dressed up and presented properly in the hearing of the court and for the sake of Manlius’s entourage, and it is a pity that the formal speeches of both sides—given in the basilica, after the private negotiations had taken place—did not survive in identifiable form. Faint echoes only survived, fragments in the Burgundian code, in Fortunatus and in Gregory.
“Excellency, son of Rome, we are here to demand that you live up to your responsibilities as her trusted friend. You know how Rome’s enemies press her from within and without; you know how her armies have been sent off to fight her enemies overseas, and you know how men of ill will seek to exploit certain circumstances for their own ends. Serfs run away, the grass grows in field and streets, bandits roam the roads, and all because they think that the province from which I come is weak and defenseless. All because, I should say, you do not see your duty, your obligations clearly. Why was it that Rome took you to her bosom for so many years, educated you, covered you in honors and dignities? Was it so you could live out your life amongst your own people alone, remembering the glories you have seen? Or did she have a purpose in her generosity? Did she, the all-seeing, know even then that when that little boy of six arrived that he would one day rise to great importance and power, take up his God-given role as a high official in the empire?
“It is time, Excellency, for you to accept the responsibilities for which you were so carefully trained. Time for you to take on the position of magistrate and commander of Gaul. The people in the streets, even, begin to laugh and doubt at your idleness, wonder whether you do not care for Rome, think that perhaps foolish voices have dissuaded you from your clear duty. You must still those doubters, accept the offices which are clearly yours, and take on the burdens for which you will receive only gratitude.”
There was much more besides, flowery phrases and ornate compliments carefully dressed up as threats and warnings. Meanings within meanings that only the long practiced could devise and understand. In speaking thus, Manlius addressed the king as a fellow citizen; the proposed annexation was to be dressed up in Roman clothes still. And the king replied in kind:
“Good Bishop, I stand here with tears of remorse in my eyes as I hear your justifiable reproaches. My idleness cannot be excused, except by a determination to give recompense through my devotion to duty henceforth. You have shamed me into seeing my negligence, and with God’s help, I will take up the burdens of office you so rightly say must be mine alone. I had wished someone else would assume these onerous tasks, for which I am scarcely fitted, but I see now there can be no escape. I will assume the offices both civil and military which are currently empty. I will restore order within and without the land, return it to prosperity and a respect for the laws which have been in place for generations. I will defend the church, and guard its rights. You were right to come here, and I thank you for your cruelty. I criticize you only for your delay.”
The king’s court applauded; more important, Manlius’s entourage noted all the points he made. Maintaining Roman law rather than imposing barbarian custom; reviving old offices; defending the province against the much harsher Euric; respecting the rights of the church; and, most important, protecting property and taking a firm line on runaway serfs. If he was as good as he promised, it was agreed, then Manlius had pulled off a master stroke.
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.
HERETURNED 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.