by Jack Whyte
"Co-operation?" I could tell from his voice he knew I was about to name my price. "What would this co-operation consist of?"
"An end to this sullenness of yours, for one thing. There is no need for it, and it simply breeds suspicion and dislike." He blinked and was silent for a moment, obviously confused and trying to hide it.
"And? What else?"
"A willingness to contribute to the life of this Colony while you are part of it."
"Contribute? What form of contribution?"
"Work of some kind, not necessarily menial. We all contribute, every one of us, each according to his abilities."
He looked sceptical. "Even you?"
"Of course!" I laughed. "Even my father, the General. There are no parasites in Camulod."
I could not identify the tone that now coloured his voice. "What does your father do?"
"He is Administrator and Commander-in-Chief of our forces. He heads the Council of Governors of the Colony."
"And you, what do you do?"
"I assist my father. I keep records. I command a regiment. And I count horses."
His face went blank with surprise. "You what?"
"Count horses. I have just been charged with taking a census of all the horses that the Colony owns."
"You have that many horses?" His eyes showed wonderment. "How long will that take?"
I made a face to show my ignorance of that answer. "I do not know. In truth, I have no idea. A week, perhaps two, if nothing unexpected happens, like another raid, to interrupt the task."
His face creased into a frown. "What could I do? I have no training in any kind of work such as you describe, and I will not work with my hands like a bondsman."
"I didn't think you would, nor would I ask you to, but there must be something you can do. Do you have skills with iron?"
"You mean making it? No."
"Can you write and read?"
"No."
"Can you relax?" He blinked at me and I signalled towards the chair in front of him. "Sit down, you are too tall to gaze up at constantly." He sat down slowly and I picked up the sword that lay on the table and unsheathed it, laying it before him. "Look at it," I said. "This sword was made by my own great-uncle, Publius Varrus, a master smith. He was a soldier and a founder of this Colony, but he worked with his hands in metal all his life and saw no shame in it." I slipped the blade back into the sheath. "Every man has skills that are all his own, Donuil. Here, in our Colony, we ask that each man use his skills for the benefit of everyone, earning in return the right to live here, sharing in the Colony's prosperity. By making your own contribution you would be earning your keep—no more, no less. You will be asked to do nothing that could embarrass you or cause you to feel guilt in any way. You will not be asked, for example, to fight against your people, should they raid our lands again, although such an event would itself place you in a bad position, since your presence here means that we are at peace with Hibemia for five years."
"No! That's not true." There was urgency in his voice and he shook his head tersely. "You are at peace with my people, but not with all my countrymen. We have many kings on our island and few of them are friends. The fact that you hold me as hostage will mean nothing to the other kings. They have no love for me or for my people. They war with us as much as they do with Britain."
"Hmm!" I gnawed at my lower lip as though this had not occurred to me. "That could be awkward. How will we know that any future raiders are not of your people?"
The young man held his head high. "My father's standard is a black galley set on a field of gold. All of our ships carry it. My people will stay clear of you and your lands."
"Good." I nodded to him. "I believe you. But we have lost our track. Would you be willing to consider taking part in some way in the life of Camulod?"
He looked me in the eye. "Aye, Caius Merlyn, but there is a problem."
"What is that?"
"I do not have your Roman-British tongue. You are the only man I've met so far that I can talk to."
"Then you will have to work with me, somehow, until you learn our language. Will that gall you?" His face broke out slowly, but not reluctantly, into a smile.
"No, I think not."
"Good, then there is no problem. How old are you?"
"Seventeen. Almost eighteen."
I whistled my surprise. "You're a big lad for your age. Think about this. Consider what you might do that you can see as being of help to me and we will talk again tomorrow." As I said this, my door burst open and my father strode into the room, his face like thunder. He stopped short when he saw that I had company and looked from Donuil to me, making no sign of greeting to either one of us.
"Caius. When you are free, come to my quarters." He left as suddenly as he had come, closing the door behind him and I wondered what had upset him so. As soon as he had gone I turned back to my prisoner.
"So be it. Think on what I have said until tomorrow. In the meantime, I will have Legate Titus assign you to a room of your own. As of this moment, you are free to move about the fort, but be careful. Remember your own point about the language problem. In fact, it might be better not to wander off on your own until I have had time to show you around. I will do that tomorrow, too. Now I have to go and meet with my father and find out what has upset him. Come with me.
I'll take you to Titus on the way and have him fix you up." I stepped to the door and held it open, and as he passed in front of me to leave, I stopped him with my free hand on his arm. "Welcome to Camulod," I told him, smiling. "I think you may like it here, once you get used to it." I offered him my hand and saw no reluctance in his face as he shook it.
XVI
It took me almost half an hour to find Titus and instruct him on what I wanted him to do with Donuil, so that as I approached my father's office I found myself thinking that he would, by this time, have had a chance to simmer down and be more objective about whatever it had been that infuriated him. I was wrong. He was still black-faced and grim.
"Where have you been?" he snapped as I stepped across his threshold. I blinked at him in surprise.
"Pardon me. I have been making arrangements for the suitable quartering of my prisoner."
"What quartering? He should be in a cell. We have more to be concerned with than the comfort of an alien raider."
I decided not to pursue that one. "What's the matter, Father? I've never seen you so upset."
"Upset? I am not upset! I am disturbed and uneasy and running short of patience with fools, but I am not upset!"
"Oh! Very well, then, what's worrying and disturbing you?" I had not bothered to close the door behind me as I entered, mainly because his temper had taken me so much by surprise. Normally the most imperturbable of men, my father was by nature cool and judicious, although in his infrequent fits of anger he could be implacable. He walked past me and closed the door himself. I turned to watch him as he did so, noting the effort he made to calm himself before turning back to me.
"Sit down, Caius. This has nothing to do with you. I need your advice. You are far more equable than I am in these matters." I felt my eyebrows rising. What, in God's name, could have affected him this way? I was glad to know it had nothing to do with me, for that left Cassandra free of his anger, too, and I felt a surge of relief. I sat down and watched him cross back in front of me to stand behind his big, wooden armchair. He leaned forward slightly and gripped the arms with his hands. "Priests!" he said, almost spitting the word out. "Tell me about priests, Caius."
I was bemused.. "What can I tell you, Father? I know almost nothing about them. They live to preach the word of God to men."
"Yes, but what are they? What kind of beings?"
"What do you mean, beings, Father? They are priests! Men!"
He cut me off abruptly, with a hard slash of the edge of his hand. "No! No, Caius, that will not do. I will not accept that. They are not men. Not as you and I think of men. That crippled bastard Remus—the one you were unable to f
ind after the affair of the beaten girl—was he a man? I think not!"
By this time I was totally mystified, and I held up my hands with what I hoped was a disarming smile on my face. "Whoa, Father, you're not making sense. I have no idea what you're talking about. Please! Start at the beginning and tell me what's been going on that I have been so ignorant of."
He moved around and sat in his chair, where he scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands as though washing it. That done, he blinked hugely, stretching the skin around his eyes as though struggling to remain awake. "You're right, Caius, you're right, I'm being irrational. Forgive me. This thing sprang out on me full grown. I should have been aware of it much sooner, but I chose to ignore the signals."
I waited, leaving him to collect his thoughts, and eventually his agitated features began to relax and a contemplative look came into his eyes. And still I waited, although it was becoming clear that he was immersed in his thoughts so deeply that he had momentarily forgotten I was there. Eventually, I cleared my throat quietly and spoke. "The priests, Father?"
"What? Oh yes, the priests. They deal in power, Cay. They deal in power."
"Of course they do," I agreed. "The power of God."
He threw me a glance filled with what was almost pity. "God has little to do with it, Caius. Power is power. It exists of and for itself. And the power to sway men's minds is the greatest and most lethal power of all. Why do you think these people exist at all?" I shook my head slightly and he went on. "You don't know? Let me ask another question, then. When did you last meet someone who had spoken directly with God? Not to Him, but with Him?"
"Never." I heard the incredulity in my own voice.
"Why not?"
"Because God doesn't speak to men directly."
My father slammed his clenched fist on the table in triumph. "That's right, Caius! Never directly! Only through priests. And whether the god is called Baal or Moloch or Jupiter or Helios, he has his priests to make clear his will to men. We may be talking of false gods and false priests, but there has never been a god without priests. The priests accept the sacrifices on the god's behalf, and they shape the minds of worshippers the way they wish them to be shaped. I've never really been aware of it before, but I always think of priests with their hands out, either demanding sacrifice or pointing in accusation."
I frowned at him. "What are you saying, Father?"
"I am saying that priests—all priests—are power-mongers. They deal in exploitation, and they exploit the minds of men."
I shook my head in disagreement. "No, that may have been true in olden times, Father, but it's hardly true today. I cannot think of Bishop Alaric as an exploiter."
"No more can I, nor was he. But he may have been the single exception that proves the rule. I have met no other like him, ever." He stopped talking for a space, obviously thinking about Alaric and what he had just said. When he resumed, his voice was more controlled—no less angry, but tightly reined. "There is a new breed of priests abroad in the world today, Caius, and they are multiplying like maggots. They call themselves Christian, but I think they have little in common with the Christian faith I hold. According to their dictates, men like old Bishop Alaric were heretics and unbelievers, misguided sinners who led their flocks astray, to use the shepherd image they are so fond of."
I heard the scorn in my voice. "That is ridiculous! Bishop Alaric was the most devout and holy man I ever knew!"
"Aye, he was. No doubt of it." My father's agreement with me was heartfelt. "But the savage-eyed zealots who rule the roost in Rome now say Alaric was a sinner. He and all his ilk. Followers of Pelagius!"
"What?" I was astounded. "But that would mean half the bishops in Britain!"
"More than half." I was floundering by this time, trying in vain to make sense out of what I was hearing. My father's voice was flat and emotionless as he went on, "Apparently, things have progressed quickly over the past few years among the Christians in Rome. We here in Britain have had little contact with the Church hierarchy since Honorius told us to look after our own affairs eighteen years ago. Since the revolt of the Burgundians in Gaul a few years after that, and the wholesale slaughter of priests then, there has been almost no contact between our bishops here and those in Rome. Burgundians eat Christian priests, it seems. And things have changed."
I felt myself frowning. "What things? How?"
My father grunted deep in his throat. "I'll give you three names: Paul, the Saint of Tarsus; Pelagius, the lawyer of Britain; Augustine, the Bishop of Hippo. That is all you need. Three men, and among the three of them they have bred what may be the biggest power struggle in human history, eclipsing the politics of all the Emperors combined."
"Pelagius?" I was surprised. "I don't see the connection. Pelagius is no priest. He's a lawyer, as you said, and a friend of yours. I've heard you talk of him often."
My father's headshake was brief. "Hardly a friend. But I met him once and spent some time with him. He impressed me greatly."
"I know," I said. "I read Uncle Varrus's account of the conversation you and he had when you came back to Britain twenty years ago, Pelagius and Augustine were at odds with each other even then, according to that account."
"That's right. They were. And the conflict continued. Augustine, it seems, denounced Pelagius to the Bishop of Rome—-who now calls himself the Pope, incidentally, claiming primacy over all other bishops—and demanded his excommunication for heresy. The case went back and forth for several years, but Augustine won. Pelagius was excommunicated and all of his teachings, theories and beliefs were declared to be heretical... I remember that conversation I had with Varrus, but I did not know he had written it down. I'd like to read it. Do you still have it?"
I nodded, my mind skipping immediately to where the book in question lay safely stored. "Of course. I'll bring it to you this evening. It's in one of his codexes in the Armoury. But when did all of this happen, Father? When did the excommunication take place? And what has all of this to do with Paul of Tarsus?"
"Nothing—and everything. Paul's teachings are being used as a means to an end, and we'll discuss that later. What is important to us now, here in the Colony—to you, to me, to all of us—is that Pelagius is outlawed, declared a heretic and all his teachings categorized as heresy. That means that all of us who follow his beliefs are barred from salvation. Almost the entire population of this island we live on!"
I shook my head. "I am a soldier, Father, not a theologian. I cannot see what is so sinful or awful in Pelagius's theories."
"You think I am any different? But I can see the fault for which he was condemned. He dared to stand up against Augustine of Hippo. Pelagius is a humanist, Caius. He believes in the dignity of man, in personal responsibility, in freedom of choice and freedom of will! He stands condemned out of his own mouth, because his teachings undermine the priests themselves. Give a man the right to talk to God on his own terms, to bear God in his own heart and deal with Him injustice on his own behalf, and you negate the need for priests! That's why Pelagius is excommunicate!
"Bishop Alaric and his people have taught the way of Christ to us in Britain. They preach love and infinite mercy, and that nothing—no sin—is unforgivable. But now the men of God in Rome have ruled that Pelagius is unforgivable. They have damned him for daring to differ with their views. That is politics, Caius; there is no love of God involved here. In their lust for power over men, these bishops have condemned much of the populace of the entire world to eternal damnation, unless the world repents and does things the way these bishops want them to be done. That involves changing their beliefs! It may not sound like much when said aloud like that, but when I start to think of what's involved here, it frightens me to the depths of my soul." His voice tailed off into silence.
"But can they do this, Father? Are these bishops that powerful?"
"Who is to gainsay them? They call themselves the Fathers of the Church. They speak, they claim, with the full authority of God Himself an
d of His Holy Saints."
"Including Paul of Tarsus?"
"Including Paul of Tarsus."
"There's more to this than meets the eye, Father—my eye, at least. What is so important about Paul?"
"Women." My father spoke the word with hard emphasis. "Of all evangelists, Paul is the misogynist, the woman hater. Now, it seems there is a move afoot—not just afoot, but far advanced—to lend far greater credence to his words than in the past."
"How can that be done? What do you mean?"
He drew in a sharp breath. "It has become the style among the churchmen in Rome, it seems, to denigrate women in general. It's a fashion that has been growing since the pederasts and homosexuals achieved their vaunted equality under the Caesars, and it grew even more strongly after some of the Roman women of the great families began speculating in company stocks and in real estate development. But it has grown beyond belief recently. Women are being perceived nowadays in Rome, mainly through the machinations of these churchmen, as the Devil's spawn and servants, dedicated to the damnation of men."
I had never heard my father speak so eloquently or forcefully about a non-military subject. I was astounded. "You must be joking, Father! You are, aren't you?"
He looked directly at me. "No, Cay, I am not. The current mode among the new breed of churchmen is to condemn women, more and more virulently."
"But why?"
"How would I know that? Because they are convenient, I suppose. The Church in Rome has been predominantly a male hierarchy since the earliest times. Women have never prospered in the Church. Perhaps the Elders now seek to crystallize their hegemony. I don't know the underlying reasons, Caius, but that is the way it is." He paused, piercing me with his eyes. "You don't really believe what I am telling you, do you?"
I had to shake my head, for in truth I could not bring myself to believe that he was right. That he was serious and believed himself to have the right of it, I had no doubt, but my sanity demanded that he be mistaken.
"Shake your head all you like, Caius, but disabuse yourself. It is the truth. These things are happening, and they have come to Camulod. That disgraceful debacle in the dining hall last night was proof of it."
