“Is that a threat?”
“No. It’s a fact. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to moderate the rage of those less forgiving than I am.”
“Another threat?”
“A warning, this time.”
“You’ll be doing the same as I am now, then.”
“In a sense. But I shall be on the winning side. And, I might add, on the right one.”
They were walking down the steps and across the place and out toward the walls, then on again down to the river’s edge.
“How is little Marcel?”
“Older. More lined. More short-tempered.”
“As are we all. Are you still on good terms with him? Still friends?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Sooner or later,” he said, “I will need to sound him out. He may be contemptible, but he is not stupid, and he is supposed to control what administration is left around here. An empty title, to be sure, but better than nothing. I would like you to be the conduit between us.”
“Your messenger boy?”
Bernard considered this. “Basically, yes. I trust you, he trusts you. Neither of us trusts each other. He might listen to you even if he refuses to listen to me.”
“Are you serious?”
“I thought it would appeal to you. You have always tried to keep the peace between us; now you can do it on a grand scale. If I can reach some sort of understanding with him, then there will be a greater chance of holding things together when the Germans withdraw.”
“If.”
“When. It may take three years, it may take ten, but sooner or later they will be destroyed. My task is to make sure we do not destroy ourselves in the process. So at long last Marcel and I will have a common purpose. I would prefer to have him shot; and he would no doubt be happy to do the same to me. But we will need each other, and eventually he will realize it. I want him to know what to do when he does come to that conclusion.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes,” he said. “Nothing else. Well . . .”
“What?”
“I’m working on my cover story, something which means I can travel often, and without attracting notice. I cannot have a job, as that would mean too many people being involved and having to conceal my journeys. I have to be my own employer, doing something which will account for my income at the same time. So, my dear, I’m going to be an art dealer.”
He bowed solemnly. It was so unexpected, said with such panache, that Julien burst out laughing in surprise. “You?” he said incredulously. “An art dealer? Never say this war doesn’t have its comic side, then.”
Bernard grinned back. “I know. It’s not something which will come naturally. But apart from my incapacity, it’s a perfect occupation, although I have to do it properly to be convincing. I need artists to provide me with pictures, put on a little exhibition or two, invite people, make a show. I also need the names and addresses of painters scattered throughout Provence so I can always say I am visiting them when I am on my travels. They will be in no danger. To them I really will be Paul Masson, dealer in art, struggling to make a living in times of trouble. When I am arrested and they discover who I am they will be as surprised as anybody. Will you help? I’ll need names of painters, that sort of thing. Anything will do. Good, bad, or indifferent. It makes no difference.”
“I’ll give you some names. And I’ll ask Julia. She’ll know some others.”
“She’s still here?”
Julien nodded. “She’s safe.”
“No, she’s not. She’s not safe at all. There are rumors coming through to London about what the Germans are doing.”
“What rumors?”
“That they are killing as many Jews as they can. I don’t know whether it’s true, and I imagine it must be exaggerated, but certainly if she is caught she’ll be sent to a camp in the east.”
“I’ve tried. But it’s not so easy, you know. You couldn’t help, could you? Get her out?”
He shook his head. “I’ve my own people to look after.”
Julien shrugged. “She probably wouldn’t go anyway now. She’s convinced herself she’s safe. She’s in the Italian zone, after all, and the papers she made herself are better than the real ones.”
“Made her own papers? How?”
“She forged them. She is remarkably good at it.”
Bernard thought about that for a moment. “So in theory she could produce dozens of them?”
“Why do you ask?”
He paused, and looked carefully at Julien. “A deal. If she will make false identity papers for, say, a couple of dozen people, then I will get her out of the country when they’re delivered.”
“That’s friendship, is it?”
“It is these days.”
“I’ll ask.” Julien turned on his heel and walked away.
Manlius did not receive the king’s messengers when they arrived at his camp, preferring to hold his own appearance in reserve to create a greater effect. He also kept himself out of the initial encounters by saying he was at prayer; all around his tent, guards ensured silence, and a reverent hush was maintained. The bishop was communing with God, a useful reminder of his position and a hint that the king would be negotiating with the supernatural as well as the earthly. He continued to use this technique in years to come, leaving negotiations that were locked in obduracy as if to pray, and finding when he returned—often many hours, and in one case two days, later—that the combination of his godliness and their being imprisoned in a room for so long had resolved the conflicts in his favor.
After all the preparations were made, he approached the king’s court. Manlius changed into a simple white tunic and cloak, unadorned with any jewelry save for his ring, and mounted the donkey. The carefully considered artlessness, the lack of magnificence as he plodded in—being careful to be some way ahead of the rest of his party, to suggest he came alone, needing no help but God’s, mindless of the things of this world—created a wonderful effect on the Burgundians, by now used to delegations from all over Gaul striving for grandeur and instead appearing pathetic.
The king responded in kind; this had been arranged in advance. He stood with half a dozen courtiers, and came forward to help Manlius off the donkey himself in a gesture of respect, then kissed the ring on Manlius’s outstretched hand. A murmur of approval went up from Manlius’s party, all of whom could be relied on to spread details of the scene around the province on their return.
The king was respectful of the church; he was humble before God, even more, he gave his support to the offices of Rome. All this from a schismatic Arian, all this in stark contrast to Euric of the Visigoths, who humiliated the ministers of the church, all this to indicate the degree to which he had absorbed civilization during his years as a hostage in Italy.
Half the work was done in this single gesture, indeed Gundobad’s standing was the higher because he was a heretic and was still so respectful. The other half, perhaps, had already been done. It may be surmised that chance was an absent deity at the meeting; that the warm welcome, the deference, and even the conclusion of the meeting had been hammered out in the shade, through countless letters of varying precision, and innumerable meetings between the envoys of Manlius and the representatives of the king.
It was little more than theater that the multitude witnessed that bright morning—the encounter canceled from the previous day, supposedly because of a slight indisposition on Manlius’s part but in fact because the weather was dull and overcast, a bad omen for the superstitious, an altogether too gloomy atmosphere for the more practical, not conducive to optimism. The clear skies, the warm sunshine that enveloped the actual encounter instead was a sign of the light and safety to come, a new morning, the dawn of tranquillity after the storms and threats of the all too recent past.
Then the king and Manlius went into the basilica, which had been roughly converted into the royal palace, its sound roof the main reason for its choice, and retired to a suite of roo
ms in the back, once part of the law courts, for the private discussion. Again a symbol; Manlius was received as an equal, not as a supplicant; the books and manuscripts, the small statues and the holy relics he presented were to mark a man of justice and cultivation, not a bribe to assuage the violence of the barbarian. Once more, the fine details were noted with approval. The diplomatic work was already completed; Manlius’s battle for the hearts and minds of his flock was under way. Manlius even allowed himself a small burst of confidence; what he desired was within reach. He, not Felix, would conjure up the armies to march to Clermont and block Euric’s designs.
“In fact, I’d be quite prepared to do a little light forging in any case,” she said. “If he can get me out of the country, then all the better.”
“You’re prepared to go?”
“Probably. Although I’m not sure it might not draw more attention to myself, make it more likely that I get noticed. You look doubtful.”
“It’s an extra risk,” he said simply. “That’s all.”
“And it would be doing something. With the added bonus of getting out of here to somewhere truly safe. Will he keep his word about it?”
Julien thought. “I’ve never known him not to. On the other hand, I do know I’ve never put myself in the position of having to rely on him for anything important. And this is important.”
“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.