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 rooms 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.
SHE TOLD JULIA about his encounter with Bernard when he again made his pilgrimage to the little house in Roaix, and they talked about the offer.
“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
