Dominus
Page 42
“Yes.”
“Do the Christians in Rome even have a bishop?”
“Indeed they do. His personal needs may be simple—the Christians make a great fuss about their austerity—but his residence will need some large rooms, to serve as meeting chambers for the Christians. We may have to take down some interior walls.”
Zenobius swallowed hard. “Meeting chambers … for Christians, Dominus?”
“Yes. The current bishop of Rome is named Miltiades. He’ll let you know what he wants. He plans to hold some large conferences, so that he and his fellow Christians can work out their differences. Some believe one thing, some believe another, all sides claim to be the one true version of the faith—it all gives me a headache. Just tell me what to believe to get into paradise, and let’s get on with it! Lock them in a room, I say, and make them come to agreement—and give them no dinner until they do!” He laughed, not quite as harshly as he had when recalling the end of Maxentius.
Zenobius was baffled by Constantine’s jocular manner. Did he take the Christians seriously, or not? Zenobius had met some Christians when he was young, friends of his late grandmother, who had been a Christian herself, and they were mostly a dour lot. What would they think of Constantine making light of the conflicting doctrines that they took so seriously?
“Also, the bishop wants a place where his flock can worship, as openly as other people do when they go to the Temple of Jupiter or Hercules. When he was here in this building the other day, he greatly admired it. Well, he’s not getting the New Basilica! But we could build something similar in layout, if rather smaller. He can decorate it as he sees fit. It will be interesting to see just what sort of temple the Christians come up with when they’re free to do as they please, and given a reasonable budget from the state. There’ll be plenty of room to build the bishop’s new Christian basilica after we demolish the largest wing of the House of the Laterani, the part where Maxentius housed his horse guards. How my late brother-in-law doted on his cavalry. They were loyal to the end. Most of them followed Maxentius into the Tiber and never came out.”
Zenobius was quite confused. The emperor of Rome, Pontifex Maximus of the state religion, was talking about granting an official residence to the bishop of the Christians, with conference rooms where they could gather and debate—and planning to build them a temple as well! Were the Christians and their crucified god now to be part of the state religion? Would their priesthood be funded from the state coffers, like the priests of Jupiter and the rest? Would their holidays be entered into the Roman calendar and publicly celebrated like the rites of the Lupercal and all the other ancient festivals? How could the Christian priests interact with everyone else in the hierarchy, when they denied the very existence of the gods?
Constantine was still talking about the end of Maxentius and his horse guards. “Rome has no need for garrisons or barracks—or Praetorian Guards. I’m told that more than one previous emperor saw fit to disband the Praetorian Guards, and yet they kept reappearing, like weeds in a garden. I shall put an end to them once and for all. Rome has no need of a resident armed force. I think I might ban weapons altogether from Rome. Perhaps military uniforms, as well.”
Again Zenobius was taken aback. “Would Dominus leave the city … defenseless?” As soon as he said the words, Zenobius realized that this was exactly what the emperor intended to do. Rome would never resist him again.
Constantine arched one of his prominent eyebrows. “This city will be lucky if I let her keep her walls!”
“But Dominus, to demolish the walls of Aurelian—Hercules himself would balk at such a labor.”
“Then perhaps I should consult the Jews. I believe one of their heroes was able to bring down a city’s walls simply by blowing a horn.”
Was Constantine making a joke? If so, his sense of humor eluded Zenobius. He recalled something Constantine had said earlier, and a thought struck him. “Don’t the Christians claim that Jesus brought a dead man back to life? Did he practice magic, then?”
Constantine stroked his clefted chin. “I believe you’re right. I shall have to ask the bishop to explain that part to me.” He narrowed his big eyes. “For a fellow who claims he’s no religious expert, you’re a subtle one, Pinarius. Subtlety is not always a virtue.” He continued to stare at Zenobius for a while, stroking his chin, then rolled up his eyes to gaze at their surroundings. “What a marvelous building! Nothing subtle about this place, eh? Such a grand space, so light and airy. Not entirely finished out yet, but you’ll see to that. If I have a complaint, it’s that the place has no focal point, no dominating feature. When you enter a temple, no matter how dazzling the marble or the columns or the paintings, one thing always dominates—the statue of the god. Think of Jupiter on his throne in the temple at Olympia—so gigantic, if he stood he’d burst through the roof!”
“But this building is not a temple, Dominus.”
“No? It’s a temple of sorts, a shrine to the power of the state. What if we placed a statue right here where I’m sitting, a statue seated on a throne, just as I am, but as big as Jupiter’s statue at Olympus, so that throne and statue filled the whole apse?”
“A statue of whom?”
“Of myself, silly man! A colossal statue of the emperor enthroned, presiding over every conversation and transaction conducted here in the emperor’s official place of business, even when the emperor himself is far away. But the gaze shouldn’t look down, but up, heavenward, to the source of the emperor’s power. The face must nonetheless be quite stern, as if to say: I speak not, I do not deign to look at you, yet I hear every whisper and the clinking of every coin that changes hands. A statue like that should keep the courtiers honest!”
Intentionally or not, Constantine peered upward and made just such a face as he had described. With his sculptor’s trained eye, Zenobius instantly visualized the statue exactly as it should appear. To properly fill the apse it would have to be enormous, indeed. Gilded bronze would cost a fortune. Marble would be even less practical … or would it? His imagination was fired, anticipating the huge challenges of such an undertaking and trying to think of solutions.
Zenobius sighed. In spite of his dismay at the end of Maxentius, and his deep distrust of Constantine, he now found himself not only relieved but looking forward to serving the new emperor. He was to be given work, even if the work was not entirely to his taste. The projects would be very large, and hopefully very remunerative. The Pinarii—so long as they did not run afoul of the emperor—would continue to flourish. His thumb and forefinger found the outline of the fascinum beneath the wool of his toga and he gently squeezed it, relieved that he and his family had survived amid so much death and upheaval, grateful for the continuing favor of the gods.
* * *
“They must be somewhere close by. I’m almost certain this is where I saw them. Of course, it was so many years ago…”
With a stooped back and wobbly legs, Gnaeus Pinarius poked his walking stick into a drift of leaves. A stretch of the Aurelian Walls loomed nearby. Zenobius and Kaeso were with him, both fearful that the old man would trip and fall as he picked his way through the rubble.
There was a deep knocking sound as his stick struck stone. “Ah-ha! This is it.”
Gnaeus stepped back as slaves moved forward to clear away leaves and weeds and rubbish and at last uncovered the artifact the Pinarii had come searching for: one of the large marble tondi that had been salvaged from a demolished building, set aside while the wall was built, and then forgotten. The once-bright paint was almost entirely faded, and the marble was spotted with lichen and streaked with filth, but the faces of Hadrian and Antinous were instantly recognizable.
“There should be four of them, as I recall,” whispered Gnaeus, awed at seeing once again the face of the Divine Youth. It was Antinous on that night so long ago who had given him the comfort and guidance that saved his marriage to Zenobia and led to the birth of their son, who now had produced his own son.
&n
bsp; One by one, the four circular tondi were uncovered.
“How could these ever have been abandoned, much less forgotten?” asked Zenobius. “They’re magnificent. Surely, when the building was demolished, these were catalogued somewhere.”
“Yes, and I’m sure the catalogue was then rolled up tight, tucked away on a high shelf, and forgotten,” said his father. “Rome is like a doddering old woman with so many jewels and baubles she can’t remember where she put them all. But I never forgot these. Yet whenever I thought of them, instead of telling others, I realized I wanted them to stay right where they were, unseen and undisturbed—like a secret between Antinous and me … and Zenobia…”
“My mother knew about these?”
“Yes. And only Zenobia! I never told anyone else how I came upon them one night when I despaired of ever having another son, and I prayed to the demon of Antinous. Yes, to this very image I prayed.” He reached out and touched the Divine Youth’s marble cheek.
“What exactly did you pray for?” asked Kaeso.
“That, my boy, is none of your business! Suffice to say, without that answered prayer, you would never have been born.”
His grandson grinned. “Is this a riddle?”
“Never mind! I remembered these tondi, I knew exactly where I’d seen them, and I led you straight here. So much for my old mind getting rusty! Here they are, ready to be dug out and dusted off, crated, winched, carted, cleaned, polished, painted, and put to use again. Imagine, there may be no living person other than myself who’s ever seen these, or even knew they existed!”
“They’re truly extraordinary, Grandfather.”
“But can they possibly be altered so as to depict Constantine?” Zenobius muttered.
“What did you say?” Gnaeus cupped a hand behind one ear.
“Nothing. Talking to myself.” Zenobius had told his father that Constantine was looking for discarded works to restore and reuse, but he had not mentioned the emperor’s impious idea to re-carve the face of the Deified Hadrian and replace it with his own. Why upset the old fellow?
“It’s a marvelous rediscovery, Papa. Now the whole world will see and appreciate them once again. Well, no dawdling, my fellow Pinarii.” He put his arms around the shoulders of his stooped father on one side and his gangly son on the other and drew them close. “We have a lot of work to do!”
A.D. 315
Appropriately, in the month named for that other Roman conqueror of Rome, Julius Caesar, Constantine made his return to the city. After the defeat of Maxentius, his first stay in Rome had been brief. He had been away for more than two years.
The visit was to mark a celebration of his tenth year in power, first as a Caesar and then as undisputed Augustus of the West. His Decennalia festivities were to be magnificent. Among the events would be the official dedication of some of the great building projects that had been completed in his absence.
The imperial retinue entered the city in a grand procession. The crowds of people along the Sacred Way and the senators on the steps of the Senate House gazed not only on their emperor, driving a chariot, but also on his considerably younger wife, Fausta, seated atop a gilded carriage. Her beauty was evident even at a distance. She looked, thought Zenobius, a great deal like her late brother, Maxentius.
Also in the procession, riding a magnificent white steed, was the emperor’s eldest son, Crispus, who had been born to Constantine’s previous wife. He was still a teenager, a little younger than Zenobius’s own son, Kaeso, but much larger, a broad-shouldered young man with the same rugged features of his father, though not yet worn and weathered by time.
Riding alongside Crispus, wearing dark, somber robes, was the elderly scholar Lactantius, a Christian. Officially, he was Crispus’s Latin tutor, but clearly, given his prominent place in the retinue, he was much more than that. Some said he held the strong-minded Constantine in a sort of spell. Zenobius doubted that, but whether as court philosopher or honored wise man, Lactantius did appear to have an intellectual hold on Constantine, and had exercised it to the advantage of the Christians. Lactantius was said to be behind the Edict of Milan. This was a joint accord signed by both Constantine and his sole surviving co-emperor, Licinius, Augustus of the East, that extended “to Christians and to everyone else the free power to follow whatever religion each person prefers.” This remarkable edict went far beyond a simple stop to persecutions. Ostensibly, it removed all the prerogatives of religion from the hands of priests or the state and left it up to each individual in the empire to decide how and when and to whom to render worship.
How such an arrangement would work in practice was anyone’s guess. Who would decide what holidays to observe, or which oracles to consult, or what god to pray to before a battle? The situation worried Zenobius, but he was not as anxious as some of his fellow senators, who in darker moments suspected the Christians of plotting a takeover of the state religion. To Zenobius that seemed highly unlikely, if not impossible, for how could a small minority of disbelievers and gods-haters impose their ridiculous pseudo-religion on the vast majority of pious worshippers? That would mean the triumph of the lonely, jealous god worshipped by the Jews over all the gods of Olympus, as well as their countless divine and semi-divine offspring.
More credible were rumors that Constantine himself had become a Christian, or was considering becoming one. But in practice, what could that possibly mean? Would an emperor of the Roman Empire no longer honor Jupiter and Apollo and Sol and all the other gods?
* * *
The rise of the Christians in imperial favor had of late been the subject of much discussion in the House of the Beaks. Gnaeus, Zenobius, and Kaeso had taken turns reading aloud to each other a short list of books that everyone seemed to be talking about. Sossianus Hierocles’s Truth-Loving Words to the Christians exalted Apollonius of Tyana and, by way of comparison, ridiculed and denigrated Jesus; the author had been active in Diocletian’s court and had encouraged him to persecute the Christians. A mocking rejoinder to Hierocles had been written by a Christian, Eusebius, with the cumbersome title Against The Life of Apollonius of Tyana written by Philostratus, Occasioned by the Parallel Drawn by Hierocles Between Him and Christ.
A much older Christian manifesto was also making the rounds. Address to the Greeks had been written long ago by Tatian, a follower of Justin Martyr during the reign of the Divine Marcus. Tatian made the wild claim that there had only ever been a single god, the one worshipped by the Jews, and that all other beings called gods were not gods at all, but mere demons, and wicked ones at that, as could be observed by their lewd and cruel behavior in so many of the stories about them—Jupiter making himself into animals so as to seduce unsuspecting women and trick them into bestiality, Bacchus causing a mother to cannibalize her own son, Apollo flaying poor Marsyas alive, and all the horror stories of Ovid’s Metamorphoses in which the gods (or demons, using magic) turned hapless mortals into animals or stones or trees.
Tatian had essentially turned “demon” into a dirty word, a practice carried on by later Christians. He said that men of previous centuries had worshipped these demons only because the demons were cleverer and more powerful than men and had managed to distract even the smartest mortals from the existence of the one true god.
That night, after the grand procession of the emperor’s arrival, on a balcony of the House of the Beaks, the Pinarii continued reading a brand-new work by Constantine’s advisor Lactantius, called Deaths of the Persecutors, in which the author openly gloated over the untimely ends of various emperors who had taken action against Christians, claiming that the Christian god had brought about their destruction. Though he didn’t call Maxentius a persecutor—that would have been an outright lie—Lactantius did include the death of Maxentius in his book, taking the opportunity to unfavorably compare him to Constantine, whom Lactantius praised at every turn. The implication was clear that the Christian god had chosen Constantine over Maxentius, making Constantine’s rise to power a divine act.
Now a captive and stripped of all pretensions to power, Maximian formed a new plot against Constantine. He entreated his daughter, Fausta, flattering her, cajoling her, and begging her to betray Constantine. Maximian asked her to arrange that the door of the emperor’s bedchamber would be left unlocked and only slightly guarded. Fausta agreed to do as her father asked, then instantly revealed the plot to her husband. A plan was laid for detecting Maximian in the very execution of his crime. In the emperor’s bed, in place of Constantine, they put a worthless eunuch, to be murdered instead of the emperor.
In the dead of night Maximian arose and hid a dagger in his nightclothes. Venturing out, he perceived that all things appeared to be favorable for his insidious purpose. There were few soldiers on guard, and these at some distance from the bedchamber. However, rather than skulk and risk attracting suspicion, Maximian openly approached one guard, feigning alarm and saying he had just been visited by a prophetic dream that he must share immediately with his son-in-law.
The guard escorted him to the door. Maximian was allowed to enter. Running to the bed, he drew his dagger and stabbed the eunuch to death. He then threw his arms up in joy, exulting in his crime and loudly proclaiming himself the killer of Constantine.
At that very moment, Constantine stepped into the chamber by another door, followed by a band of soldiers. The covers were drawn back and the bloody corpse revealed. The murderer, realizing that he had been tricked, stood aghast, as silent and still “as if made of flint or Marpesian stone,” while Constantine castigated him for his wickedness and sin.