Imperator, Deus

by John R. Prann Jr.

  To Constantine, this sounded like a political discussion masquerading as a religious one.

  Ossius answered Ablabius: “He is a great priest. And he has been extremely supportive of Miltiades through his illness. But neither he nor the Pope is comfortable with how they should interface with the political system. Sylvester has said this to me, directly. But he believes that religious freedom must be throughout the Empire, not just in Rome. Otherwise, Christians can simply be shipped off to the countryside to be persecuted.”

  Constantine followed quickly with a question of his own. “What if we can convince Emperors Licinius and Daia to embrace the same concept of religious freedom for the Eastern Empire as we have now in the West?”

  “That would be incredible. Unbelievable. I say this as someone who remembers the persecutions in the East—only a short time ago. It would a miracle, really,” Ossius said. “But, from all that I’ve heard about Emperor Daia, even less likely.”

  The group entered the Estate’s courtyard. It was clean and free of Maxentius’ decadent décor. Constantine’s efficient Adiutor Aelius was waiting with staff people who showed each guest to his bedroom. Constantine bade his Generals good rest and saw that his bodyguards were prepared for their nighttime shifts. Some of the ordinary soldiers encamped in the courtyard; others stood watch around the Estate’s walls. A few took leave and headed out into the City.

  It was very late when Constantine finally closed the doors to his chambers. They were elegant. The bed was large and fine. There was a private latrine with flowing water. The staff had left fruit and wine. The figs caught his eye but he was too tired to eat them. He was even more tired than he’d been the night before—after the battle. At least the headache was gone.

  He usually bathed before going to sleep, but the long dinner had taken all that time. He’d have a bath in morning. Instead, he barely managed to strip off his sandals and clothes before he collapsed on the bed. He slept soundly for the first time in many nights.

  Milan, Italia

  February, 1066 AUC (313 AD)

  Emperor Licinius relaxed in an upholstered chair near the fireplace in the large study of the palace. It had snowed the night before and now, although it was mid-day, the palace was not warming up. Licinius did not like cold weather. And he made sure everyone knew it.

  It had been warmer two days before, when he’d married Constantia, half-sister of Constantine. She was an attractive woman, less than half his age. So Licinius considered himself lucky. He’d seen political marriages much worse than this.

  Marrying Constantine’s sister had turned a rival into something closer to an ally. And this new alliance would likely keep Maximinus Daia on the east side of the Bosporus. There was no way that pagan would risk invading Licinius’s part of the Empire now. Word had spread about Constantine’s crushing victory over Maxentius. No one, not even Daia, wanted his head paraded around on the end of a lance.

  Galerius, who has been Licinius’ mentor, had made only one mistake in all his years in power: He should have killed Daia. He’d said as much himself. But he’d hesitated. Perhaps he’d feared Daia, whose reputation for brutality had given many men pause.

  Licinius and Constantine were unlikely allies. And this bothered Licinius. He was a big man—older, taller and considerably heavier that Constantine. While Constantine had retained a soldier’s spartan lifestyle and demeanor, Licinius enjoyed living well and had accumulated great wealth from the Eastern Empire. He didn’t spend on public works, as Constantius had taught Constantine to do.

  As Licinius watched the fire and mulled his political circumstances, he heard laughter echo in from the hallway. A few moments later, Adiutor Aelius and Ossius walked in.

  “What is so funny on a day that no one can get warm?” Licinius demanded.

  One of the men was chastened by Licinius, one was not. Ossius responded casually: “Our friend and host Aelius was commenting that bishops are easy guests to take care of—and was inquiring whether there were any positions available in Cordova.”

  “You must never have had Constantine’s cousin Eusebius as a guest then,” Licinius sensed that his response was too angry. He needed to match the priest’s levity. “I have never seen such a bishop. He never seems to sit still.” He ended with a somewhat forced laugh.

  Ossius nodded for a moment and then accepted Licinius’ effort at good will: “Indeed he is, Augustus. And, now that you’ve mentioned him, why isn’t restless Eusebius here?”

  Licinius sat up in his chair. It was as close as he would come to standing, in recognition of a priest and a servant. “Apparently a bishop in Syria died. And they needed Eusebius there to help install the replacement.”

  An awkward silence followed. Aelius recognized the opportunity to break in with small talk: “Augustus, is there anything I can get you from the kitchen? You have not had any lunch.”

  “Just more heat,” Licinius said—ending, again, with a forced laugh. “I will wait to have something to eat until Constantine gets back with the women.”

  Aelius stoked the fire and added a small log. Meanwhile, Ossius sat in one of the chairs next to Licinius.

  “I’ll have them bring in some more wood for the fire, Augustus. And I’ll send word as soon as Constantine and the other approach.” He nodded and left through a back door.

  Ossius looked at several scrolls that he had been carrying. He’d come in to talk business.

  But Licinius would have preferred to be left alone. “Riding horses in the snow. I have no idea what they were thinking.”

  “Some enjoy riding as sport.” Ossius said, distractedly and almost in a whisper. Then he found the scroll he wanted. “Dominus, I have rewritten the Edict we discussed after the wedding. And I reviewed it with Emperor Constantine last night. I would like to read it to you to make sure you are in agreement with its current form.”

  “Fine.”

  Ossius began,

  When I, Constantine Augustus, as well as I, Licinius Augustus, fortunately met near Milan, and were considering everything that pertained to the public welfare and security, we thought, among other things which we saw would be for the good of many, those regulations pertaining to the reverence of the Divinity ought certainly to be made first, so that we might grant to the Christians and others full authority to observe that religion which each preferred—

  Licinius raised his hand. “Can I see that part?”

  Ossius handed him the scroll. He knew that Licinius did not read Latin well, so the gesture seemed somewhat false.

  “Why do you mention ‘the Divinity’ here?” Licinius asked, pointing to the word. “Our purpose is to call for tolerance of all religions. Doesn’t this point only to the Christian God?”

  “Yes. It does,” Ossius said, impressed that Licinius had noticed. “Constantine wanted that included for his specific faith. If you think it is exclusionary, we can discuss the matter with him.”

  Licinius laughed again, less awkwardly. “Maybe later.” And he handed the scroll back to Ossius. “Go on.”

  Ossius continued. Partly through the second paragraph, Licinius raised his hand again and asked Ossius to reread one sentence.

  Ossius did:

  And since these Christians are known to have possessed not only those places in which they were accustomed to assemble, but also other property, namely the churches, belonging to them as a corporation and not as individuals, all these things which we have included under the above law, you will order to be restored, without any hesitation or controversy at all.

  “Who pays for all of this, priest?” Licinius asked.

  Ossius cocked his head at the question. It sounded like a trap. “Well, I believe the intent is that the Imperial Treasury will ultimately be responsible.”

  “Oh,” Licinius laughed, sounding disappointed this time. “Go on.”

  Ossius finished the last few sen
tences without interruption. Just as he finished, Constantine, Fausta and Constantia burst into the study and headed directly to stand in front of the fire.

  “You make this room like ice!” Licinius barked. “Can’t you go to another fireplace? Constantine, you are covered with snow. What happened?”

  “The guilty parties have been identified. Two females. They will suffer my wrath,” Constantine laughed, as he shook snow and slush from his outer tunic.

  “My brother has gone mad. He thinks he is an Emperor. Fausta and I had to show him his place,” Constantia unwrapped the long scarf from her head and neck and turned her back to the fire, so she could face her new husband. “He’s forgotten how our father taught us to treat people who take themselves so seriously.”

  “You should live with him, sister,” Fausta said, archly. “He only relaxes like this when you are around.” She smiled when she spoke.

  But her tone was less playful than Constantia’s.

  “We had fun, Licinius. You should have come.” Constantia said, kneeling at the side of her husband’s chair.

  “Fun for you two.” Constantine retorted, rubbing his hands at the fire the snow melting and dripping to a pool on the floor by his feet.

  Constantia looked back at her brother and Fausta, who were standing on opposite sides of the fireplace. “It’s harder to get you to play, brother, than it was to convince father. But I do love it when you finally relax. In those moments, you remind me of him.”

  “Yes. He was always looking for the bright side of things,” Constantine said, turning to face Constantia and Licinius. “It’s true that I’m less jovial. And less forgiving. I watched him forgive enemies—who later turned against him again.”

  Licinius realized this last comment was directed at him. “I knew your father. I met him numerous times in the company of Galerius. He was an easy man to like. Quick sense of humor. But I never doubted that he was formidable. I would have thought long and hard before crossing him.”

  “All true,” Constantine said, somewhat defensively. “My father accepted people’s…faults…graciously. He forgave easily. This made him popular. And I have benefited from it. But I don’t accept… things…as he did. My father accepted that Galerius kept me as a hostage and a pawn for several years—I would kill anyone who tried to keep my children from me.”

  Constantia sensed that her brother was getting agitated and tried to calm him. “Brother, you have gifts that go beyond even our father’s abilities. He told me so himself. You notice small details on the battlefield and in the Senate that the rest of us miss. And, because of all that, I love when you still play in the snow with me.”

  “That doesn’t look too smart to me. That snow is cold. And it’s already cold enough in here next to the fireplace,” Licinius replied, with another nervous laugh.

  “I told Aelius to bring us something to eat,” Constantine said, ignoring Licinius’ mock complaints.

  Just as Constantine spoke, Aelius and three of his staff entered with large serving plates piled with carved meat, bread and fruit. While they prepared the long table in the center of the room, there was a sound of a single horse—and then several horses—galloping into the courtyard. The sound of men’s voices followed; but it was impossible to make out what they were yelling about.

  Constantine nodded and Aelius ran out to the courtyard. The others had questioning looks. Constantine, still dripping from the snow, shrugged and turned back to the fire.

  Aelius returned shortly with a centurion from Licinius’ army. The centurion was surrounded by Constantine’s palatini—behind them was a small man wearing a white toga with purple hems.

  The centurion spoke first: “Hail, Augustus Licinius. May you have a long and happy married life!”

  “Thank you,” said Licinius with a laugh. “What news do you bring?”

  Constantine’s bodyguards stepped back, instinctively, from the centurion. The news was going to be bad.

  “Imperator, Emperor Maximinus Daia has crossed the Bosporus from Asia Minor to Byzantium with his army of 60,000 troops.”

  “What!” Licinius howled in disbelief.

  “Yes, Imperator. We rode the day our troops reported it. Three days ago.”

  Licinius stood, his face red and his fists clenched. “We leave immediately! I will crush that perverted pagan infidel!” He turned to Constantia and took a deep breath before he spoke: “My Dear, I know we had planned to be here another week. But I must leave. You can stay, if you like, and join me after this matter is resolved.”

  “No, Licinius. I will follow in a day or two. After I have had a chance to get my things organized,” she answered. She noticed a long stare from Constantine after she’d answered. So, she took Licinius’ arm.

  “Licinius, brother. Is there anything you need from me?” Constantine asked.

  “No. Not at this point. Daia’s brutality does not necessarily translate to an efficient, organized army.”

  Constantine thought a moment and replied, “Good observation.”

  As Licinius was leaving the room, Ossius handed Constantine the scroll containing the Edict. Constantine called to Licinius, “Do you want any changes to the Edict?”

  “No. It is fine with me,” Licinius answered with another nervous laugh. He and Constantia left. His centurion followed them.

  Constantine turned toward his palatini, realizing that in the turmoil he had forgotten the small man in the toga. “Magistrate Cato, I am sorry to have ignored you.”

  “Dominus, it is I that must apologize. I seem to have a habit of appearing at inopportune moments.”

  Constantine gestured to the long table. “Please join us for lunch. But allow me to postpone our business until tomorrow morning so that my wife and I can help my sister prepare for her travels. Aelius will arrange a room for you.”

  The guards stayed in the room and positioned themselves near the doors. Constantine and the others took seats at the table.

  “Fausta, this is Cato, the Magistrate of Pola and a retired Roman Senator. He is here to discuss judicial cases that are sensitive or out of the ordinary. Ossius, I believe you know the Magistrate.” He handed the scroll back to the priest and tapped it briefly in the exchange.

  Within a few months, after Licinius’ victory over Daia, the Edict of Milan would become law and mark the formal end of the policy of persecution and slaughter of Christians throughout the entire Roman Empire.

  Milan, Italia

  Next Morning, February, 1066 AUC (313 AD)

  Eating his grain cereal breakfast, Constantine sat across from Magistrate Cato. Cato didn’t say much. Judicious. Constantine preferred the easy banter of soldiers. “I am sure I have asked you this but have forgotten, Magistrate. How is it that you became the legal guardian of cases that are considered sensitive to the Empire?”

  The magistrate took a moment to gather his answer. “It started almost ten years ago, when I was a Senator. Diocletian looked favorably on me, as he did on both your father and Galerius. He saw that the judges could be a significant political force. So, he sought to control them by ordering that they bring cases which could negatively affect the Empire to the Emperor for consultation.”

  “My father often said that Diocletian was a perceptive man.”

  “Yes. Very much so. Soon after that, as you know, he reduced the size of the Senate. I took that opportunity to retire and moved to Pola. But my service to the Empire was not finished. Diocletian appointed me Chief Magistrate. And he ordered specifically that I would be the one who briefs the emperors on these unique cases.” He said the name “Diocletian” reverently.

  “So that is why Ossius and I saw you at Galerius’ court.”

  Cato nodded. “Yes. Diocletian and your father were easy to work with. Perceptive, as you say. Galerius was difficult. Almost all of his rulings were death sentences. Which may be swift justice in the
moment but can cause…complexity…in other regards for the Empire.”

  The Emperor looked hard at the judge. Although he had vowed to avoid Galerius’ harsh brutality, Constantine appreciated swift justice. It was effective, especially in ensuring a compliant populous.

  Cato seemed to understand that he’d overstepped a boundary. “Augustus, when you were focused on the north, you and I had few occasions to speak. Now that you control Rome, we will have more. Many more.”

  Constantine smiled. It was predictable—when politicians erred or overstepped, they scurried behind the protection of “Augustus.” The title meant they knew their place. “And you sent me three in your letter. That’s why we are here. I read your letter, but I read dozens every day. Summarize each of these cases for me again and we will do something about them.”

  “Certainly. The first one will likely be the most difficult. It involves a group of young men. Twelve of them, between the ages of 18 and 22. All sons of citizens. Four from prominent Roman families. Three others from…reputable…families in the border towns by the Black Sea. These young men traveled as a group and, in their travels, they befriended relatives of Aliquaca. One of the chiefs of the Goths.”

  Constantine nodded impatiently. He knew very well who Aliquaca was.

  “The twelve protested for months, all around Rome, that the Empire should have a better relationship with the Goths. But few listened. The city authorities viewed them as a just fringe group.” Cato saw the Emperor’s impatience and spoke more quickly. “Two months ago, the twelve went to the border and met with Aliquaca’s son and several of his lieutenants. The local military authorities raided the meeting. Aliquaca’s son got away. But we captured the twelve and two of the Goth’s lieutenants. Under interrogation, they admitted that the twelve had agreed to sneak the Goths into a nearby garrison town. Of course, the barbarians would kill everyone in the town if someone let them in.”