Constantine sat back in his chair with his chalice of fig juice.
“The parents claim that the young men are just idealistic. That they were hoping to demonstrate common human understanding. The Roman magistrates and I find their actions dangerous and perhaps treasonous. The four wealthy parents have made it clear that they will pay whatever fines the courts stipulate. For the entire group. Almost all of Rome is talking about this case. I recommend significant fines and hard labor or military duty.”
Constantine shook his head slowly as he finished his fig juice. “I don’t agree, Cato. I have fought the Goths, personally. I have watched Roman soldiers die at their hands. They are brutal and unforgiving. All citizens of Rome should understand how dangerous the Goths are. How much they hate us. To me this is treason. These men should all be hanged.”
“I would certainly recommend death, but for their ages.” Cato responded. Cautiously.
“They are all of age. Most women their age are married. And have children. I sympathize with the parents but these aren’t little boys. Besides, where were the parents when these young men were protesting? That was the time to act. I don’t mind that people protest. The Jews have protested for centuries—within the walls of their cities and outside of the walls. But the next step—the meeting—the agreement—was treason!”
“Death by hanging?” asked Cato.
“Yes.”
The magistrate wrote some notes onto his parchment scroll.
“I assure you, Cato, I do not want to be viewed as a new Galerius. But, if the common man thinks the rich can pay for treachery that might have killed soldiers or citizens, our moral fabric deteriorates. I will personally sign this decree, so no local magistrate feels tempted to take a payoff from any of the families.”
“Yes, Augustus. That will settle the matter clearly. The next case involves the divorce settlement between a prominent merchant and his wife.”
“This is Spurius?”
“Yes, Augustus.” Cato answered. “Do you know him?”
“I have met him. And I know his reputation. He wanted to speak with me after our Senate meeting last year. But I declined.”
“Undoubtedly, he wanted to discuss this case,” Cato responded. “He declared a divorce from his wife of 25 years through one of his slaves. Some months later she informally requested, through two city magistrates, that she needed a residence. He had thrown her out of all of their homes and she was living with friends. When she didn’t get any results, she formally petitioned the court—”
“This irritates me,” Constantine interrupted. “We have laws that are supposed to protect divorced women. How many residences does Spurius own in Rome?”
“Four, I believe, in the city. Several more in the country.”
“So many! How did he make his money?” Constantine asked.
“Wine, mostly. He owns several large vineyards north of Rome, some in Gaul and even some in Britannia. And he has a contract for supplying wine to the Army.”
“Yes, that’s right. Wine. And your recommendation?”
“The law is clear. He divorced her, so he must support her. And return her dowry.”
Constantine sat forward in his chair. “Inform this little Bacchus that he will give her the residence of her choice. That residence will be hers free and clear, no mortgages or legal tricks. And he will pay all expenses to support her. Furthermore, if the courts hear of this case again, she will get another of his residences in the city. And any contracts he has with the Army will be terminated. Make sure this order is read to the public at the Forum.”
“Yes, Augustus. The last case involves a Senator and daughter of a Ship Captain who aspires to be a Plebian Tribune.”
“So. Class politics?”
Cato nodded wearily. “Apparently, the Senator got inebriated at a café next to a small dress shop that the Ship Captain’s daughter owned. He entered the shop, looking for coitus. She denied his advances and he killed her. There are multiple witnesses who saw him enter the shop. And leave it, with blood on his clothes. He denies everything. She was a talented seamstress and engaged to be married. Her father, the Captain, filed suit against the Senator. Before trial, the Senator offered to pay damages to settle—but he would only pay a quarter of the amount the Captain demanded. He justified this by claiming that the Captain’s wife is not a free-born citizen, and therefore their child was only worth the amount of a slave girl. This case, like the first one, has been the topic of much gossip in Rome.”
“Who is the Senator?”
“Marcus Remus Tertius.”
Constantine shrugged. He’d never heard of the man. “Is there proof that the Captain’s wife was born a slave?”
“Not definitive. It would appear that, at best, she was a freed woman but not a citizen when they married.”
“So they had a wedding. That’s something. Any dowry?” Constantine asked.
“They had a public reception. But no formal dowry recorded,” Cato answered.
“Your recommendation?”
“Difficult. The local magistrate is inclined to give the Captain just a little more than what the Senator has offered. But the magistrate and the Senator are friends. I would recommend more. Perhaps half of what the Captain has demanded.”
“Is the Captain’s demand reasonable for the death a female citizen?”
“Yes. Other cases for citizen’s murders have settled for similar amounts.”
Constantine spoke slowly. “So, the Captain knew what he was doing when he filed suit. And his claim may be correct. There is no question that he is a citizen. And he accepted this daughter at birth as his child. He didn’t reject her by leaving her on his door step, a sign for her to be taken as a slave. So, regardless of the mother’s status, his child would have rights of a female citizen. Of course, I’m not an attorney. Is there anything wrong with my reasoning, Cato?”
“Nothing, Augustus. The courts have, on a historical basis, favored the patricians in these sordid cases. The fact that the Senator is willing to pay something is viewed by the magistrate as positive. In such cases, the courts tend to seek compromise.” He held out his hands, like balancing scales. “If you rule for the Captain, the plebeians will celebrate. But the patricians will be critical.”
“Oh, the patricians,” Constantine smiled. “I know their criticisms, Cato. My father was a general, then an emperor. My mother was a plebian. They never married. She would have had no dowry. The Captain is to get his full demand for the death of his daughter.”
Again, Cato scratched notes into his scroll. This time, he seemed to smile a bit as he did.
Constantine wondered, for a moment, whether the clever judge had encouraged him toward this conclusion. “I don’t remember any other cases from your letter, Magistrate. Am I forgetting something?”
“No, Augustus. These were the critical ones. I will plan to write you three or four times a year to keep up on these types of issues. And perhaps we will meet once or twice a year?”
“Very good.” Constantine said, pushing his plate forward and motioning to one of the attendants to remove the breakfast. “We are finished ahead of time. I will go find my mother and my son. Gaius told me he plans to start training the boy today. I want to watch one of Rome’s great soldiers training a 12-year-old!”
Constantine offered his arm to Cato when they both stood. Cato seemed startled. “I’ve never shaken the arm of an Emperor.”
Alexandria, Egypt
April, 1071 AUC (318 AD)
Presbyter Arius of Alexandria had risen early and walked to his church to say his morning prayers. As he knelt, he reflected on the work that lay ahead of him. There was a lot. And it proved he was a beneficiary of Constantine’s Edict. He had been ordained as a priest shortly after the Edict was been announced; in the five years since, Christianity had expanded dramatically. The church in which he was
kneeling was one of four surrounding the original Christian Church in Alexandria. In just the last few years, it had grown in members and in physical plant. Alexandria was considered by Christians as the Rome of the East, its Bishop equal to and referred to as the Pope.
Arius’ church comprised about one fourth of Alexandria’s population. It was wealthy—which afforded Arius the time to do the Lord’s work. His days were spent praying, helping those in need, innumerable church services and studying. His knowledge of early religious texts was one of the best. Any free time he had, he spent in Alexandria’s great Library. It was the largest and most complete in the Empire, in spite of several fires and looting over the centuries.
With the Church’s growth came some changes that Arius did not like. Money-hungry scribes were recreating parts of the Holy Scripture for popular distribution. Those recreations were often sloppy and not true to the original sources. Even more troubling, some included new teachings that certain Church leaders favored— but were still controversial and didn’t remain true to the Scriptures.
On the positive side, Arius liked that the popular Scriptures— though flawed—were diminishing the influence of more radical interpretations of the Lord and warped interpretations by self-serving charlatans. The written word had power over the spoken word, even for people who couldn’t read.
And there was a drive among the churches to develop a unified set of Scriptures. A New Testament Bible. Most people including priests, attributed this movement to Constantine; Arius knew the Emperor had, in fact, little to do with it. But he wasn’t inclined to quibble over small matters. Because someone of the Emperor’s stature believed in the Lord and favored a unified set of readings, some good would come.
Arius had met Constantine when he’d visited Alexandria, right after the Edict had been announced. The priest had been impressed with Emperor—and hoped that Constantine would eventually find a way to replace Licinius. The two had been at war twice in the five years since the Edict. And most people in the Empire expected more fighting before their differences would be resolved.
Another reason that Arius favored Constantine was Eusebius, Constantine’s distant cousin and the recently-appointed Bishop of Nicomedia. Eusebius was Arius’ guest, currently sleeping at his residence near the church. He’d come to Alexandria for a few weeks to study in the Library and glean some of Arius’ knowledge of early Scriptures.
Arius and Eusebius had been students together under Lucian, who had been martyred—beheaded—by Emperor Daia near the end of the official persecution, six or seven years earlier.
After his prayers, Arius had a small meal of grains, an apple and fig juice in the small church kitchen. Then he strapped on his sandals and prepared to walk to the original church in the center of Alexandria. His Bishop, Alexander of Alexandria, was going to give a sermon today. Easter Sunday. But even this day stirred debate. Learned priests and scholars did not agree on when, exactly, Christ had been crucified and rose from the dead. Tradition tied Easter to Jewish Passover; some took exception to tradition.
He sighed and adjusted his robes. For the moment, Arius would just enjoy his walk. It was a glorious, bright day.
Libyan by descent, the tall and rangy Arius had never been married. In the very earliest days of the Church, this would have inhibited him from becoming a bishop. St Paul, however was a devote celibate, while the majority of Apostles were married. Paul recommended in one of his Epistles that he preferred celibacy for all men. In another Epistle he recommends that bishops be married, but to only one woman. In that Epistle he advises that if a bishop can’t run his own house well, how could he be expected to run his church? Gradually, particularly with the age of persecution, Paul’s Epistle on celibacy was prevailing. Who could have a family when sudden death was a daily reality? In addition, celibacy had become a symbol—the symbol, really—of dedication to Christ.
Arius was content to live alone, to dedicate his days to serving others and his studies.
As he walked towards the entrance of the old church, Arius attracted a following of people—young and old. He was quick with a quip and a verse; people were naturally drawn to him. He picked up the young child of one of his parishioners with little hesitation. No one in the group would have guessed that their priest was nearly 60 years old.
“Abba, abba. Where are we going?”
“To hear our Bishop speak to us about Easter Day and the risen Lord.”
In the western part of the Empire, centered in Rome, Christians accounted for perhaps a quarter of the population. Most favored the pagan gods. In the eastern part of the Empire, including Alexandria and Nicomedia, the Christian population was much larger—half or more. The Apostles, particularly Paul, had been most active here; and the eastern Empire had more Jews as part of their population.
Saul of Tarsus had come from a prominent and devout Jewish family. He was a citizen of the Empire who received an excellent education and finished by studying under the senior Rabbi in Jerusalem. For a couple of years after Christ’s Ascension, he was a feared prosecutor of Jews who believed that Christ was the Messiah. Then, traveling to Damascus, he’d been struck blind by a light and a voice had asked him why he so vehemently persecuted Him. When Saul asked who was speaking, the voice said: “I am Jesus, the one you are persecuting! Now get up and go into the city. And you will be told what you must do.”
Three days later, Saul was baptized by Ananias of Damascus. And his sight was restored. From that point on, he was known as Paul. And an Apostle for Christ. He was Arius’ favorite saint.
Paul ended up calling himself the “Apostle of the uncircumcised”—that is, gentiles. His made three long apostolic missions, each lasting several years and taking him to all corners of the Empire. But most of his work concentrated in the East. And he was a prolific writer. His letters and other correspondence made up the largest part of the Scriptures that priests like Arius and Eusebius studied.
In the earliest years of the Church, the Apostles had framed Christ’s teaching within Mosaic Law. This required a strict dietary regime, rigid prayer and circumcision.
Those requirements—especially the last one—were not viewed favorably by gentile converts. Paul was one of the first to identify this problem. After his first mission, he met with Peter, Jesus’ brother James and some other Apostles for the First Council of Jerusalem. They decided that new members of the Church did not need to be circumcised but did need to follow the dietary requirements of Jewish law. In time, though, he relaxed even the dietary requirements.
As Paul continued his missions, he refined his understanding of Christ’s teachings. And his message to potential believers. Paul focused on the lessons of forgiveness, of treating people as one would want to be treated, of resurrection and of the coming end of time. This became the Christian faith that priests like Arius embraced and taught.
During his third mission, Paul was arrested in Jerusalem for preaching Christianity. As a Roman citizen, he appealed “unto Caesar”—which allowed him to appeal to the courts in Rome. He was sent to Rome, were he was held for two years by the Praetorian Guard. When he lost his appeal he was beheaded. A lesson for all Christians.
But his many writings survived.
Arius led his people into the old church and had them stand together, just inside the inner walls. Then, he hurried back and joined the other priests in the sacristy to prepare for Mass.
For most of the Mass, Arius sat in one of the small pews behind Alexander and his Deacons. The first part of the Alexander’s service was standard. The most quoted scriptures described the resurrection of Jesus. Prior to the sharing of the Eucharist, Alexander gave his sermon. The bishop quoted heavily from Athanasius, his most trusted Deacon…and a man with whom Arius had many differences.
Who that has heard the words of John, “In the beginning was the Word,” will not denounce the saying of these men, that “there was a time when He was not”
? Or who that has heard in the Gospel, “the Only begotten Son,” and “by Him were all things made,” will not detest their declaration that He is “one of the things that were made”?
For how can He be one of those things which were made by Himself? Or how can He be the Only-begotten, when, according to them, He is counted as one among the rest, since He is Himself a creature and a work? And how can He be ‘made of things that were not,” when the Father saith, “my heart hath uttered a good Word,” and “Out of the womb I have begotten Thee before the morning star”? Or again, how is He “unlike in substance to the Father,” seeing He is the perfect “image” and “brightness” of the Father, and that He saith, “He that hath seen Me hath seen the Father”?
And if the Son is the “Word” and “Wisdom” of God, how was there “a time when He was not”? It is the same as if they should say that God was once without Word and without Wisdom. And how is He “subject to change and variation,” Who says, by Himself, “I am in the Father, and the Father in Me,” and “I and the Father are One”; and by the Prophet, “Behold Me, for I am, and I change not”?
For although one may refer this expression to the Father, yet it may now be more aptly spoken of the Word, that though He has been made man, He has not changed; but as the Apostle has said, “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.” And who can have persuaded them to say, that He was made for us, whereas Paul writes, “for Whom are all things, and by Whom are all things”?
Arius prayed for patience and forbearance as his anger caused him to fidget, like a child. He rushed through the Eucharist. He tried to humor himself by recounting Paul’s complaints 300 years earlier of drunken Gentiles. They mistook the meaning of the Eucharist by overconsuming wine while Paul preached.
Rather than waiting to speak to Alexander and the parishioners who had greeted him earlier, he rushed out after the service and ran back to his small home.
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