Ossius took a few moments before responding. Then, he asked: “This would be a problem—particularly with Meletius—that could cause unrest within sectors of the Empire?”
“Yes,” Eusebius replied with a rueful laugh. “That is a diplomatic way to put it.”
Ossius nodded. “Constantine will not like this. He feels strongly that consistency and orthodox rules keep stability within the Empire. And there are practical considerations. The fact that I have only recently heard of this matter means it is still primarily an Eastern Empire conflict. Licinius should resolve it.”
Eusebius shook his head. “Licinius is ignoring the Edict of Milan—again—and claiming the wealth of many of the Christians in the East. I have tried to persuade him against these actions. But his judgment is…suspect. Constantia is very worried.”
“Her brother will like it even less. Tell me, Eusebius, the conflict over the nature of Jesus—is there ground to be gained if Constantine intervenes?”
This time, the prolix Eusebius took a moment to think.
“Doubtful. Although I am biased toward Arius’ perspective, I believe both sides are firm in their positions—which will make a compromise difficult…and a diktat intolerable.”
“And, in reality, neither side knows the nature of God with certainty,” Ossius offered.
“No. There is confirming and contradictory evidence on both sides of the argument. One would think a common ground might be available, with so little evidence for either position. But, as we know, sometimes we humans can’t see the benefit of compromise.”
Ossius saw some movement inside the Palace. “Isn’t that why people die for their beliefs? Isn’t that why it is called faith?”
Both priests got up from the bench and headed for the large stone archway that served as the main entrance to the Imperial Palace.
“Welcome, your eminences.” Adiutor Aelius was standing just inside, flanked by several Imperial Guards. Having seen the two Bishops talking on the bench in the courtyard, he prepared a small meeting room down the hallway from the personal residence. The room had one large upholstered chair at the end of a rectangular table with five other wood-and-wicker chairs surrounding it. Tapestries hung on two of the walls, keeping the room secure for sensitive conversations.
As Aelius ushered the bishops into the meeting room, he was surprised to find Constantine already seated in the larger chair reading a papyrus scroll with a bucket of scrolls beside him. He was dressed simply in a white tunic—his breakfast robes—but didn’t seem to mind. He rose to greet his guests.
“Dominus, I had intended to come get you—”
“Aelius, all is well. This was a good place for me to get through some of this correspondence.” Constantine said. “Ossius. Eusebius. Good to see you both.” He gave each a Roman arm shake and a brief embrace, which interrupted their bows. “Sit, my friends. Sit. You both look perplexed. Cousin, you a little more. What news?”
The bishops sat on either side of Constantine. There was a moment of awkward hesitation and then—against anyone’s expectation—Ossius took the lead and began to talk. He explained the earlier conversation with he’d had with Eusebius. He described the Edict of Milan’s erosion. And the dogmatic discord over the nature of Jesus and God.
Constantine listened intently, concentrating his attention on Ossius while he spoke.
Eusebius, on the other hand, felt his attention wandering. His mind drifted to when, as a boy, Constantine would intercede with the adults and get his younger cousin out of trouble.
Then Constantius left to marry Theodora and things changed. Constantine withdrew from his cousins, spoke much less and began training with his sword.
At Helena’s urging, Constantine had visited the local priest for spiritual counsel. Eusebius often tagged along. The priest provided little help to Constantine—who felt cheated and betrayed by Constantius—but had a much greater effect on Eusebius.
Constantine’s rare bright moments came when his father began his occasional visits. Eusebius remembered the flurry of excitement when Constantius and his detail would ride into town. He seemed bigger than life on his horse and wearing the brightest armor anyone had ever seen. He remembered the playful threats of burnishing the broad side of his sword toward the back end of all the children that would invade the small house when he visited.
“Cousin, some things never change. When we were children, you caused me problems—and, here, you still do.” Constantine said, bringing Eusebius back into the moment. “I need some proof of what Licinius is actually doing. Telling me that you’ve heard reports is not enough. Have the priests who’ve been affected give me written reports. If they are concerned for their safety, then summarize their reports and send those to me. Have other bishops do the same. Licinius would not be so foolish to threaten or harm you.”
Ossius and Eusebius both nodded in agreement—but said nothing.
Constantine sat back in his chair for a moment or two. “I am surprised that he would be so brazen as to persecute Christians. Perhaps he has calculated that he can challenge me, taking the pagan side. By persecuting Christians, he will attract those that have the most to gain from making our personal conflict into a holy war. It seems to me that that would have narrow attraction, particularly in the East. Are you still close to Licinius, cousin?”
Eusebius answered instinctively: “I spoke with him, and your sister, less than two months ago. Constantia is worried and prays for peace between you.”
“My sister is a good woman. I will grant her that peace if her husband keeps to our agreement in Milan. If not….” His sentence faded into a regretful shake of the head.
Another silent moment passed, and then Constantine concluded: “This matter of the nature of Jesus appears to be a minor thing. As Ossius points out, no one really knows the correct answer. Tell me again the name of the bishop who’s stirring up this quibble?”
“Alexander, the older bishop you met when you were in Alexandria after your victory in Rome. He is Pope Sylvester’s counterpart in Alexandria,” Eusebius answered nervously.
“Of course, he runs the school there, by the Library. I certainly don’t view him as…favorably…as I do Sylvester. “Constantine rubbed his eyes. “Then this Arius would be the tall priest that wanted the old scriptures from Rome sent to the Library.”
“Yes, the same.”
Constantine sighed and fidgeted with a small child’s toy that had been hidden somewhere in the folds of his tunic. “Why is it that God endows man with intelligence and reason—that man casts aside so quickly? Why does an Arius fight his bishop on a matter that has no certainty? Why does Arius’ bishop condemn others on matters they cannot prove? Why does Licinius challenge me, when he must know he cannot prevail? He has fought me twice in the last several years, yet I have let him live. Now he tempts me a third time? What has God put inside of us to abandon reality? To rattle sabers, based on insignificant matters and improbable odds?”
Ossius looked at Eusebius before he answered. “We spoke of this earlier, Imperator. We believe that it is based on faith. Regardless the nature of the faith, it seems that if one believes in something he will die for it. Perhaps it can be the greatest nature of man or the definition of sin.”
Constantine cocked his head, as if perplexed by the answer.
“Well, I continue to pray to both the Nazarene and the Father that they grant me the wisdom to see the correct way. And the strength to follow it. I hope that this Arius matter will die down. But, if it doesn’t…if something does develop—any unrest, any change in either side’s position—let me know.”
One of his bodyguards came into the room and whispered something to Constantine. He nodded quickly and gestured to the door. “I must be going. I wish we had more time to sit and talk.”
As the three men walked out of the chamber into the main hallway of the Palace, Constantine pointed wi
th his index finger—a habit he had, when giving orders—and said, “Ossius, when the opportunity presents itself, visit both Alexander and Arius. I would like to hear your impressions of each man.”
“Yes, Imperator.”
Eusebius seized that moment to say something. “Imperator, you mention your prayers for wisdom and strength. With such prayers, isn’t it time you were baptized?”
“As always, Eusebius, you press. I’ve told you before that I intend to wait until the last possible hour to be baptized. I need all the sins I have—and continue to accumulate—to be washed away by the sacrament.”
The priests smiled a bit nervously, unsure of how serious the Emperor was about his plan.
“I will make sure you are available to baptize me when the time comes, cousin.” He smiled, too. Cryptically.
Constantine’s mother, Helena, approached the three men from the residential end of the hall. “Eusebius? Dear cousin.” She ran to the priest and hugged him affectionately.
Helena was a tall, slim woman. Dressed in a light yellow tunic with a small wooden cross around her neck, she looked as attractive as she had 30 years before. Nearing her seventieth birthday, she showed no evidence of decline—in health or enthusiasm for life.
That enthusiasm had seen her through hard times, like the year or so after Constantius had left her. An attractive local woman with a bastard child was considered little more than chattel by Roman soldiers in a garrison town. Many women in circumstances like hers turned to prostitution. Helena never did that.
Her circumstances improved when Constantius was elevated to governor and then co-emperor and made his intentions concerning his son clear. Constantius recognized Constantine and arranged a stipend for his former concubine. Although she was not a fixture at his court, Helena had access to Constantius when she needed it. And people knew that.
And now, a fixture in her son’s court and a wealthy woman in every measurable way, she showered attention on Eusebius. “You look well, cousin. How long are you going to stay? Let’s sit down and have something to eat. I need to talk to you about Jerusalem.”
“Mother—” The Emperor started to chide his mother, with mock exasperation.
“This needn’t bother you, Constantine. It’s a godly matter.” Then, turning back to Eusebius: “I want to join one of the expeditions looking for Jesus’ cross.”
“Mother, it’s not the time.”
“Constantine is right, cousin. It’s not the time,” Eusebius agreed. He held both of her hands and looked intensely into her eyes. “But, when it is, we can arrange things for you. The bishops in Caesarea and Jerusalem are Eusebius and Marcarius. I will write them and inform them of your intentions.”
She seemed happy with that news. She greeted Ossius with a hug and headed toward the dining room arm-in-arm with both bishops. Constantine enjoyed the image for a moment and then headed away to one of the formal meeting rooms and his Generals.
Alexandria, Egypt
Summer, 1072 AUD (319 AD)
The dark of the evening had settled in but Athanasius was still bright with anger. He paced back and forth between his apartment and Alexander’s office, 20-odd steps down the hallway. As he walked, he gently hit his hand with the scroll he’d just received from Clodius.
He was starting to lose momentum. For every two bishops that offered support, three were defecting. Eusebius was the problem— he was an effective advocate for Arius among the elite. Without Eusebius, Arius would be stuck with his Thalia, his poems explaining theology to the plebes.
And now Clodius—his friend from their student days and a deacon under Ossius of Cordova—had written him, saying that Eusebius was visiting Constantine. No doubt, pressing Arius’s side with the Emperor. Clodius had tried to get details about the meetings; but all Ossius would say was that they involved “a number of issues.” Of course, Ossius hadn’t gained the Emperor’s trust by sharing sensitive information with underlings.
Eusebius was clever. He wouldn’t use his kinship with the Emperor—at least not at first. He would let Ossius do most of the talking. Position himself as the careful counselor. Position Arius’s heresies as a reasonable compromise, the sort of solution that would make sense to a soldier.
He hit the scroll hard enough that it stung his hand.
Athanasius’s disdain for Arius was growing. This debate was unnecessary. The glory of God was an obvious matter—it satisfied the mind and the heart. God’s glory did not just to reflect off of Jesus—it emanated from Him, as it did from the Holy Ghost. Three equal pillars, supporting one another. Not a complex archway of God, with one large opening and two small ones.
Some of the early teachers had actually used that convoluted image. So, Arius and his fellow heretics were at best living in the past. They didn’t see the magnitude of Jesus’s life on earth and His sacrifice. They were too closely tied to the “Jewish” heritage of the early Gospels. They didn’t comprehend the magnitude of the miracles, the virgin birth, and the resurrection—the full effect of God’s love. The mystery that God had been on earth as He was in heaven.
Their heresies would have Jesus be some angel or pagan-like lesser divine being.
And the Scriptures supported the truth as Athanasius saw it. From the old Hebrew Bible to the new Scriptures. The Scriptures were the Word of God. Although some of St. Paul’s letters could be ambiguous, John’s Gospel was not. In it, Jesus declared in His own words that He was God.
The synoptic Gospels didn’t address the matter. It was not their purpose. Their authors testified as eyewitnesses; they could not be expected to delve into the deeper questions of God’s nature.
Initially, Athanasius had assumed that it would be easy to convince the bishops to see these theological points the right way. Looking back, he understood he’d been naïve. Not all Bishops had the foresight of Alexander—and Church politics were as complicated as Imperial politics.
The key to succeeding at both was still Alexander. He was trusted beyond reproach in the Eastern Empire, with the possible exceptions of the two Eusebiuses, Meletius and a few others. As for the Western Empire, it would be best to keep those bishops out of the debate entirely. They were unpredictable. They had distaste for the multiple gods of the pagans—and they might see the Trinity as three separate Gods and therefore side with Arius.
To prevail, he was going to have to get his bishop more involved. So far, Alexander had been far too passive—a short letter here, a comment there, a sermon or two, but no strong statements. He needed Alexander to favor the idea of the Trinity with more vigor. More persuasion. His impulse was to go to the bishop’s bedchamber…but he realized Alexander would be fast asleep.
After a few hours of fitful sleep, Athanasius had his best chance to address the matter with Alexander when they had their after-prayers breakfast.
In his younger years, Alexander had been a big, athletic man. But age and gravity were having their ways with him. His frame was thin, now, and seemed to have difficulty holding up his large head. His beard, once vibrant and full, had faded to grey and wispy. His eyes were still sharp—but they looked tired, even after a full night’s sleep.
Impatient, Athanasius started talking before Alexander had started to eat. “Your Holiness, I was disturbed to receive a note yesterday that Eusebius of Nicomedia had lunched with Ossius of Cordova and Emperor Constantine in Sirmium recently.”
“A note? Who wrote this note?” Alexander asked. He seemed more interested in the dry fruit on the table than intrigues.
“A deacon friendly to our cause, who studies under Ossius.”
“So, clever Ossius is back again from Spain,” Alexander said, inspecting a piece of flat bread. “What was the purpose of their meeting?”
“The deacon does not know. But can there be any doubt?”
“There can always be doubt, Athanasius. One never knows what goes on in a politician’s mi
nd. Constantine trusts Ossius because they have gone into battle together so many times. And he trusts Eusebius because they are cousins. Grew up together,” Alexander said, like a teacher lecturing a student. “This Emperor is a soldier, first and last. His relations with those two are not defined by theological matters.”
Athanasius seemed even more impatient than before. “Your Holiness, we must address this controversy over the nature of Jesus, and eventually the Trinity, in a more aggressive manner. We have given Arius freedom to promulgate his heretical beliefs. Now, we are letting the machinations of Imperial politics define the nature of the life, blood and sacrifice of our Lord. I can give you a list of the bishops that should side with us—but are siding with serpent-tongued Arius. Bishops, swayed by heresy! We cannot allow this. It is a battle, just as fierce as any Ossius has seen at Constantine’s side. If we lose, God will hold our souls to account.”
Alexander swallowed some dried fig and took a sip of water.
“What do you suggest, Athanasius?”
The young deacon leaned forward, over the table. “Give me leave and Letters of Recommendation to all the bishops of the East. I will visit each one to convince them the danger of what is before us. And the Glory for them, if they choose the right path. When I’ve spoken with all of them, we call a council—where we announce to the Empire the unanimity of our position. And we demand the exclusion of those that do not acknowledge the truth.”
“What of the bishops in the West?”
Athanasius sat back again and a thought for a moment. “It would be best if they are spared involvement in this conflict. Their troubles have more to do with pagans than heresies.”
Alexander nodded. He didn’t say anything for a few moments. This discord over God’s nature and Jesus’—was not going away, as he’d originally hoped. And his Deacon was correct, it would eventually include the Holy Ghost, thus the Trinity. This young Deacon was impetuous; but he might have the will and temperament to end the discord.
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