The older man rubbed his thinning beard. And then pushed his breakfast plate away. He looked at his student with resignation and said, “Draft that letter, Athanasius. Allow me some time to study it. And we shall try to resolve this matter.”
“Yes, your Holiness,” the younger man answered. With a smile.
Nicomedia, Asia Minor
Fall, 1073 AUC (320 AD)
Nicomedia, where Licinius and Constantia lived, had been the Capitol of the Eastern Roman Empire for several generations. It was almost twice the size of Sirmium, although the walled part of Nicomedia—the real core of the city—had a population of only about 12,000 people. Still, Nicomedia had the prestige and accoutrements of a first-class city: three coliseums, four libraries and seven bathhouses. It was a wealthy place, full of wealthy people. Eusebius had been preceded as bishop by Anthimus of Nicomedia, who was beheaded by Maximinus Daia during the persecutions. Anthimus was a godly man. He had welcomed and fed the soldiers sent to arrest him.
After Anthimus’ death, Eusebius petitioned several friendly bishops to recommend him as Bishop of Nicomedia. Most of the Church leaders were aware of his relationships to both of the Imperial families—especially, his blood ties to Constantine. And he didn’t hesitate to inform the handful who weren’t aware.
The position in Nicomedia gave Eusebius significant opportunity to influence the politics of both the Church and the Empire. The only problem was time. He always felt he had too little of it. It had been more than a year since he’d met with Constantine and Ossius and he still hadn’t documented Licinius’ new persecutions and sent them to Constantine. There was no time.
Even with several priests assisting, he was consumed by the day-to-day work of growing his church.
In truth, there was another reason—probably the main reason. He was trying to keep peace between Constantine and Licinius. By serving both Emperors, he truly served neither. Both sensed this; and neither liked it. Eusebius sincerely loved and respected Constantine— and loved and respected Constantia, who was loyal to Licinius. The bishop realized this put him between Schylla and Charybdis, between a rock and a very hard place.
Eusebius thought about all these things while he sat in his sparse office, adjacent to the cathedral, and stared at a scribed copy of a letter from Alexander to all the bishops in the Eastern Empire.
To our beloved and most reverend fellow-ministers of the Catholic Church in every place, Alexander sends greeting in the Lord:
Since the body of the Catholic Church is one, and it is commanded in Holy Scripture that we should keep the bond of unanimity and peace, it follows that we should write and signify to one another the things which are done by each of us; that whether one member suffer or rejoice we may all either suffer or rejoice with one another. In our diocese, then, not so long ago, there have gone forth lawless men, and adversaries of Christ, teaching men to apostatize; which thing, with good right, one might suspect and call the precursor of Antichrist. I indeed wished to cover the matter up in silence, that so perhaps the evil might spend itself in the leaders of the heresy alone, and that it might not spread to other places and defile the ears of any of the m ore simple-minded.
But since Eusebius, the bishop of Nicomedia, imagining that with him rest all ecclesiastical matters, because, having left Berytus and cast his eyes upon the church of the Nicomedians, and no punishment has been inflicted upon him, he is set over these apostates, and has undertaken to write everywhere, commending them, if by any means he may draw aside some who are ignorant to this most disgraceful and Anti-Christian heresy; it became necessary for me, as knowing what is written in the law, no longer to remain silent, but to announce to you all, that you may know both those who have become apostates, and also the wretched words of their heresy.
Later in the letter, Alexander stated that he was confident that nearly one hundred bishops sided with him. They were planning a synod in Alexandria, where they would excommunicate all that believed in the “Arian heresy”—including, most importantly, Eusebius of Nicomedia.
Eusebius tried to understand how he could have been so ignorant, so blind. He had been traveling constantly, primarily in the West. He’d focused his attention on Constantine and Licinius, as their relationship deteriorated. He had heard talk that Alexander’s deacon, young Athanasius, had been visiting several bishops.
Now that Eusebius saw what the young deacon had been circulating—and how—he had to admit it was a brilliant tactical approach. By personally meeting so many bishops, as the emissary of the most powerful cleric in the East, Athanasius had been able to cajole, threaten and promise with no paper trail. Once he had enough positive responses, Alexander could call for a meeting—giving gravitas to their position. The rest of the bishops would probably fall in line. As would Constantine.
Constantine, the proponent and supporter of orthodoxy for the stability of the Empire, was not likely to overturn anything the majority of “learned men” supported.
Eusebius opened the first scroll of the letter again. Even the title—“Catholic Epistle”—sounded authoritarian and noble. The letter itself was full of strong language. It’s Theology, the comparisons of Eusebius to the Antichrist, the threat of excommunication. In terms of Church law, the charges were over-reach. But Eusebius acknowledged to himself that now he was on the defensive.
Caesarea, Palestine
Late 1073 AUC (320 AD)
Three hundred years earlier, Pontius Pilate had ruled the Province of Judea from Caesarea in a palace originally designed by Herod. That palace had been built on a stone breakwater constructed to form one end of the town’s harbor entrance. Clear blue Mediterranean water nearly surrounded the structure.
Now the foundations of that palace stretched towards Eusebius of Caesarea’s church and residence—perhaps the most beautiful see in the world, seeming to float in the westernmost Mediterranean.
Arius was impressed. And he was excited to be meeting the Caesarean. This Eusebius was a well-known man, a respected priest and prolific writer. He had written several commentaries on the Gospels, discussing the critical differences among them, and an Ecclesiastical History from the death of Christ to the current era.
Another favorite topic of this Eusebius was the early theologian Origen, who had spent many years here in Caesarea. Origen had written extensively about the difference in nature between God and Jesus. Both Origen and Eusebius of Caesarea favored the concept of subordinated distinction between Jesus and God. “The Father” was primary and Jesus—while beloved—was secondary.
This was the reason that Alexander and Athanasius had been careful to ignore this Eusebius of Caesarea, in their “Catholic Epistle.” They didn’t want to give credibility to the Arian side in the theological debate.
Arius and the two Eusebiuses were meeting in Caesarea to decide how to respond to Alexander’s “Catholic Epistle” and how to counter Athanasius’s campaign. They dined together as soon as Arius and Eusebius of Nicomedia had arrived. Now, they were sitting on a balcony, watching ships come in and out of the harbor. Servants had cleared their table of everything but their wine.
They had talked of small things through most of the meal.
Arius thought the time had come to speak to important business. “Eusebius, if our position is weakened by Athanasius’s politics, can we recover some ground by petitioning Constantine?”
He’d meant the question for his Eusebius—of Nicomedia—but both men answered “No” at the same time.
The host drew a taut smile. “This will go on and on. Call us by our places. Nicomedia,” he nodded to his guest. “And Caesarea.”
Nicomedia smiled more warmly. “Better, I suppose, than ‘This’ and ‘That.’ Constantine’s immediate goal is to expand the Empire to the east, taking territory from the Goths. But his long-term goal, I suspect, is to keep his troops sharp for a final resolution of his differences with Licinius. His mind is
focused on war and politics. Approaching him on this will only invite his wrath. He has made it clear that Ossius speaks for him on Church matters.”
“Is Ossius favorable to us?” Arius asked.
Nicomedia took a sip of wine and paused for a moment. Then: “Ossius is favorable to what is best for Constantine and the Empire. He is personable. But he has two roles: the personal confessor of the Emperor and the rector of Empire’s relationship with the Church.”
Caesarea pointed toward Nicomedia, “You share that first role—personal confessor.”
“Perhaps. To a small degree. But my relationship with the Emperor is different. We’re cousins. Friendly but not very close. Ossius has gone into battle with him. They are more like brothers.”
“So, Ossius protects Constantine?”
“Yes. He is also a good priest. A loyal servant of God. But, in places where the Church has conflict with the Empire, I believe he thinks of Constantine—of the Empire—first.”
Caesarea nodded. “I know them both, slightly. But I yield to your deeper knowledge. If Ossius thinks first of protecting Constantine— and if Constantine is thinking of other things—then it seems to me that the best way to influence them is to reduce the size of this quarrel. Solve the dispute for them. This task becomes more difficult because young Athanasius has put us at a tactical disadvantage.”
Arius added, “It’s a sorry thing. Our position is supported by the historical record. But that doesn’t seem to be enough.”
Caesarea agreed. “Yes. They set the frame of the debate. So, let us respond by focusing on where we agree. When I read their Epistle, I noticed—aside from the unnecessary vitriol—that there are some points that may be areas of common ground. Perhaps a new letter to Alexander, emphasizing those similarities, may give us time to gain the support of others in the Church.”
“It is a start,” said Nicomedia. “But do we have any idea what has been promised? Has Athanasius gathered commitments from bishops’ quid pro quo? Alexander has a wealthy and influential podium.”
Arius groaned, “This is unseemly.”
Caesarea smiled again. “Perhaps. But, if their support is built on promises, we have very little that we can counter.”
Nicomedia laughed ruefully. “I have not heard of specific deals but—knowing the age in which we live—it is safe to assume there are quids outstanding. The poorer parishes will seek money and the wealthy ones will seek sabbaticals in Alexandria. We will have trouble matching that. Our greatest advantage is the strength of our beliefs.”
Caesarea sighed and looked out at the ships.
Arius offered the best solution he could think of to summarize their talk: “I will write a letter describing our mutual understanding of faith this evening. And we can review my draft tomorrow.”
The following morning, the three priests worked on Arius’ letter at the same table where they’d had dinner the night before. The two Eusebiuses were both rested and seemed calm. Arius was more anxious. He hadn’t slept much.
After they’d reviewed the letter several times and made some corrections, Arius read it out loud:
Our faith from our forefathers, which also we have learned from thee, Blessed Pope, is this: We acknowledge One God, alone Ingenerate, alone Everlasting, alone Unbegun, alone True, alone having Immortality, alone Wise, alone Good, alone Sovereign; Judge, Governor, and Providence of all, unalterable and unchangeable, just and good, God of Law and Prophets and New Testament;
Arius took a brief break.
“I think that turned out well,” said Nicomedia. “It gives us the common ground of what we all believe concerning our Father. I can’t see that Alexander would disagree with what we have written so far.”
“I agree,” said Caesarea. He looked at Arius—who continued reading:
who begat an Only-begotten Son before eternal times, through whom He has made both the ages and the universe; and begat Him, not in semblance, but in truth; and that He made Him subsist at His own will, unalterable and unchangeable; perfect creature of God, but not as one of the creatures; offspring, but not as one of things begotten; nor as Valentinus pronounced that the offspring of the Father was an issue; nor as Manichaeus taught that the offspring was a portion of the Father, one in essence; or as Sabellius, dividing the Monad, speaks of a Son-and-Father; nor as Hieracas, of one torch from another, or as a lamp divided in two; nor that He was before, was afterwards generated or new created into a Son, as thou too thyself, Blessed Pope, in the midst of the Church and in session has often condemned;
Caesarea chimed in again. “Alexander and Athanasius should also agree with this section. Particularly the condemnation of Sabellius. Of course, they don’t see their equation of Jesus with God as… dividing…the Monad. Of dividing God into parts.”
Arius nodded in vague acknowledgment and continued:
but, as we say, at the will of God, created before times and ages, and gaining life and being from the Father, who gave subsistence to His glories together with Him. For the Father did not, in giving to Him the inheritance of all things, deprive Himself of what He has ingenerately in Himself; for He is the Fountain of all things.
Caesarea interrupted again. “I don’t think there will be disagreement on this section, we are merely… defining…The Almighty again and what he gave to Jesus.” Arius cleared his throat for the next section.
Thus there are Three Subsistences. And God, being the cause of all things, is Unbegun and altogether Sole, but the Son being begotten apart from time by the Father, and being created and founded before ages, was not before His generation, but being begotten apart from time before all things, alone was made to subsist by the Father. For He is not eternal or co-eternal or co-unoriginate with the Father, nor has He His being together with the Father, as some speak of relations, introducing two ingenerate beginnings, but God is before all things as being Monad and Beginning of all. Wherefore also He is before the Son; as we have learned also from the preaching in the midst of the Church.”
“I think this is where they will disagree most,” said Nicomedia. “This is our belief, taught to us by Lucian before he was martyred. As he had learned it directly from the Apostles’ scriptures.”
Caesarea nodded eagerly, “I believe you are correct. From my perspective, this shows clearly that the Scriptures support Jesus’ reverence, subservience and different essence from God. Some may not agree. Regardless, I think the letter is good.” He seemed to plan to stop there. But the other two were looking for more. “And so, after you send this from Nicomedia, I will send Alexander a letter suggesting some corrections to the misinterpretations in his Epistle.”
Arius and Nicomedia seemed satisfied with this response—but, now, Caesarea seemed unsatisfied. As if he had second thoughts about the letter. So, he said more: “I continue to believe it is best to let this quarrel subside. Until we see an opportunity to change many of the recent converts to a more…conservative…perspective.”
Arius answered with what hoped would be soothing words: “Our prayers are that such an opportunity presents itself. And God knows that none of us controls the events that may forge that change. So it will be God’s will.”
“I agree, Arius. But I would feel more comfortable if we had better advantages to…ensure…God’s will. Almost two years ago, in Alexandria, you cautioned me that we were at a crossroads. Your words are as pertinent now as they were then. We have lost ground. The beliefs of our fathers are being put aside for an image that is…attractive…perhaps, and makes sense to those that ascribe to Greek philosophy. However…however, they are not consistent with the early observers’ descriptions of Christ. Nor to the actual words our Lord spoke. This is a tide…a tide that started in Egypt and is spreading through the Empire. It threatens to engulf us with its radical description of Christ, its adherence to a strict new orthodoxy, its continued glorification of celibacy, its continued exclusion of women.
Women, who were so influential in the early foundations of our Faith. I lament that I lack the tools to stem this tide. Our future may be based on the pagan images of three gods instead of the One God that we, through our Jewish heritage, recognize as Our Father.”
Caesarea smiled, nodded thoughtfully and said nothing.
Sirmium, Pannonia
Early 1074 AUC (321 AD)
Constantine felt his right arm flex with as much force as he had, when he slammed it down on Quintus’ shield. He grimaced as his body lifted slightly from the power of the strike. He wavered for a moment and then regained his footing, using his shield as a counterweight away from his body. But this left his chest unprotected. Quintus’ leg buckled as his arm tried to absorb the impact of Constantine’s strike. Instinctively, from a crouched position, he spun around and aimed his sword at the Emperor’s unprotected chest. But he froze instantly, when he saw the sharp end of Constantine’s sword at his nose.
The three other bodyguards gasped. This was sparring. But the blades were real.
The Emperor didn’t lower his sword but smiled at Quintus, who stepped back and bowed slightly. Only then did Constantine relax. Their small audience cheered for the victory. It had been a good match.
It had been almost five years since Constantine and his palatini had fought together in an actual battle. That last battle had been against Licinius, during the last civil war. The Battle of Cibalae. Constantine had flanked Licinius’ troops and led a charge toward the center, routing the opposition decisively. Since then, the battles had been minor—and the Emperor’s immediate attention hadn’t been needed.
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