Imperator, Deus

by John R. Prann Jr.

These days, they didn’t practice as much or as intensely as they had prior to the battle at Milvian Bridge. With less exercise his knee pain had diminished. Constantine still exercised, now three times a week, but he hadn’t found a sparring partner as challenging as Vibius. So, he rotated sparring duty among his guards—whose ranks he’d expanded to include several equiti.

  And there’d been other changes. Gaius had retired after the victory at Rome and was in charge of the personal security of Helena. He had been replaced by Marcus, an outstanding centurion, to lead the legionari.

  Constantine had promoted Ablabius to Praetorian Perfect. He had tried to stop using the Praetorian title and rename the position, Magister, but old habits made the name change difficult. Aside from the Greek’s innate ability to assess a battlefield, he had a good sense for using horsemen effectively. And Constantine believed the tactical value of equiti was continuing to increase. A strong use of horses at the beginning of a battle intimidated the legionari. This intimidation helped win battles quickly.

  As Constantine and Quintus relaxed and drank water, Titus was the first to ridicule his fellow bodyguard: “Quintus, I thought you had no fear. Why did you panic at the mere sight of a sword?”

  Appius followed: “Q, I would say you fight like a woman. But you lack the strength of a woman. The Emperor has yet to breathe hard and you’re trembling like a maiden on her first night of love.”

  In fact, both combatants were drenched in sweat and working hard not to be the first to sit.

  Constantine smiled again at the ever-quiet Quintus and said, “It was a good fight, soldier. I have no idea how I got my blade up there. I was exhausted.”

  “Thank you, Imperator. It is an honor to spar with you,” Quintus responded, stone-faced.

  Ablabius had walked up to the group and heard the last bit of joking at Quintus’ expense. He faced Titus, Appius and Sevius and said: “Why is it that every time I see the three of you, you are lounging about while Quintus and the Emperor are sparring? Are you eunuchs now? Have you assumed your proper place in the Empire?”

  “Bold talk from you, pretty one,” Appius sneered. “You’ve been on the back of a horse for so long, you’ve probably forgotten what it’s like to fight. Hand to hand. Like men.”

  Titus raised his hand, so both Ablabius and Appius could see. The joking insults had gone far enough.

  Constantine wiped his face with a towel and draped it loose around his neck. “What brings you here, General? I thought you were away to Rome.”

  Ablabius stood tall, separating himself from the jokes. “Dominus. We’ve received word from couriers that two of our northern outposts have been attacked by the Goths.”

  “Where?”

  “North of Tomi. By the Black Sea,” Ablabius answered.

  Realizing the seriousness of the subject, the bodyguards gave Ablabius and Constantine room to talk privately.

  “Goths,” the Emperor grunted. And then he drank more water from his pitcher. “They are not diplomats. We have to respond with force. Either a reprimanding skirmish or full-fledged war. Do you have any idea how many troops they have?”

  “No, Dominus. Details are few. Our forts held. And have already received some reinforcement. But they will need more. With your permission, I have two legions ready to leave. I will send a few reconnaissance units with them—and have those report back.”

  Constantine felt a soldier’s impulse to strike hard at this latest opponent. But that was not the right response. Not yet, anyway. “Two legions sounds about right. Order them to engage the Goths with guerilla tactics. Skirmishes. Keep them occupied while we develop a plan to send an entire army there.”

  “Yes, Dominus. That will occupy them. The Goths are guerilla fighters themselves.”

  “The region around the Black Sea is trouble,” Constantine said, between drinks. “We need to build a larger buffer between the Empire and all of the barbarians up there. It’s not just the Goths. When we put them down, we can march west and break the Sarmatians. Move our frontiers north and east—and give Empire its buffer.”

  Ablabius rubbed his left thumb through the beard on the left side of this face. Constantine recognized this gesture.

  “You have a concern, General?”

  “Yes, Dominus. If we send an army, we will crush the Goths. But some will survive. They’re sneaky bastards. And the survivors will try to regroup by finding a wealthy sponsor—”

  “Licinius.” Constantine finished, with a flash of anger in his voice.

  “Yes, Dominus.” Ablabius had already noticed that Constantine’s temper was more volatile than it had been many years earlier. Or even a few years earlier. Most of the time, the Emperor reined in his anger but, occasionally, it led him to make snap judgments. This was a change from his younger days.

  “The question, Ablabius, is: Who would you rather have fighting next to you? A Goth or a Frank?”

  “A Frank. But chasing the Goths to Licinius’ side helps him. As I said, they’re sneaky bastards—but they are fighters. On the right battlefield and in the right conditions, they could be a challenge.”

  Constantine was visibly bothered by discussing Licinius. “God is with us, Ablabius. Not with Licinius. If we should line up against Licinius again, it will be our God—the true God—against pagan idolaters. And we will win. Again. So, dispatch our two legions and we will prepare to send an army to follow.”

  Ablabius believe that he understood the Emperor’s frustrations. Several times, he’d had the opportunity to crush Licinius’ forces and kill his rival once-and-for-all. But he’d always hesitated—which wasn’t like Constantine.

  Constantine started to walk toward his residence’s bath house. But his general had one more matter to discuss.

  “One more thing, Dominus,” Ablabius started nervously. “Crispus has requested to join the two legions going north.”

  “Oh?” Constantine stopped abruptly. Ablabius had reason to be nervous. Crispus, Constantine’s son by Minerva, his first wife—who’d died shortly after Crispus’ birth, was a young man now. As a boy he had always been something of a lost spirit. He had shown some promise as a soldier. But he had a wandering mind. For the five years or so that Crispus had been in the army, Constantine had kept him close. A post in Tomi would be more dangerous. But it also might allow the boy to make his own way.

  Constantine was pensive—not angry, as Ablabius had feared. The Emperor was thinking strategically about his family. His young wife Fausta, daughter of Maximian, had borne him several children but had never shown much interest in his oldest son. As a result, raising Crispus had fallen to Constantine and his mother Helena. And Helena would not like to hear that her “precious one” was off fighting in some distant land.

  Ablabius broke the silence. “I had thought Crispus might take control of the naval units. It is a small operation, but he has shown promise as a commander. We will need some naval presence if we attack Licinius. And, most of all, this will give him the experience he needs before he commands larger ground forces.”

  Crispus had commanded small ground units in the battles in the North Rhine. This was the next step in his training. “It’s not the size of the force; it is the type of battle. You know this, Ablabius. The Goths are fast, fierce and unpredictable. They will attack anywhere they sense a weakness. In a large battle, I would not fear them. They wear light armor and are poorly organized. But, in guerrilla fighting, they are deadly to the unprepared. And Crispus has not experienced that kind of fighting.”

  Which was a reason he should go. And why Ablabius would then have him on the boats, away from the skirmishes but close enough to observe.

  “Let him go for a season. And make sure he returns by summer’s end. We will have the full army prepared to leave early fall. And I will have Crispus command our naval forces then.”

  “It shall be so, Dominus.”

  S
irmium, Pannonia

  Late Fall, 1074 AUC (321 AD)

  Constantine sat in his study within the Imperial Palace. It was late in the day and he was in a wretched mood. The weather was cold and rainy—and had been so for several weeks. The preparations for the war against the Goths were completed but it was impossible to move the army in these conditions. More precisely, the troops could move but the heavy wagons and supplies would get stuck in the poor roads to the north.

  Earlier that day, in a meeting with Ablabius, Crispus, the Dux and senior centurions, Constantine had agreed to postpone the campaign until spring. Six weeks, at least.

  Crispus had brought useful intelligence back from his time in the north. Their small forces had encountered the Goths numerous times; they’d skirmished, without suffering major casualties. And they’d gathered timely information on the land and its inhabitants.

  Crispus estimated that the Goth army had more than 25,000 soldiers. That was more than they’d expected.

  Constantine was encouraged with his son’s development. Crispus was not a tactical genius—but he was becoming an able commander and he had the respect of his fellow officers. However, these good feelings were overwhelmed by his frustration at having to wait for the rains to stop. The Goths were a problem to be solved, not delayed.

  Impatient with reading imperial agency reports from Rome and other cities—and feeling a bit like a caged circus lion—the Emperor decided to take a walk. The rain had lightened to a misty drizzle. But his spirits lifted when he saw Ossius and a deacon walking towards the chapel he had built next to his residence. He had not seen the Bishop in several weeks.

  “Ossius of Cordova, why have you avoided me?” Constantine called.

  “Imperator, I beg forgiveness. I have been in and out of Sirmium the last several days,” Ossius replied, as he changed direction and approached. “Have I introduced you before to Clodius, one of my deacons?”

  “No, I believe not. How do you do, son?”

  “My Imperator,” replied the deacon, with his head bowed as if looking down. However, his eyes remained strangely fixed on Constantine.

  “How do the building projects in Rome progress, Ossius?”

  “Well. I saw Pope Sylvester in my travels and he told me both basilicas inside the Aurelian walls—the Baptistery and the Croce—are completed. And that construction has begun on three of the eight planned for outside the walls. The secular construction of the Baths and Circus Maximus are nearly complete and, of course, your Arch is complete.”

  “Do the churches meet with the Pope’s satisfaction?”

  Ossius considered answering truthfully. But word had spread around the Imperial residence that Constantine was short-tempered lately. So, the priest answered diplomatically: “Imperator, all of our Bishops appreciate your Faith.”

  In fact, the Pope had noted several times that the size and locations of the churches were not comparable to those of the other building projects. Some of these subtle complaints were legitimate—the number of Christians in the Empire was expanding quickly, now that official persecutions were outlawed. And Constantine had given the Pope use of the Lateran Basilica, Maxentius’ former residence. Nevertheless, if Pope Sylvester wanted to chide Constantine that the Church was being shortchanged, he could do it himself. Ossius wasn’t about to.

  “Ossius, have you heard of any further persecutions of Christians by Licinius since our meeting with Eusebius?”

  Another difficult question. Ossius nodded to buy himself some time. Given the political sensitivity of this question—and the increased interest from his pupil—it was best to send speak with Constantine privately. “Clodius, please give us a moment to speak alone.”

  “Of course, Your Holiness. Emperor.”

  From across the terrace in front of the chapel, Clodius could make out only a few words. The Emperor’s voice—higher-pitched than he’d expected—carried farther than Ossius’ did. But Clodius had a clear view of expressions and gestures. As always, his bishop remained quiet and reserved, never raising his voice. On the other hand, Constantine’s voice and demeanor showed clearly that he wasn’t happy with the Ossius’ answer. Constantine pointed at an imaginary list in the air—at least five accusations, each ending with a loud bark of Licinius’ name.

  Ossius managed to calm the Emperor for a few moments; but, then, a second crescendo came quickly. Something about a visit from Eusebius. Then something about Arius. Then Licinius’ name again—this time, with Eusebius. And finally Eusebius’ name repeated in anger, followed by the loud declaration “I could exile him!”

  Clodius knew enough about the individuals named to put the pieces together. The Church’s disagreements were combining with political disagreements—and the result could be trouble for everyone. As the afternoon grew dark and the rain started to pick up again, Constantine and Ossius separated with promises to revisit their conversation. As Ossius rejoined Clodius and they headed again to the chapel, Clodius couldn’t help but ask what had so agitated the Emperor.

  The question convinced Ossius what he’d been beginning to suspect—that Clodius was too interested in politics. His reply had a chill of admonition: “Imperial secrets should remain Imperial secrets.”

  Alexandria, Egypt

  Early 1075, AUC (322 AD)

  Before dinner and evening prayers, Athanasius lay on his bed in his tiny room reading Clodius’ letter. Athanasius was buoyed by its content. His friend reported that, “Emperor Constantine was visibly angry with Emperor Licinius, to the point of beseeching to heavens, and my Master’s prayers, to do away with the scourge that has infected the Empire’s well-being.”

  There had been several documented reports of Licinius’ continued persecution of Christians. Athanasius knew personally of several churches that had been ransacked and robbed by Licinius’ henchmen. Some of their motive was fear of the Church’s message; some of it was political—testing the limits of what Constantine would tolerate.

  Athanasius suspected that those limits had been reached.

  Like many, he considered it inevitable that Constantine would defeat Licinius finally, which would be a good thing for the Church.

  Athanasius turned over on his narrow bed and re-read a sentence near the end of Clodius’ letter: “The Emperor appeared agitated at the mention of the name of his cousin, Bishop Eusebius. Truly, his face turned red with anger whenever Ossius spoke either Eusebius’ or Licinius’ name.”

  During the two years that Athanasius had traveled the Eastern Empire speaking with bishops, a consistent image of Eusebius had emerged. He was a capable cleric, but more a politician than a priest. He had connections with everyone and particularly good ones with both Constantine and Licinius—a rare accomplishment.

  And an opportunity. Constantine’s personality and temperament demanded supremacy. He would not tolerate unresolved competition from Licinius—or anyone—over friendships and political allegiance. Constantine would force a resolution of his position. And, if Athanasius positioned the Church correctly, Constantine might help to resolve its uncertainty at the same time.

  Athanasius was confident that his position, and Alexander’s, on the nature of Jesus was accepted as theology by the majority of the bishops in the East. Although his stature was small, the strength of his faith and the fervor of his presentation were convincing. Very few bishops left their meetings staunchly opposed to his theology. Two or three in Libya, a couple in Egypt and a few in Palestine—a tiny number, overall. He estimated, conservatively, that over seven out of every 10 eastern bishops agreed that Jesus was equal to God. The only influential bishops he had not met with were the two Eusebiuses—Constantine’s cousin in Nicomedia and the “other” Eusebius in Caesarea.

  It was time to take the next step.

  He approached Alexander that evening. “Your Holiness, I have good news from Sirmium. Our friend there indicates there appears to be a d
ivision between Constantine and Eusebius”

  Alexander frowned, “And what could have caused such a division?”

  “Imperial politics. We suspect that it has to do Eusebius’ relationship with Licinius.”

  “I would be careful about underestimating Eusebius, my son. He is Constantine’s cousin.”

  Athanasius nodded in agreement. “Of course, you’re right about that, Your Holiness. Still, I am convinced that we are in a position to call a Council of Bishops and affirm our position on Jesus’ divinity. We can resolve the matter once and for all. Formally renounce views that are antithetical. And an abomination to the will and nature of God.” Alexander raised his chin and sighed deeply. He stared at Athanasius for a few moments before replying. And then:

  “I have let this go too far. We have been too harsh, my son. These are not our enemies. These are Godly people who have some different views than we do. We are all of the same family, under the reverence of our Lord. The letters you have written for me, while effective, sometimes indicate a personal distaste for fellow believers because they differ from us slightly. On these matters of the nature of Jesus, yes, I agree they are wrong. They are mistaken. But our resolution must come through persuasion. Not by holding a Council to excommunicate our brethren.”

  “So, so…” Athanasius stammered, something he rarely did. He was red-faced and angry. “Your…Your Holiness, you wish to delay the Council? But we had agreed to hold the Council, once we were assured our theology would be…be embraced. Now, we are assured.”

  “Delayed, yes. For the time being,” Alexander answered, with as much assurance as he could muster in his voice. “I have recently read Arius’ Thalia. I think it would be entertaining and educational for parishioners, if lacking somewhat in substance—and obviously incorrect in its theology. But there are areas in which I believe we can make progress with Arius. Also, I reviewed Eusebius of Caesarea’s letter and I am hopeful that we could make some progress there, too.”