Imperator, Deus

by John R. Prann Jr.

  “Thalia? Poems for plebeians—not for…for clergy. As if plebeians will make the choice! God’s will is not a matter for…for Athenian democracy!” Athanasius hissed when he said “democracy.” His mind was racing. He’d already started making the plans. He’d already started spreading the word. “The Council must meet. I…I mean, we…I mean, the Church…we have already made the choice.” He knew immediately that he’d said too much.

  Alexander looked at him carefully and waited a few moments before responding: “No choice has been made, Athanasius. You and I believe that the Cross represents God and Jesus as equal, divine entities. Arius and Eusebius believe it represents one God and one lesser—but still divine—Son of God. We are correct. But this is a matter that the Church must consider and discuss. And conclude, over time.”

  Athanasius was even angrier than before, nearly spitting he asked, “So, even though we can win on this question—right now—you… you wish to delay?”

  “For the time being, yes. Let us see how the Arians feel in a couple of months. As I said, I sense we are making some progress. We will revisit this in the fall.”

  Athanasius stormed out of Alexander’s study.

  He was so frustrated that he could barely think. How could this befuddled old man pass up the opportunity to crush these heretics? More importantly: How could God allows this delay? The circumstances were in place to clarify and strengthen His Gospels… and, yet…nothing? He threw himself onto his bed and cried uncontrollably.

  As he wept, there was the sound of a ship’s horn outside at the mouth of the harbor, being guided in by Alexandria’s famous lighthouse, the Pharos. Even at night, Egypt’s largest port and most prominent city was busy with merchant ships arriving and departing. The arriving ships carried goods from all over the Empire; the departing ones carried loads of glass and grain. Alexandria was the Empire’s center of glass work, the Nile River valley produced the majority of the Empire’s grain.

  On board, the arriving ship’s crew rowed to the cadence of one of the poems from Arius’ Thalia. This sound wafted into Athanasius’ room. And his tears gave way to rueful laughter.

  Nicomedia, Asia Minor

  Spring, 1075 AUC (322 AD)

  Spring in Nicomedia was beautiful. The temperature was mild, the skies were clear and the sunlight had a golden quality that was unique to the region.

  Eusebius’ small villa was adjacent to the main church, nestled next to the foothill separating the Agora, the old city and the port from the new city on the hill. The church was near the Offices of the Empire’s Administration but a distance from the Imperial Palace of Licinius. The Empire had recently rebuilt the entire lower city—making it larger, better organized and with running water from a new aqueduct.

  Arius was busy planting some flower bulbs in the courtyard of Eusebius’ villa. The bulbs were sent to him from a wealthy parishioner in Alexandria. He missed his work with those who had relied on him; intellectually, he missed his visits to the Library.

  He had been working in the garden to take his mind off of other things. Somehow, in the push and pull of the last few years, he felt as is his life was no longer his own. He’d become, at best, a spokesperson for a cause. At worst, a pawn in someone else’s game.

  “Mastiff, stop!” Arius had adopted a small hound dog, a runt not satisfactory for hunting. They had become inseparable. As he planted, Mastiff would use her nose to push Arius’ hand away from the bulbs. Grabbing a bulb with her teeth, she’d run to the other side of the courtyard. Arius would get up, retrieve the bulb and go back to his planting, only to have Mastiff repeat the theft a few bulbs later.

  “Arius, you have quite the helper. She seems to be telling you to plant on the other side of the yard.” Eusebius had returned from Rome during the night, but Arius had yet to see him.

  “Welcome back, my friend. I am sure that, if I were the plant there, she would be bringing the bulbs here!”

  “Undoubtedly,” Eusebius said, as he held Mastiff’s head and played distractedly with her long ears. “I bought you a present from Rome. The Pope let me have a dozen letters that had been copied from St. Peter and St. Paul’s time, prior to their deaths.”

  “Very good!” exclaimed Arius. He stood up from his planting and stretched his back with several gymnastic twists. Then: “They have references to our early Christian fathers?”

  “From what I understand. I didn’t read them,” Eusebius responded, still focused on the dog.

  “How is construction going in Rome?” Arius asked.

  “Well. Well, indeed. I think Constantine will like them. But we will probably need larger ones in the future. With the persecutions over, our numbers are growing quickly.”

  Arius felt a twinge of jealousy at not having seen the larger crowds. “He is planning 10 more churches in Rome?”

  “Unclear. Most of the talk is that he’s planning to build a new Rome—a new capitol city—somewhere here, in the East. And his energies will be focused on that.”

  That was as much small-talk as Arius could muster. He moved on to the real purpose of Eusebius’ trip: “Did Sylvester bring up our controversy?”

  Eusebius let the dog go and turned his attention to Arius. “He mentioned it. But we didn’t spend much time discussing it. He is more concerned about the rioting and fighting between followers of Alexander and our followers in Palestine and Libya. He referred to it as ‘an Eastern Empire conflict.’ He doesn’t view it as urgently as we do. He told me that it’s a regional issue and that we in the East should come up with some compromise to resolve the fighting. He said exactly this: ‘Use some words that are ambiguous but satisfy both sides—and be done with it.’”

  Arius was vexed by Sylvester’s response. “Be done with it? They don’t understand.”

  “No.”

  “So, perhaps we should involve the Western Bishops?”

  Eusebius shook his head and shrugged his shoulders at the same time. “I think they would be more inclined to our interpretation. But involving them expands the controversy to the entire Empire. Constantine made it clear to me six months ago he didn’t like the division within our faith. His conclusion is not much different than Sylvester’s. But he would like it even less if we involved the West.”

  Again, the thought occurred to Arius that the debate had become a political game beyond his control. Or even understanding. “We need to convince one of them that this is a serious matter. Something that will shape the Church profoundly.”

  Eusebius shrugged again and looked out at the water. “I’m at some risk with Constantine because of my relationship with Licinius. If he heard I was coaxing western bishops into a theological dispute, he might have my head. Regardless of family ties. We’ve reached a lull in the debate. Perhaps we can convince Eusebius of Caesarea to write something that is a compromise—something that Alexander would find satisfactory. Constantine suggested a Greek word, homoeanian. Maybe that will work.”

  North of Tomi, Thrace

  Summer, 1075 AUC (322 AD)

  Constantine stood next to his horse, on the top of a hill overlooking the battlefield. His palatini were far enough behind him that he felt as if he was alone, surveying the last stages of the battle.

  The battle had gone as he had expected. The Goths, confronted with a trained and disciplined army, weren’t as effective as when they fought in random skirmishes. This battle had taken place on a warm summer day on a hilly plain near the coast of the Black Sea, south of the Dniester River. His army had broken their front lines and then pursued the retreating Goths across the battlefield—until the Goths felt they had the advantage of higher ground.

  That advantage proved illusory, quickly. Constantine had a legion of his equiti flank the Goths while two other legions attacked their center—followed closely by several legions of stout foot soldiers. The result was Goths found their forces split in two, and their command n
ever gained control of both sides. Marcus’ legionari set about purposefully decimating their opposition.

  The battle was over in less than two hours.

  This confirmed his choice of increasing the number of equiti.

  The horsemen were extremely effective, flanking and breaking the ranks of the Goths almost immediately. He was pleased with all his troops. They were as well trained and seasoned as any force that he had led.

  He pitied Licinius, who’d lost more than the Goths had this day—even though he was nowhere near this battlefield. His most likely ally was crushed.

  And he was proud of Crispus. His son was good on a horse, better than Constantine himself. Better balanced on the four-post saddle and very quick to shift weapons, while keeping his shield positioned. Like the best riders, Crispus’ horsemanship seemed more instinctive than practiced. And he still was not as skilled a swordsman as Constantine wished—he wasn’t strong enough yet. But Constantine was confident his son’s strength would improve.

  Ablabius rode up the hill toward him: “Dominus, the day ends well! We have fewer than 500 casualties. Yet the Goths are overwhelmed. More than 4,000 dead, perhaps 6,000.”

  “Thank you, General.”

  In a moment, Ablabius had climbed down from his horse and stood next to Constantine. “What’s next? Shall we rest for a couple of days and then head back to Tomi? Or do you prefer that we head east and test the Sarmatians?”

  Constantine rested a hand on Ablabius’ shoulder. “East, General. We continue east, along the coast. We must control all sides of the Black Sea. This will give the Empire a buffer against the barbarians. The Sarmatians have always expected that we would approach them from the south. Their defenses are set up for that. If we go around the Black Sea, we will approach them from the north—and we’ll have the advantage of both surprise and location.

  “At the same time, send word to our remaining troops in Thessalonica to take a legion along the southern route toward the Sarmatians—but order them not to engage until we have attacked. Make that clear. Wait until we attack.”

  “Brilliant, Dominus,” said Ablabius. And he meant it.

  Constantine finally turned to Ablabius and made direct eye contact. “Let’s get the Dux and the centurions together to discuss. Our route should remain a secret—as much as possible. It would be easy for a few Sarmatians to ambush us on the poor roads through the foothills. Also, the orders to the legion in Thessalonica should be sent with someone we trust. And not in writing. This is a stealth mission and the plans cannot fall into unwanted hands.”

  “How many shall we send to Thessalonica with the message?” Ablabius asked.

  “No more than 20. Seasoned equiti—and only one should know the complete details of our plan. Locals will be watching. And spies.”

  “Who will this trusted rider be?” Ablabius asked, although he suspected that he knew the answer.

  “Crispus.”

  Alexandria, Egypt

  Summer, 1075 AUC (322 AD)

  Alexander summoned Athanasius to his study after lunch. Both master and student dreaded this meeting.

  Since Alexander had decided that they would not pursue the Arians, at least not aggressively, Athanasius has been out of sorts. The bright young man, practically a genius in so many ways, was acting like a petulant child. He avoided eye contact and answered questions with short answers. Merely grunts.

  He’d also begun to grow a beard, perhaps to show some growing independence and authority. Or maybe just to make his boyish face look older. He was even attempting to reduce his hand gestures as he spoke; at some point earlier, one of the other students had made a cutting remark about Athanasius’ gestures being effeminate. At the time, Athanasius insisted he wasn’t offended—but, clearly, the remark had stayed with him.

  “The world is imperfect and we humans never have things as we wish,” Alexander whispered to himself. It was an epigram that one of his teachers had taught him many years before. Young Athanasius was maturing. But he was not mature yet. He still hated compromise.

  Now Alexander had a chance to help his brilliant student through this difficult place. To learn the art of compromise. Athanasius came into the study, looking down at the ground, and sat in the familiar chair across from Alexander’s desk. Only then did he look up and make eye contact.

  Alexander smiled as warmly as he could. “We have some news, Athanasius. A possible break in our impasse. I’ve received a letter from Eusebius of Caesarea proposing some wording that might alleviate our differences.”

  Athanasius was not enthusiastic. “Oh? What has the good Arian bishop proposed?”

  “That we use a Greek word, a word from philosophy— homoeanian, to be specific—as the description of the nature of our Lord and God. He also suggests some others. He makes it clear he is not speaking for anyone but himself; and he hopes that we can reach an agreement that we can introduce, together, to the bishops. He said he got the idea from a letter written to him by the Emperor!”

  Athanasius looked down again. “So, we’re being instructed on theology by a profaner and a politician?”

  Alexander shook his head, disappointed. “Athanasius, I am trying to include you into this process so that you can help make it sound.”

  The student made eye contact again. “I’m sorry. I appreciate that you summoned me. I will try to…help. I believe the correct word would be homoousian, meaning the same substance in different entities. Homoeanian is vague and allows that the substance in similar but not exactly the same.”

  Alexander sighed slightly and cocked his head. “Eusebius suggests homoeanian to replace heteroousian. It is an alternative, which conveys our preferred meaning, without contradicting their preferred term. Eusebius is reaching out and offering a compromise. I think we ought to explore it.”

  “I don’t object to a reasonable compromise. But, clearly, homoeanian is the wrong word to describe the similarity between Jesus’ nature and God’s. The correct word is homoousian.”

  This time, Alexander snapped back quickly. “Athanasius! A compromise means both sides give a little. There is very little difference between the two words.”

  Athanasius’ stare grew intense. “But these are God’s words. Your Holiness, when my days here have ended, I don’t look forward to having to explain to our Maker why I didn’t stand up to heretics that wanted to diminish the nature of His only Son, Jesus Christ.”

  Alexander suddenly felt his age and physical frailty. He didn’t have the energy to argue with Athanasius ad infinitum. “We will discuss this more. I believe a meeting with Eusebius would be fruitful. I will give it some thought.”

  As the student rose to leave, Alexander felt an even greater wave of exhaustion come over him. It felt like he was melting into his chair. He couldn’t travel to Caesarea to meet with Eusebius. It would have to be Athanasius. At this point all he could think about is how nice it would be to rest, to sleep, to forget about this conflict.

  “Athanasius, you must see beyond your own beliefs. You must see into other people’s hearts. That’s how you will become a great priest.”

  West of Archeaopolis, Asia Minor

  Fall, 1075 AUC (322 AD)

  Sarmatians had a reputation as fierce fighters. And they were very skilled on horseback.

  Originally from Persia, the Sarmatians had gradually migrated north and west. They’d become the local rivals of the Goths and, at various times, had been both an ally and enemy of Rome. One year, they would beg for Rome’s assistance against their neighbor barbarians—the next, they’d attack Roman garrisons over some minor dispute.

  Sarmatian women had a strong influence. Not just in their homes, but in their army. Many of their soldiers were women. At a young age, these women would burn their right breast with hot iron, so that it wouldn’t grow. They believed that, without the breast, their right shoulder and arm would grow larger an
d better handle a weapon.

  Soldiers told the story that these maimed women were copying the Amazons from ancient legends. Constantine had seen this before—strange behavior of the present day justified by questionable historical connections. Myth used for intimidation.

  But the myth hadn’t worked for the Sarmatians this time.

  Crispus had gotten to Thessalonica without any trouble. He then marched east, with over a legion of soldiers—and they marched slowly, both to ensure that they’d be noticed and to allow Constantine’s army to march around the Black Sea. To delay even more, Crispus’ army had made camp and spread rumors to the local population that Crispus had taken deathly ill. Two days before the battle, the Sarmatians realized that they were surrounded. Assuming that forces coming from the north had to be smaller than Crispus’ army, they attacked Constantine first.

  They marched into his trap and the results were horrendous.

  The Sarmatians wore light armor because they didn’t have much metal or skill at working it. So, what they did wear was made out of bone and horse hoofs. That made them particularly vulnerable to archers.

  Also, Constantine had ordered his equiti to wield metal-tipped clubs, which would minimize the Sarmatians advantage on horses.

  The Sarmatians’ attack never got through the first line of Marcus’ legionari. Ablabius’ riders quickly flanked the Sarmatians, beating their opponents viciously with the metal-tipped clubs. And then Tiberus’ sagitarii started shooting. The causalities were staggering.

  Thousands—maybe 10,000—of Sarmatians dead. Almost their entire army. There hadn’t even been time for a formal retreat; the few that survived had simply ridden or run off the field.

  When the last arrow had been loosed and the last sword swung, Constantine rode onto the battlefield and viewed the carnage with disgust. Near his original front line, which had barely moved, he dismounted and walked into the bloody mess. Up close, he could see that nearly half of the Sarmatian dead had been women.